The subject's eyelids flickered and closed over his dark eyes. The scientist slapped the young specimen's right cheek several times; not hard, but with sufficient firmness to cause him to reopen his eyes.
"You must stay awake for a little while, Grimm,” he shouted.
"Wan’ sleep..."
The mage was in the perfect state for conditioning: the grey twilight between consciousness and sleep Armitage smiled.
"In a little while, Grimm, you may sleep, I promise. I just want to ask you a few questions first."
The magic-user said nothing, but his eyes remained at least half-open.
Armitage knelt beside the gurney, his mouth inches from Grimm's right ear.
"Grimm; to whom do you owe your loyalty?” There was no response, and the technologist raised his voice a little, repeating the question.
"Guild,” was the slurred reply. “Wan’ sleep."
"Soon, Grimm; soon I will let you sleep. Do you not realise how the Guild has enslaved you? The Guild controls your every action and expects instant and utter obedience from you. You are nothing but a slave."
The young man's eyes opened to their full extent. “No!” he said, in a stronger and clearer voice. “I owe the Guild everything. ‘S why I'm a Questor. Not a slave! Lemme go!"
Despite labouring under a heavy dose of sedative, the subject struggled against his restraining straps with some vigour.
"Note that the subject is showing remarkable resistance to the medication,” the Professor said to his scribe. “I am administering a further five cc's of Thorazine."
He took up a subcutaneous injector, twisted the top and pressed it against the subject's neck, pressing the button once. After a while, the struggling subject became subdued. He fell back onto the gurney, although his eyes were still open, and even a little defiant.
Armitage felt impressed: Colonel Perfuco had said that this type of magic-user would be possessed of unusual force of will, and it seemed he had been correct.
"Now, Grimm, there's no need to get angry. Everyone here is your friend. Do you understand?"
"Frien',” the mage slurred. “All righ'."
"Now, let's start again, shall we, Grimm?” Armitage said. “To whom do you owe your loyalty?"
"The Guild,” the young man whispered, his eyelids fluttering.
"Not the Guild! The Guild is your enemy!” the scientist shouted, knowing that it would be difficult to attract the sedated youth's attention. “Just say ‘the Guild is my enemy', and you may sleep."
"No!” came the hoarse, instant response. “Not en'my!"
With that, the youth slipped into unconsciousness.
Armitage sighed. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. His current facility might have more equipment than he had had at Haven, but he lacked the mountain retreat's extensive subliminal audio-visual implantation gear.
Under normal circumstances, this wasn't a problem, since it was more usual for hard cases to be subjected to Level Three Pacification, which required brain surgery and implants, but an abortive attempt to carry out such a technique on one of the Mage Illusionists at Haven had rendered the sorcerer incapable of casting magic. Perfuco and his acolytes had been subjected to the Level Two procedure by his younger clone, but this was a more difficult procedure when one lacked the necessary resources.
The hydroelectric complex had been well stocked with computers, weapons and vehicles, and it had been relatively easy to restore them to working order, but Robert Armitage had been incapable of manufacturing the intricate psychoactive equipment he required. Drugs and post-hypnotic suggestion were a poor substitute; although, the Professor had no doubt that he would have more success with the two warriors and the girl.
Struggling to his feet, Armitage groaned as his protesting bones and tendons emitted a fusillade of cracks and pops. “We'll leave this subject for the moment,” he said to his assistants.
"What's the matter, Professor?” a callow, gangly, red-haired boy said, with an arch lilt to his voice. “Is he too much for you?"
Armitage wheeled on the gawky adolescent. “No man is too much for me, if I am allowed a free hand, Gaju! Under normal circumstances, I'd have this boy prepped for surgery and swearing undying love for the General inside six hours. However, I've been given orders to leave his brain structure alone. Therefore, I'm constrained to stick to hypnotic, drug-assisted suggestion; words and images only."
The technologist's eyes narrowed. “I do not labour under the same restrictions when it comes to you, my lad. Talk to me in that manner again, and you won't even think of blowing your nose without asking my permission! Is that quite clear, Gaju?"
The ginger-haired youth's face blanched. “Quite clear, Sir,” he said, in a more subdued tone.
Armitage addressed his team. “Now we have that out of the way, I want it understood that I am in charge here. I will tolerate no more snide little remarks, no more whispered asides and no more slacking. We have a job to do here, and every one of you will play his, or her, part with a sense of duty and responsibility, or it'll be you on the gurney next! Is that understood?"
"Understood, Sir,” the cowed chorused group of adolescents, their faces ashen.
"Excellent!” the Professor cried, in an exasperated voice. “Now, you; Allia, isn't it? Yes, Allia, wheel this one away to the secure ward and put an IV into him, point-five percent Thorazine in saline; I don't want him waking up before I'm ready to try again. Can you do that? Good. We'll take a look at his older colleague now."
* * * *
As the General and the all-but-comatose Foster sat down to their long-delayed final course, the team of Technicians arrived to take away the corpses, the injured and the remaining members of Grimm's party on metal carriers. The tops of the carts were covered with sheets that hung down the sides of the conveyances, and Thribble scuttled up one of the legs of Grimm's trolley, hiding under the white canopy. He clung tight as the vehicle trundled through the endless, confusing series of corridors of the complex, clinging to the stanchion as if his life depended on it.
He had known Grimm for only a few months, but the young mage had already become a cornerstone of his life: he had a store of tales with which to regale his netherworld fellows, but he lacked the means by which to return to his homeworld.
More than that, he had begun to regard the awkward, angst-laden mortal as a true friend. He also knew he could never return home without the aid of at least one of the Questors, and he harboured severe doubts that Questor Xylox would so much as piss in the imp's ear if his brains were on fire, let alone expend the energy to send Thribble back to the demon-realm.
The older Armitage had said something about putting ivy into Grimm, which puzzled the demon no end, but he was at least relieved to hear that his mortal companion's brain would be left undamaged; he had seen the effects of Level Two Pacification at Haven, and he had managed to counter it by using the complex's marvellous equipment to broadcast his precise imitation of Armitage's voice throughout the facility.
However, Thribble had only achieved that by enlisting the aid of a rebellious Technician worried that he would be the next to be Pacified; it seemed vanishingly improbable that he would be so fortuitous on this occasion. Yet, once again, it seemed up to the resourceful imp to save his human companions by some means.
As he rode along, hiding under the trolley's caparison, Thribble began to consider the possible alternatives.
It seemed improbable that Armitage laboured under any kind of mental conditioning; the General could surely not be under any such restraint. The imp could try to whisper in Grimm's ear while he remained in his comatose state, but he doubted the comatose mage would hear or comprehend much, and it was also probable that the thaumaturge would be under continuous, armed scrutiny.
What alternative was there? Thribble cudgelled his brain, and was beginning to feel the icy tendrils of worry creeping along his spine when it struck him.
The old mage, Perfuco, had been subjected to Second L
evel Pacification! More than that, he was a Mentalist; one who could toy with the thoughts and memories of ordinary mortals. Thribble decided to locate Perfuco's sleeping quarters and whisper into the mage's ear while he slept, using Quelgrum's voice. The details might still be sketchy in his mind, but a definite plan was taking form.
The demon dropped free from the gurney and began to make his way back in the direction of the General's dining-hall, in the hope of finding Perfuco. He should then be able to shadow the mage back to his sleeping-chamber.
* * * *
Armitage found his earlier good humour evaporating at an escalating rate; the older mage had been as obdurate as his colleague, and the Professor had been obliged again to drug his subject into unconsciousness, without having made significant inroads into his psyche. To make matters worse, the albino had proved quite uncooperative on being roused, and his muscular arms and legs had threatened to break the tough leather straps that held him until the warrior had been subdued by a triple dose of Thorazine.
The scientist felt the amused, sarcastic gazes of his Technicians burning into his back as he dispatched the white-haired warrior to the secure ward. He drew several deep breaths, but he rationalised his lack of success as the result of severe fatigue: it had been a long day.
He drummed his fingers on the table at his side for a few moments, considering pressing on out of sheer vindictiveness at the bad faith of his acolytes. However, he had had enough of this day. He clapped his hands.
"Right, everybody; get the rest of the subjects tucked away, clear up the lab and we'll call it a night,” he said. This time, he did not look into his assistants’ eyes.
* * * *
"I'm still stunned, General,” Foster said, sipping his coffee. As I remember it, Armitage himself told me the group had been Pacified before we left."
"Are you sure Armitage was all right last time you saw him, Pilot Foster?” Quelgrum asked.
Foster's brow furrowed. The fact of the memory was clear enough, but the mental imagery seemed dim and formless.
"Yes, I'm ... quite sure, General,” he said, though his dull tone indicated anything but certainty. The pilot rubbed his brow. “I guess it might be a bit clearer after a good night's sleep."
"Perfuco?” Quelgrum muttered to the magic-user at his right elbow.
"He is labouring under some sort of Geas, General,” the mage whispered, leaning close to the General. “We cannot rely on Foster's memories, but he is not attempting to deceive us; we cannot trust his recollections, but we can trust him. His Level Three Pacification is, at least, intact. It seems that even a Mage Questor cannot break that."
"Well, with any luck we'll soon have a pair of Questors at our beck and call,” Quelgrum said. “That ought to make getting into High Lodge even easier."
"I just want to be sure that we...” the mage said, continuing in a fully audible voice, “...what was that?"
"What was what?” Foster demanded, craning his neck.
"I could swear the door opened a crack for a moment,” the thaumaturge said, shrugging after a few moments. “Oh, I guess we are all just a little tired, Sir. With your permission, I would like to get some rest."
The General yawned and stretched. “That's a good idea, Perfuco. I'm about ready to hit the sack myself. Good night, Foster, Perfuco."
"Good night, Sir."
Perfuco strode off to his room, but he was too tired to notice the grey figure hiding in the shadows just behind him.
Chapter 28
Perfuco's Revenge
Magemaster Perfuco Starm, Mage Mentalist of the Seventh Rank, awoke early; refreshed, alert, and ready for the challenges of the new day. He looked back on his dingy existence as a Guild Mage, back at Fendurk House, and he smiled. His life had changed so much since he had been contacted by the General's emissary and persuaded to work for this great cause. Instead of endless hours of rote-learning and practice, so he could try to drive the tenets of his art into the thick heads of ungrateful Students, he now enjoyed a pivotal role in the planning of a noble venture. Every day was different and interesting; he now undertook his duties with the same determination and enthusiasm he had once felt for his craft.
The only fly in his ointment was that damned Technologist, Armitage. Perfuco could not blame General Q for making use of the tools of the ancient art, but he knew that, for the soldier, this was born of dire necessity and the love of his people. Armitage revelled in the subject; he revered it, worshipped it above all else. His only loyalty to the cause stemmed from the fact that the General kept him supplied with his glass and metal toys.
The mage felt uncomfortable that such a man should be given such a high status in Quelgrum's inner cadre, and Perfuco felt sure his beloved leader had been tricked or misled by the Scientist; it should be magic, and magic alone, that led the army to victory and security. Had not thaumaturgy proved itself by surviving where Technology had faltered?
Still, it seemed as if the wily soldier had, at last, become wise to the blandishments of the arch-Technologist, and Perfuco felt delighted to have been selected as the instrument of his enemy's downfall.
The old mage took his time over his morning shower, relishing the sting of the fresh, cold water on his body, scrubbing his skin until it glowed with health. The Mentalist knew in some dim corner of his mind that only the once-hated Technology provided this water in the middle of the desert and provided his room with light and heat, but this seemed somehow unconnected to his hatred for Armitage.
As the mage donned his crisp, green uniform—so much more utilitarian and comfortable than those baggy old mage's robes!—he felt a warm glow of pride that the General had chosen to confide in him on the previous night. He still felt a frisson of angst that Quelgrum had decided to keep them alive, but he could not refuse a direct order.
He frowned: he could not quite remember receiving the command to take over the Questors’ retraining in person, but it blazed in his head as if he had just been given it. He needed to tread with care, since the General had told him there might be several unwitting traitors under the Professor's command, and Perfuco was not even to report on his success to his commander, lest treacherous, Technological ears were listening. That Perfuco's meritorious deeds might go unheralded was a disappointment, but this was washed away by the joy he felt at the potential frustration of his evil foe.
A polite rap at the door announced that his breakfast had arrived. Opening the door, he gave perfunctory thanks to the young private, and took the meal back into his chamber, wolfing it down with unaccustomed gusto.
Today would be a good day.
* * * *
Thribble crouched in Perfuco's briefcase, nervous and racked with uncertainty. He had spent the night whispering the same order, over and over again, into the mage's ear in a perfect imitation of Quelgrum's voice. He could tell the order had been received from the Mentalist's cheery good humour; nonetheless, Thribble felt uncertain as to whether his plan would succeed or fail.
It had been a complicated order, repeated perhaps a thousand times throughout the night, and much depended on the effectiveness of the mage's rushed mental conditioning. The least request for clarification from the General would ruin the demon's whole plan in an instant.
Another important factor was the speed with which Perfuco could bring his magic to bear; the old Technologist might have scientific means at his disposal to destroy the magic-user, long before a lengthy spell was even half-cast. The imp would be on hand when the thaumaturge confronted the scientist, since part of the spurious order had warned the mage to carry his case with him at all times, to prevent the depredations of hidden spies. However, whether Thribble could do anything to sway the situation, once contact had been made, was doubtful. All depended on speed and secrecy.
The demon felt a jerk as the bag was taken up; for good or ill, the plan was underway!
* * * *
Perfuco strode with a spring in his step, determination etched on his face. He reached the la
boratory without attracting any undue attention, and he opened the door without knocking. Six white-coated figures spun round at the sudden intrusion, and Armitage said “What the hell do you want, wizard?"
Perfuco bristled at the term. “A ‘wizard’ is a circus performer, a mountebank, a charlatan, Armitage. The correct term for a true Guild magic-user is ‘mage', and my rank is that of Colonel."
"That doesn't answer my question, Colonel Perfuco, Sir,” Armitage snarled. “I have important work to do for the General, and I'd get along faster without interruptions on your part!"
"On the General's personal orders, Armitage,” Perfuco said, suppressing a smug smile, “I am taking over this operation. You are to surrender the subjects to me, forthwith. I will be taking over their training, in view of your singular lack of success in that regard."
The Professor slammed his clipboard down on a nearby table, as the young assistants goggled at the argument; they seemed to relish every moment of it.
"I've received no orders on this!” the scientist snapped. “I want confirmation from the General himself.” Armitage strode towards the intercom terminal.
"I am afraid I cannot allow that,” the Mentalist said, raising his hands above his head. He spat out a rapid, painfully-memorised sequence of syllables in a loud, high-pitched voice, and all movement in the room ceased, except for his own.
"Twenty years as a mage, without a single miscast,” he muttered, satisfied at the outcome of the spell. The casting of this same spell on the previous night had cost him a considerable amount of energy, thanks to the presence of the two Questors; against six mere Seculars, it had proved easy.
Now came the more complex part. Perfuco lowered his voice to a deep, rumbling basso profundissimo, to enhance its effectiveness. “You may return to full awareness when I clap my hands twice,” he began.
You have been told by the General to surrender the mages to me; all of you were present when this order was given. You are happy to do this,” he said, adding with a smile, “due to your extreme, execrable incompetence."
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