The Warlock Wandering (29 page)

"Hold on, everybody! Remember, take the helmets off care-fully! I don't think they could do any harm if we yanked

'em off, but I'd rather not find out the hard way." Brother Joey lifted his helmet off with caution, then held it out, staring at it and blinking, then pushed it away with revulsion.

Chomoi took hers off with regret. "Well, it was fun while it lasted."

Rod looked up in surprise. "You must have been L'Age d'Or."

A short, stocky man in a business coverall bustled into the room. "All right, what's going on here?" Rod felt his hackles rise. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Roksa, the manager. How the hell did you wake up before the dream was over?"

"Oh, that's easy enough to answer," Brother Joey said.

"According to the traditional superstitions, you see, you can break the spell that holds a zombie, by filling his mouth with salt. Of course, you have to sew his lips shut so he can't spit it out, and when he comes out of the spell, he may try to kill you. But after that, he'll go back to where he came from—his grave—as fast as he can."

Roksa frowned. "What's that got to do with you waking up from the dream?"

Brother Joey shrugged. "Dreams are fantasies, so the symbols of superstition work, within the structure of the dream-universe. When our dream selves realized we'd been fed zombie drugs, they sprinkled salt on each other's tongues—and the symbol worked; we went back to where we'd come from—here."

"Zombie drugs?" The manager darted glances from one face to another. "Who said anything about zombie drugs?"

"I did."

They all turned, astonished. The tinny voice was coming from Mirane's couch, where her computer-notepad lay. "I am a Notem-Modem 409, and I have wireless capabilities for connection to larger computers—and for interfacing with the human brain. I have become symbiotic with my operator." Mirane paled. Her eyes were huge. Stroganoff clasped her around the shoulders. "Take it easy, kid. I know it's hard to take, but any artist has to 226 Christopher Stasheff

develop a feel for her tools."

Mirane snatched up the notepad and clutched it to her.

"Consequently, when my operator entered into the dreamstate, I participated in it with her," the notepad went on.

"However, being electronic, I was immune to the drug, and was able to realize that the dream was not the safe and pleasant refuge these patrons had anticipated."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Chomoi muttered. Stroganoff shook his head. "Lousy plot. Not to mention the characterization."

Roksa's head lifted, eyes narrowing. "You don't like my dreams, citizen, you can make your own."

"I just might."

"The zombie drug isn't terribly legal," Rod pointed out.

"And there are supposed to be certain guarantees of safety, for patrons experiencing a dream."

Roksa shrugged impatiently. "All right, so 1 bent a few rules."

"Bent!" Yorick snorted. "How about 'mangled'?" But Whitey held up a hand. "Hold on, you two. The laws he broke don't really matter."

"Don't matter?"

"Not compared to what that dream was doing, all by itself." Whitey faced Roksa squarely, head lowered a little, glowering. "That plot just took it for granted that people should take orders and not think about them. If we'd stayed in it long enough, we'd have waked up conditioned to just accept whatever Authority said, without question, without even a notion of resisting!"

Yorick whistled. "Wow! The ideal brainwashing system—with the victims footing the bill!" Roksa paled and took a step back. "You can't prove that."

"Oh, I think I could," Whitey said with a shark's grin.

"A semiotic analysis of the plot, and a neurological analysis of the choice-alternatives ... yes, I think I could prove it very thoroughly."

"So what?" Roksa's jaw thrust out a little. "There's nothing illegal about it."

"Only because nobody's thought of it yet. Tell me—do all your dreams do that?"

"I don't have to answer that question!" Yorick grinned and stepped forward, massaging his fist.

"Why not?"

"Because of them!" Roksa stepped back and yanked the door open. A dozen big, muscular men slouched into the room. Only eight of them carried clubs. The other four carried blasters.

Rod stabbed a finger at the leader. "You're the peasant!

The one with the pitchfork!"

The leader gave a mock bow. "Wirlin Eaves, at your service."

"He's too modest," Roksa chuckled. "That's Wirlin Eaves, Ph.D."

"Ph.D.?" Rod frowned. "What're you doing leading a bunch of assassins?"

"I couldn't get a job teaching. Besides, this pays better."

"What's your area," Rod snorted, "political science?"

"Naw." Eaves grinned wickedly. "I'm the real thing—a Ph.D. in philosophy."

Rod stared. "You're a certified philosopher?"

"What's so strange about that?"

"But—you kill people!"

"You noticed."

"How can a philosopher justify doing such horrible things?"

"What else is philosophy for, these days?"

"But what kind of reasons could philosophy give you for killing people!"

"The best." Eaves grinned. "It's profitable."

"I thought philosophy was supposed to be ethical."

"Haven't you ever heard of existentialism?" Eaves shrugged. "Besides, it is ethical; it's just that you don't 228

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agree with this ethic." He turned serious for a moment. "But if you really want to know, before I bum your brains out, I'll tell you. It's a way of exercising power over my subjective universe."

"A solipsist," Rod groaned. "I thought you were supposed to be a philosopher, not a hatchet man. No, one last question!" He held up a hand as Eaves started forward, and the thug stopped."What would have happened if we'd slept through the whole dream?"

"Oh, you would've waked up, same as usual." Eaves shrugged. "You just would've found yourselves surrounded, that's all—and wearing straitjackets."

"But the inmates took over the asylum, eh?"

"Management's about to reassert itself," Eaves informed him. "Take ' em!"

He lifted his blaster.

Gwen concentrated all of her attention on the weapon. Eaves pressed the trigger with an ecstatic grin. Then the grin faded into horrified shock. He pressed the trigger again—

and again, and again.

His three sidekicks lifted their blasters and pressed their triggers, too, with the same lack of result.

"What'd you do to them?" Eaves growled.

"You really don't want to know," Rod assured him. "It might upset your philosophical system."

Eaves' eyes narrowed. "All right, we'll do it the oldfashioned way. Now!" He and his men waded in, swinging their blasters as clubs. Their mates fanned out fast around the company and started in with their truncheons.

Whitey shouted and lashed a kick at a thug. The man howled and dropped his club, as Chomoi barked and chopped at another one. He blocked and snapped his club down, but she twisted aside and bounced a chop off another man's neck. As he dropped, she slashed a kick at the first one, ducked under a swing from a third and stabbed him in the solar plexus with a shout, then blocked a swing from the first attacker and followed it with a kick in the chin. He slammed back into the wall, and she spun to a fourth thug. Yorick was much more conservative. He dodged as an attacker swung a club at him, caught the man's wrist and whipped it around and up behind his back—way up. The thug howled as Yorick twisted the club out of his hand and cracked it down on his skull. Then he shoved the man into an oncoming assassin, grabbed a third by the neck and rammed his head into the wall, then turned back just as the second was picking himself up, and slammed a haymaker into his jaw.

Rod's head was ringing; Eaves had connected. But so had Rod, and the lead thug had dropped his blaster. He circled to Rod's left, guard tight, shaking his head. Rod jabbed at his belly, his head, his belly again, and caught him with a right cross. Eaves staggered back, and Rod followed with a kick that sent him crashing into the wall. Gwen glared at three other thugs who were crowding back together, trying to fend off a cloud of dream-helmets and fallen clubs that whirled at them. Every now and then, one got through.

Mirane crouched behind Stroganoff, frantically punching keys on her computer-pad. He stood between her and the thugs, arms outstretched to shield her as he watched, dazed and muttering, "I gotta remember this! For my next fight sequence! Gotta remember!"

"Not quite!" Rod yanked Roksa and the hostess back into the room and kicked the door shut. He sent the girl spinning over to Chomoi, who advanced on her, eyes steely. The hostess backed against the wall, terrified. Roksa tried to twist to swing at Rod, but Rod had him by the coverall collar at the end of a very long arm, and Roksa'seyes bulged as the collar tightened around his neck. He turned back, quickly—and stared at twelve unconscious men littering the floor of his dream-room.

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"Don't take it so hard," Rod soothed. "Only one of them is dead." He raised his voice. "A little careless there, Chornoi." She shrugged impatiently. "I was in a rush."

"I wasn't complaining."

Yorick shook his head slowly, clucking his tongue.

"Messy, messy! What'll we do with them?"

"We could hook them up to the dream-machines," Chornoi suggested.

"No!" Roksa cried. The hostess's terror turned to horror.

"It won't be that bad." Mirane stepped out from behind Stroganoff. "I've been doing a little reprogramming on your computer."

Roksa and the hostess stared, white showing all around their eyes.

"I changed it to stop conditioning people," Mirane explained.

"But that's impossible!"

"Not at all; I just told it to insert new plot-alternatives that stress individuality and skepticism."

Roksa didn't exactly look reassured. "We'll wake up totally confused!"

"No, just curious. You'll question authority—and you'll keep questioning, until you find answers you can prove."

"But there won't be time to enjoy life!" the hostess wailed.

"Learning can be fun," Yorick assured her.

"Would you rather not have a life?" Chomoi watched her, taut and alert.

"I... think I'll take the dream," the young woman said slowly.

Rod nodded. "Very wise." He turned to Roksa. "You'll take it, too. The only question is whether or not you'll do it willingly."

Roksa stared at him.

Then his fist slammed into Rod's belly.

Rod doubled over in agony, and Roksa started to turn to the door, so he was at just the right angle as Yorick's fist

crashed into his jaw. The manager folded, very neatly.

"Courage, husband." Gwen was beside him, massaging his back, soothing. "'Tis but pain, and 'twill pass." Yeah, but so will I. Rod couldn't say it aloud, due to a temporary malfunction of the diaphragm. He fought to breathe in. Finally, air came in a long, shuddering gasp. He straightened slowly, turning to Mirane. "Can you make it a nightmare?"

"We don't stock any," the hostess said quickly. Stroganoff gave her the jaundiced eye. "That makes me think I ought to check through your whole catalog."

"We don't have time," Mirane said quickly. Rod nodded. "I'm afraid she's right. We've got to hook them up for the longest time the computer will manage, and get out of here." He turned to the hostess. "We need something that will handle a dozen men." The hostess thought a moment. "How about The Flying Dutchman?"

Rod nodded. "The very thing. I hope Eaves hates Wagner." They wrestled Eaves up onto one of the couches and set the helmet on his head. Mirane found one of the injectors, pressed it against his wrist, and squeezed. She turned to press the "start" button, but Rod held up a hand. "Just a sec. He should be very suggestible right now." He slapped Eaves' cheek gently. "Come on, wake up, old man! Debriefing time. Report!" Eaves' eyes fluttered and opened, but they were glazed. Rod stepped back out of sight. "So. You followed the Gallowglass party from Wolmar in your own ship, and intercepted them on the resort-planet Otranto. What measures did you take to secure them?"

Eaves nodded slowly. "They took refuge in a dreamhouse. I bribed and coerced the manager into giving them the zombie drug."

The rest of the company stared at Rod, amazed. He nodded, grim-faced. "Where did you leave your scoutship?" 232

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Eaves frowned at the strangeness of the question, but answered, "In the Palazzo of Montressor."

- "What password did you use?"

Eaves' frown deepened, but he answered,"Excelsior."

"Send out the St. Bernards," Whitey muttered. Eaves' eyes closed, and a gentle smile curved his lips.

"When did you become a double agent?" Rod said softly.

"When did you begin working for GRIPE?" Eaves raised his eyebrows. "Never. I am loyal to VETO." Then his face smoothed out, and his breathing deepened.

"A Totalitarian," Rod muttered. "I might've known. They come in batches."

"What's VETO?" Whitey demanded.

"A secret society that works for PEST." Rod turned away to the litter of unconscious bodies. "Come on, let's get these bozos off to dreamland."

Whitey frowned, but he turned to help David heave a thug up onto a couch.

A few minutes later, the whole dozen were drugged and dreaming.

Rod turned to the hostess, and she shrank back at the look in his eye. "Any preferences?" he asked. The girl just stared at him for a moment. Then, reassured, she gazed off into space, and a reverent look came over her face. "Jane Eyre," she murmured. "I always wanted to be Jane Eyre."

"With him as Rochester?"

The hostess' gaze focused again; she turned to look down at Roksa. Then she implored, "Can't you manage separate dreams?"

Rod and Gwen exchanged glances, and her thoughts said, Grant what mercy thou canst, I prithee.