Christopher Stasheff - Warlock of Gramarye 09 - The Warlocks Companion

v2.0

The Warlock's Companion

Christopher Stasheff

THE BIRTH OF FESS

"That's the 'Faithful Cybernetic Companion' series. The program's for extreme

loyalty, as well as the usual total obedience." Al turned to his screen and called up the

program. "It just might be strong enough to counter the Declaration of Independence."

Jose frowned. "How could it…" Then his face lit up. "Of course! If the robot's

extremely loyal to you, it can be totally independent, and still be on your side!"

Al nodded. "Independence might counter an inclination toward obedience, but

loyalty would make the robot do what his owner said to, anyway—unless there was a

damn good reason not to." He shrugged. "But all our programs have overrides for

illegal or blatantly unethical commands, anyway."

Jose felt excitement building. "Then the robot might not have to be destroyed?"

"And you might not have to be fired."

Praise for the WARLOCK series

" Fresh… well written and entertaining."

—W. D. Stevens, Fantasy Review

"Enchanting adventure… One starts to get the feeling of what it's like to be a child

with magical powers."

—Fanzine

"It is refreshing to see a fantasy hero aided by his wife and children."

—Rick Osborne, Fantasy Review

contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK'S COMPANION

ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published.

THE WARLOCK'S COMPANION

An Ace Book/published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition/December 1988

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-87341-3

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name "ACE" and the "A" logo are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Prologue

^ »

Jose frowned at the screen and typed, "RUN COPY BRAIN." The screen went blank,

then rippled into a display of cues and standard responses. "LOAD BRAINPAN."

Jose squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a shake. Time enough to think

about Marcia later. Right now, he was on the job. He was being paid for this, and he

wouldn't get any money if he didn't do the job right. In fact, he wouldn't have a job. He

hit the keystroke that opened the window to the production lab below and typed,

"CHECK BRAINPAN."

The words "BRAINPAN LOADED" rippled across the screen.

Jose nodded, feeling satisfied to know that, in the sterilized white room below, a

technician had clamped a stainless steel basketball into the padded hemisphere that

would hold it while the program was copied into it. The sphere held a brand-new robot

brain, a giant crystal, a three-dimensional lattice that could hold a pattern of electrical

charges forever, but was so far just a carefully-grown rock. The technician had

connected the leads from Jose's computer to the brain's read-only memory bank. It

was ready to receive its basic operating program.

The cue and response disappeared from the screen, leaving the next one in line:

SPECIFY ROUTE.

Jose typed in, "A = B =…"

"Equals." Those two little parallel lines made something twist inside him. He was

stunned by the intensity of his own reaction, by how much the idea of equality, to

which he had always been dedicated, could bother him, and all because Marcia had

started in on him again this morning, started in on him about whether or not the two of

them were really equal in their relationship, as they were supposed to be. And, of

course, once she had started, she wouldn't let go.

It had all begun when he had announced, "Breakfast is ready," as she came out of

the shower.

Marcia paused in the hallway, holding the towel tight around her, and gave him her

haughtiest look. "I can punch the right code into the autochef as well as you can,

Jose."

Jose looked up in surprise. "Of course you can. I just thought it would be nice to…"

"To make me feel as though I'm not doing my job? Women don't have to be the

cooks any more, you know."

"Of course I know! You're not my servant."

"But men aren't servants either, right?" Marcia said, with sarcasm.

Jose frowned. "Hey. Nobody's supposed to be anybody's servant, right?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped. "If the men don't do it, who will?"

"We'll each do it for ourselves. Right?"

"Not right at all." She retorted. "How could it be?"

"Because if we each cook our own food, no one's serving anybody."

"Oh, so the high-and-mighty man can't stoop to doing the servile jobs?''

Jose was puzzled. "Does that mean I can't make breakfast for you now and then?"

Marcia reddened, snapped, "Don't be an ass!" and whirled away into the bedroom.

With a feeling of dread, Jose glanced at the calendar. "Beware the Ides," indeed…

He sighed and took a bite of toast. Somehow, it didn't taste very good.

He had just finished watching the quick-scan of the news on the screen, and was

punching in the stories he wanted in detail, when Marcia came storming out of the

bedroom, immaculately clad and coifed, calling, "The Declaration of Independence

says we're supposed to be equal, right?"

Jose spun to face her, totally taken aback. "What… How…"

"The Declaration! And we can't really be equal as long as we're dependent on each

other. To be really equal, you have to be totally in-dependent. That's what the

Declaration is all about!"

Jose paled. "You don't really mean that!"

"Of course I do! You can let me make my own breakfast!" She bit into an English

muffin and made a face. "Besides, it's cold."

"All right, so I shouldn't have punched the autochef for you!" Jose stamped over to

the counter, jaw set, rolled up her breakfast and turned to stuff it into the disposal.

"Hey!" Marcia squawked. "Now what am I supposed to eat?"

Jose looked up in surprise. "Punch up a new one, of course! So it'll at least be hot!"

"I don't have time for that now! All because your silly masculine ego was wounded!"

"My silly masculine ego didn't have a damn thing to do with your not liking cold

muffins!"

"Did I say I didn't like it?"

"You said it was cold…"

"But I was eating it! The least you could do would be to make me a new one!"

"I don't know where I'll find the energy." Jose turned to punch buttons on the

autochef.

"Oh, so now it's sarcasm, is it?" Marcia was standing straight, chin lifted, eyes

sparkling. "Well, tell me, Mister Big Egalitarian, how you're going to be sarcastic about

your sacred Declaration!"

Jose whirled, staring. "I wouldn't dream of it!"

"But you'll break every principle in it, won't you?"

"I'm not breaking a single phrase!"

"Oh, yeah? Well, how about where it says that 'the Creator has endowed all people

with certain unalienable rights'?"

"I never…"

She overrode him. "And Jefferson shows how that means that 'these persons ought

to be free and independent entities'!''

Jose frowned. "I don't think that's quite…"

"Oh, sure, nitpick about words! But let me tell you, Mister Know-It-All—if 'these

persons ought to be free and independent entities,' then wives ought to be free and

independent of their husbands!"

"But he was talking about states!" Jose wailed.

"He was talking about principles!" Marcia whirled away to the door. "Come on, we'll

be late!"

She settled into one corner of the wraparound sofa and told the computer,

"Eight-Mile and Adams." She told Jose, "Close the door."

Jose frowned at her as the door closed behind him, but he schooled himself to

patience.

But not today. She was already saying, "If the principle applies to states, it applies

to people. If New Jersey was supposed to be independent of England, a wife should be

independent of her husband!"

"But you are!" The aircar moved, and Jose lurched into a seat.

"Then why do you still expect me to make breakfast?"

"Breakfast!" Jose hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Your muffins are sitting

in the autochef!"

"Oh, don't worry, I won't starve!" She certainly didn't look as though she would; her

whole form seemed almost radiant. "After all, I can stop and pick up a munch at the

Bite-tique. And all because you had to start this silly argument!"

Jose bit back the retort about who had started what and took a deep breath.

Breakfast? What did she want breakfast for? She thrived on arguments!

"Oh, that's right, do the martyred patience act!" Marcia snapped. "Can't you stand

up for yourself at all?"

"The question is, should I?" Jose said carefully. "After all, if the Declaration really

does say…"

"Oh, leave the Declaration out of this! Can't you think for yourself?"

Jose looked up, hurt.

"And now it's the wounded puppy," Marcia said contemptuously. "Honestly, Jose,

sometimes you cling to me so much that it's smothering! I mean, if your precious

Declaration says to be a free and independent entity, you can at least let me be one,

can't you?"

Jose's face crumpled. "All right! If that's what you want, you can have it! I'll give you

a divorce!"

"Divorce?" Marcia bleated, horrified. "Jose! How could you even think of such a

thing?''

Jose just stared at her.

"Just because I'm a little snappish… Jose! You don't mean it!"

"But… but I thought… You said you wanted to be…"

"Don't you dare!"

"A free and independent entity!" Jose bawled.

"That's the Declaration, not me.' How could you possibly think I would want a

divorce?"

"But that's what it means, to be independent…"

"Oh, that's just a word!" Marcia leaned forward to squeeze his hand. "I mean, can't I

even have a little light conversation with you in the mornings?"

The aircar grounded, and its grille announced, "Eight-Mile and Adams."

"Don't you even think about a divorce!" Marcia commanded, darting a quick kiss at

him. "Have a good day, darling."

Well, that was something of a tall order. How could Jose "have a good day" when it

had started with such turmoil? He sighed philosophically, then sighed again to try to get

his emotions under control, and wondered whether he'd ever be able to tell when

Marcia was serious, and when she was just talking.

But he couldn't help thinking about it. Every time he tried to do something else, the

argument came back to him. He heaved a sigh and took his hands off the keyboard,

closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair, trying to think the experience through

so he could put it to rest.

The Declaration. That was it. That had been the keystone of Marcia's argument, the

phrases "that all people are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights"

and "these colonies ought to be free and independent states." He knew she'd been

misquoting, twisting Jefferson's words to suit her argument. Not that it mattered; when

she was in one of those moods, she'd use any ammunition that was handy. Still, it

might help him to get the argument out of his mind if he could see the phrases the way

Jefferson had written them, and reassure himself that he wasn't really violating the

Declaration's principles by the way he was living.

So he cleared his screen and punched in the code for the central library's

database, feeling like an idiot—he knew very well that he was living according to his

own ideals, and knew he was letting his weakness show by having to prove it to

himself.

The screen lit up with the library's logo and a request for a request. Jose punched

in "The Declaration of Independence" with a feeling of relief; at least something was

being reasonable.

The political entity that the Declaration had founded still existed, though it had

become so completely involved in the complex of nations that it was one part of a

united Gestalt, as were all the other nations of Terra. But the words that had begun that

union still rang down the corridors of human history, firing youthful minds with zeal and

exalting older spirits—and, through them, had in turn become the basis of the Terran

Union.

Then it jumped at him from the screen, a full facsimile of the document itself, but he

knew that each letter was also in binary. Not that he would dream of moving sentences

around in it.

But he could scroll through it, of course, and he did. He read it word by word,

feeling a measure of calmness returning to him as the clarion phrases rang out

through his mind.

There they were, right at the beginning, the truths Jefferson had held to be

self-evident—that all men were created equal, that they were endowed by their Creator

with certain unalienable rights…

His mind came to a screeching halt. "All men are created equal?" Yes, Marcia had

been misquoting. Only one word changed, though—right?

He dismissed the notion as unworthy. The distinction wasn't significant; Jefferson

had probably had all people in mind, men and women; and if he hadn't in 1776, he

surely would have in 3035.

But it did rather undercut Marcia's argument, didn't it? And since all she was using it

for was argument…

Sexist document. He could almost hear her voice dismissing it angrily. And she

might have a point there—but then, she shouldn't have cited the Declaration.

That wasn't germane, either, though. What mattered was knowing that he, Jose,

hadn't tried to treat her as inferior—and he knew damned well that he hadn't. He'd been

showing her a bit of consideration, not being condescending.

He scrolled on through the document, feeling a little better, reading as he went, until

he came to the phrase, "These United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be, FREE

AND INDEPENDENT STATES." He held the phrase centered on the screen, nodding

with satisfaction—he'd remembered the quotation almost accurately. And Marcia had

been wrong as well as right—there was a difference between a colony's having a right

to govern itself, and a woman's right to not have to take orders any more than a man

did.

Of course, everybody had to take orders, unless they were royalty—and these

days, even the kings and queens had to obey the law. But a woman shouldn't have to

take orders from her husband any more than he should have to take orders from her…

For a moment, Jose's head whirled, and he found himself wondering what he was

doing in that marriage. Or was it really a marriage?

Heresy. He brought his attention back firmly to the issue at hand. He was living in

accord with the Declaration's principles; he didn't have anything to feel badly about.

Unless, said a niggling doubt in the back of his mind—unless Jefferson's principle

of independence really meant that no one should ever become so fully dependent on

another person that you could really say they were married. But Jose was sure

Jefferson hadn't meant that.

But the principle itself… ?

The principle could wait. Jose pulled himself together firmly. He could work out that

principle now and again, for the rest of his life; it was only one more problem to solve,

the problem of being independent but married, and he was sure he could figure it out

in time. Meanwhile, there was an important issue of a robot brain that needed to be

programmed, and had been waiting far longer than it should have.

But he was almost at the end of the document. He punched for "Scroll" and read the

rest of the Declaration, letting it fill him with pride in being human, in being…

"Hey, Jose!"

Jose frowned, turning to the programmer next to him. "Yeah, Bob?"

"It won't access the original." Bob sat back, waving at his screen. "What am I doing

wrong?"

Jose suppressed a smile. Bob was very young, and very new to the job. He knew

computers better than Jose did, but he hadn't learned much about the asininities of

bureaucracy yet, or the arbitrary nature of its decisions. "Here, let me see." He shoved

his chair over to Bob's workstation and frowned at the screen, pursing his lips. "What

access code were you using?"

"RB-34h-Z." Bob shoved the manual over and pointed to the entry.

Jose let the smile show. "We quit making that model five years ago, Bob. The

RB-34h-Z series is a mile long now."

Bob frowned. "Then how am I supposed to know which one to call up?"

"The catalogue is supposed to appear on your screen automatically when you enter

the code."

"Then how come it didn't?"

"Because you're supposed to enter that code before you initiate the copying

procedure." Jose aborted the copy program, clearing the screen, then punched in

"RB-34H-Z." The screen lit up with a scrolling display on the left, while a note on the

right informed them that those models marked with an asterisk were still in production.

Bob frowned. "Why didn't the manual tell me about this?"

"Because the guy who wrote it is a cretin."

Bob just stared for a second, then smiled. "Well, not much I can say to that, is

there?"

"Other than asking why he keeps his job, no." Jose smiled. "Fact is, he was fired

last year, but they figure everybody who works here knows the routine, so they haven't

bothered to update the manual."

Bob sighed. "Makes it tough on a beginner, doesn't it?"

"That's why they mix you in with us old fogies." Jose was thirty-two. "Now—you get

to guess which model you're supposed to load."

Bob's head came up; he stared, taken aback. "What… ? How the hell can I… ?"

"It's right here." Jose pointed to the fine print in the lower right-hand corner of Bob's

duty sheet.

Bob frowned. "I thought that was supposed to be the final code in the routine."

"Looks that way, doesn't it? But it's really the suffix you're supposed to enter after

RB-34h-Z."

"Then why don't they…No. Cancel that." Bob sighed. "They assume every

programmer who works here knows that, don't they?"

Jose nodded. "The duty sheets are boilerplate. They just add the suffix and route it

to you."

Bob spread his hands and shook his head. "Well, now I know. Thanks, Jose."

"Anytime." Jose suppressed a smile again. "Call me the next time they foul you up."

Bob's grin followed him back to his own station. He smiled at the blank

screen—nothing to clear your own funk, like helping somebody else. He gave a

contented sigh and typed in "RUN COPY BRAIN."

The screen responded, "LOAD BRAINPAN," and Jose was off again. Now he

zipped through the program and had it all set up in ten minutes. He pressed "execute"

and sat back to smile and monitor the copying, making sure nothing went wrong.

Nothing did. It ran without a flaw. An hour later, the screen lit up the "END COPY"

light, then the query "ENGRAVE?" Jose nodded with satisfaction. The program had run

flawlessly; he entered "YES" and the computer cued the final changes in electrical

charges in the huge crystal below him, making the electronic matrix it had just copied a

permanent characteristic of the brain. The program was now impervious to flood, fire,

earthquake—and electromagnetic fields of all sizes and strengths. The only thing that

could erase that program now would be an electrical charge so strong that it would

fuse the whole brain into a lump of slag. The screen lit up with "ENGRAVING

COMPLETE," and Jose smiled and typed in "REMOVE BRAIN," cuing the production

lab below to take the sphere out of its clamps.

Then he remembered the Declaration.

It had still been on his board when he started the copying procedure.

It was now part of the robot's basic operating program.

Jose stared at the screen with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had already

routed the end-of-program through to Production; the program was indelibly encoded

into the brain. He couldn't remove the Declaration.

The new brain was wasted.

So, Jose thought, was his job. He stared at the screen, feeling numb.

Chapter 1

« ^ »

"All right, I'll bite—why do we have to take six packs? We could just leave the clothes in

the drawers and teleport clean outfits to us every morning."

" 'Tis not right to misuse our powers thus," Gwen said primly. " 'Twould be wrong of

us to set so poor an example for the children—and 'twould make us, too, slothful."

"And, Papa," said Magnus, "it doth take some effort. Wouldst thou wish to labor so,

when thou art but newly waked, every morn?"

"Frankly, I was planning to," Rod said, "and I'd rather do that than carry a pack

twenty miles. Still, your mother is right—we should save magic for the things we can't

do by ordinary means. Oh, I can see making the pots vibrate at a supersonic

frequency to shake off the dirt, because we didn't want to wash them." He swung about

to glare at Geoffrey. "Get that gleam out of your eye! It's bad enough watching you

clear the table by telekinesis!"

Geoffrey tried to glower, but he was feeling too ebullient, and had to make do with a

mischievous grin. " 'Tis far more fun, Papa, and faster too, though 'tis as much work.

Where is the harm in it?"

"It's like bragging," Rod explained. "You're showing off—and if a non-esper was

around to see it, it would make him furiously jealous. Of such things are witch-hunts

born."

"Then wherefore dost thou allow it, Papa?" Geoffrey asked.

"Because the non-espers aren't around, and it's good practice for you—you're

each increasing the number of things you can lift at one time, every day."

"Let us hear some words of sympathy for the poor woman who must needs watch

thee, and catch the one-too-many thou dost ever let slip," Gwen reminded.

Cordelia flung her arms around her mother. "Ah, poor dame, who must ever ward

us from our own foolishness! Yet 'tis good of thee, Mama, to aid us in our play!"

"Aptly said." Gwen smiled, amused. "I thank thee, daughter." She looked up at Rod.

"Yet they have each proved their ability to whisk things to themselves by thought."

"I suppose they have," Rod sighed, "so there's no point in not packing the clothes.

But it always makes such turmoil at the last minute."

" 'Always'?" Magnus grinned wickedly. "When have we e're gone on holiday

aforetime, Papa?"

"Well, there was the trip up into Romanov…"

"To spy out an evil sorcerer, as it eventuated," Gwen reminded him.

"And there was that ocean cruise, where we were teaching you kids how to make a

ship sail…"

"… And a storm came up, and blew us to that isle where the wicked magician did

seek to brew magics that would enslave the beastmen," Gregory reminded him.

"Well, then, there was that little educational trip south, to check on the source of

those funny stones you kids had found…"

"Which ended in the discovery of evil magic worked unwittingly," Cordelia reminded

him.

"It was only the peasant who was unwitting of it, dear, not the futurians behind him."

"Yet 'twas scarcely restful," Geoffrey pointed out. Then he grinned. "Though we did

take some pleasure in it."

Cordelia's eyes lighted, and she began to dance, remembering.

"Enough," Rod commanded. "I'll never trust music again."

"In that case," Fess's voice murmured in his ear, "you should be all the more willing

to take your clothes in packs."

Rod frowned. "Any particular reason for eavesdropping? You're supposed to be

Christopher Stasheff - Warlock of Gramarye 09 - The Warlocks Companion

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: