Stasheff, Christopher - Warlock 2 - The Warlock In Spite Of H

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Christopher Stasheff

The Warlock In Spite

of Himself

MAYFLOWER

GRANADA

London Toronto Sydney New York

PART ONE

VISIT TO A SMALL PLANTAGENET

The asteroid hurtled in from Capricorn, nosed around a G-type sun,

swerved off toward the fifth planet. Such a trajectory is somewhat

atypical for asteroids.

It slapped into the planet's gravity net, swooped around the globe

three times in three separate orbits, then stabbed into

atmosphere, a glorious shooting star.

At a hundred feet altitude it paused, then snapped to the surface -

but only to the surface. No fireworks, no crater - nothing more

drastic than crushed grass. It~ surface was scarred and pitted,

blackened by the friction-heat of its fall; but it was intact.

Deep within its bowels echoed the words that would change the

planet's destiny.

'Damn your bolt-.brained bearings!'

The voice broke off; its owner frowned, listening.

The cabin was totally silent, without its usual threshold hum.

The young man swore, tearing the shock-webbing from his body. He

lurched out of the acceleration chair, balanced dizzily on the

balls of his feet, groping till his hand touched the plastic wall.

Steadying himself with one hand, he stumbled to a panel on the

other side of the circular cabin. He fumbled the catches loose,

cursing in the fine old style of galactic deckhands, opened the

panel, pressed a button. Turning, he all but fell back to the

chair.

The soft hum awoke in the cabin again. A slurred voice asked, with

varying speed and pitch, 'Izzz awwl (Hic!) sadizfagtoreee. . .

M'lorrrr' Rodney?'

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'All the smooth, glossy robots in the galaxy,' muttered Milord,

'and I get stuck with an epileptic!'

'Ivv ut bleeezz m'lorr', thuh c'passsider c'n be-'

'Replaced,' finished Rodney, 'and your circuits torn out and

redesigned. No, thank you, I like your personality the way it is -

except when you pull off a landing that jam my clavicles loose!'

'Ivy m'lorrd will vorgive, ad thuh cruzhial momend ovvv

blanetfall, I rezeived zome very zingular radio waves thad-'

'You got distracted, is that what you're trying to say?'

'M'lorrrd, id was imberative to analyze-'

'So part of you was studying the radio waves, and part of you was

landing the ship, which was just a wee bit too much of a strain,

and the weak capacitor gave.. . . Fess! How many times do I have

to tell you to keep your mind on the job!'

'M'lorrd egzbressed a wizh to be like thuh-'

'Like the heroes of the Exploration Sagas, yes. But that doesn't

mean I want their discomforts.'

Fess's electronic system had almost recovered from the post-

seizure exhaustion. 'But, milord, the concept of heroism implies-'

'Oh, forget it,' Rodney groaned. Fess dutifully blanked a portion

of his memory banks.

Fess was very dutiful. He was also an antique, one of the few

remaining FCC (Faithful Cybernetic Companion) robots, early models

now two thousand years out of date. The FCC robots had been

programmed for extreme loyalty and, as a consequence, had perished

in droves while defending their masters during the bloody

Interregnum between the collapse of the ancient Galactic Union and

the rise of the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra.

Fess (a name derived from trying to pronounce 'FCC' as a single

word) had survived, thanks to his epilepsy. He had a weak

capacitor that, when overstrained, released all its stored energy

in a massive surge lasting several milliseconds. When the

preliminary symptoms of this electronic seizure - mainly a

fuzziness in Fess's calculations - appeared, a master circuit

breaker popped, and the faulty capacitor discharged in isolation

from the rest of Fess's circuits; but the robot was out of

commission until the circuit breaker was reset.

Since the seizures occurred during moments of great stress

- such as trying to land a spaceship-cum-asteroid while

analyzing an aberrant radio wave, or trying to protect a master

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Christopher Stasheff

from three simultaneous murderers - Fess had survived the

Interregnum; for, when the Proletarians had attacked his masters,

he had fought manfully for about twenty-five seconds, then

collapsed. He had thus become a rarity - the courageous servant

who had survived. He was one of the five FCC robots still

functioning.

He was, consequently, a prized treasure of the d'Armand family -

prized as an antique, but even more for his loyalty; true loyalty

to aristocratic families has always been in short supply.

So, when Rodney d'Armand had left home for a life of adventure and

glory - being the second son of a second son, there hadn't been

much else he could do - his father had insisted on his taking Fess

along.

Rod had often been very glad of Fess's company; but there were

times when the robot was just a little short on tact. For

instance, after a very rough planetfall, a human stomach tends to

be a mite queasy; but Fess had the bad sense to ask, 'Would you

care to dine, m'lord? Say, scallops with asparagus?'

Rod turned chartreuse and clamped his jaws, fighting back nausea.

No,' he grated, 'and can the "m'lord" bit. We're on a mission,

remember?'

'I never forget, Rod. Except on command.'

'I know,' growled his master's voice. 'It was a figure of speech.'

Rod swung his legs to the floor and painfully stood up. 'I could

use a breath of fresh air to settle my stomach, Fess. Is there any

available?'

The robot clicked for a moment, then reported, 'Atmosphere

breathable. Better wear a sweater, though.'

Rod shrugged into his pilot's jacket with a growl 'Why do old

family retainers always develop a mother-hen complex?'

'Rod, if you had lived as long as I have-'

'-I'd want to be deactivated. I know, "Robot is always right."

Open the lock, Fess.'

The double doors of the small air lock swung open, showing a

circle of black set with stars. A chill breeze poured into the

cabin.

Rod tilted his face back, breathing in. His eyes closed in luxury.

'Ah, the blessed breath of land! What lives here, Fess?'

Machinery whirred as the robot played back the electron-telescope

tapes they had taken in orbit, integrating the pictorial data into

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Christopher Stasheff

a comprehensive description of the planet.

'Land masses consist of five continents, one island of noteworthy

dimensions, and a host of lesser islands. The continent and the

minor islands exhibit similar flora - equatorial rain forest.'

'Even at the poles?'

'Within a hundred miles of each pole; the ice caps are remarkably

small. Visible animal life confined to amphibians and a host of

insects; we may assume that the seas abound with fish.'

Rod rubbed his chin. 'Sounds like we came in pretty early in the

geologic spectrum.'

'Carboniferous Era,' replied the robot.

'How about that one large island? That's where we've landed, I

suppose?'

'Correct. Native flora and fauna nonexistent. All life-forms

typical of Late Terran Pleistocene.'

'How late, Fess?'

'Human historical.'

Rod nodded. 'In other words, a bunch of colonists came in, picked

themselves an island, wiped out the native- life, and seeded the

land with Terran stock. Any idea why they chose this island?'

'Large enough to support a good-sized population, small enough to

minimize problems of ecological revision. Then too, the island is

situated in a polar ocean current, which lowers the local

temperature to slightly below Terran normal.'

'Very handy; saves them the bother of climate control. Any remains

of what might have been Galactic Union cities?'

'None, Rod.'

'None!' Rod's eyes widened in surprise. 'That doesn't fit the

pattern. You sure, Fess?'

The developmental pattern of a lost, or retrograde, colony - one

that had been out of touch with Galactic civilization for a

millennium or more - fell into three well-defined stages: first,

the establishment of the colony, centered around a modern city

with an advanced technology; second, the failure of communications

with Galactic culture, followed by an overpopulation of the city,

which led to mass migrations to the countryside and a consequent

shift to an agrarian, self-sufficient economy; and, third, the

loss of technological knowledge, accompanied by a rising level of

superstition, symbolized by the abandonment and eventual tabooing

of a coal-and-steam technology~, social relationships calcified,

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Christopher Stasheff

and a caste system appeared. Styles of dress and architecture were

usually burlesques of Galactic Union forms: for example, a small

hemispherical wooden 'hut, built in imitation of the vaulting

Galactic geodesic domes.

But always there were the ruins of the city, acting as a constant

symbol and a basis for mythology. Always.

'You're sure, Fess? You're really, really sure there isn't a

city?'

'I am always certain, Rod.'

'That's true.' Rod pulled at his lower lip. 'Sometimes mistaken,

but never in doubt. Well, shelve the matter of the city for the

time being; maybe it sank in a tidal wave. Let's just make a final

check on the life-forms' being Terran.'

Rod drove head-first through the three-foot circle of the lock,

landed in a forward roll, rose to his knees. He unclipped the

guerilla knife from his belt - a knife carefully designed so that

it could not be attributed to any one known culture - and drew the

dagger from its sheath.

The sheath was a slender cone of white metal, with a small knob at

the apex. Rod plucked several blades of grass, dropped them into

the sheath, and turned the knob. The miniature transceiver built

into the sides of the sheath probed the grass with sonics to

analyze its molecular structure, then broadcast the data to Fess,

who determined if any of the molecules were incompatible with

human metabolism. If the grass had been poisonous to Rod, Fess

would have beamed a signal back to the sheath, whereupon the white

metal would have turned purple.

But in this particular case, the sheath stayed silver.

'That ties it,' said Rod. 'This is Terran grass, presumably

planted by Terrans, and this is a Terran colony. But where's the

city?'

'There is a large town - perhaps thirty thousand souls - in the

foothills of a mountain range to the north, Rod.'

'Well...' Rod rubbed his chin. 'That's not exactly what I had in

mind, but it's better than nothing. What's it look like?'

'Situated on the lower slopes of a large hill, at the summit of

which is a large stone structure, strongly reminiscent of a

Medieval Terran castle.'

'Medieval!' Rod scowled.

'The town itself consists of half-timbered and stuccoed buildings,

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Stasheff, Christopher - Warlock 2 - The Warlock In Spite Of H

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