"My friends, it's a lovely evening; let's start," Armitage said in a cheerful tone.
"Do we have to, Sir?" a whining, female voice replied. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"
The white-coated man sighed and surveyed his lab assistants; two female, and three male. All had been recruited from among the disparate ranks of Quelgrum's army, but, after intensive education, they had proved capable Technicians, if rather lacking in initiative or insight.
However, one thing Armitage could not instil into his charges was his boundless enthusiasm for science.
"It could, Tech Varia," the Professor said, sighing. "But we're going to start tonight. I want to be able to give the General some positive results by tomorrow morning. I'm not having some damned mountebank conjurer calling all the shots around here, and we're going to spend as long as it takes tonight to make at least some initial progress."
The scientist made brief eye contact with each of his aides in turn, to drive his point home. One by one, the Technicians looked away, and Armitage suppressed a smile. Although he was an old man, he could still face down his younger, fitter, stronger underlings with ease.
"Very well; now we've settled that little issue, let's address ourselves to the matter at hand."
Armitage rolled up his sleeves. He relished a technical challenge, and this promised to be an interesting one. The General's resources were far greater even than those he had enjoyed during his long life at Haven; what couldn't be manufactured, bought or refurbished was 'requisitioned', and the Professor had no scruples about that. To him, the human mind was an intricate puzzle, each one different and fascinating in its unique complexity; anything that could aid him in his quest to unlock the deepest mystery of the psyche was welcome, however it might have been maintained.
On his defection to the ranks of Quelgrum's army, Armitage had found the level of technological ignorance inherent in the General's minions astonishing. He had been brought up in an establishment with considerable manufacturing resources and expertise, and most of the Haven people had understood at least the basics of technology. Nonetheless, a lot of the infrastructure in the hydroelectric complex was still in remarkable condition, considering its age, and Armitage had been able to exploit his wide range of scientific and administrative capabilities to the full, instead of shuffling papers and overseeing the conversion of suspected minor rebels into happy morons.
"Take notes, please, Technician Shemmur," Armitage said to one of his male assistants, who was holding a pad of paper and a pencil: the attempt to manufacture ballpoint pens had been a frustrating failure.
"The subject is male, aged between sixteen and twenty; height, approximately six-two; weight, approximately one hundred sixty pounds. Subject is in good health and well-nourished. No tattoos or other distinguishing marks."
The assistant's pencil scratched on his pad. "I've got it, Professor."
"The procedure is Stage Two Pacification; drug treatment and post-hypnotic suggestion. The name and face of General Quelgrum will be the primary triggers, with secondary concepts such as chain of command and duty overlaid on the core construct," Armitage continued, as Shemmur scribbled down his notes with a laborious hand.
The male subject, clad only in a white, backless hospital robe, gave a soft groan and lifted his eyelids, revealing glassy, unfocused eyes.
"Note that the patient has recovered partial consciousness, despite the medication he has been given," the Professor said. Turning to the subject, he asked "What is your name?"
"G-grimm. Ah, Grimm, Af… Af… something…"
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 Level 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.
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