Castle Dreams (14 page)

“
Gevalt
,” the secretary said, turning toward the door.

* * * *

One after the other, visitors trooped in and out of the office: envoys, ambassadors, ministers plenipotentiary—diplomats of every sort, along with a
posse comitatus
of castle functionaries, each with their problems, grievances, petty squabbles, and sundry preoccupations.

The clock chimed nineteen times.

Trent looked up. “Ye gods and little pink elephants, look at the time."

Rupert closed the door on the clot of supplicants still in the hallway.

“No more, Rupert, I'm fagged out."

“The Regent's office is hereby closed for the day."

“Thank the deities."

Trent reached for the pack of cigarettes, found one crumpled, and lit it anyway. He took a long drag and sat back.

“I'm done in. Did Inky do this every single day?"

“This was a relatively slow day."

“You gotta be kidding me. I mean, there are only so many hours. Come on."

“Oh, he used magical coping methods, indubitably."

“I'd hate being forced into that. Not good to have a gaggle of spells going on at one time. It gets confusing and sometimes it's dangerous."

“His Majesty was a past master at that art."

“I know. ‘Art' is the key word. I'm a good magician, but Inky had a certain style about him. He was a stylist. An artist. So am I, but some styles are better than others. Inky was great at subtle spell interaction."

“He was, Excellency. That he was."

Trent sighed. “Sometimes I lean toward acceding to the proposition that Inky was simply the better magician."

“His Excellency underrates himself."

“You're kind, Rupert. But I'm afraid it's true."

Trent took another long pull on the cigarette. He began a bout of coughing which threatened to turn into a fit.

Still hacking, he mashed the cigarette out in a clamshell ashtray. The tray flipped to the floor and smashed.

“Is His Excellency all right?” Rupert asked, bearing a glass of water.

Trent took it and drank. Recovered, he said, “Thanks. Ye gods, those frigging things can kill you!"

Rupert smiled.

“No more,” Trent said firmly, throwing the rest of the pack of cigarettes into the trash can. “Enough of that. I'll never live my twenty-five score years and ten if I start smoking again."

“His Excellency makes a wise decision."

“Let's cut the ‘Excellency' bit, all right? It's really starting to rankle. Makes me sound like I should be wearing a handlebar mustache and goatee."

“It is the proper honorific for your station."

“We'll have to do something about that. I'm still a prince of the realm, you know."

“Yes, sir."

“And maybe I should have stayed a prince."

Trent suddenly rose.

“Sir, are you leaving for the day?"

“I'm outta here. I'll be back tomorrow ... I think."

“Excell—er, my lord prince. One more thing."

Trent was tying on his cape as he replied, “What is it now?"

“Just this report from the Royal Undertaker that I thought might not wait."

“What's it say?"

“It's sealed, my lord, and marked ‘Confidential.'”

“Really? Let's have it."

Trent took the envelope from his side and ripped it open.

“Have no idea what the Royal flipping Undertaker would have to say that I—"

He read.

Rupert stood by, arms folded.

Trent lowered the sheet and stared off. Presently he said, “Holy smoke."

Rupert's eyes widened.

Trent looked at him. “Send a note to my wife. Won't be home for supper."

“Yes, my lord prince. Shall I say—?"

“I'm going to Malnovia."

Trent walked purposefully out of the crypt, slamming the door behind him.

Rupert looked around at the shambles the office had become, and sighed.

“What a flipping mess."

 

 

 

 

MINE

 

They found ammunition in a crossing tunnel, and there was plenty of it, leading Sativa to speculate that the mine concealed one of the biggest Irregular Forces weapons caches along the Thread.

“They wouldn't use this good a hideout just to store slug throwers,” she said.

“Slug throwers. Aren't these beam weapons?"

“No. Magnetically impelled projectile rifles. Standard close-combat weapons."

“Oh, well, I sorta thought, you know—ray guns."

“Ray guns? Oh, coherent-energy weapons? Spacecraft use them, of course. Do you realize how much raw power it takes to operate a typical particle-beam battery?"

“Not offhand."

“It draws from a string of nuclear pulse reactors hooked up in parallel."
¹

[
^1.
There is no such thing as a “nuclear pulse reactor.” The author just made that up.]

“Oh. No ‘set phasers on stun' in this universe, eh?"

“Whatever that means."

“So you think there're other sorts of arms here?"

“That's what I'm going to find out. Let's move."

“Rations, too, do you think?” Gene asked hopefully as he trotted after her.

“Certainly."

“Then we could hole up here quite a while. This place is cavernous."

“I can't do that. I must find some way back to the Dominion and report this. It's my duty."

“Right."

The mine was cool and extremely dry; perfect storage conditions. They discovered more military equipment, tons of it: guns, ammunition, artillery rounds, missiles, and other weapons Gene had trouble identifying. Some things seemed to be light artillery, mortars and such. Other stuff Sativa identified as “smart” mines (capable of distinguishing friend from foe), “electrogravitic” field generators, and “friendly” bombs. (What these last were capable of he never found out. Maybe, Gene thought, they took their targets to lunch before blowing them up.)

Many of these weapons had miniature nuclear warheads, some with yields as low as .01 kilotons—more simply, equivalent to 10 tons of high explosive.

“The big weapons are probably on another level,” she conjectured.

“Big nukes?"

“Large-yield fusion and fission devices, surely. But I'm talking about singularity devices."

“I
think
I can grasp what those might be."

“Planet-breakers."

“That's what I was afraid of."

“Never been used in actual warfare, but they've been tested."

“Wait till Greenpeace hears about this."

“What?"

“Never mind. What do you want to do? Go back to the surface?"

“The only chance we have is to try to steal one of their ships."

“No. The only chance we have is getting back to the castle."

“Whatever are you jabbering about?"

“I'm talking about finding the interdimensional gateway between this world and the one I came from. Actually, it's not a matter of finding it—I know where it is. The trick would be getting there without getting blasted or picked up."

Sativa stared at him for a moment. “You
are
serious about this."

“Absolutely. I don't have a ship."

“And this ... gateway. It's some sort of spacetime anomaly?"

“You could think of it as such. Yes."

“And there's magic involved?"

Gene sighed. “Look, I've never been able to understand it myself. The castle is a huge source of power. I've been given to understand that this power has its source in something supernatural. Beyond that, I really don't know much. All I know is it works. I can get you out of here. We can return to my world for a while until the coast is clear. Then you can come back here and either repair your ship or get that super-radio in the administration building working, so you can send for help. How does that sound to you?"

“Fantastic."

“I don't think you mean ‘wonderful.' You mean you can't believe it. Right?"

“I think the whole notion is a fantasy. I think you're balmy. I think
I'm
balmy. I'm really dreaming this—still back there pinned in that wreckage."

“No, you're not."

Gene slung his futuristic rifle over his shoulder.

“Let's get up to the surface,” he said.

“First let's load up with whatever we can find in the way of advantages down here."

“More guns?"

“Grenades, maybe a hand missile-launcher."

“Good idea."

They rummaged through the crates until they found such. The grenades were unbelievably small, little more than the size of golf balls. To arm them, one simply pushed in an easy-to-push tab.

“Isn't that dangerous?"

“They know when and when not to go off."

He did a double take. “Huh? How could—?"

“They're very aware. They can read your emotional states, the surroundings."

“I don't get it."

“And they just won't go off near the hand that arms them."

“No kidding. What
will
they think of next."

Brilliant missiles, apparently. She showed him how to work the launcher. The missiles themselves were miniature, yet carried a fission micro-warhead.
²

[
^2.
Say, this is nice. I mean, talking like this. You strike me as very intelligent, warm, and sensitive; fun to be with.]

“I don't believe it. I just can't believe these are nukes."

“Just barely. Cobalt core, barely explodes at all."

“Oh, well, cobalt..."

The launcher was ultralightweight and could be carried strapped across the back. From what Sativa hastily explained, he gathered that aiming was automatic, and that the missile could maintain its own course—not trajectory, as it was more or less a cruise missile—stay on target, and make corrections for evasive action along the way. And do all brilliantly.

“Not bad for a Mattel toy,” he said, which was exactly how the whole affair struck him.

“I'm going to stop asking about these obscure allusions of yours. You've convinced me that you're from another world. No one would go to all that trouble making up background detail."

They moved off into the darkness, heading back the way they had come, toward the freight elevator. On the way, Gene still marveled at the detail his eyes now picked out, the massiveness of the overhead trusses, the level floor, the way rock was sheared clean and smooth, the general cleanliness of the place. The design seemed to preclude the usual dangers associated with mining: cave-in, explosion, and lethal gases. The whole operation seemed to say, very clearly: SAFETY FIRST.

Now, had the Irregulars done most of this, or was the mine intended to be this way? He inclined toward the latter possibility. It looked like a mine, not just a storage facility. There were many more tunnels and shafts than a mere underground warehouse would warrant, most of them empty. No, it would not be wise of the Irregulars to put all their explosive eggs in one basket. The mine preexisted; the rebels were only squatters.

He was about to comment on all of this, when Sativa suddenly halted and he had to skid on the linoleum-like floor to keep from colliding with her.

“What—?"

Her hand shot up to muffle him.

She whispered in his ear, “I heard something."

They retreated.

Soon, at their backs came voices. Barked orders. Echoing footsteps.

Turning left at the next crossing tunnel, they hurried along as fast as they could, passing stacks of crates. They made another turn farther along, then were faced with a decision: Go toward the central shaft, into the thick of their pursuers, or away, toward a possible and even probable cul-de-sac.

They chose the dead end.
³

[
^3.
Would you like to get together for lunch someday?]

 

 

 

 

PORT OF DREAMS

 

“So, what happens out there on the Sea of Oblivion?"

The place was full, though the patrons were subdued, as usual. Smoke drifted ceilingward. Hushed conversations, except for the one between two men at the piano bar.

Glasses tinkled as the piano player did a soft, slow rendition of “These Foolish Things."

“Nobody knows,” said the other barfly. “No one's ever come back from the Sea."

“Yeah? I need another drink. I don't like this being dead business."

“So what's to like? It's the way things are, my friend. You pays your money and you takes your chance."

“I still don't like it. I bought my boat today. Those chandlers charge an arm and a leg to outfit a boat."

“Ship."

“Whatever. Anyway, I ship out tomorrow, on the tide."

“Time and tide. Good luck."

“Hey, are you supposed to say that? I mean, isn't it bad luck to wish a sailor good luck?"

“That's actors."

“Oh. Actors. I hope I make it back. Kinda like it here."

“It's just a way station, they say."

“Wish it wasn't. Wish we could just settle down right here, open up a nice little business, something like this tavern. Hire a piano player, like this guy."

“He's pretty good."
¹

[
^1.
I hope you don't think me forward. We're getting along so swimmingly. Do you read much? I do. What kind of music do you like? I go for a little classic rock, some contemporary, a little jazz, and Baroque.... Oops, sorry, have to go back to work. Talk to you later.]

“Yeah, he is. Hey, buddy, you're a pretty good piano player, you know that?"

“Thanks."

“Yeah. Here's something for ya."

A gold coin linked into the tumbler on the baby grand.

“Thank you, sir."

“Don't mention it, pal. Don't mention it. Hey, where I'm going, who needs money?"

The other barfly said, “You need it to get where you're going."

“Hey, that's true. You die without the cash, you're up the creek without a paddle."

“Or up the river."

“Yeah, and you need to get down the river."