Of Machines & Magics

by Adele Abbot

  The companions spent little time on the broader scene however. As they crossed the threshold, a cage fashioned from bright bars of green light flicked into being in front and to either side of them. Turning, they found the doors had silently returned to bar their return. The beams of light were stacked well above head high and about a hand span apart.

  “Hah!” Roli walked forward, lifted his hands toward the light beams, ready to climb them, they seemed so solid.

  “No! Calistrope reached forward and jerked Roli roughly back. “No. Dangerous, look,” he picked up a piece of litter from the floor, a stick or some such and tossed it at the light bars. There was a flash, the stick fell through the bars in three pieces. “Cutting light. I know about it from somewhere.”

  Roli gulped and stood with his back to the doors. “Thanks.”

  Through the bars, beyond them, stood a tall pile of junkyard art in the form of a gangling human form. Whoever had built it had been overgenerous with arms, there were—four, counted Calistrope. He indicated the sculpture and what appeared to be various exhibits behind it.

  “An exhibition hall, do you think?”

  “Well,” Ponderos shrugged, a gesture which rippled all manner of muscles, “I suppose you could well be right Calistrope. But to what purpose?”

  Calistrope shrugged as well, utilizing considerably less energy.

  “You,” said a new voice, like the fall of a rusty bucket down a stony slope… “Are you the director of this party?”

  Both Calistrope and Ponderos wheeled about and looked in all directions. “Who addresses us?” Calistrope said, becoming weighty in his speech and tone.

  “I do. Up here.” Four clanging syllables.

  The three of them looked upward and there, atop the sculpture a bright blue eye looked down at them from a battered cylinder which took the place of a head.

  “Aha, I have your attention. So you, the one in dark blue, you are the leader, yes?”

  “Yes. That is so.”

  “Good,”—an empty can dropped onto a tin tray, “And now…”

  One of the arms stirred, piston muscles flexed, too many elbow joints at different angles bent along its length. A metal clawed hand at its end reached through the light cage, its surface sizzling and suddenly bright where the light impinged. It caught hold of the unsuspecting Calistrope’s coat and hauled him aloft, over the wall and swiftly dropped him to the floor.

  “Now, we go for examination.” Speech like the sound of unoiled hinges.

  “Examination?”

  “For my exhibition.”

  “Which exhibition is that?”

  The thing of many parts turned partly, a process of squeaks and groans as the upper part revolved on bearings at the waist. “Over there…”

  As it rose to point, Calistrope ducked away from the hand which had released him. The creature was not to be fooled, in another instant a second arm, all metal tubing with telescopic sections shot out and caught hold of Calistrope’s arm in a gentle but immovable grip. Above him, the cylindrical head tilted and looked down, it turned slowly from side to side—well-oiled bearings, a low hum from a motor.

  “That won’t do. Not at all. Now come, I wish to copy you.”

  “Copy?” Calistrope was pulled along, willy-nilly.

  “I told you, for my exhibition. I will build a simulacrum, very durable. Not like this,” the creature stopped for a long moment and considered its captive, tapped Calistrope on the chest. “Not this sort of thing. This sort of body dies.”

  “Only when misused.”

  “It dies,” insisted the other.

  Calistrope was pulled along, a hairy ape-like arm with rough red hair sprouting along its length held his head close to the thing’s ribs. There was a sharp smell of corroding metals and the tang of lubricating oil mixed inextricably with the odor of sweat.

  “Here now. My office.”

  The office was a space between buttresses supporting the wall of the main hall, it had been closed off by sheets of glass. Inside, there was a hard-looking bench and several wheeled trolleys piled with enigmatic equipment. Brighter lights flared as they entered the enclosure, the beams centered upon a dusty couch.

  “There,” said the creature. Muscles bunched along the length of the great hairy arm, muscles magnificent enough to make Ponderos feel inadequate, a finger the size of a cucumber pointed to the couch.

  Somewhat anxious, Calistrope raised his voice. “By what authority do you haul me off and sequester my companions?”

  Calistrope’s bluster was hardly noticed, the great rumbling, clanging voice, even at its mildest, was sufficiently stentorian to cow the Mage a dozen times over. “I am the curator,” announced the creature. “You enter my domain; you place your fate in my hands. Now lie down.”

  The curator propelled Calistrope with a gentle but irresistible push back on to the couch. Calistrope collapsed onto it. A cloud of dust arose around him, bringing tears to his eyes and a sneeze to his nose.

  “I am responsible for all this.” The great hand swung to and fro and Calistrope considered making another break for freedom but the hand swept back towards him, two fingers rested upon his midriff. Escape was a fantasy. “I procure new specimens, spruce up the old.”

  Contriving to keep Calistrope pinioned, the curator reached across the space with his extensible arm and pulled a trolley towards him on squeaking wheels. Outside of Calistrope’s view, it made adjustments, pushed switches, plugged plugs. A humming sound began behind Calistrope’s head. “Now lie still. Do not move. Have I made this clear?”

  Calistrope nodded.

  “Don’t move, I said.”

  “Yes,” said Calistrope, “Er, no.”

  A few moments later something appeared at the top of Calistrope’s field of vision. It crept over him, an oval pod on the end of a thin rod. The pod moved on—a sensing device, Calistrope assumed as it crept over his torso, down along his legs and stopped at his feet. The hum ceased, a thin whine commenced and the sensor was retracted.

  “Ah, well,” said Calistrope and sat up. “Interesting. I must be away now…”

  The hand reappeared, pushed him back to a semi-reclining position. “Be still. Memories now.” The trolley with squeaky wheels went away, another on silent suspensors was pulled forward to where it hovered in front of his face. A fourth arm, one which Calistrope had only had a glimpse of before, came into use; it supported a hand with long thin digits—each with five or six or more knuckles.

  Small verniers were set, toggles snapped back and forth and then power was switched on. The machine flashed and crackled, a smell which Calistrope associated with overheated galvanic machinery, assailed his nostrils.

  “Memories?” asked Calistrope, a trifle plaintively.

  “Quite painless, I assure you, heh heh.” Two sniggers like snare drums. “You will not remember a thing.”

  Calistrope was suddenly alarmed, very alarmed. “What do you mean? It takes my memories, is that what you mean?”

  The curator shrugged—a minor dislocation of tin cans and brass barrels and cast iron pipes. “The equipment is old, unreliable,” it told Calistrope sadly. “However, rest assured they will be perfectly preserved in your simulacrum. I shall replay them again and again, it will be like living your life over and over again.”

  “But I shan’t experience them. They’re mine, they make me, me!” And Calistrope struggled to such effect that he wriggled down and almost out from beneath the curator’s great fingers.

  “You will begin to accumulate more immediately. It will do you no harm, I may even leave some for you in your brain. Deliberately, the curator tapped a stud and the recording machine began to hum.

  Calistrope’s last sight was of a dewdrop hanging from an overhead girder. A huge drop of water which stretched out impossibly and then fell to the floor. His vision darkened, his mind lost volition.

  A succession of memories paraded before Calistrope’s inner sight, memories so old that he could not remem
ber where they had been acquired… a small boy playing on a grassy slope, the sky was blue; sunlight a blinding light overhead… A waterfall against a black sky with stars as hard and as sharp as diamond shards… a woman’s face which brought sudden tears to his eyes…

  Calistrope opened his eyes, rubbed them and found himself staring at a puddle of clear liquid on the tile floor of the curator’s office. The puddle bulged upwards at its center and continued to rise for some seconds. The top swelled out a little, there was the suggestion of a head with features. Shoulders broadened outward, arms separated from the main mass, the lower part bifurcated and became legs.

  “Morph!” Calistrope breathed the word in amazement. “Am I remembering you?”

  Chapter 20

  The curator was bending over Calistrope, and one of its long, slim fingers was poised above the activation button. “What was that you said? I must calibrate the equipment, and then we shall begin properly.”

  As Calistrope watched, the translucent being moved on silent feet to one side, gaining in color and solidity as it moved. It crept up to the curator’s side and pulled at the memory recorder, which slid easily on its suspensor field. Momentum carried it out of the curator’s immediate reach and it caromed into a row of glass cases, sending them crashing. “What is this?” cried the curator, its voice suddenly as thin and as high as a distant shriek of tortured metal. “An alien! I declare it to be an alien!”

  The curator danced carefully in the confined space, its huge feet cracking and gouging at the floor tiles. “Centuries?” it mused as it shot out a hand. “No, I am wrong!” The hand had evidently missed its target, for it struck again. “Millennia! It has been seven millennia since I last had an alien life form to prepare for my museum.” The curator’s arm retracted, and Morph was securely gripped by metal fingers interlocked about the waist.

  “Go, Calistrope! Do not fear for me—go!” Morph’s right eyelid drooped in a slow-motion wink. “Leave this juggernaut to me.”

  Calistrope sidled around the curator’s back as Morph lost some of its rigidity and slid partly through the curator’s fingers. “Oops,” said the curator in astonishment as it used another hand to hold on to Morph’s gradually elongating body. As Calistrope left the doorway, the curator was already employing all four hands to hold onto the lengthening alien. Outside, Calistrope looked left, then right. To the right were scuff marks in the layer of dust that covered the floor of the hall; Calistrope followed them and within ten minutes was back at the entrance where his two comrades were still imprisoned.

  “Calistrope! You got away—or perhaps you disabled the grotesque thing?”

  “Morph helped me. He distracted the curator while I escaped.”

  “Morph is dead, Calistrope,” Ponderos shook his head, wondering if this was a sign of instability since his friend’s accident. “Does your head hurt?”

  “My head?” Calistrope put a hand to his head. “No. There’s nothing wrong with my head.”

  “Perhaps you saw another of his kind,” Roli suggested.

  Calistrope shook his head irritably. “Morph spoke to me. I don’t know how he survived but it was Morph—there is no doubt of it.”

  “Well! Let us just be thankful,” Ponderos thought it better to let the matter drop. “How can we get out of here?”

  Calistrope inspected the walls to either side of the doors where the light beams emanated from a number of small holes. There were no visible switches or knobs, no controls of any kind. “It’s only light, when all is said and done. Surely we can block it,” Calistrope mused. He looked around and spied a sheet of dark material. “This should do! It will absorb the light.”

  He picked it up and discovered that it was heavy. “Metal! There is metal everywhere in here—ransom for a thousand grandees!” Callistrope thrust it into the path of the light beams and the metal bagan to sizzle. The coating burned away and three holes appeared—large enough to put a finger through.

  “So much for that! A mirror then, a mirror is what we need,” he said as he looked around again. “A mirror, or perhaps a bright, shiny piece of metal!” Calistrope bent over and picked up a piece of polished, silvery stuff. Back at the enclosure he tried again, gingerly. The green light beams were deflected upwards and a blackened track appeared on the ceiling material where the light touched it. “Quickly now, this is working.”

  Ponderos and Roli came through the gap, stepping over the lowest beam that was still functional, and ducking the higher ones above the reach of the deflector. Just as Calistrope was about to pull the metal plate out, he cried out and dropped it. “It’s hot,” he explained. “It got very hot suddenly.”

  “We’re still on the wrong side of the door,” Roli grumbled.

  “But free to roam about. There must be other exits,” he replied. The hall could have been as much as a league in length, and they had entered through one of the shorter walls—a furlong wide, perhaps. Tall double doors occurred every one or two chains, and each of the first four were closed and refused to open to Calistrope’s hand. The next exit, which was the fifth, was also closed and unresponsive to Calistrope’s touch.

  “Uh-oh,” Roli pointed to their left. “The curator!” They had been following an aisle which paralleled the wall; here, its inner side was lined with a row of cabinets depicting the evolution of a tall, dignified biped from a frog-like creature. The development was detailed, the line of cabinets long and some above head-height. Beyond this line, following some avenue nearer the center, the curator’s head and shoulders could be seen and occasionally, one or more arms were being brandished in the air.

  “What now? Where do we go?”

  “These are the last doors along this side,” Calistrope said and sniffed the air. “There’s that smell again—you remember? Magic?”

  Ponderos sniffed as well. “Well…” he sniffed again, harder, longer. “Yes. Yes I do smell something now.”

  “The curator!” Roli was anxious.

  “Yes, well—keep low and we’ll go on, as far as the end wall. Even if the thing sees us, we can keep well ahead now that we know about it. As a curator, it is not likely to crash its way through the exhibits; we can circle around as long as is necessary.”

  Ponderos’ stomach rumbled loudly, “And how long is that? I’m still hungry—we don’t know if the curator even eats.”

  “For the moment, we must go on,” Calistrope prodded. They bent low and scuttled along the aisle until it turned at right angles. Here, they could move in either direction to keep out of the curator’s sight.

  “There’s another door there,” Roli pointed. “A small one.” The other two looked. Two buttresses had been erected at some time to take the strain imposed by a crack in the rock face which ran jaggedly out across both the floor and the ceiling. Between the two was a doorway closed by a panel displaying the familiar dark grey circle. The smell of magic issuing from the crack was strong enough to make even Roli’s nose itch, and he sneezed violently. They crossed to the door.

  Calistrope made a face. “Well?”

  “Try it,” Ponderos shrugged. “There is nothing to lose.”

  With a dramatic flourish, Calistrope slapped his hand against the circle. The door panel vanished and out rolled a waft of hot dry air accompanied by a smell of overheated copper. The interior was lit by a fitful red glow. Cautiously they entered—Calistrope, Ponderos and finally, Roli.

  The room was small, little more than an alcove and the crack which had split the wall outside ran across the floor and appeared as a deep fissure in the inner wall. Calistrope noticed this peripherally as he stepped across the gap in the floor, what took his primary attention was the simple-seeming apparatus at the center.

  Two slim cones, each an ell or so in length with their narrow ends fused together formed a venturi. The device rested vertically upright in a stand with the lower end clear of the floor and apparently open. The open ends of seven square-shaped wave guides were arranged around the narrow waist and merged into a s
ingle square-sectioned duct which disappeared into a void cut into the chamber’s wall. None of the seven pipes actually touched the venturi although they were machined to precisely match its contours.

  From the top of the upper cone, a dull red glow suffused the atmosphere. It radiated heat, air was evidently drawn in at the bottom, was heated by whatever process went on inside and exited from the top taking with it some of the energy gathered within the device. Calistrope supposed this to be a side effect of the real process of energy production.

  “Magic,” said Calistrope at last, gesturing toward the device. “Magic extracted from the ether.”

  “How though?” Ponderos scratched his gleaming pate. “Roli has demonstrated that magic proceeds from living things, particularly from people. We have found it available only where there are a number of people living in a community.”

  Roli shook his head. “Ponderos is right. There has been no usable magic in the ether until now. The machine apes whatever is inside a person, it manufactures magic. The magic you are using must be a leakage from the machine.”

  Both Calistrope and Ponderos looked blankly at the younger man for quite some time. This was a new concept—the debating of advanced theories with an apprentice of scarcely an old year’s standing.

  “The major part is collected by these… these things,” Roli pointed to the square tubes which girdled the mechanism.

  Calistrope nodded slowly. “Well, the proposition has merit,” he said.

  “It covers the known facts,” allowed Ponderos. “But what is the magic manufactured from?”

  “That is a different question.”

  “You have a bright student there, my friend.”

  “Hmm,” Calistrope felt a certain envy. Had he been as quick, as discerning in his youth? The question was academic, the answer buried in his archive and Voss had the memory vault. Even if he cared to search out his early memories, the means were not to hand.