Nonetheless, Grimm found himself engrossed by this new—old—Armitage's monologue, and he leaned forward, ignoring a sour look from Xylox.
"At the peak of human scientific achievement, we became capable of separating an individual's unique genetic information from almost any cell of his, her or its body, placing it into an evacuated egg cell and stimulating it to act as if newly fertilised. At first, the success rate was low, and individuals so produced died young, since they had been born from a genome that was already old. However, it became possible to rejuvenate the genome, to reset the clock, so to speak, and it became feasible to recreate a human being who was an exact copy of his genetic donor."
Armitage's gaze locked upon each of his ‘students’ in turn, as if the force of his will alone could lock his arcane learning into their brains. Grimm almost expected the man to add, "I shall be testing you on your retention of this knowledge later," in the manner of Magemaster Crohn, although he did not.
"Any creature formed from the complete genome of another, by whatever means,” continued Armitage, “is called a ‘clone'. When the Final Destruction came, no more individuals came to Haven. The decision was made to sterilise all personnel to prevent inbreeding, and its concomitant problems of the proliferation of undesirable genes and mutations."
Tordun's pale face reddened. “How do you decide which genes are ‘undesirable'?” he snapped. “Those of people like me, perhaps?"
The white titan shivered with apparent rage, but he kept his huge fists lowered.
"Not at all,” Armitage replied, apparently unfazed. “A normal breeding population has good and bad genes, which are shuffled at each new generation. When a limited population interbreeds, such genes begin to proliferate, and the population dwindles and dies out.
"The decision was made to reproduce the population only by means of the cloning of selected, valuable individuals, until such time as new genetic information became available."
Drex began to stand, but she was pushed back into her chair by an impartial but firm prod from a guard's black-nosed weapon.
"Who decided who was important?” she cried. “Who decided whose line would live on, and whose would die out?"
Armitage shrugged. “It must have been a difficult decision, and I don't doubt there were many heated debates on the subject. However, you must remember that I played no part in it. George Armitage and his colleagues are long dead, and there has been a long, long succession of their clones, of which I am just one example."
The white-clad man shivered, as if some dark power had been conferred on him by his hereditary legacy.
"I was brought up in a similar manner to George Armitage and educated in the same disciplines as him, as were countless others before me, to ensure my personality would be similar to his. I am not him, and there are differences between us. However, I'm proud to share the same genome of that long-dead, admirable man, who sustained a community of people through difficult times, just as General Quelgrum does.
"I was the Administrator of Haven for many decades, but I grew tired of a life in such a restrictive, claustrophobic regimen. I was permitted to resign my post only on the provision of an heir; a man of the true Armitage line. One such clone remained, and I dedicated many years to his training and conditioning. By the time the next clone had attained maturity, we looked identical, and we were able to operate as one individual. Nobody except a few confidants suspected that I was training a clone to replace me when the time came. After a few more years, even those to whom I had entrusted the knowledge, the last clones of the original Haven officials, died, and we didn't have the means of producing more."
Armitage reached out for a glass of wine at Xylox's left shoulder, and he sampled it with an appreciative lifting of his eyebrows. If the senior Questor's expression could have killed, then the Professor would have been a cooling cadaver, but the white-clad man seemed, or pretended, not to notice. Resuming his lecturer's stance, Armitage resumed his monologue.
"On a lone scouting mission, I discovered this site, just after the General's party arrived. I showed him how to use the machinery and advanced weapons we found here, how to maintain them, and how to manufacture more. Much of the ancient equipment here was all but decayed, but a lot of it was crated, greased and in remarkable condition for such an ancient site. Some of the weapons here are new, but many are thousands of years old, and as good as new, a tribute to their long-dead manufacturers."
"Most of the ammunition was unusable,” the General chipped in, “but Armitage soon showed us how to make gunpowder, lead azide, fulminating mercuric chloride, TNT and lots of other useful substances. We threw away our bows and spears and embraced this new, fantastic bounty. I think it's safe to say that I wouldn't have such a well-equipped militia under my command if not for Armitage. He also started to offload his undesirables—suitably Pacified, of course—and my force grew. Now I've got fifteen hundred people, all ready to kill or die for me, and most of them have been conditioned only by solid discipline and the brotherhood of an unstoppable army with a righteous goal: freedom."
Xylox took up his wine glass, inspected it with a critical eye, and downed its contents at a single gulp. Grimm could not help but admire his fellow mage's icy calm under adversity.
"And what of poor benighted fools like Mentalist Perfuno, here? What of their freedom?” asked the elder Questor, in a cold voice.
The green-clothed Mentalist bristled. “My name is 'Perfuco', Questor, and I am quite happy where I am, thank you very much."
"My apologies, Brother Mage,” Xylox hissed. “You seem very happy to have forgotten your sworn oath; an oath that should have been sacred to you. You are nothing but a puppet to this megalomaniac, who worships only at the altar of cursed Technology. You have chosen betray your brethren and your blood oath at the word of a manic, power-crazed lunatic. I spurn you."
Grimm winced at his senior mage's words; the older magic-user might be protected from Technological projectiles, thanks to his magic gem of Missile Reversal, but the rest of the party remained at risk from the guards’ metal weapons, which the grim-faced soldiers seemed only too happy to employ at the least word of command from Quelgrum.
Is Xylox trying to make the General angry? wondered Grimm. If so, he's making a splendid start.
Far from seeming enraged, the General chortled. “I'm not in my dotage yet, Questor Xylox,” he said. “We're all slaves of something or other; you to your beloved Guild, and I to my army of lost souls."
Xylox slammed the empty glass onto the table. “The Guild enslaves nobody!” he shouted, oblivious of the weapon now almost pressed against his temple by a man whose bared teeth and narrowed eyes implied he was only to ready to use it.
"I might have given my oath as a child,” he said, “but I did so with a free mind; I have never once regretted it: regardless of how you perceive the situation, I am my own man, sworn to a noble purpose."
Quelgrum, who seemed to have an endless capacity for alcohol, filled his glass yet again and took a healthy draught of wine.
"You see? We agree in our sentiments!” he said, in evident good humour. “However, one or both of us must be wrong. It's self-evident that the man with the power prevails in any given situation; I have the power here, and so I must be in the right. I regret to deprive any man of his freedom, but I have a duty that transcends individuality. The Professor will help you to disregard your former scruples, and you'll become happy to serve my cause: all of you."
As if a signal flag had been raised, the party flashed into sudden, concerted action as if they had been trained from birth to act as a team. Tordun leapt to his feet, seizing the weapon-bearing arm of his guard and twisting it with a savage motion that snapped it with a sickening sound; Grimm swung Redeemer, hidden below the table, at his own warder's skull, breaking it with a single, shattering blow; Crest, stripped of his accustomed daggers and whip, but possessed of remarkable reflexes, grabbed a knife from the table and plunged it to up to the hilt in his guar
dian's breastbone in a single, fluid motion; Xylox raised his own staff, Nemesis, and drove it straight through a sentry's sternum, to emerge through his back in a bloody spray. Drex grabbed her own watcher's ankle, causing him to stumble and drop his weapon, which she snatched up and used to club the man into unconsciousness. Tordun sunk a meaty right fist into the face of another soldier, leaving him senseless and bleeding and, at the same time, he hammered his left elbow into the gut of a further man, who collapsed like a sundered house of cards.
A single alert guard reacted in time to release a leaden hail of projectiles at Xylox, but he fell in a spray of blood as the Questor's magical gem did its work. Another soldier, standing a little too close to his comrade, was felled by the same vicious, stuttering fusillade.
Foster's face was ashen and stunned, and he sunk below the level of the table-top as the three remaining militiamen struggled to bring their firearms to bear, in the cramped space available to them. The close presence of Armitage, Perfuco and their beloved commander slowed their reactions: the mages’ magically perdurable staves and the albino's clubbing fists took them down before they could orient their weapons. In the space of maybe ten heartbeats, a potent force of twelve armed men had been reduced to nothing, without the casting of a single spell.
* * * *
Quelgrum smiled at the swift, efficient demolition of his armed guard. It pained him that a dozen of his flock had been so easily defeated, but he felt unafraid.
Yes, these people will form a valuable addition to my army.
"Perfuco!” the General cried, above the noise in the small room.
As the last man fell, and Tordun scrambled over the fallen bodies to reach the Mentalist, the mage assumed a splay-legged stance and screamed a rapid series of crisp, perfect runic phrases.
All resistance ceased.
Perfuco wiped cold sweat from his brow: the pale giant was frozen just in front of him, his face contorted in an ugly expression of rage.
Armitage crouched behind the ample frame of the senior officer, and the terrified servant cowered behind the inadequate cover of his toppled cart, along with Foster, who seemed no less traumatised at the swift series of events.
Quelgrum got to his feet and studied the fascinating tableau before him; five figures, frozen in positions of defiance and attack. He stepped over to Xylox, whose staff was poised before him, ready to strike again. The General flicked the magic-user's nose with his right index finger, without the least reaction from the motionless sorcerer.
Turning to Perfuco, the General said, “Well done, Colonel. You were right; I should have had you here from the start. How long does this spell last?"
The Mentalist rubbed his brow. “As long as I can maintain it, Sir,” he said. “It is a considerable drain on my magical resources, not least because I am having to control the willpower of a pair of Questors; had their attention been focused upon me, I doubt I could have succeeded with such ease, if at all. I was lucky to catch them when they were distracted."
Armitage stood up and produced an object like a thick pen from the breast pocket of his white coat. “Don't worry, Colonel; I have enough Thorazine in here to knock out a herd of rogue elephants."
The Technologist stepped up to the albino. “Hmm; two doses for him, I think,” he muttered.
Pressing the device against Tordun's neck, Armitage pressed the top of the pen twice; the giant swayed and fell.
"At least two doses for the mages as well,” Perfuco called. “What they lack in bulk, they make up for in willpower."
Armitage looked the Mentalist in the eye and held his gaze; a feat beyond most men, when dealing with a class of thaumaturge in which strength of will was paramount. “That's far too much for the young one; we'll be risking brain damage or heart failure."
The Colonel turned to his commander; “You saw what they did with their staves, General; any Guild Mage could do the same, if in rude health. If they had had time to access their bloody Questor magic, this room would now resemble a charnel house, and I could not have hoped to stand against them for a moment. In fact, I would advise you to have their lives terminated right now, Sir. I can't hold them much longer, even with Armitage's drugs sapping their strength."
Quelgrum's attention turned to a large, rusty stain on his jacket; he dabbed at it with a table napkin that came away stained with red. Quelgrum sighed: this was his best dress uniform.
"General; Sir; I urge restraint!” Armitage implored. “I can have these human weapons swearing undying duty and admiration to you inside three days, but not if they're brain-damaged. If they're as good as Colonel Perfuco says, you can't afford to waste them."
"Idiot!” the mage snapped. “You have no idea what you are dealing with!"
"Enough, gentlemen; enough!” Quelgrum waved his hands across his chest in a scissor-like motion. He had more than enough to deal with, without the added complications of bickering between his underlings, and he mourned that the two Questors and their spirited companions would soon lose much of their personalities.
"Colonel Perfuco; I will not have these two men killed, is that clear? They're too valuable to me."
The soldier's voice commanded instant respect; he would be obeyed.
The mage gave a curt, sullen nod. “Yes, Sir; I understand."
"Good. Armitage, I want them conditioned, but don't mess with the wiring in their heads; I want their minds and powers intact and at my disposal. Use further sedation as you see fit, at your discretion."
"Understood, Sir,” the Professor said.
"Very well, Colonel, get a team in here to clear this mess up. Get the two injured guards to sickbay and send the others to the morgue. I want them buried with full military honours.
"Take our new friends to Armitage's lab and put an armed guard on the door, with bayonets on their rifles, and tell them to hold off from opening fire on the mages.” The orders rattled from the General's mouth like machine-gun fire.
"Now piss off; I want to finish my dinner in peace. Foster, won't you join me?"
The Haven pilot seemed in shock, but he scrambled into his seat, his face pale and blank.
* * * *
With ruthless efficiency, the room was cleared in minutes, and Thribble watched, worried, from a dark corner of the room, as his human friends were carried out, limp and unresponsive. What could a tiny netherworld imp do against such a potent force?
Chapter 27
Armitage Gets To Work
"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 Professo
r 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..."
Questor Page 24
