The Warlock's Companion wisoh-9 Read online

  The Warlock's Companion

  ( Warlock in Spite of Himself - 9 )

  Christopher Stasheff

  Cristopher Stasheff

  The Warlock's Companion

  Warlock in Spite of Himself - 9

  Prologue

  Jose frowned at the screen and typed, "RUN COPY BRAIN." The screen went blank, then rippled into a display of cues and standard responses. "LOAD BRAINPAN."

  Jose squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a shake. Time enough to think about Marcia later. Right now, he was on the job. He was being paid for this, and he wouldn't get any money if he didn't do the job right. In fact, he wouldn't have a job. He hit the keystroke that opened the window to the production lab below and typed, "CHECK BRAINPAN."

  The words "BRAINPAN LOADED" rippled across the screen.

  Jose nodded, feeling satisfied to know that, in the sterilized white room below, a technician had clamped a stainless steel basketball into the padded hemisphere that would hold it while the program was copied into it. The sphere held a brand-new robot brain, a giant crystal, a three-dimensional lattice that could hold a pattern of electrical charges forever, but was so far just a carefully-grown rock. The technician had connected the leads from Jose's computer to the brain's read-only memory bank. It was ready to receive its basic operating program.

  The cue and response disappeared from the screen, leaving the next one in line: SPECIFY ROUTE.

  Jose typed in, "A = B =…"

  "Equals." Those two little parallel lines made something twist inside him. He was stunned by the intensity of his own reaction, by how much the idea of equality, to which he had always been dedicated, could bother him, and all because Marcia had started in on him again this morning, started in on him about whether or not the two of them were really equal in their relationship, as they were supposed to be. And, of course, once she had started, she wouldn't let go.

  It had all begun when he had announced, "Breakfast is ready," as she came out of the shower.

  Marcia paused in the hallway, holding the towel tight around her, and gave him her haughtiest look. "I can punch the right code into the autochef as well as you can, Jose."

  Jose looked up in surprise. "Of course you can. I just thought it would be nice to…"

  "To make me feel as though I'm not doing my job? Women don't have to be the cooks any more, you know."

  "Of course I know! You're not my servant."

  "But men aren't servants either, right?" Marcia said, with sarcasm.

  Jose frowned. "Hey. Nobody's supposed to be anybody's servant, right?"

  "Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped. "If the men don't do it, who will?"

  "We'll each do it for ourselves. Right?"

  "Not right at all." She retorted. "How could it be?"

  "Because if we each cook our own food, no one's serving anybody."

  "Oh, so the high-and-mighty man can't stoop to doing the servile jobs?''

  Jose was puzzled. "Does that mean I can't make breakfast for you now and then?"

  Marcia reddened, snapped, "Don't be an ass!" and whirled away into the bedroom.

  With a feeling of dread, Jose glanced at the calendar. "Beware the Ides," indeed…

  He sighed and took a bite of toast. Somehow, it didn't taste very good.

  He had just finished watching the quick-scan of the news on the screen, and was punching in the stories he wanted in detail, when Marcia came storming out of the bedroom, immaculately clad and coifed, calling, "The Declaration of Independence says we're supposed to be equal, right?"

  Jose spun to face her, totally taken aback. "What… How…"

  "The Declaration! And we can't really be equal as long as we're dependent on each other. To be really equal, you have to be totally in-dependent. That's what the Declaration is all about!"

  Jose paled. "You don't really mean that!"

  "Of course I do! You can let me make my own breakfast!" She bit into an English muffin and made a face. "Besides, it's cold."

  "All right, so I shouldn't have punched the autochef for you!" Jose stamped over to the counter, jaw set, rolled up her breakfast and turned to stuff it into the disposal.

  "Hey!" Marcia squawked. "Now what am I supposed to eat?"

  Jose looked up in surprise. "Punch up a new one, of course! So it'll at least be hot!"

  "I don't have time for that now! All because your silly masculine ego was wounded!"

  "My silly masculine ego didn't have a damn thing to do with your not liking cold muffins!"

  "Did I say I didn't like it?"

  "You said it was cold…"

  "But I was eating it! The least you could do would be to make me a new one!"

  "I don't know where I'll find the energy." Jose turned to punch buttons on the autochef.

  "Oh, so now it's sarcasm, is it?" Marcia was standing straight, chin lifted, eyes sparkling. "Well, tell me, Mister Big Egalitarian, how you're going to be sarcastic about your sacred Declaration!"

  Jose whirled, staring. "I wouldn't dream of it!"

  "But you'll break every principle in it, won't you?"

  "I'm not breaking a single phrase!"

  "Oh, yeah? Well, how about where it says that 'the Creator has endowed all people with certain unalienable rights'?"

  "I never…"

  She overrode him. "And Jefferson shows how that means that 'these persons ought to be free and independent entities'!''

  Jose frowned. "I don't think that's quite…"

  "Oh, sure, nitpick about words! But let me tell you, Mister Know-It-All—if 'these persons ought to be free and independent entities,' then wives ought to be free and independent of their husbands!"

  "But he was talking about states!" Jose wailed.

  "He was talking about principles!" Marcia whirled away to the door. "Come on, we'll be late!"

  She settled into one corner of the wraparound sofa and told the computer, "Eight-Mile and Adams." She told Jose, "Close the door."

  Jose frowned at her as the door closed behind him, but he schooled himself to patience.

  But not today. She was already saying, "If the principle applies to states, it applies to people. If New Jersey was supposed to be independent of England, a wife should be independent of her husband!"

  "But you are!" The aircar moved, and Jose lurched into a seat.

  "Then why do you still expect me to make breakfast?"

  "Breakfast!" Jose hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Your muffins are sitting in the autochef!"

  "Oh, don't worry, I won't starve!" She certainly didn't look as though she would; her whole form seemed almost radiant. "After all, I can stop and pick up a munch at the Bite-tique. And all because you had to start this silly argument!"

  Jose bit back the retort about who had started what and took a deep breath. Breakfast? What did she want breakfast for? She thrived on arguments!

  "Oh, that's right, do the martyred patience act!" Marcia snapped. "Can't you stand up for yourself at all?"

  "The question is, should I?" Jose said carefully. "After all, if the Declaration really does say…"

  "Oh, leave the Declaration out of this! Can't you think for yourself?"

  Jose looked up, hurt.

  "And now it's the wounded puppy," Marcia said contemptuously. "Honestly, Jose, sometimes you cling to me so much that it's smothering! I mean, if your precious Declaration says to be a free and independent entity, you can at least let me be one, can't you?"

  Jose's face crumpled. "All right! If that's what you want, you can have it! I'll give you a divorce!"

  "Divorce?" Marcia bleated, horrified. "Jose! How could you even think of such a thing?''

  Jose just st
ared at her.

  "Just because I'm a little snappish… Jose! You don't mean it!"

  "But… but I thought… You said you wanted to be…"

  "Don't you dare!"

  "A free and independent entity!" Jose bawled.

  "That's the Declaration, not me.' How could you possibly think I would want a divorce?"

  "But that's what it means, to be independent…"

  "Oh, that's just a word!" Marcia leaned forward to squeeze his hand. "I mean, can't I even have a little light conversation with you in the mornings?"

  The aircar grounded, and its grille announced, "Eight-Mile and Adams."

  "Don't you even think about a divorce!" Marcia commanded, darting a quick kiss at him. "Have a good day, darling."

  Well, that was something of a tall order. How could Jose "have a good day" when it had started with such turmoil? He sighed philosophically, then sighed again to try to get his emotions under control, and wondered whether he'd ever be able to tell when Marcia was serious, and when she was just talking.

  But he couldn't help thinking about it. Every time he tried to do something else, the argument came back to him. He heaved a sigh and took his hands off the keyboard, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair, trying to think the experience through so he could put it to rest.

  The Declaration. That was it. That had been the keystone of Marcia's argument, the phrases "that all people are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights" and "these colonies ought to be free and independent states." He knew she'd been misquoting, twisting Jefferson's words to suit her argument. Not that it mattered; when she was in one of those moods, she'd use any ammunition that was handy. Still, it might help him to get the argument out of his mind if he could see the phrases the way Jefferson had written them, and reassure himself that he wasn't really violating the Declaration's principles by the way he was living.

  So he cleared his screen and punched in the code for the central library's database, feeling like an idiot—he knew very well that he was living according to his own ideals, and knew he was letting his weakness show by having to prove it to himself.

  The screen lit up with the library's logo and a request for a request. Jose punched in "The Declaration of Independence" with a feeling of relief; at least something was being reasonable.

  The political entity that the Declaration had founded still existed, though it had become so completely involved in the complex of nations that it was one part of a united Gestalt, as were all the other nations of Terra. But the words that had begun that union still rang down the corridors of human history, firing youthful minds with zeal and exalting older spirits—and, through them, had in turn become the basis of the Terran Union.

  Then it jumped at him from the screen, a full facsimile of the document itself, but he knew that each letter was also in binary. Not that he would dream of moving sentences around in it.

  But he could scroll through it, of course, and he did. He read it word by word, feeling a measure of calmness returning to him as the clarion phrases rang out through his mind.

  There they were, right at the beginning, the truths Jefferson had held to be self-evident—that all men were created equal, that they were endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights…

  His mind came to a screeching halt. "All men are created equal?" Yes, Marcia had been misquoting. Only one word changed, though—right?

  He dismissed the notion as unworthy. The distinction wasn't significant; Jefferson had probably had all people in mind, men and women; and if he hadn't in 1776, he surely would have in 3035.

  But it did rather undercut Marcia's argument, didn't it? And since all she was using it for was argument…

  Sexist document. He could almost hear her voice dismissing it angrily. And she might have a point there—but then, she shouldn't have cited the Declaration.

  That wasn't germane, either, though. What mattered was knowing that he, Jose, hadn't tried to treat her as inferior—and he knew damned well that he hadn't. He'd been showing her a bit of consideration, not being condescending.

  He scrolled on through the document, feeling a little better, reading as he went, until he came to the phrase, "These United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be, FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES." He held the phrase centered on the screen, nodding with satisfaction—he'd remembered the quotation almost accurately. And Marcia had been wrong as well as right—there was a difference between a colony's having a right to govern itself, and a woman's right to not have to take orders any more than a man did.

  Of course, everybody had to take orders, unless they were royalty—and these days, even the kings and queens had to obey the law. But a woman shouldn't have to take orders from her husband any more than he should have to take orders from her…

  For a moment, Jose's head whirled, and he found himself wondering what he was doing in that marriage. Or was it really a marriage?

  Heresy. He brought his attention back firmly to the issue at hand. He was living in accord with the Declaration's principles; he didn't have anything to feel badly about.

  Unless, said a niggling doubt in the back of his mind—unless Jefferson's principle of independence really meant that no one should ever become so fully dependent on another person that you could really say they were married. But Jose was sure Jefferson hadn't meant that.

  But the principle itself… ?

  The principle could wait. Jose pulled himself together firmly. He could work out that principle now and again, for the rest of his life; it was only one more problem to solve, the problem of being independent but married, and he was sure he could figure it out in time. Meanwhile, there was an important issue of a robot brain that needed to be programmed, and had been waiting far longer than it should have.

  But he was almost at the end of the document. He punched for "Scroll" and read the rest of the Declaration, letting it fill him with pride in being human, in being…

  "Hey, Jose!"

  Jose frowned, turning to the programmer next to him. "Yeah, Bob?"

  "It won't access the original." Bob sat back, waving at his screen. "What am I doing wrong?"

  Jose suppressed a smile. Bob was very young, and very new to the job. He knew computers better than Jose did, but he hadn't learned much about the asininities of bureaucracy yet, or the arbitrary nature of its decisions. "Here, let me see." He shoved his chair over to Bob's workstation and frowned at the screen, pursing his lips. "What access code were you using?"

  "RB-34h-Z." Bob shoved the manual over and pointed to the entry.

  Jose let the smile show. "We quit making that model five years ago, Bob. The RB-34h-Z series is a mile long now."

  Bob frowned. "Then how am I supposed to know which one to call up?"

  "The catalogue is supposed to appear on your screen automatically when you enter the code."

  "Then how come it didn't?"

  "Because you're supposed to enter that code before you initiate the copying procedure." Jose aborted the copy program, clearing the screen, then punched in "RB-34H-Z." The screen lit up with a scrolling display on the left, while a note on the right informed them that those models marked with an asterisk were still in production.

  Bob frowned. "Why didn't the manual tell me about this?"

  "Because the guy who wrote it is a cretin."

  Bob just stared for a second, then smiled. "Well, not much I can say to that, is there?"

  "Other than asking why he keeps his job, no." Jose smiled. "Fact is, he was fired last year, but they figure everybody who works here knows the routine, so they haven't bothered to update the manual."

  Bob sighed. "Makes it tough on a beginner, doesn't it?"

  "That's why they mix you in with us old fogies." Jose was thirty-two. "Now—you get to guess which model you're supposed to load."

  Bob's head came up; he stared, taken aback. "What… ? How the hell can I… ?"

  "It's right here." Jose pointed to the fine print in the lower right-ha
nd corner of Bob's duty sheet.

  Bob frowned. "I thought that was supposed to be the final code in the routine."

  "Looks that way, doesn't it? But it's really the suffix you're supposed to enter after RB-34h-Z."

  "Then why don't they…No. Cancel that." Bob sighed. "They assume every programmer who works here knows that, don't they?"

  Jose nodded. "The duty sheets are boilerplate. They just add the suffix and route it to you."

  Bob spread his hands and shook his head. "Well, now I know. Thanks, Jose."

  "Anytime." Jose suppressed a smile again. "Call me the next time they foul you up."

  Bob's grin followed him back to his own station. He smiled at the blank screen—nothing to clear your own funk, like helping somebody else. He gave a contented sigh and typed in "RUN COPY BRAIN."

  The screen responded, "LOAD BRAINPAN," and Jose was off again. Now he zipped through the program and had it all set up in ten minutes. He pressed "execute" and sat back to smile and monitor the copying, making sure nothing went wrong.

  Nothing did. It ran without a flaw. An hour later, the screen lit up the "END COPY" light, then the query "ENGRAVE?" Jose nodded with satisfaction. The program had run flawlessly; he entered "YES" and the computer cued the final changes in electrical charges in the huge crystal below him, making the electronic matrix it had just copied a permanent characteristic of the brain. The program was now impervious to flood, fire, earthquake—and electromagnetic fields of all sizes and strengths. The only thing that could erase that program now would be an electrical charge so strong that it would fuse the whole brain into a lump of slag. The screen lit up with "ENGRAVING COMPLETE," and Jose smiled and typed in "REMOVE BRAIN," cuing the production lab below to take the sphere out of its clamps.

  Then he remembered the Declaration.

  It had still been on his board when he started the copying procedure.

  It was now part of the robot's basic operating program.

  Jose stared at the screen with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had already routed the end-of-program through to Production; the program was indelibly encoded into the brain. He couldn't remove the Declaration.