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?
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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 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 penciclass="underline" 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.