Now I lay me down to sleep…
“Stop that!” Kevin muttered to himself. The prayer he had recited every night as a child seemed filled with ominous overtones now, but it kept running through his mind despite his attempts to think of other things.
The last time he had gone into VR he had been kept under for longer than anyone had anticipated, and the doctors had warned him against going back into VR anytime soon. Depression, they had warned. Alienation. Inability to accept reality; confusion; neurosis… he shoved that thought away, too.
Mask and fittings all in place or near at hand. Time to take the cocktail of necessary drugs. He gagged on the first taste, memories rising up to choke his throat in protest. But he forced himself to relax, tossed the shot over his tongue and downed it without getting much of the taste. His tongue felt thick and coated afterward, so he sipped a little water – only a little – and settled back into the warm, pliable bed. He pulled the helmet-like mask into place, making sure the nose and mouth holes were clear.
Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do.
… my soul to keep…
Blackness.
He stood on the same ground. It was night, as it had been before. Perhaps it was always night here. Certainly the riffling breeze was a night-breeze, cool and nervous. The same lightning played over the peaks; the low clouds threatened rain.
Joe had said to him, then, ‘A great dark evil is spreading over this land.
My land. It must be fought, it must be stopped, for the sake of generations yet unborn. Even now, mighty powers are gathered to return us to the time and place where we may find our battleground. And you, Khefan, must help me.’ He had come full circle, one enemy defeated and another – greater – to be fought. The allies were scattered, the most powerful of their number held prisoner. Still, the hour had come and the call must be answered, regardless of risk and in spite of the slim chance of success.
If I should die before I wake…
‘Frank is making careless mistakes,’ Joe had said. ‘Given enough time, Frank will make mistakes from which he cannot recover. If we had the time to play for time… but the crisis is upon us, and so we must accelerate the crisis. For this, I need tools – and to use those tools, the people under my protection must be placed where Frank cannot strike at them. When you re-enter the game you will be on familiar ground. From the campsite, there is a path…’
There was indeed a path, a channel. The fiber-optic links from Park to outside world might all be shut off, but one – one! – was not dead. Instead the software loyally reported the line was as cold and dead as its many fellows. Even if a human had applied a tester to that line, it would have shown no activity… until now.
Kevin shrugged into the empty backpack and adjusted the shoulder straps. He looked around the campground, kicked at the ashes of the campfire – cold – and drew in a deep breath.
‘There is a way to open the path,’ Joe had said.
“I am going to feel like such an idiot,” Kevin said outloud. The breeze stilled and the night air leaned in close to listen.
”I AM THE PRINCE OF WALLACHIA!”
Lightning flashed and thunder roared, and the Path opened up before him.
The cavern was as he remembered it: the cylindrical chamber, the striated walls, the rainbow flows of rock. The floor of lustrous yellow stone glistened under the chandelier. There was no dust, no sign of disuse. Even the fire crackling in the fireplace seemed to show the owner had merely stepped into an adjoining room minutes ago.
He stepped lightly across the floor and slung the pack from his back. Time to load up a few necessary items. It was the work of moments to snatch up the books and phials, working from the short list Joe had provided.
The gallery stretched straight ahead, thirty meters or more in length. The floor was flagged with marble slabs, intermixed black and white and dark green. The right wall was carefully floodlit, each warm pool of light centered on a picture that had been framed in gilded wood and carefully hung on the wall. The left wall was pierced at waist height for gothic-arched windows, elegant wooden shutters carefully hooked open. The chamber beyond still held the forest glade crafted of crystal and glass, a tableau that Faberge would have envied.
He walked to the portrait of Emperor Mihnea ‘Turcitul’ and studied it carefully. The giant portrait could serve as a portal to that point in gameplay, much faster than taking the winding route through the caves beyond. Despite the need for speed, Joe had strictly enjoined him to take the more difficult and less obvious route. With a heartfelt sigh he turned away, pacing down the corridor and turning into the poorly-lit cavern beyond. Without the need to breach the firewall, the path would be shorter and easier than the last time he had passed this way, but there was no time to be lost.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep!
Bound but not entirely helpless, Joe poked bits of code into jeweled structures and pondered the result. That should work, he thought. Fortunately it was not large, so sneaking it into the character file should be possible. He closed his eyes and concentrated on an imaginary crystal globe. Slowly it filled with a collection of faces. The face of Prince Mihail Viteazul was clearest and brightest, tokening Frank’s profligate use of processors and memory. The Prince seemed angry and preoccupied, which suited Joe’s needs. With a thought the globe rotated, characters sparkling in its depths. He selected one and pushed the code fragment in and down, lodging it securely.
Carefully he relaxed his control and opened his eyes. If he had been asked, Joe would have agreed with Machiavelli: Never do an enemy a small injury. Unless he was freed and able to act with all his power, he must keep his actions small and move by indirect ways. But the result of those actions must be unquestionably decisive. The effort was exhausting.
The trap was set and baited. Now he must wait for the tiger to repond.
