"Bischoff, David - Night World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bischoff David)

The satyr was a low-sentience model, its half-flesh, half-machine mind molded specially for the kind of task on which it was engaged, with only the minimum of self-awareness to improve the reasoning faculties, so important in android prosthetic surgery. It was four feet tall. Its little horns gleamed in the bright strip-lit lab as its puckish face bobbed up and down, lost in the excitement it found in its duty, the enthusiasm with which it served its Master. Its hairy, nimble fingers danced among circuitry, pirouetted over plastoid and flesh, moving to the rhythms of the Prime Directive stored in its memory bank. In counterpoint were the pounding of the Beasts massive electric heart and the hiss of its breath, which sounded in the cavernous, antiseptic room like waves whooshing into a seashore, whispering out again.

This was the most important task ever set before the hoofed little fellow, and above all else it wished to do a good job, to please the Master. Pleasing Satan meant long hours immersed in pleasure-center stimulation.

While the satyr readjusted a tiny fm circuit buried deep in the new Beast's flesh, the ceiling speakers blared.

The voice was Satan's. The little creature cringed, clicked backwards over the metal floor into a corner, and bowed its furry head. "I hear your call. Oh, Great One," it piped in a squeaky voice.

"Report on Project 39A34, Satyr 987W," the voice demanded imperiously.

"Currently correcting misplaced wiring. Also the fire expulsors in the jaws need corrective work." Its little mind wondered why the Master was so curious; he had never made such personal inquiries before. Perhaps the nature of the Beast?. . .

"The wings, the internal mechanism, the vital functions; are all these working properly?" The speakers rattled in their moorings.

"Splendidly, Master."

"Excellent. You will cease work, replace available body armor, and prepare for release of the Project."

"But . . . but, Master!" It blinked its watery eyes in consternation. "At least two days of work remain before it is perfect. Tests must be performed And I have not received all of the necessary outer armor!"

"The wings work, do they not? The claws, the jaws, the vital destructive capacities are in good order? Is this not so, little one? Is there a flaw in you that this has not been accomplished yet, despite my priority instructions concerning the Beast? If so, perhaps a little internal correction is needed on your mechanism" The voice became crackling thunder. "With a slight detour through your pain center for impertinence!"

"Yes, Master," the creature quavered. "All will be in readiness as soon as possible." Hastily, it returned to work. Soon, it knew, other servants would come and roll the unconscious Beast away to the Waking Chambers. It must be readied for them.

The satyr wondered why Satan needed this immense fire-breathing dragon, a project labored over for many years, so quickly.




FOUR

As Styx's great orange sun dipped toward evening, burnishing the tree leaves and lengthening the soft shadows, Oliver thought on Geoffrey Turner's request.

As he pitched into the preparation for the Field Feasts, setting up the tables and chairs, he pondered the matter carefully.

"Oliver," the pudgy man had said, eyes molten with sincerity. "You are young, strong, vital. Not only is your assistance necessary, but just your presence would be enough to revivify this old hulk, imbue my frame with strength. Oliver, there is much that I can teach you. Much can be learned on this world, benighted as it is."

Much to be learned. The concept echoed in the youth's mind as he plumped down in a wooden lawn chair. His eyes looked over the spiked, ivy-webbed battlements of Fernwold Castle into the fresh blue of a clouded sky. Yes, there must be much to learn. Beyond the azure sky. Turner had said, were unimaginable distances; and yet they could be spanned by man-made machines to reach other worlds.

Oliver seldom ventured beyond the familiar environs of his duchy; the thought of other worlds was truly full of wonderful possibilities. And to learn the answers to questions for which the ministers had only vague mumbles, that would be something indeed.

Too, if Turner was not a madman, which hardly seemed possible, and there was truth to his cause, then it would be a noble task. A hard, dangerous labor, true, but if it succeeded as Turner hoped . . . "Why, lad, this world will be a place without fear! It will be as those who created it intended it to be, a world of happiness, of purpose. Think, Oliver Dolan, think of what Fernwold Castle would be like, without the constant threats of Nightworld.

"This will only be possible when the Oppressor has been vanquished, Oliver. But I will not make light of the magnitude of the task before me, and others of my League who are seeking the ship. It is hazardous. There will be more danger in the next month, if you accompany me, than you might know in a lifetime here, protected by your stone walls and your well-provisioned army. There will be brutes of terrible evil and strength stationed to hinder us. You will learn to fight. You will learn the use of my weapons.

"There is always the chance of death. And, should it come to pass, it won't be a comfortable death, believe me. However, all this is offset by the fact that it will be a noble undertaking, one that will give your life renewed meaning."

But he had meaning in his life! Was he not to succeed his father, would he not assume the governance of Fernwold's citizens? "Yes, yes, certainly my lad. All very important. But think how much more you'll be doing for your people if you come with me. Think of what life would be for your people, if not for yourself, if we can rid Styx of this malignant creature Satan."

Playing soccer, a group of boisterous boys on the daisy-dotted, fragrant greensward batted aboat a grass-stained white rubber ball joyfully, oblivious to the inner turmoil of Oliver Dolan.