It had been three microseconds since the activity monitor had registered data manipulation. A long time. Dodger considered the merits of opening the bubble that sealed his persona within the masked credit file he had uncovered in Glover’s ATT discretionary funds. The number of manipulations the shunt bubble had passed through had been high, much higher than a legitimate or even an ordinary illegal transfer of funds. The bubble had traveled far, perhaps as far as the druids’ innermost computer system. He knew he should wait longer. The operator who had called for the data he had piggybacked on might not be out of the system. Tired of waiting, he was ready for action. While it was a risk breaking out now, remaining encapsulated could be a greater one. He cancelled the program, restoring his ordinary Matrix persona and functionality.
The ebon boy stretched as if awakening from sleep, then froze. There was no swirl of glitter around him. His dazzling cloak was gone, replaced with another kind of shine. His arms were encased in gleaming metal that was articulated in the style of antique armor. More than just his arms, his entire body was armored. The construct imagery was superb, but not his style at all. Dodger hit the reformat key, but the construct remained. He tapped out a routine to alter the imagery, and still got no result. A diagnostic on the cyberdeck registered nominal, which meant that the persona construct imagery was being imposed by the host system. Such an effect required a powerful system.
A look around told him just how powerful. Most systems, even imposed imagery systems, had a hint of the electron reality about them. Even the best virtual recompositers didn’t always provide a truly realistic image, and they only supplied the specific translations to their slaved deck; other users still perceived the basic interface illusion. But this place was beyond the ordinary. Had he not known that magic was impossible in the Matrix, he would have thought the landscape touched with enchantment.
All around him lay a green and pleasant land. He stood at the edge of a forest looking out on rolling hills lush with croplands and scattered copses of woods. The forest behind him, a beautiful climax community, stretched to the horizon in either direction. It was lush and burgeoning with woodland life. The sight, sound, and smell of it filled him with wonder. If it were real…
Dodger turned away and stared once more across the open vista. He could not afford to lose himself in amazement. For the moment, the forest was only a distraction. Perhaps when he had done what needed doing and seen what needed seeing, he would come back to explore this marvelous construct. For now, he had to be about his work.
A careful visual search revealed no signs of habitation beyond the fields. Given the imagery, he thought it likely that any datastores or other useful computer nodes would appear as man-made structures. Given the girdling forest and the lack of buildings, he felt sure he was on the fringes of the system. He would need to get deeper to find out anything.
Obstructed somehow by the interface, his standard programs failed to move him through the architecture at a reasonable pace. He tapped keys, improvising variations in a search for a compatible set of parameters. Frustrating minutes later, he finally realized that many of his tricks were inappropriate. Passwords and subroutines here would be strongly influenced by the imagery. Symbolically, not literally, for nothing was literal in the Matrix.
He suspected that many programs in this system would have strategic orientations that could only be expressed in such a way as to manifest an appropriate construct imagery. A clever, if convoluted protection system. Any decker unwilling to accept the parameters of the imposed imagery would be paralyzed. But, as he had told uncounted admirers, he was not just any decker.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, searching out the avenues of correspondence with self-contained routines. Having grasped one of the master program’s constraining strategies, he was able to formulate more appropriate responses and begin to manipulate the system. Successes began to accumulate, culminating in a soft whicker. He turned to pat the destrier standing by his side. The horse nuzzled his hand and bumped his shoulder with its snout. Like a proper steed, it was eager for adventure. He mounted the milk-white stallion and settled into the high-can tied saddle. Then they were off, the horse’s alabaster mane and tail streaming back in the wind.
The destrier’s stride was steady and strong. The countryside rolled past. Despite deviations into likely valleys and detours to check out farmed land, Dodger found nothing more elaborate than thatch-roofed sod huts. Such were certainly nodes, but unlikely to hold anything of import. This system’s imagery pattern demanded that what was important look important. He rode on, until at last he glimpsed golden spires on the distant horizon. Turning the horse’s head toward the structure, he spurred the beast forward.
The destrier climbed the last rise between them and their destination as swiftly as it had climbed the first. The road they had followed for the last several apparent miles led down the gentle slope to a bridge that spanned the valley’s wide river. Beyond the water, the road climbed a well-grassed knoll and disappeared through the gates of the structure Dodger sought. The magnificent castle spread over the crown of the hill and its nacreous walls shown in the sunlight. Bright pennons fluttered on the conical peaks of dozens of subsidiary towers, but the spire of the great central tower flew a single flag. There a red banner with the three golden leopards of Britain flapped boldly in the breeze.
Was this the computer system of the English crown?
There was one way to find out. Dodger urged the horse forward.
The destrier’s hooves thundered on the wood of the bridge, the noise of them jangling Dodger’s nerves. Stealth and the roundabout way were his preferred approach. The bridge seemed to go on and on, its span stretching far further than it had appeared to at first. Dodger’s suspicions were only beginning to rise when the black knight appeared at the far end. The knight’s midnight steed reared slightly as it began its charge. Clattering steel and the ringing of iron-shod hooves filled Dodger’s ears.
Ah, a countermeasure at last.
The need for action released his tension. Dodger’s fingers flew across the keys of his cyberdeck, priming his attack and defensive programs and tweaking them to suit the imposed imagery. The ebon boy in the mirror-polished armor held out his gauntleted hand and a crystal lance appeared in it. A shield as reflective as his armor came into being on his left arm. He lowered his weapon into the slot on the shield, using the resting point to steady his grip as he spurred forward.
“Have at thee, Sir Ice.”
The two charging chevaliers met in a loud crash. The black knight’s weapon was longer and he struck first. Dodger felt the lance point slam into his shield. For a terrifying instant it hung, pressing him back against his saddle’s cantle and threatening to unhorse him. But then the point slid free, slithering along the curve of the shield and away.
His own point slipped past the knight’s shield, catching him full on the helm. The shock ran straight through the lance into Dodger’s arm and threw him back into the cantle again. His point had struck cleanly and he had braced well for the shock. The knight’s helm lifted from his shoulders and flew backwards to strike the bridge surface with a clarion ring.
Unmasked, the knight was revealed as an empty suit of armor. He and his destrier faded and vanished even before Dodger came abreast of them. Unimpeded, the milky stallion raced on.
On a whim, Dodger dipped his lance and speared the fallen helm. He lifted it high, allowing the lance point to pass through the eyeslit so that the helm could slide the length of the weapon. Since he had no further need for the shield, it vanished, allowing him to use his freed hand to remove the red and yellow plume from his vanquished foe’s headgear. Dodger retired the attack program as well. When the lance misted to nothingness, the knight’s helm volatilized into smoke and blew away.
Feeling exhilarated by his victory, Dodger affixed the plume to his own helm. A suitable token of prowess, he thought.
He slowed his destrier as he approached the gate to the castle. No sense rushing in before gauging the opposition. He expected another black knight at the very least. The castle was moated; might he face a monster?
To his surprise, nothing moved to bar his path as he started forward. The drawbridge even remained down. The inhabitants of the castle continued about their business. The gate guards even greeted him pleasantly when he drew near. He was puzzled at his acceptance until he noted the predominant color scheme of the castle’s denizens. Everyone wore a favor or plume of red and yellow, if not full livery of the two colors. The plume he had snatched from the black knight’s helm was red and yellow. No doubt, it was a passcode. Grinning, he guided his horse across the drawbridge and into the courtyard.
He dismounted, his horse vanishing now that it was no longer needed, but he kept a copy of its program in storage. He might need it for a quick getaway. The courtyard bustled with activity, servants and craftspeople attending the multitude of tasks necessary for the running of a castle. How much was analog for computer activity and how much was simply local color, he didn’t know. He wandered about, looking for a way into the keep.
Long minutes of searching proved useless. Either he was missing something, or he hadn’t understood the parameters. If this were a real castle, and he a real knight, all he would have to do was stop a servant and ask directions.
That, he realized, was the answer.
Interrupting a working functionary would be too obvious a disruption of routine. Dodger waited until one of the many liveried folk who appeared to be messengers of some sort passed near him. He stepped into the servant’s path, blocking him only long enough to learn his destination. He heard his own voice asking directions. The imposed imagery again, converting his real world decking into apparent actions that suited the milieu.
He got into playing the game. From servant to servant he passed, each one dressed in fancier clothes than the last. He passed through the ranks of the castle’s hierarchy until he faced the seneschal. Dodger was pleased. The seneschal was the keeper of the castle, the repository of all having to do with its function. He suspected he had reached the main databank. Unlike the other constructs, this one, a beefy red-haired man wearing a furred cloak over his rich garments, spoke to him before he had said a word.
“Good day, Sir Knight. I am at your service, save you demand aid at variance with my fealty to my liege. I am Cai.”
“Cai the Senescal?”
“Certes.”
“As in foster brother of King Arthur?”
“That is my honor.”
“And this castle is?”
“Camelot, of course.”
“Of course.” What else would it be? “And what is Camelot, Good Cai?”
“Camelot is the stronghold of Arthur, my liege and the rightwise true king of all Britain. All the lands you see about you are his realm. From here he sallies forth to fight the forces of encroaching darkness with the aid of his loyal knights. The land is all.”
If this was Arthur’s turf, Dodger had just taken down one of his knights. Or had he? “Do his knights wear black armor?”
“The knights wear whatever they find suitable to their own nature. They are a brave and hearty lot and serve our liege well. ’Tis they who have won him the lands from which his revenues come. Had they not done so, this castle would not be so great. Arthur is well served.”
“And where are these knights? I see none in the court.”
“On quest at the moment. As always, the king’s knights strive to enlarge his realm. Soon Arthur’s loyal vassals shall win him more followers, the king’s retinue shall grow, and he shall establish his rule over all the land. Then, the land shall prosper and Camelot shall come again unto the world. All of its might shall stand in service to our lord’s right.”
“And where is the king himself?”
“He sits at table, enjoying the royal entertainment.”
“May I see him?”
“I regret that he sits not in open court, but you may enter the vestibule and gaze upon him, if you so wish.”
“I so wish.”
Cai led Dodger to the great hall. He was careful to remain between Dodger and the door, but Dodger could see most of the interior. It was thronged with courtiers, entertainers, and servants who moved in a kaleidoscope of color and sound.
An elevated dais ran the width of the far end and was backed by an opulent cloth of estate. The king’s throne was positioned in the center. The king stood before it, his face turned away. He was leaning on a long table that ran before the throne. Golden plates and goblets adorned its surface, which was covered in brilliant white samite cloth on which had been embroidered scenes of the hunt. The king’s fidgety stance suggested he was waiting for something.
A flourish of trumpets pulled Dodger’s attention to the other end of the hall. Obviously, a feast was in progress, for servants were carrying a great roast beast from the kitchens. They carried their burden the length of the hall to lay it before the royal presence. As it passed by, Dodger thought there was something odd about the animal; although it looked mostly like a pig, the roasted corpse seemed to be too long in the body. Its oddity did not bother the king. As soon as the servants set it down he took up his knife and sliced himself a portion.
Having served himself, the king sat and Dodger was able to see his face. The decker had been expecting some idealized noble visage, but instead saw a very human face. That was startling enough; Matrix imagery was normally not configured that way. This system was really strange. A wisp of fear flitted across his mind. Was his own face on display?
The king’s face was one Dodger had seen recently. It took him a moment to remember where: this man’s picture had been among those Willie had taken of the druids’ acolytes. Why was he here playing the role of King Arthur? What kind of place did he have in the system? If his was some kind of position of control, what about the druids?
The king was not the only one sitting at the table. The faces of the others were veiled in shadow, however. Were this a real court, they would have had to be great lords and high vassals to sit at the king’s side. All the seated figures were as still as statues, but none of the courtiers in the hall seemed to notice. A system operations sign? Were the shadowed constructs placeholders for other members of the cabal who were not presently active in the system?
“Good Cai.”
“At your service, Sir Knight.”
“’Tis I who may perhaps be of service. To His Majesty, that is. But before I petition to enter his service, I would like to know my place, lest I inadvertently offend one of the nobles of the court. Pray, tell me of the great ones. Who are the greatest of His Majesty’s servants?”
Cai smiled and gestured toward the hall. Soft light from an unknown overhead source illuminated the seated figure on the king’s immediate right. “Without a doubt, his enchanter stands closest to His Majesty’s ear. The wizard is the king’s tutor and dear to my liege’s heart. Merlin is his name. He is a mighty wizard as well as a master of statecraft. ’Tis Merlin who gathered the knights of my liege’s Round Table.”
Dodger recognized the new face: Hyde-White, the fat druid.
The light died over Merlin and the figure to the king’s left was bathed in light. Cai continued. “Foremost among the knights of the hall is Lancelot.”
The seated knight bore the face of Andrew Glover. Dodger’s expression tightened, but Cai apparently didn’t notice his reaction. “He and the Orkney Knights are all the remain in the inner circle of knights, Arthur’s closest confidants and staunchest defenders.”
Lights played across faces. All were those Willie had tagged as druids. “All that remain?”
“Alas, some of Arthur’s truest knights have recently fallen in battle. There is evil abroad in the land, foul foreign knights who would frustrate Arthur’s dream and throw the land into turmoil. This must not be.”
Cai’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion.
“The land is all,” Dodger said quickly.
Cai smiled, and Dodger relaxed. He had chosen the right password to escape the intruder detection routine. For the moment, he was still safe. He didn’t know for how long. The Cai program obviously had triggers near sensitive points, or a random check function on interfacing users, or both. Already Dodger had gathered a lot of information, even if it was couched in arcane form. Analysis would surely straighten some of it out.
What else could he do here that would not raise immediate alarms? What might a travelling knight be free to see? Not the defenses certainly, or the treasury.
“Cai, I have travelled a long way and seen many strange things. Have you a sage or a chronicler to whom I relate my tale?”
“Certes. Do you wish to see him?”
“I so wish.”
They turned around to find a page standing in their way.
“Sir Dodger, I bear a gift from an admirer,” the young boy announced in a reedy voice.
Beware of constructs bearing gifts, a wise decker had once said. What was going on now? Was this some sort of subtle attack by the ice?
“I may not accept a gift,” he said, improvising. “I have made a vow.”
“You cannot refuse,” Cai said. “This page is in the service of the Lady Morgan Le Fay. None may refuse her gifts.”
“’Tis true, Sir Knight,” the page concurred. “Accept the Lady’s gift, given in all honor and courtesy, for she sends it with all good will. She knows of your recent victory, and is impressed by your skill with the lance. She finds you worthy of reward. Please, Sir Knight.”
The page held out the packet. Wishing he could think of something else to do, Dodger took the offering. When it did not discorporate his construct, lock the persona into stasis, or send him into instant brain seizure, he felt relieved. He unfolded the wrappings to reveal a jumble of computer chips, credsticks, and corporate identification cards. A quick survey showed that they all had the same codes; he held in his hands the complete Matrix record of one Samuel Verner.
“What is going on?” he asked aloud.
The page answered, obliquely. “My lady wishes as well to apologize for her lack of courtesy when last you met. She thought this offering would please you and demonstrate her good will.”
“The last time we met?” Dodger felt faint, but persona constructs don’t pass out. He didn’t like the way this new twist pushed against the limits of the imposed imagery.
“She comes now.” The page bowed and indicated an approaching figure before vanishing as if he had never existed.
The woman wore a long, flowing dress that fit snugly to her full and fetching figure. The gown was midnight itself, swallowing all light. The skin of her throat and neck was brilliantly contrasted against the fabric. It seemed to gleam. It did gleam. Her skin was not the pale tone fashionable in the court, but a faint silver. As silver as her perfect face and delicately rounded, hairless skull.
He recognized the woman identified as Morgan and felt his loins heat up.
This is impossible!
When last they had met, she had effortlessly hijacked him through the Renraku Matrix and held him prisoner. He didn’t know why; he didn’t want to know. The thing calling itself Morgan Le Fay was neither decker nor system construct. Though he was not sure, he suspected it was something that should not exist; an artificially created machine intelligence, an AI, a real ghost in the machine. During his first encounter with it, the AI had presented itself to his perception as a female counterpart of his own persona construct while simultaneously displaying an entirely different image to another decker.
This thing had abilities he couldn’t understand. It was apparently sentient, but if its actions were any indication, it was slightly crazy. But crazy was defined by the human norm, and who could know what the norm was for an entity dwelling totally within the electron space of the Matrix? He had thought the AI confined to the Renraku Matrix.
He was obviously wrong.
Morgan Le Fay smiled warmly at him. He fled the only way he could be sure to evade her.
Dodger jacked out.