Armitage felt impressed: Colonel Perfuco had said that this type of magic-user would be possessed of unusual force of will, and it seemed he had been correct.
"Now, Grimm, there's no need to get angry. Everyone here is your friend. Do you understand?"
"Frien'," the mage slurred. "All righ'."
"Now, let's start again, shall we, Grimm?" Armitage said. "To whom do you owe your loyalty?"
"The Guild," the young man whispered, his eyelids fluttering.
"Not the Guild! The Guild is your enemy!" the scientist shouted, knowing that it would be difficult to attract the sedated youth's attention. "Just say 'the Guild is my enemy', and you may sleep."
"No!" came the hoarse, instant response. "Not en'my!"
With that, the youth slipped into unconsciousness.
Armitage sighed. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. His current facility might have more equipment than he had had at Haven, but he lacked the mountain retreat's extensive subliminal audio-visual implantation gear.
Under normal circumstances, this wasn't a problem, since it was more usual for hard cases to be subjected to Level Three Pacification, which required brain surgery and implants, but an abortive attempt to carry out such a technique on one of the Mage Illusionists at Haven had rendered the sorcerer incapable of casting magic. Perfuco and his acolytes had been subjected to the Level Two procedure by his younger clone, but this was a more difficult procedure when one lacked the necessary resources.
The hydroelectric complex had been well stocked with computers, weapons and vehicles, and it had been relatively easy to restore them to working order, but Robert Armitage had been incapable of manufacturing the intricate psychoactive equipment he required. Drugs and post-hypnotic suggestion were a poor substitute; although, the Professor had no doubt that he would have more success with the two warriors and the girl.
Struggling to his feet, Armitage groaned as his protesting bones and tendons emitted a fusillade of cracks and pops. "We'll leave this subject for the moment," he said to his assistants.
"What's the matter, Professor?" a callow, gangly, red-haired boy said, with an arch lilt to his voice. "Is he too much for you?"
Armitage wheeled on the gawky adolescent. "No man is too much for me, if I am allowed a free hand, Gaju! Under normal circumstances, I'd have this boy prepped for surgery and swearing undying love for the General inside six hours. However, I've been given orders to leave his brain structure alone. Therefore, I'm constrained to stick to hypnotic, drug-assisted suggestion; words and images only."
The technologist's eyes narrowed. "I do not labour under the same restrictions when it comes to you, my lad. Talk to me in that manner again, and you won't even think of blowing your nose without asking my permission! Is that quite clear, Gaju?"
The ginger-haired youth's face blanched. "Quite clear, Sir," he said, in a more subdued tone.
Armitage addressed his team. "Now we have that out of the way, I want it understood that I am in charge here. I will tolerate no more snide little remarks, no more whispered asides and no more slacking. We have a job to do here, and every one of you will play his, or her, part with a sense of duty and responsibility, or it'll be you on the gurney next! Is that understood?"
"Understood, Sir," the cowed chorused group of adolescents, their faces ashen.
"Excellent!" the Professor cried, in an exasperated voice. "Now, you; Allia, isn't it? Yes, Allia, wheel this one away to the secure ward and put an IV into him, point-five percent Thorazine in saline; I don't want him waking up before I'm ready to try again. Can you do that? Good. We'll take a look at his older colleague now."
****
As the General and the all-but-comatose Foster sat down to their long-delayed final course, the team of Technicians arrived to take away the corpses, the injured and the remaining members of Grimm's party on metal carriers. The tops of the carts were covered with sheets that hung down the sides of the conveyances, and Thribble scuttled up one of the legs of Grimm's trolley, hiding under the white canopy. He clung tight as the vehicle trundled through the endless, confusing series of corridors of the complex, clinging to the stanchion as if his life depended on it.
He had known Grimm for only a few months, but the young mage had already become a cornerstone of his life: he had a store of tales with which to regale his netherworld fellows, but he lacked the means by which to return to his homeworld.
More than that, he had begun to regard the awkward, angst-laden mortal as a true friend. He also knew he could never return home without the aid of at least one of the Questors, and he harboured severe doubts that Questor Xylox would so much as piss in the imp's ear if his brains were on fire, let alone expend the energy to send Thribble back to the demon-realm.
The older Armitage had said something about putting ivy into Grimm, which puzzled the demon no end, but he was at least relieved to hear that his mortal companion's brain would be left undamaged; he had seen the effects of Level Two Pacification at Haven, and he had managed to counter it by using the complex's marvellous equipment to broadcast his precise imitation of Armitage's voice throughout the facility.
However, Thribble had only achieved that by enlisting the aid of a rebellious Technician worried that he would be the next to be Pacified; it seemed vanishingly improbable that he would be so fortuitous on this occasion. Yet, once again, it seemed up to the resourceful imp to save his human companions by some means.
As he rode along, hiding under the trolley's caparison, Thribble began to consider the possible alternatives.
It seemed improbable that Armitage laboured under any kind of mental conditioning; the General could surely not be under any such restraint. The imp could try to whisper in Grimm's ear while he remained in his comatose state, but he doubted the comatose mage would hear or comprehend much, and it was also probable that the thaumaturge would be under continuous, armed scrutiny.
What alternative was there? Thribble cudgelled his brain, and was beginning to feel the icy tendrils of worry creeping along his spine when it struck him.
The old mage, Perfuco, had been subjected to Second Level Pacification! More than that, he was a Mentalist; one who could toy with the thoughts and memories of ordinary mortals. Thribble decided to locate Perfuco's sleeping quarters and whisper into the mage's ear while he slept, using Quelgrum's voice. The details might still be sketchy in his mind, but a definite plan was taking form.
The demon dropped free from the gurney and began to make his way back in the direction of the General's dining-hall, in the hope of finding Perfuco. He should then be able to shadow the mage back to his sleeping-chamber.
****
Armitage found his earlier good humour evaporating at an escalating rate; the older mage had been as obdurate as his colleague, and the Professor had been obliged again to drug his subject into unconsciousness, without having made significant inroads into his psyche. To make matters worse, the albino had proved quite uncooperative on being roused, and his muscular arms and legs had threatened to break the tough leather straps that held him until the warrior had been subdued by a triple dose of Thorazine.
The scientist felt the amused, sarcastic gazes of his Technicians burning into his back as he dispatched the white-haired warrior to the secure ward. He drew several deep breaths, but he rationalised his lack of success as the result of severe fatigue: it had been a long day.
He drummed his fingers on the table at his side for a few moments, considering pressing on out of sheer vindictiveness at the bad faith of his acolytes. However, he had had enough of this day. He clapped his hands.
"Right, everybody; get the rest of the subjects tucked away, clear up the lab and we'll call it a night," he said. This time, he did not look into his assistants' eyes.