Armageddon Crazy

He took stock of his situation. He was lying on a metal-framed, hospital-style bed. It had been set up in the corner of a large institutional room. There were three barred windows, dirty green walls, and a wide expanse of dusty floor. Except for the one near his bed, the half-dozen light fittings had no bulbs. They came with the kind of cheap metal shades that were used in schools and government offices. He decided to get out of bed and explore a little more. Someone had dressed him in a white cotton hospital smock. He stood a little gingerly but experienced no difficulty. His legs felt weak, but they were able to support him, and he did not suddenly become nauseous or dizzy. So far, so good.

He recognized nothing in the view from the window; all he could see was the dirty wall of a factory building across a vacant lot. He could have been in any industrial neighborhood, anywhere. As far as he could estimate, he was on the third or fourth floor. The door at the far end of the room proved to be locked, as he had expected. A quick scan turned up no cameras, sensors, or microphones. Foiled for the moment, he went back and sat on the bed.

Half an hour later, when he was starting to wonder if someone was trying to bore him to death, he heard the sound of footsteps outside the door, followed immediately by the beeping of the lock. Carlisle tensed. Now what?

It turned out to be a nurse – the figure in white from his drugged haze. She wore a starched white uniform in the demure style of the times and had a scrubbed, no-nonsense face. She carried a tray containing scrambled eggs, toast, and tea.

"So we're up and around, are we?"

Carlisle nodded. "So it would seem."

She put the tray down on the bed.

"You're probably feeling a little queasy, so eat this. It'll help." She straightened up again. "I know you must have a hundred questions, but I'm not authorized to answer any of them. You're going to have to wait until someone more important comes to see you."

"There is maybe one thing."

"What's that?" She looked a little impatient. She clearly had not been hired for her bedside ma

"It's kind of boring sitting here. Could I get a newspaper or magazine or something?"

The nurse looked at him coldly. "Perhaps you'd like a TV brought in?"

"I just asked."

She relented a little. "I'll see what I can do."

"Also…"

"What?"

"Where do I go to the bathroom?"

"Look under the bed."

The magazine or newspaper did not appear, and Carlisle spent a long time looking out of the window. A pigeon had attempted to land on the windowsill, but flew off in a panic when it saw him. Eventually there were more footsteps beyond the door and another sequence of beeps. He turned, expecting to see the nurse – carrying, he hoped, a copy of People or Timeweek - and instead saw something in the doorway that made him wonder if he was having a drug flashback.

"What the hell?"

Matthew Dreisler smiled like the Devil himself. "Surprised to see me?"

"You're not quite what I expected."

"Didn't you know that I'm everywhere?"

Carlisle scowled. Obviously the game was continuing. "All hearing and all seeing?"

"You're getting the idea."

"I suppose you run the Lefthand Path, too?"

"In a ma

Carlisle slowly nodded. "Oookay."

Dreisler stood smiling. Carlisle sat on the bed feeling like a very helpless rat in a very complex maze. He could easily believe that Dreisler was behind everything that had happened to him. It was some twisted behavioral experiment that was pushing him through each horrible stage of some monstrous Kafkaesque nightmare.

"I expect you'd like to know what's going on."

The words were said with such bright lack of concern that Carlisle suddenly wanted to start screaming. Okay, I give up. You've driven me mad. Unfortunately, they had not. He could still keep himself under control. With an effort, he formed his face into an expression of caution.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"That's exactly why I'm here."

The story was nothing short of incredible. Harry Carlisle had heard some incredible stories in his time, but this one was head and shoulders above the rest.

"I'm organizing a little revolution."

"You are? When?"

Dreisler walked slowly over to the window. He was using the large empty space almost as a set, going for the full dramatic effect. He was the debonair secret policeman, master of intrigue, Carlisle was the bleary political prisoner. The bare, dusty room was their enclosed universe, an area of nothing after the claustrophobic horror of the Magicians and their factory.

"If everything goes according to plan, it will come to fruition on Larry Faithful's Day of National Reconciliation."

"That's only slightly over two weeks away."

"Less actually. You've been out for five days."

That was another shock. "I have?"

"We thought it was best."

Dreisler turned and looked out of the window. Carlisle sat on the bed in his hospital smock, head bowed, watching him. What did Dreisler think he was? Every part of his image was so carefully contrived, the fashion-plate clothes, the fop's gestures and bantering ma

"Aren't you biting off rather a mouthful, ru

"It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it."

"Are you serious about this?"

Dreisler turned and faced Carlisle. "I'm deadly serious, Harry."

It only took one look at his face to convince Harry Carlisle that Dreisler meant every word he was saying.

"In actual fact, the preparations have been going on for some time. This isn't some half-assed uprising, Harry. This is the real thing, the full-scale overthrow of the theocracy." Dreisler made a scything gesture with a flattened hand. "The theocracy is not functioning, and it has to go. I like power, Harry, and power can become very limited in a bankrupt and backward country."

"Just like that?"

"The times they are a-changin'."

"You're very optimistic."

"I've done my work very well."

"What are these preparations?"

"Mainly computer viruses."

"Viruses?"

"When, as under this administration, you have your computers confused with the Almighty, you tend to become very dependent on them. You also believe everything that they tell you. Why not? The theocrat treats his computer monitor like God's own porthole." Dreisler was warming to his subject. "Over the last six months, I've had various shaped viruses loaded into the computers of all branches of the administration. Some were getgo active and have been doing deep data corruption; others are dormant, waiting for either a binary or a situational trigger. There are already whole sections of the deacons operating according to total fantasy data."

Carlisle did not think that Dreisler was insane, but he still did not know what to think of the man. He was not too sure about himself, either. Despite all his doubts, Harry Carlisle was being drawn into Dreisler's mad tale of conspiracy.

"You designed these viruses?"

Dreisler laughed and shook his head. "No, of course not. I never do anything that specific. I'm a Renaissance man."

"Machiavelli?"

"Exactly. I'm a master of the overview."

"So who wrote the viruses?"

"Most came from the Canadians; some were Japanese."

In a sentence, the conspiracy fantasy had become high treason.

"You're dealing with the Canadians?"

"Of course I'm dealing with the Canadians. We can't off the Fundamentalists without Canadian help."