The System Tester for Bill Tarver

A Wonderful Day for a Ride

By Amaranth Rose

Copyright 2000

The midday sun shone warm overhead, and a few occasional puffs of clouds drifted softly above. The sky was almost gemlike, sapphire and azure blending, darkening at the horizon slightly as if it were a just slightly damp piece of flawless blue cloth stretched taut across the roof of the world. A seemingly endless highway stretched invitingly before him, winding gently through the valley below to cross a river before continuing into the distant hills that stretched across the far horizon. Small villages, hamlets and a few towns were scattered across the landscape, promising refreshment, entertainment, diversion. The smell of new mown hay drifted tangily in the breeze, and off to the right he saw the hay field, its freshly cut hay piled in windrows to dry for baling. A bay horse grazed in the field beyond it, its glossy black mane falling sleekly over its neck, jerking slightly as it cropped the grass. Lazily it lifted its head, staring at the man and his motorcycle. It gave a short whinny of recognition before returning its attention to the grass. A smile reached wide across the man's face.

"Not this time, old boy. I'm riding a mechanical horse today."

The breeze was gentle, and it caressed his cheek coolly. The sky arced dry and perfect above, and the fields and roadsides wore early summer's velvet green. It was a beautiful day for a ride. He revved up and eased the clutch perfectly, and the powerful bike gently took off.

The humming throb of a well-tuned Harley pulsed through him, gently massaging away the cares of the day. Just me and the big bike, he thought dreamily. A perfect day, a lovely piece of countryside. Beautiful day for a ride.

A momentary flickering something caught his eye for a moment near the river. A clump of trees was wavering, shimmering, then resolving again. There was a lay-by just up ahead. He decelerated quickly and braked hard to a stop. The bike was handling perfectly. With his field glasses he scanned the clump of trees. They appeared normal; then they flickered and dissolved for a moment into a conglomeration of little multi-hued green and brown rectangles. He watched for a few minutes, timing the cycles, then recorded his observations in the voice log. He thumbed the "save" button immediately, something he usually only did a few times per trip. If something happens to me, he thought sharply, they'll damned well have a record of it.

He resumed riding, alert now to any unusual motion, any strange flickering. As he drew nearer the clump of trees, they ceased wavering. Then something farther on caught his eye, a boulder on a hillside. Now it was wavering. He pulled off into a farm lane. Once again, he timed the flickering, recording his observations in the voice log. When he drew near, it also stopped its wavering and became steady once more. Like a rock, he thought to himself.

As he rode near the boulder on the hill, it began to shudder slightly. He watched it warily, and maintained a constant speed somewhat lower than the bike's maximum output. "Just try it," he thought. And it did. With perfect timing, the boulder began to roll down the hill towards him, gathering speed as it came. It was on a perfect intercepting trajectory. When it was about ten or twelve yards away, he yelled, "Go home!" and accelerated for all he was worth.

The boulder kept coming, and he managed to evade it by less than a yard. It rolled to the far side of the road and lay there, a huge lump on the tarmac. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. "That wasn't supposed to happen," he thought.

At a convenient lay-by he stopped and recorded his thoughts. He could still see the boulder lying on the road behind him, a great lump on the tarmac. "What next?" he wondered to himself.

The sky was still azure and sapphire perfect, and the little fluffy clouds had grown a tad larger, their bottoms beginning to darken just a touch. The hum of the smoothly running cycle, once music to his ears, became annoying and irritating. He felt himself getting tense, and deliberately made himself relax. "A calm mind is a sound mind," he thought to himself. He was approaching a village. There was a pub there, one he'd been to before. He parked the cycle and went inside.

"How can I help you?" The barkeeper was an older man, fiftyish and balding, with a gruff voice and forbidding face.

"I'd like a pint."

The man grunted, and brought it to him. It wasn't very good, and after a few sips he put it down. "Actually, I'm looking for someone," he said quietly.

"Eh? And who might you be looking for?" the barkeeper spoke gruffly.

"His name is Spinks, John Spinks. He might have been by this way last week." He watched for signs of recognition. There were none.

"Never heard of him," the older man replied.

"Ah, well, I expect I misunderstood him. I must have taken the wrong turn." He paid for the undrunk ale and went outside to retrieve his bike. At a farm field entrance a mile and a half away, he stopped and recorded his impressions. The feeling that something was wrong gnawed at him like a big dog chewing on an ox's leg bone. As he scanned the horizon, he noticed another patch of scenery dissolving and resolving. This time it was a hillside, which according to his recollection, shouldn't have even been there. Yet there stood an escarpment, fully fifty feet in height, atop a rise sloping up from the road. It was perhaps ten miles away, beyond the next little village. He knew that village; knew it so well that some of the girls had laughed and joked about which one would go out with him on a particular night. Perhaps he would find what he was looking for there.

He stopped at the bakery. The young lady behind the counter looked at him warily.

"Could I help you?" she said, her voice nervous. She was noticeably thin, and looked tired.

He stared at her for a long time. "Are you Kathleen Moresby?" he asked at last.

She glanced around warily. "The doughnuts are thirty cents each, or six for one and a half." It was an old game they had played. She looked at him steadily; her hands, however, were trembling.

"Are things that bad?" he whispered, barely audible. Aloud, he said, "Well, what if I want three?"

"Seventy five cents, then, sir," she replied, nodding slightly.

He nodded. "Have you seen Spinks?" he whispered.

As she sacked up the donuts, she said, "Sinks are in the back, and not for our customers' use. If you want a place to wash up, you'll have to look in at the hotel down the way," and she gestured, indicating the direction he was headed. "The rooms on the bottom floor are the cheapest."

"Thank you." He paid her, and as he was turning away, she added,

Oh, and sir, you might want to be a little careful with those doughnuts, the glaze tends to get really sticky by late afternoon." Her smile did not quite reach her eyes.

"Thanks, I will!" He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Remounting his bike, he mulled over the conversation with Kathleen. She had given him some valuable information. What he did with it might determine her fate. He pulled one of the sugared doughnuts from the sack and bit into it. It did not taste right. He put it back in the bag, and tucked it into the pannier. They might come in handy later.

So John had been through here. Whatever trouble had befallen him had something to do with the hotel down the road. And whatever was causing the trouble was most likely occupying some of the rooms on the ground floor. What was that about the glaze getting sticky in late afternoon? The cycle purred gently as he drove down the road to the hotel's parking lot. Once there, he sat in the parking lot, watching. At this time of day, there should have been all manner of people coming and going; cleaning staff, kitchen workers, hotel guests using the tennis courts and swimming facilities, the normal regalia that accompanies any resort hotel. There was absolutely no activity at all. Not even a window curtain moved. Things were not right. He was also getting hungry. He reached down and pulled up the bag of doughnuts; they felt heavy. The food this trip was leaving something to be desired, he mused. After one bite, he dropped the doughnut back into the bag and shoved it down into the compartment. They tasted metallic, and were tougher than he remembered. "May as well check out what's going on," he thought grimly. He glanced warily at the hillside in the distance as he walked towards the hotel's front door. "I'll deal with you later," he thought.

As he neared the doors, a thought struck him. What had happened to John Spinks, and the others? Had they all followed the same path he had, spoken to the same people, gone in the same door he was about to enter? He turned suddenly and went around to the back of the hotel, to the back door by the pool. It was completely deserted. Where were all the people? He looked up questioningly at the stone gargoyles that surrounded the roof of the ornate building. One was missing. "That's different," he remarked into the deafening silence. Suddenly, one of the gargoyles, the one nearest him, seemed to shake slightly, and with a slight "pop!" it fell from the building straight towards him. He dove out of the way, and it struck the ground where he had been standing moments earlier, embedding half of itself in the thick turf. He only just managed to bite off an exclamation. "That was close," he thought, "too close."

Stepping back from the building, yet remaining a good distance from the pool, he surveyed the situation. Every window of the hotel was closed and curtained, just as it had been in front. Except for the gargoyle, the turf was perfectly green, immaculately kept. The pool water was clear and serene, and all the furniture was in neat rows, gleaming clean, cushions fluffed invitingly. The only thing missing was the people. Taking a deep breath, he took a long, slow look around once more, before heading inside. In particular, he studied the impossible, out-of-place hill.

Beyond the hotel, some four or five miles distant, stood the hillside, which should not have been there. Now and then, patches of the hillside would flicker and dissolve into little colored squares, like so much confetti just about to drop. Then it would resolve again into "hillside", and some other patch would begin to flutter. It was as if it were pulsing, and the closer he got to it, the more rapidly it pulsed, as if with anticipation. He shook off a sudden chill, thrust open the door, and entered the hotel.

Inside, the hotel was cool and quiet. The hallways were clean and completely empty. There were "vacant" markers beside most of the doors. Those few that were marked "occupied" had a "Do Not Disturb" tag hanging from the knob. No maids or other service workers were in sight, and the carpet, though immaculately clean, showed no signs of footprints or wheeltracks. There was not a thread disturbed on the carpeting underfoot, and when he looked over his shoulder, his footprints in the thick carpet were the only marks, and they were rapidly fading, the carpet springing up in his wake as though embarrassed to be caught lying down on the job.

He tried the knob of the door nearest him. It was marked "Vacant", and the knob turned. He slowly opened the door, carefully, making sure no-one was lurking. The room was immaculately clean and in perfect order, not a dust speck to be found and not an item out of its place. The next several rooms were the same. By this time, the hair on the back of his neck was on end, and his palms were sweating. He wiped his hands on his legs and took a steadying breath.

The next door was marked "Occupied" and had a "Do Not Disturb" tag hanging from it. He tried the knob; it turned. He opened it carefully. The single occupant of the room was a man lying on the bed, appearing to be in a restless sleep. His back was turned to the door at first, then he turned over. The unshaven face of John Spinks lay on the pillow.

Slowly, carefully, the door was closed. He stepped over to the bed, glancing about for booby traps. There appeared to be none.

"John! John Spinks! Can you hear me?" he whispered urgently. The man awoke, fright in his eyes gradually replaced with a hazy recognition. He appeared to be drugged. "Oh, no," he whispered hoarsely, "They got you, too?"

"No, I'm here to get you out of here," he reassured quickly. If I can figure out precisely where "here" is, he thought grimly to himself. He bent down to listen to the old man's thin voice.

"It's gotten in the works, you know," he wheezed laboriously.

"What has?"

"I'm not sure. But it's in the works." He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. "It wants everything to be perfect...and to stay that way." His eyes bored into the younger man's. "You've got to stop it. Bring it down. The old order is still there, fighting back, but they need our help." He rested a moment.

"How can it be done?" the younger man inquired softly. "Do you know?"

"Toss a spanner in the works, boy. Anything to break into its program, destroy its idea of perfection. It's under the hill, under the hill...." His voice trailed off

"Did you see it? What does it look like?" Any piece of information to help him know what he was up against would be helpful. But the old man was holding his head as if it ached, and he could only mutter, "You'll know it when you see it. It thinks it's perfection. Destroy it, but don't look at it too long, or it'll get you too." He groaned and sank back onto the bed from which he'd partially roused. "It'll get you too," he moaned softly, and sank into silence. He appeared to be either asleep or lightly unconscious; either way, he could not be roused further.

The younger man stood several minutes beside the bed, mulling over what he'd heard. Was this truly the mind of John Spinks, or a manifestation of the entity that had overcome him and placed him in a coma in a hospital several days ago? If this was truly John Spinks, then his information could be truthful and reliable. Kathleen Moresby had seemed to have some free will, and her own memories, at least enough to remember the information game and give him some useful information. Probably at some cost to herself, he thought darkly, remembering the bruises he'd seen on her.

But, if it was a manifestation of the problem... either way, he'd better get out of here and get down the road to that hill. Whatever it was, it seemed to be there. And since that hill wasn't going to come to him, he'd better go to it. What was it Kathleen had said about those donuts? The glaze? But they were sugared donuts.

He opened the room door carefully and made his way silently out the back door of the hotel. He stood for a few moments, blinking in the sun while his eyes adjusted to the bright light. The pool looked perfect and cool; the tables and chairs were perfectly arranged, the grass was perfectly clipped and smooth--wait a minute, there should have been a gargoyle's head right THERE...and there was a perfect expanse of green, lush grass, perfectly manicured. He shivered. Time to get to the bike and on down the road. He circled the building at some distance, keeping well away from the walls and their gargoyles.

When he reached the bike he was panting, and a little tense. His stomach growled. The bag of donuts was in the pannier, and he fished it out. It felt even heavier than before, and the bottom of the sack was bulging deeply. The donut he'd bitten out of earlier was on top, and when he picked it up, it seemed like it was very heavy, and hard, cool to the touch. It had a grey sheen to it that he'd never seen before. At least, not on a donut. He tapped it experimentally against the handlebar, and it made a metallic-sounding thud. Great, he thought, first the beer is undrinkable, now the donuts are turning to metal. They're supposed to taste wonderful, and be light and delicate. He glanced over at the hotel, and the hillside beyond it, which was fairly rippling with pulsing splotches. Dropping the donuts back in the pannier, he started the bike and resumed his journey. They clunked heavily when he dropped them in, and he shook his head. Was he keeping them for sentimental reasons, or just in the hope they might turn back to food? He really didn't know. But he did know he was getting hungry.

The heat of the afternoon made every tree and patch of shade seem very inviting. The little puffy clouds that had graced the morning were now a single black-bottomed tower, and lightning crackled occasionally in it. The air was sticky, heavy with moisture, as the cloud was pregnant with rain. The pavement was softening in the heat, becoming sticky, grabbing at the bike's tires like clutching hands. He veered to the margin of the pavement, then it got sticky; then he started riding on the grassy verge, and made better time. He was very near the hill now; it loomed above him, sharp and tan-brown, curving slightly. It almost gave the appearance of being the stump of some gigantic tree, lopped off about fifty feet above the ground as if by a powerful giant. The road ended abruptly about a hundred yards from the cliff face.

What do I do now, he wondered. Walk up and ask them to open the door and let me in? He stopped the cycle about twenty yards from the end of the road, and looked carefully at the obstacle he faced. Patches of the hillside throbbed at random at once beckoning him on, and taunting him for his lack of progress. What had John said? "Don't look at it too long, or it'll get you too." He closed his eyes.

"I don't believe this. It just isn’t real. It can't be here," he said slowly. "There's supposed to be a road here that winds through a forest beside a stream." A faint clicking sound in the direction of the hillside suddenly brought him to full alert, his hands grasping the grips tightly. Where the hillside had been, a yawning cavern now appeared, and the road continued on into and through it, disappearing into its depths. A maze of machines and control panels, connected by thick snaking cables, arose in front of him. It should have been the central control room, but the layout had been altered. Instead of banks and islands around the room, they all were faced towards a central unit, an alien machine, large and glossy black, like a squat square pillar some five feet high, perhaps two feet on a side. There was a single row of white letters at the bottom of one side, but the print was too small to read at this distance. A sense of brooding malevolence exuded from its direction, and some of the arrayed machines almost seemed to be cowering.

He rode the cycle as near to the edge of the circled machines as he thought was safe, and headed it back the way he had come before dismounting. He shut it off and pocketed the key, then cautiously made his way to the circle of machines. A snaking movement on the floor caught his eye and he stepped back just in time to avoid tripping on a length of cable. 'Aha, it plays dirty,' he noted. As he stepped past a machine in the outer row, it emitted a shower of sparks. Startled, he glanced at the control screen. For a moment it showed a picture of Kathleen Moresby, and the words "three for seventy-five" flashed on the screen; then it was blank. Moments later the screen exploded in a shower of sparks, and the faint sound of a woman's scream issued from the speaker, then was abruptly cut off. A cold chill rippled down his back. What was it about those doughnuts?

Cautiously he made his way nearer to the black interloper, dogging showers of sparks and snaking cables. Once a power cable detached from the ceiling and wound itself around him like an anaconda; but he seized the end and slammed it against a machine cabinet; the coils loosened and he was able to escape before it could grab at him again. He avoided them as much as possible after that. Occasionally a sputter of noise from a machine would alert him to a new danger; sometimes, after that, its screen would go blank, and a cry would be heard. Not often, though; it seemed the black machine was being kept pretty busy with its strategies to keep him from getting to it.

At last he won his way to the inner circle. He stood facing the machine. Cautiously he circled it, looking for a switch of some kind. Nothing appeared, but now he could read the writing at the base of the machine. It said:

"Museum Case Cleaner Cyberbot, TelkineBot Industries. Telekinetic Duster model 001-Prototype. Moves only the dust; maintains perfect specimen condition. Self-installing, auto-powerup for unsupervised overnight routine cleaning and maintenance. Do not remove this tag."

Well, that explains why everything is so perfectly maintained and manicured, he thought.

Suddenly the machine began to hum, making a sound not unlike a vacuum cleaner. He watched it warily with a sidelong glance. Had John Spinks gotten this far? The air above the shiny black monolith began to shimmer with incandescence, and he stepped back warily. Points of colored light began to appear above it, interwoven with iridescent helices like strings connecting beads. The pattern was twisting and rotating, and he fought to look away, before it was too late. Suddenly the machine beside him made a horrible screeching sound, and he was able to look away. The pattern faltered slightly; he could look at its reflection in the control screen and avoid being hypnotized.

The black machine began to speak, in a raspy, gravelly voice as if it had a sore throat. "You are not clean," it said, in its half-growling speech. "All specimens must be cleaned and maintained in perfect condition."

"I am NOT a specimen."

"You are a specimen. The museum is closed now. All specimens must be cleaned and maintained in perfect condition." The machine was beginning to sound annoyed.

"I am not a specimen," he repeated firmly. "I am a living thing. And you may not clean me or maintain me."

"Then you are an enemy of the collection and must be dealt with!" The machine sounded angry.

"What is an enemy of the collection?" He was watching it closely in the darkened screen of the control panel next to him.

"Living things. Insects. Rodents. Things that will not be cleaned."

"Like John Spinks?"

"John Spinks was absorbed. He is now a specimen." The raspy voice seemed smugly satisfied with itself. "You will be absorbed. You will be a specimen. The museum will be clean and orderly."

Fighting a rising sense of panic, he asked, "How do you absorb things?"

"I use my telekinesis function." It began to whir and hum, and a high pitched whining sound began to emit from somewhere near the ground. At the base of the machine a small cloudlike patch of iridescence was forming, and spreading slowly towards him. He stepped aside, and, amoeba-like, it began to change direction. He retreated toward the motorcycle, and it followed him, growing in size and speed as it came. He was several yards ahead of it when he reached the motorcycle, and he leapt aboard, turned the key and took off. Looking over his shoulder, he could see it gaining on him. "Put a spanner in its works", John had said. He felt in his pockets; nothing. It was gaining on him. He patted the pannier, felt the doughnuts, which were heavier and harder than ever. An idea came to him. "I haven't got a spanner, but how'd you like a sinker?" he said, and pulled out a doughnut and threw it at the expanding cloud. It entered the cloud, and it seemed as if the whole cloud shook and shuddered momentarily. It shrank in size somewhat, and slowed down.

He was able to gain several more yards distance before the cloud regained its size and started gaining on him again. He threw the second doughnut; again, the cloud faltered and shuddered. This time he got many yards ahead before the cloud again regrouped and caught up; he was halfway to the hotel, now. Looking over his shoulder, he tossed the last doughnut. It struck the cloud, and there was a low rumbling that grew in intensity until it sounded like a small earthquake. The ground began to shake, and he stopped the bike, for fear of falling off it.

The whole hillside began to shake, and then dissolve. It was as if an explosion had occurred. Debris was thrust outward, and a stray piece struck him on the head, knocking him senseless to the ground.

When he came to, the first thing he noticed was a headache. The next thing he noticed was that the shadows were long, and it was early evening. The motorcycle lay on the ground not far away; upon quick examination he found the frame bent, and a gash in the gas tank caused by the falling debris. He also had several nice bruises and a couple of gashes. Where the hillside had been there was only the road, and it wound down beside a stream through a forested valley. Of the debris that had hit him and the bike, there was no sign. The hotel was some ways ahead, so he began trudging on his way, every muscle aching and sore. He'd been roughed up in fights and not felt this bad, he mused. Then a thought struck him. I've got to get back to the entry to get out, and that's a long, long way. I'll never make it in this shape.

As he neared the hotel, he observed it carefully. Several of the rooms had open curtains, and a couple stood on one balcony. He heard the sounds of people laughing and splashing in the pool. Reassured, he entered and asked for John Spinks.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, but you just missed him by a few hours." The desk clerk was solicitude itself. "Can I get you a room for the night? You look like you've had a rough one."

He demurred, and after a rest he set out on foot to retrace his route. It would soon be dark, and if he could get to the village, perhaps he could get a ride to the entrance.

He was concentrating on setting one foot in front of the other when he heard the rhythmic "clip-clop" of horseshoes trotting steadily along the pavement. He moved over to the side, expecting the rider to pass, but instead the horse fell in beside him and nuzzled his sleeve. When he looked up, he saw the bay horse from the field near the entrance, bridled and saddled, but riderless.

"What have you done with your rider, old man," he asked as he rubbed the horse's forehead. As if to answer, the horse nudged his shoulder and looked around toward the saddle, then at him. He looked at the horse.

“I’m afraid I’m in no shape to help you find a lost rider, old boy,” he said gently. For answer, the horse reached towards him and gently took his shirtsleeve in its teeth and pulled him towards itself. Comprehension dawned slowly on him.

“Are you offering me a ride?”

The horse nickered softly in response.

They made good time to the village. Kathleen greeted him warmly.

"Are you all right?" he asked her.

"A little the worse for wear, but I'm in better shape than you are!"

At the pub there was no sign of the dour old barkeeper. A middle-aged man greeted them warmly. "Now, Kathleen, dear, go fetch the man some supper, and be on about it. He's got a ways yet to go!" The meal was excellent, the ale perfect. The horse took him to the entry point, and whickered fondly as he closed the door to the entryway. A short dark hallway, and he was outside again.

The first thing he saw as he took off the virtual reality helmet was a set of anxious faces; Jim, Aaron, and Sheila, in front, then a man in a white lab jacket, the security officer, and the arcade manager, whose name he couldn't quite place. He sat back tiredly and closed his eyes for a moment. Jim, always the concerned manager, spoke first.

"Are you all right? You were in there FOREVER!" After a couple of slow, deep breaths, he looked over at Jim tiredly.

"I'm all right. Nothing a few days rest won't mend, I think." He raised his hand to brush the hair back from his forehead, and noticed a bandage on his forearm. "What's this?"

The white-frocked man said, "You suddenly started developing bruises and cuts, and went unconscious. I'm Doctor Andersen. We were quite concerned for you. I'm informed that nothing quite like this has ever happened before," he looked somewhat suspiciously at Jim, flanked by Aaron and Sheila.

"I don't believe it has," he said wryly. "Thanks for looking after me on the outside, guys. Now, we've got work to do. Jim, get the chief exec of TelkineBot Industries on the line, and tell them we've found their missing prototype. No, tell them I found their missing prototype, and cut through all the BS they're going to try and give you. Aaron, Sheila, tear into that machine until you find it. It's black, shiny, square, and a little taller than it is wide. DON'T touch it; make them come get it. It's been damaged, and it's dangerous. If they won't come get it, I’ll pull it myself and deep-six it in some liquid nitrogen." He leaned back tiredly.

There was a flurry of activity, and someone came and whispered something to Jim. He beamed. "Hey, everybody, great news. John Spinks just regained consciousness, and he's fine. He said to say thanks to the best system tester he's ever known." Eyes closed, leaning back in the upholstered lounge seat of the virtual reality module, he smiled and nodded tiredly.

They found it in less than half an hour; it was scorched and charred and showed no signs of functioning. Imbedded in one side were three small metal washers, two of which had tiny notches out of them. Sheila held one of them up for inspection. "I could swear that those look like teeth marks!"

He took it from her and inspected it closely. "Hmm," he said noncommittally.

She looked at him very curiously. "Just what did you do in there?" she asked at last.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that." At her disbelieving scowl, he smiled. "Hey, sometimes the answer is to just throw a spanner in the works. And when you don't have a spanner on you, sometimes a few sinkers will do the trick." He looked around the room. "Speaking of sinkers, hey, guys, it's been a long day. How about some coffee and doughnuts all around?"