Chapter 1
On the tenth floor of a luxury high-rise on the other side of the river, a group of twelve men stood in a large room. The
only other items in the room were a high padded cot, as large as a single bed, on wheels . . . a life support machine . . .
and a nitrogen-cooled computer.
On that cot lay Mok's motionless body, draped with a sheet. Two nurses tended to the body. Monitor lines ran from the young
man's head to the computer. Other lines from various parts of his body ran to the life-support machine. The steady blip of
his heartbeat echoed in the silence of the room.
"Most of you have seen this young man on our vidscreen in the other room," the man named Cambridge said. "I thought you
should see him in real time, not virtual reality."
Cambridge was tall and thin, with nearly white hair. Although he wore a cashmere sweater and blue jeans, nothing else about
him was casual. His hawklike appearance, the intensity in his eyes, and his reputation set him apart from the other members
of the Committee.
"I'm glad we had a chance to see this," one Committee member said. "It makes him more real for us when we talk about him."
Some of the Committee members wore business suits. Others the latest fashions in training gear even though none actually
went to the workout centers. All of them were in their forties and fifties. These were successful, commonsense men who did
not need to wear the black silk togas of Technocrats to boost their egos.
"As you can see," Cambridge said to the whole group, "the monitors show Mok is in no physical danger."
"And he has passed the first step," another said. "He was not killed in the prison in Egypt.
"He also refused to kill an innocent man."
"An uneducated Welfaro," a member marveled. "Yet he succeeded where all the others have failed."
"Good thing," another said. "The others, at least, knew they were in cyberspace. They were able to yank themselves out before
death struck. This one . . ."
"Yes," a doubting voice added. "This one really believes he is now in a castle. He has been cybered to the siege, has he not?"
"Yes," Cambridge said. "He is there, sleeping. You all know how the program works. He is in cyberspace. Around him, the
characters and situations have been set up to respond to his decisions. Just as if everything were real."
"And he has a guide?"
"Yes, someone to answer only the necessary questions. This is a test he must pass without help. He must make his own decisions."
For the first time, emotion crossed Cambridge's face. Troubled emotion. "And let us pray he succeeds. You know as well as I do that
if he dies in cyberspace, he'll die here too. We have medtechs watching his progress on the vidscreens, but death in the castle could
strike so quickly that . . ."
A Committee member interrupted loudly, "Don't pain yourself by bringing up this issue again. His psych-profile showed he
would have accepted these risks had we given him the choice. After all, in Old Newyork he faced death at any time. Here, even
with those risks, he is far safer. And his future far more promising. As it is, the test will be much more effective if he
does not know he is in cyberspace."
Cambridge sighed. "Yes, I do keep telling myself that."
It was obvious Cambridge would never be at ease with the Committee's decision. "Any other comments before we move back to
the conference room?"
"No question, but a prediction," the doubter said. "We should prepare ourselves for failure. If the finest of our recruits
couldn't pass with all their knowledge and training, this one is doomed for certain."
"Wait before you pass judgment," Cambridge said. A small smile crossed his face. "After we cybered him to the castle siege,
he asked about the Galilee Man."
Understanding crossed the faces in front of him.
"Yes," Cambridge said. "Mok is searching through the ages for Christ."
CYBERSPACE -- Thirteenth century.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Mok awoke. He was half sitting, half leaning against one of the turret walls. He was confused by the quiet, persistent
tapping sound. The noise worked into his bones. It seemed to come from the very stones of the castle.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Blake," Mok said, "do you hear that?"
The dwarf did not answer. Mok was not prepared to admit he liked the grumpy little man. Yet Mok knew no one else and had no
other place to turn for help.
"Blake? Blake?"
In the land of pharaohs, the little man with a bad temper had appeared from nowhere to offer unrequested advice to Mok. The
dwarf had also been beside Mok when he had first arrived at the castle, before Mok had fallen asleep. It figured that the
first time Mok truly wanted the dwarf nearby, there would be no answer from him.
Mok stood and opened his eyes wide, straining in the darkness. The dwarf who had been with him earlier had disappeared.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Mok wrapped himself in his coat and settled back against the wall. Running around in the dark to find Blake would do him
little good. There was no sense looking for trouble. Mok closed his eyes and waited for morning.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
No need to look for trouble, Mok repeated to himself with bitter humor. He fully believed that dawn would bring it to him.
"Young sir," a voice awakened him, "your father has called for you."
Mok blinked himself into wakefulness. He stood and faced the man. Earlier, Mok would have laughed at the strangeness. This
man was dressed in metal armor of dull silver. On his head, he wore what looked like an upside-down bucket with a slit that
revealed his eyes. On his feet, he wore iron shoes. Earlier, Mok would have decided it was another dream brought on by impure
glo-glo water.
No longer.
Mok's home was the street slums of Old Newyork. It was there that he'd been shot with a blue light by a stranger. It had
knocked him unconscious. Mok had awakened in Egypt, a country far beyond his imaginings, centuries earlier.
He had seen a great pyramid and dunes of sand. He'd faced an execution ordered by a pharaoh's daughter. He'd found a way to
survive, only to wake up here.
And now he stood on a great castle wall overlooking hills so distant they faded blue against the early dawn. The land
outside the castle walls was dark with massed soldiers. And the dwarf -- before he'd disappeared -- had told Mok these
soldiers planned to take the castle and kill everyone inside.
This was far beyond the dreams caused by glo-glo water in Old Newyork. Mok had been thrust into something beyond his
understanding. He was finally prepared to admit it. All he could do was watch and wait and hope it might soon come clear.
Because of that, he did not laugh at the man in front of him. Especially since the man carried a great sword on his belt.
Instead, Mok waited for the man to speak. During the brief silence they shared, Mok heard the noise that had followed him
into sleep.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"I speak for every knight in this castle," the man said. "We are grateful for how you encourage us. Day by day, our men have
died by arrows fired from below. Yet despite the danger, you run boldly from turret to turret, bringing water skins, passing
along news, lifting our spirits. Without doubt, you are truly noble. No one could deny you are Count Reynald's son."
Count Reynald? Mok wondered. And "night"? This man calls himself a "night"? Are there those who call themselves a "day"? Mok
reminded himself of his decision to watch and wait. He held his tongue.
The man's sun-blackened face was grim with concern. He seemed a man of great physical power, yet he slumped with worry. This
was no moment for Mok to interrupt.
"The castle shall fall soon," the man said. "Leave us here and join your father as he has requested. If you outlive us -- as
I hope you shall -- honor us by remembering how bravely we fought."
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"This tapping . . ." Mok said. He cocked his head as if listening to the castle walls.
"Yes, m'lord. It bothers me too. As if you or I need reminder of pickax against stone. The miners beneath the great castle
walls chip at the foundations like a toothache gnaws at our skulls. I almost welcome the final fight when the castle walls
will tumble, if it will stop the sound."
The knight pointed at a stone stairway. "Your father waits in the inner courtyard. Please inform him we are prepared to fight
to the end. We will not go gently."
Mok nodded, trying to understand everything he had heard. His father? A count? From these words, could Mok assume the count
ruled the castle?
Mok accepted the man's handshake and walked away in silence. At the stairway, he glanced again over the castle walls at the
activity below. Deep ditches had been filled with rubble and broken stones. Hundreds of men pushed great wooden machines
over the filled ditches and advanced toward the castle. Thousands of soldiers stood behind them in motionless columns, their
distant lances tiny upright lines of black.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
And below, miners dug at the stones that supported the castle's walls.
Mok took a deep breath and descended the stone stairway.
