Lurk woke feeling refreshed. He sat up in the narrow bed, yawned, and stretched. And blinked in confusion; this wasn't his room.
The events of the night before flooded back into his mind. The Princess. The light rapier. The Source. The Jubbly and the Stiff.
Calling Bent K'nobby a "crazy old poof"!
"Oh crap," muttered Lurk as his face flushed bright red with embarrassment.
He got out of bed, smoothed down his pink pyjamas, and slipped his feet into his fluffy ewok slippers. The sight of them triggered a pang of guilt which replaced the embarrassment; what would Uncle Rowan and Aunt Beryl be thinking of his absence?
"Oh Fluffy! Oh Snuggles!," he said to his slippers, "what are we doing here? It's like something out of a dream, or, I dunno. Maybe I'm just going crazy." The slippers, as usual, made no reply, and merely continued to grin their happy grins and gaze fixedly across the rooms with their glass button eyes.
"If you're saying coming here was a bad idea, I'm beginning to agree with you."
Lurk glanced around the room. He saw the silver cylindrical handle of the light rapier lying on the bedside table, and picked it up gingerly. Then he took a deep breath and shuffled out of the room into the hallway beyond the curtain.
The delicious smell of baking filled his nostrils. He sniffed, and followed the scent down the hallway and into a spacious kitchen-cum-dining room. As he entered the room, Bent K'nobby pushed something into the oven and closed the door. The old man stood, floral oven mitts on his hands.
"Ah, Lurk, good morning. I was hoping to have this done before you got up. Oh well. Arty."
Arty Farty whistled in acknowledgement; the stubby 'bot was down behind the breakfast bar, hidden from Lurk's view. Bent removed his oven mitts, and lifted a bowl from the counter.
"Arty, I think it's time for a test. Take this bowl to Seepy and find out if they're ready," he said as he placed the bowl on a rack mounted on Arty's domed head.
Arty bleeped and trundled slowly out of the room. As the 'bot wheeled past Lurk he glanced down into the bowl; it was full of black, unappetising cookies. A furrow of confusion creased Lurk's forehead.
"Take a seat, Lurk," said Bent. "Have some breakfast." He waved to the end of the bar, where a bowl and a selection of cereals had been placed out for the youth.
Lurk sat, and carefully placed the light rapier on the benchtop beside him. "Can 'bots eat?" he asked as he poured some muesli into his bowl.
"What?" asked Bent. "Oh, the cookies. They're mostly engine oil, toxic waste, and trace minerals. It's my own recipe. Should be able to recharge their power cells for a week or two..."
"Oh." Lurk picked up a carton of hephelump milk, pushed back the flaps to pop it open, and poured a generous quantity of the pale blue fluid over his muesli.
He spooned some of the cereal into his mouth.
"So," he said awkwardly as he chewed, "tell me about the Source, and the Jubbly, and... And everything."
"Very well," said Bent as he bustled around the kitchen. "But there is a lot to tell, and not all of it will be easy to hear."
"Wouldn't it be better if you spoke a little louder, then?" said Lurk.
"I mean," said Bent patiently, "that it will not be easy for you to accept. Some of it will go against everything that you think you know about the world."
"Oh," said Lurk sheepishly.
"I would have liked to tell you much of this years ago, but your uncle forbade me to have any contact with you while you were young and tender and receptive." Bent sighed wistfully. "So now," he continued, "in order to accept what I am going to tell you, you must unlearn what you have learned."
"Oh," said Lurk again. "Right. Okay. Fire away then!"
"Do you believe in destiny, Lurk?" asked Bent.
"Um, I've never really thought about it," said Lurk. "No, not really, I suppose."
"Why not?"
"Because, uh, because I don't like the idea of not being in control of my life, I guess. But at the same time I feel that I'm destined for bigger things than this." Lurk gestured vaguely around himself.
Bent nodded. "Indeed," he said. "Do you know why you're here?"
"Uh," Lurk began, but Bent interrupted him.
"You are here because you know something. What you know you can't explain, but you feel it. All your life you've felt that there is something wrong with the world. It's like a splinter in your mind's eye, driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I'm talking about, Lurk?"
"Haven't a clue," shrugged Lurk. "I'm here because that silly Arty 'bot ran away and I had to catch it before Uncle Rowan..." he trailed off guiltily.
"But beneath that," persisted Bent, "is there another feeling you have had? A feeling that things are not as they appear? That things should be different?"
"Nope," said Lurk. He spooned some muesli into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Although, I have always felt that my being a moisture farmer was wrong; I've always wanted adventure and excitement, if that helps."
"Adventure? Excitement?" Bent sighed. "A Jubbly craves not such things. I mean," he added with a frown, "a Jubbly does not crave such things. But perhaps it is a start."
"What are you trying to say, Bent?" asked Lurk impatiently. "Just spit it out."
"I'm talking about the Array," said Bent ominously.
There was a silence, as Lurk considered this statement. "What?" he finally asked. "An array, like in mathematics, like a matri..."
"Stop stop stop!" yelled Bent frantically, and Lurk recoiled in surprise.
"Sorry Lurk," said Bent, "but you must never, ever say the M-word. It is too dangerous. Their search programs will detect it."
"What?" asked Lurk, feeling more and more that all common sense was rapidly fleeing from this conversation. "'Their search programs'? They who? The Imperium? What are you talking about?"
"Please, Lurk, bear with me. All will become clear in time, I promise. I said this would not be easy for you to hear."
"You weren't fuckin' kidding!" muttered Lurk under his breath. "Okay," he said aloud. "Please continue. Tell me about this 'Array'."
"The Array is everywhere," explained Bent. "It is all around us, even now, in this room. The Array surrounds us, and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together. And yet, paradoxically, the Array is generated by the Source, and it is the Source which gives a Jubbly his power."
Lurk nodded. The old man was obviously quite mad, and it was always best to humour the insane.
Bent looked at him quizzically, as though expecting something.
"So, uh, yeah, but what is the Array?" asked Lurk hesitantly.
"The Array is control. The Array is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to hide the truth."
"I see," said Lurk. "No I don't, that tells me nothing. What is the Array?"
"One cannot be told what the Array is," said Bent mysteriously. "One has to be shown." He sighed. "However, since this version of the Array has no exits, and there is no way for us to awake from the nightmare, I guess I will have to tell you."
"Oh good," said Lurk.
"The Array," and Bent indicated the room around them, "is a virtual world, a computer generated program being fed directly into our brain stems. It is everything we see and hear and touch."
"O...kay," said Lurk. This must be Friday, he thought. I never could get the hang of Fridays! He looked idly around the room. Movement caught his eye, and he peered closer: on the far wall, high up near the ceiling, a pair of entwined lizards seemed to be mating. "So nothing we see is really here?" he asked.
"That's right," said Bent.
"Not even them?" Lurk pointed up at the pair of randy lizards.
"Um," Bent looked. "No, not even them."
"But if they're not real, why are they, uh, doing what they're doing?" asked Lurk. "What's the point?"
Bent glared up at the copulating reptiles with distaste. "More to the point," he muttered, "why must they do it on my wall?" He looked back at Lurk. "Um, creatures like that, lizards and birds, anything that is not self-aware, is typically a self-contained Object, a digital construct that exists within the Array. It is programmed to follow a few simple rules, including, well, activity like that. It's all part of the simulation, added to enhance the realism."
"And if we are not here, then where are we?"
Bent nodded. "These bodies that we see here are virtual avatars, generated by the machines. Our actual bodies are somewhere else, stored in a huge grid. In fact, from the sparse evidence and clues we've been able to gather, it seems likely that this planet does not even exist. Ratatouille, Alderbark, Coruscate, Hoff, Correlation..." Bent shook his head. "Have you ever heard of a planet called 'Earth'?"
"No," said Lurk. "Oh, wait, it does sound familiar. I think Seepy Weepy mentioned it last night. Something about the planet we originally came from?"
"Yes," said Bent. "Except, if our information is correct, we are still there!"
"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Lurk. "That just makes no sense whatsoever. If they—whoever they might be—were going to put us all in some sort of virtual reality, for reasons unknown, wouldn't it make more sense to at least simulate part of our own history? The history of this 'Earth'? Give us a nice familiar fantasy to live in? Why would they go to all the effort of inventing new worlds? I mean, this dump is hardly a paradise, is it?"
Bent nodded. "That is a fair question, Lurk. Your insight serves you well."
Lurk sighed. "Is there an answer?"
"Apparently, they tried that. Once, twice..." Bent shrugged. "We're not really sure how many times; all we know for sure is that there have been several versions of the Array before this one. Each time, they designed it to keep us happy. Each time, eventually, it failed. But they have learned from their mistakes, and so far this version has remained stable for over three hundred years."
"And..." Lurk prompted.
"Rather than basing this version upon reality, it appears that they based it upon popular literary and cultural entertainment from humanity's prime. They did not need to invent details; it seems we had already done that for them. They simply borrowed from our fiction and plugged us in."
"Oh. Which is why you asked me about 'destiny'?" asked Lurk. "Because we all have our destiny to fulfil, because we are all following a pre-determined Script?"
"That would seem to be the case," agreed Bent. "Except that, after three hundred years, it seems that the Array is finally showing signs of stress. It is fracturing. The lines between Scripts are blurring, and some cross-over is occurring."
"But what does all of this mean for us?" asked Lurk. "You said that there are no exits from the Array, that there is no way to wake up from this virtual reality. And even if we did, what would we wake up to? It seems to me that this simulation is better than life, if the alternative is to be lying around plugged into a grid, or whatever. So if we are stuck here, on Ratatouille, with no possible way of escaping this Array, what difference does it make?"
"Possibly none," said Bent.
Lurk gaped at him. His flabber was well and truly gasted. His dumb had been founded. Well, you get the point.
"None?"
"Possibly," agreed Bent.
"But what do we do? Shouldn't we be trying to escape the Array?"
"No," said Bent, "we have to go to Alderbark."
"So, in actual fact, the existence or non-existence of the Array is completely irrelevant to us, and we just have to go about our lives regardless?" said Lurk.
"That about sums it up," said Bent.
"So why did you tell me all this rubbish?" asked Lurk.
"It is necessary," said Bent. "You must believe in the Array if you are to learn the ways of the Source, and become a Jubbly."
"Of course," said Lurk. If nothing else, this morning's conversation had left him well trained in the art of sarcasm. "Obvious, really. How can you expect anybody to believe that 'Array' twaddle?"
"I cannot prove anything, of course," said Bent, "because, apart from anything else, proof tends to conflict with faith. And you must have faith in the Source in order to manipulate its power. However, I can provide you with some evidence to strengthen your faith."
"Go right ahead," said Lurk.
Bent picked up the light rapier from the benchtop, and activated it. There was a soft hum as the bright blue energy blade, about three feet long, flared into existence. Bent swung the weapon through the air, and its hum changed pitch as it moved. "This," said Bent, "was your father's light rapier," he said.
"Yeah," said Lurk, "you told me that last night."
"It is the weapon of a Jubbly Knight," continued the old man, a little testily. "Not as random or as clumsy as a blaster, this is an elegant weapon from a more civilised age."
"Very nice," agreed Lurk.
"As you found out last night," said Bent, "it will cut through just about anything."
"Oh. Yeah, sorry about your ceiling!"
Bent waved away his apology. "The real question, though, is this: what stops the blade?"
"What do you mean?" asked Lurk.
"Well, look. The generator for the blade is inside the handle here, the blade is projected outwards, and then it just stops. It doesn't fade away, as you might expect if it were reaching its maximum range. It just..."
"Stops," completed Lurk. "I guess that is a little odd," he agreed.
"It's more than odd," said Bent, "it's outright impossible. Unless the entire weapon is actually artificially simulated."
"Oh." Lurk didn't sound convinced.
"Well, never mind," said Bent. He deactivated the weapon and handed it over the counter to Lurk. "Just think about it for a while."
He was interrupted by a beeping sound from behind him. He turned and bent down to peer into the oven. "There we go," he said. "Just about done." He put on his floral mitts and opened the oven door.
"So, uh, how does the Source work, anyway?" said Lurk.
Bent lifted the cake out of the oven and its delicious aroma filled the room. He placed it carefully on a cooling tray.
"You're a bit of a computer geek, aren't you?" he said. "You know the importance of source code?"
"Well, yeah, I've written a script or two in my time," admitted Lurk, "and played the occasional game. How did you know?"
"All Jubblies are proficient programmers," said Bent, "and you, young Lurk, have the potential to be the biggest Jubbly of all."
"Oh," said Lurk. "Cool!"
"Just as regular source code defines a script, or a program, so the Array is defined by the Source." Bent paused. "Time is getting away from us, young Lurk. We need to get moving soon. Hand me that basket, will you?"
Lurk jumped down off his stool and retrieved the picnic basket, indicated by Bent, from a high shelf. He placed it on the benchtop.
"Now," said Bent, "if you wouldn't mind washing up your breakfast stuff while I pack this, I can give you the last few details. In truncated form, anyway; we shall have plenty of time on the trip to Alderbark to begin your training in earnest."
"Okay," said Lurk. He gathered up the bowl and spoon, and carried them over to the sonic sink.
"A long time ago," said Bent, and he paused, looking at Lurk expectantly.
"What does that mean?" asked Lurk. "'A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.' Why is that sentence in my head?"
"We are not entirely sure," said Bent, "but several Jubbly scholars believe it was a phrase somehow connected with the form of entertainment upon which our galaxy has been based. The fact that you are aware of it suggests that you truly are strong in the ways of the Source."
"Oh, okay," said Lurk. He wiped the bowl clean inside the sonic shield, feeling the skin on his hands tingle as he did so. "Go on: 'a long time ago...'"
"...there was a man born inside the Array who found he had the power to manipulate reality. Of course, at the time he was not aware of the existence of the Array; however, he had some kind of psychic ability to manipulate the Source of the Array at will, and hence manipulate what he perceived to be reality."
"Go on," said Lurk as he finished cleaning the spoon. He had a sudden, mesmerising thought.
"That man founded the Jubbly Order," continued Bent, but Lurk was only partially aware of what the old man was saying. He was staring at the simple steel spoon in his hands. If any of this is true, thought Lurk, then this spoon is nothing more than an illusion. In fact, he thought, there is no spoon!
"He gradually learned the nature of his power, and the nature of his reality."
Lurk reached out with his consciousness, trying to detect the Source of the spoon. Nothing. Wait. What was that. It seemed as though Lurk could almost feel a sound that tasted green, a ghostly flicker of unreality that emanated from the spoon. He examined the sensation with his mind.
"He taught others, and freed many people from the prison of their ignorance."
There was no recognisable syntax to the Source; it was not a programming language that Lurk knew. And yet there was an order to it, a pattern within the chaos. Somewhere in there was the code which defined the shape of the spoon. There were parameters which controlled its size, the length of its handle, how straight it was.
"But there must be balance in all things," Bent rambled on as he made sandwiches, unaware that his student had gotten distracted by something shiny.
Lurk gingerly reached out with his mind, trying to decipher the code, trying to make sense of it all. There, that's it, he thought. Carefully, gently, he tweaked a part of the spoon's Source.
"As the Jubblies grew, so the Stiff emerged," said Bent.
Lurk gasped.
"Yes, they can be quite frightening when you see them for the first time," agreed Bent.
Trembling, Lurk put down the fork and stepped back from the sink. He felt a little weak at the knees. It was all true...
"Anyway, the Stiff emerged. There are two sides to the Source. The Soft Side represents all that is good and pure; the Hard Side represents all that is rancid and evil," said Bent.
"Comments," muttered Lurk automatically. He was, after all, a programmer at heart.
"Why yes," said Bent. "Comments, versus code. Two different sides of the Source. Some would say that both sides are equally important, but neither the Jubbly nor the Stiff agree on that point."
Lurk sat down rather heavily, still staring warily at the fork. He swallowed dryly. "But, uh, how can the Hard Side have any power? Comments may be necessary, but they have no control over the program."
"That is true," said Bent. "However, we suspect that the computers themselves are responsible for the Stiff. We suspect that there is a deeper level of code hidden within the comments, from which the Stiff draw their power. We are," he admitted, "not entirely sure how the Hard Side actually works, for studying it can be extremely dangerous. Possibly it is a form of steganography, hidden there by the machines. Perhaps even some master language we have not yet discovered, which generates the code from the comments."
"Whoa!" said Lurk. "That would be... That's just evil!" He paused a moment to consider this. "Is the Hard Side more powerful than the Soft?"
"No," said Bent. "It is quicker, easier, more seductive, perhaps, but not more powerful. Not as such."
"Oh?"
"The Hard Side is not more powerful. However, a Stiff Lord is, in many ways, an Agent of the computers. As such, individually, a Stiff Lord may be more powerful than a single Jubbly. Fortunately they are few in number. By their very nature, they do not tend to work well with others."
"Oh."
"The best advice I can give you, young Lurk, is that if you ever meet a Stiff Lord, turn and run. Nobody who has ever fought a Stiff in single combat has survived. Now, give me a hand with this picnic basket, will you?"
Lurk held open the lid of the wicker basket as Bent placed the carefully wrapped cake inside, on top of the many packages of sandwiches. The old man wedged a couple of drink flasks into the empty space that remained.
"Okay," he said. "We'll be off, shall we?"