Robot Adept

by Piers Anthony

  She obeyed without question, knowing that only he understood the nature of the magic that surrounded them. She spoke once more to the Citizen: “I will become thy robe. Carry me to the waste chute and dump me there. Else will I squeeze. An thou do it right, thou willst be free o’ me. An thou balk, then will I kill thee, caring naught for my fate thereafter, for it be anyway sealed. Dost understand?”

  The Citizen nodded. Then she melted her head, and spread herself over Tan’s body, and changed her color, becoming tan. She was getting good at this!

  “Longer, with folds,” Mach murmured.

  She thinned herself and lengthened herself, until she matched the length of his original robe. Then, as the man sat up, she flowed around to fill in the back. But she never released her constriction around his generative parts. Her freedom and life were at stake, and this was the other self of an Adept; she knew she could afford no error at all.

  Tan walked to the other room. Fleta could no longer see or hear, because she had melted her eyeballs and ears, but she could feel the orientation and motion of his body, and she knew that Mach was following, a nominally servile robot, actually making sure nothing went wrong. She had to trust that the Citizen dumped her correctly.

  Tan reached down and lifted the hem of her substance. She let herself be lifted, like flexible material. She finally had to relinquish control of his nether anatomy, but she tightened her closure around his neck so that he could feel it. She could still hurt him, and he knew it.

  She was being stuffed into the hopper; she could feel its cool metal. She melted, letting her substance flow down inside it. She had a head start, because of the form she had assumed; the melting was swift. When all of her was in the chute except the neck circlet and one “sleeve,” she released the neck but tightened about the arm, sliding down to encircle and grip the fingers, bracing them apart. She could break them if she chose. This body was completely malleable, but when it formed bonelike sections, they were strong enough to exert considerable force.

  Finally there was nothing left of the connection except the hand. All the rest of her was a liquid string. She had already negotiated the mesh; it was no trouble in her present state. She let go the hand and slid down and away.

  If the Citizen then sprang into action, she didn’t know. Mach remained in his power, but she knew that without her as hostage, they could not make him cooperate, they could only kill him, or whatever it was they did to golems. To rovots. Ro-bots! She hoped he was correct that they would not do that.

  Now she was in free fall down the chute. It became a pipe, with a blast of air to carry its contents along. If it led to a furnace to burn the garbage—

  Then she slurped into a tub. The moment she was all in, something moved it, carrying it elsewhere. She was being loaded into a motorized vehicle; she felt the vibrations. Then she accelerated; it was taking her very swiftly to somewhere else.

  Mach had told her to trust the machines. She was trusting them, but she hoped there was no error!

  The acceleration eased, but vibration continued; she was still traveling. It was hard for her to judge time while in this state, and she didn’t dare shape into another form until told to; she knew that the machines were hiding her from what was bound to be a determined search by the Contrary Citizens. She did form a masked eye, so she could perceive light and vague outlines, and a masked ear, so she could hear somewhat, in case the machines addressed her.

  The tub slowed, then stopped. It lurched, evidently being loaded somewhere. Then it was still.

  Was it time to emerge? How could she know? She formed a pseudopod—this body was really quite versatile, as she learned its capabilities!—so that she could peer out.

  She made an eyeball on the end of the pseudopod, and peered through a vent in the top of her container. All she saw was other containers, similar to her own. She started to extend her eye farther, so as to see more.

  “Unsafe,” a voice said immediately. “Wait. Hide.”

  She dissolved the pseudopod and settled down. If the Citizens were tracing the possible routes of her shipment from the waste chute, it would be dangerous to manifest now. They must have her stored in a warehouse, until the search passed. She would be lost among all the sludge containers. That was good.

  She had nothing to do, so explored her own parameters further. She discovered that there were patterns in her memory for a number of set forms, and that she could fairly readily modify these for specific effects. Thus she could emulate a human being, the pattern being for the form she had found herself in when she exchanged to Proton, but could also change that form so that she remained human but did not resemble the original form. She could become almost anyone, if she had a representation to copy from.

  Agape was very like a unicorn, slower in her changes, and limited to a fixed mass, but more versatile within that mass. Of course Fleta preferred her own body—but here in Proton, the amoeba body might be better.

  Time passed, and nothing happened. She grew bored, and then sleepy. This was actually the sleep format of this body, and this time she didn’t have to worry about melting off the bed.

  She was awakened by the resumption of motion. She started to stir. “Remain quiescent,” a machine voice ordered.

  She did so, but was alert. Her container was loaded onto another vehicle, which then moved a short distance and stopped. She was unloaded and wheeled to yet another chamber.

  Then at last the directive came: “Form into humanoid semblance.”

  She invoked the process of human body formation, which included the hardening of columns of flesh into the equivalent of bones and joints and the development of the key apparati of perception and communication, as well as the humanoid skin tones. Agape must have worked hard to develop this pattern, and had done an excellent job! Fleta never would have been able to do it, had she had to develop the pattern herself. Soon she stood as Agee, the office android.

  She was in another warehouse chamber, much like the prior one, alone.

  “Modify to male,” the speaker said. It was a grill set in the ceiling.

  Fleta spluttered as the import registered. “Male?”

  “Affirmative.”

  She had never thought of such a thing! But she realized that probably the pursuing Citizens had not thought of it either. She discovered that there was a pattern for humanoid male, so she invoked it.

  Her breasts shrank, until they were mere nipples set in her chest. Her hips melted and reformed, contracted. Her genital region became jelly, then drooped. It formed a penis and scrotum, neither functional, but similar externally to those of male serfs. Her shoulder-length mane shrank into briefer tonsure.

  “Modify to this image,” the grill said. An image formed in the air before her, of an unfamiliar man.

  She studied the details of the man, changing her configuration to match. The hair was yellow, the body slender and tall, the chest hairy, the eyes blue.

  “Less buttock,” the grill said.

  Oh. She worked on that region, shrinking the dual masses further.

  “Follow the line to the Game Annex,” the grill said.

  “But where is Mach?” she asked. “I need his advice!”

  “Mach is being watched. You must qualify alone. You will be secure as long as your identity is not suspected. If you qualify for the Tourney, you will be secure until you are eliminated.”

  And thereafter, if she returned directly to Moeba. Theoretically. She hoped Mach intercepted her before that happened!

  She walked along the line. It led her from the warehouse and through a passage and into a concourse where other serfs walked. They were following lines too; it seemed that this was a standard way to show them where to go, as they went to the Game Annex.

  She remembered the Lympics of Phaze, in which the various major species competed for honors. She had hoped to enter the Unilympics, for she was fleet of foot, and also could play her horn well. She had been working on a duet with herself, accompanied by an intric
ate hoof-tap pattern, that she thought could be a contender in the marching music division. But now, in Proton, in an alien culture and an alien body, none of that applied.

  If she won entry to the Tourney, she would in time find herself confined to the alien planet. If she lost, she could be caught and tortured by the Contrary Citizens, to make Mach do their will. Or Bane, because they thought she was Bane’s love; they already had Mach’s cooperation, if they but knew it. What a complicated confusion!

  She arrived at the Annex. Her line led to a console. A young man stood at the other side: her assigned opponent.

  He reached over, extending his hand. “Hi! I’m Shock. My hair, you know.” He gave his dark mass of head hair a shake, so that it fell across his face, then nipped it back out of the way.

  She took the hand, remembering how human beings clasped digits in greeting. She concentrated on the correct dialect, so as not to give her origin away. “Hi. I’m Fleta.”

  Then, stunned, she realized what she had said. But the other seemed not to have noticed. “Welcome to the Leftover Ladder. I’m second from the bottom. I love the Game, but I’m no good at it, so I’m easy to beat.”

  “Ladder?” she asked, still appalled by her slip.

  “Oh, you new here? From another world?”

  “New,” she agreed. “From another world.” Both quite true, but not the way he would take it.

  Shock grinned. “Say, that’s great! I’m a Koloform myself. Well, I mean my folks came from Kolo, so it’s my blood. I was born here, but I can only stay till I’m twenty-one, next year, you know. Then I’m either a serf, or I have to go to Kolo. What’re you?”

  “A unicorn,” she said.

  She had done it again!

  “I never heard of that planet!” he said cheerfully. “But what do I know? There’s thousands of planets. Well, c’mon, let’s play before the next pair need the console.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  Her screen had words printed:

  PLAYER ONE: SHOCK OF KOLO

  PLAYER TWO: FLETA OF UNI

  Below was a sample grid. He had the numbers, she the letters. Mach had explained this, but still it was confusing. She had to pick something she thought would get her into a game she could win.

  Her choices were A. NAKED B. TOOL C. MACHINE D. ANIMAL.

  That was easy enough! The only thing she really understood was ANIMAL: being one herself. She touched D.

  Shock was still making up his mind, for though her column highlighted, none of his numbered rows did. That gave her a chance to look around.

  She hadn’t paid attention to her surroundings; she had just followed the line in. She saw that she was in one of a number of open chambers, each of which contained a console, and most of the consoles had players standing by them. Many folk were playing this peculiar game! But that might be because they were doing what she was supposed to do, qualifying for the Tourney. Mach had said that only the top ten in each age group, among the males and the females, would qualify. So now they were trying to get into the top tens.

  She realized that that must be what the ladder was for. Shock had mentioned a ladder, that he was near the bottom of. A ladder was a thing that human folk used to climb up onto higher places. So she was trying to get on the ladder, starting near the bottom, which was the way with ladders.

  But how was she to get to the top, if she had to win games against experienced players to climb each rung? The Tourney was only a few days away, and even if she could win every game, there would hardly be time for them all!

  A row illuminated. Shock had finally made his choice. It was 1. PHYSICAL. The two highlights overlapped at ID.

  Then the ID square expanded to fill the screen. ANIMAL-ASSISTED PHYSICAL appeared across the top, and new sets of choices appeared. This time she had the numbers, and he had the letters.

  She looked at her choices: 5. SEPARATE 6. INTERACTIVE 7. COMBAT 8. COOPERATIVE. She wasn’t certain how these applied, but the safest seemed to be the first, because it seemed to mean that she could do her own thing. She touched it.

  Again she had played ahead of Shock. That encouraged her, though it might be that he was making more intelligent choices. His options were E. EARTH F. FIRE G. GAS H. H2O, whatever those meant.

  When he chose, it was E: EARTH—FLAT SURFACE. So that was it: Earth, as in a plain someone could run on. That was fine with her; unicorns understood running room.

  The 1D5E square expanded to fill the screen, and a new, slightly smaller lattice appeared, with nine squares. Down the right side was a list of activities.

  Shock whistled. “I don’t know how to do any of these things!” he exclaimed. “Well, let’s see where it goes.” The words BRONCO-BUSTING appeared in the top left box.

  Fleta realized that he must have touched one of the words at the side, because it had disappeared from the side when it appeared in the square. So she touched her favorite: HORSEBACK RIDING. It wasn’t that she liked riding horses, but that she, being a related animal, understood them better than any of the others listed, and in her human form certainly could ride one of them.

  He put BULLDOGGING in the third square, so she put GOAT MILKING in the fourth one. There were not many goats in Phaze, but they were easy enough to get along with.

  They continued with DOG TRAINING, COW MILKING, CAMEL RIDING, BULL FIGHTING and CHICKEN SEXING. “That’s not what it sounds like,” Shock explained. “It’s telling the chicks apart, you know, male or female, so they know who’ll grow up to lay eggs. A good chicken sexer can make a pile, on a farm planet. Well, let’s choose up; this is it. I got the last placement, so you get choice of numbers or letters.”

  She chose the letters, and touched B, the center column, because that had the horse riding in it. She was lucky; he chose 1, and the highlights overlapped at HORSEBACK RIDING. She had her first choice, which meant a good chance.

  ADJOURN TO RIDING AREA, the screen said. FOLLOW THE LINE.

  She looked at the floor. A new line showed, leading away from the console.

  They followed it. It brought them to a corral where a number of people were riding horses. It terminated at a check-in office.

  The bored attendant glanced up. “Whatcha into—easy, rough or show?” he asked.

  “I don’t mind losing, but I don’t want to get dumped,” Shock said candidly. “I bruise easily.”

  “Easy,” the attendant said. “Saddle or bareback?”

  “Your turn,” Shock said.

  So they were still taking turns on choices. “Bareback,” Fleta said.

  In due course they found themselves on two sedate horses, bareback, with reins. The one who guided his horse most accurately along a set course would be the winner.

  Fleta didn’t like reins, so she dismounted, went to the horse’s head and removed the bit and the reins. The man who had brought the horses looked surprised, but did not comment.

  She remounted, and they proceeded along the course. Shock was evidently barely familiar with horsemanship; had the course not been long familiar to the animal, he would soon have been lost. Fleta leaned low, embraced her horse with legs and arms, and spoke to it in its own language: a low whinny. Her body might be alien, but her nature was equine, and now it came strongly through. She felt a sudden surge of homesickness for her homeland, and knew that this captive horse felt the same.

  The horse’s ears perked. She stroked its neck, reassuring it, explaining by pressures of her legs how it should react. Soon she had it responsive, and the horse obeyed her commands when they were neither verbal nor visual. She really did understand horses.

  Thereafter, the horse stood tall and proud, and moved so precisely along the course that others stopped to look. One of the keepers, alarmed, challenged this: “You do something to that animal? No tether, no halter, no bit, no reins—you drug it?”

  “No drug,” Fleta said.

  “Bring it over here; I want the vet to see.”

  So they had to interrupt the contest, while the
horse walked to the side where the robot vet rolled up. The machine ran sensors across the horse’s skin and flashed little lights in the animal’s eyes and mouth. “This horse likes this rider,” the robot said, and rolled away.

  “You sure have the touch!” Shock said. “Or did you just get a happy horse?”

  “We can exchange horses if you wish,” Fleta said.

  “Yes, let’s do that!”

  So they dismounted and exchanged. Fleta addressed the new horse as she had the first, and removed the bit and reins, and soon it was as cooperative, while the first, feeling the ignorance of the new rider, became surly.

  By the time they finished the ride, there was no question of Fleta’s victory. “Serf, you’re new on the register,” the corral manager said, hurrying up. “You looking for employment? You’ve got a touch with those animals I never saw before!”

  Fleta dismounted, put her arm up around her mount’s head, and kissed it on the nose. “I do relate well to animals,” she agreed. “But I am trying to qualify for the Tourney.”

  “But once you enter that, you’re gone, unless you win!” the manager protested. “Look, this spread is owned by a pretty savvy Citizen. If he sees how you are with his animals, he’ll give you good employment and treat you right. It’s a lot better risk than the Tourney!”

  It surely was—for an ordinary serf. But Fleta knew that she could not remain in this guise indefinitely without being discovered, and then she would be in instant trouble. “I wish I could do it,” she said with genuine regret. “But I am committed. I must enter the Tourney.”

  They left the corral. “I think you should have taken it,” Shock said. He shrugged. “Well, you bumped me down a rung on the ladder; you’re number one-fourtwo on the Leftover Ladder.”

  “Why is it called the leftover? I thought there was a ladder for each age group.”

  “There is, and the top ten of each ladder qualify. But some don’t fit well, being underage or overage or alien or handicapped or whatever, so there’s a special ladder for us. I guess they sent you here because you’re too new to know the ropes.”