Juxtaposition aa-3

by Piers Anthony

  "Extremely special." Clef put the instrument to his mouth, and from it came the loveliest note Stile could imagine.

  Stile played the harmonica, making an impromptu harmony. He knew himself to be a fine player, especially with this instrument inherited from his other self — but Clef was the finest player, with the finest instrument ever made. The extemporaneous melody they formed was absolutely beautiful. Stile felt his fatigue ameliorating and his spirit strengthening. He knew of many types of gratification, such as of hunger, sex, and acclaim, but this was surely the finest of them all — the sheer joy of music.

  They played for some time, both men transported by the rapture of the form. Stile doubted he would ever experience a higher pleasure than this and he knew Clef felt the same. Flute and harmonica might seem like an odd combination, but here it was perfection.

  Then something strange occurred. Stile began to see the music. Not in the form of written notes, but as a force, a wash of awareness encompassing their immediate environment. It was the shape or essence of a spirit, a soul. Somehow this vibrant, joyous thing was familiar.

  Stile glanced at Clef without interrupting his playing. The flutist had seen it too; he nodded marginally. Then Clef's playing changed in nature, and Stile realized that this was the music that moved souls to their resting places. Somehow the magic of the Flute was acting in this frame, moving the spirit in the room.

  Whose was it? Not the werebitch's. It hovered in place, becoming more perceptible. Then the music changed again, and the spirit disappeared.

  Clef abruptly stopped playing, so Stile had to stop too. "Did you recognize it?" the man asked, awed.

  "No," Stile said. "It seemed familiar, but I never saw such a phenomenon in Proton."

  "It was you, Stile. Your soul came out. When I realized that, I stopped. I don't want to pipe you to Heaven yet."

  "Not mine!" Stile protested. "My soul was never more with me."

  Clef frowned. "I beg to differ. The Little Folk have instructed me somewhat in this, as it is an important property of the Flute. There are certain keys to the recognition of souls that the music relates to. The more I attuned to you, the clearer that ghost became. It was you."

  Stile shook his head. "It had to have been my double, not me."

  There was a brief silence.

  "You had a double," Clef said. "Your alternate self, who died to free you."

  "The Blue Adept," Stile agreed, awed at the dawning notion.

  "Who piped him to Heaven?"

  "No one. He was murdered alone. All that remains of him is — this harmonica."

  "The Flute evokes souls. But only free souls, which have not yet found their way to their destinations. Could your alternate's soul-?"

  "Be in this instrument?" Stile finished. "You know, he may have found a way to stay around, not dying completely. This harmonica came to me fortuitously. Is it possible-?»

  "That he chose to occupy the instrument when he made room for you in Phaze?" Clef continued.

  Stile contemplated the harmonica. "Why? Why avoid Heaven and be trapped in a harmonica?"

  Clef shrugged. "The music that issues from it is lovely. Is it better than your norm?"

  "Yes. I play this better than other instruments, though I did not play this type until I got this one."

  "Perhaps, then, your other self is helping you."

  Again Stile considered. "To make sure his sacrifice is not wasted. Subtly guiding me. He conjured his own soul into his harmonica. Surely a feat of magic no lesser person could achieve. He has been with me all along." Stile sighed, half in amazement. "Now I must fulfill the destiny he could not. He is watching me."

  "He must have been a worthy man."

  "He must have been," Stile agreed. "The Lady Blue said he had not lived up to his potential. Now it seems there was more to him than she knew."

  They let the matter drop. There was really not much else to say about it. Clef showed Stile to a cot, and he lay down and slept, reassured, literally, in spirit.

  In the morning, refreshed, they took the private shuttle east to the curtain. This was not in the region Stile had crossed it before, in the chasm. The curtain meandered all over the planet, as he and the Lady Blue had verified on their horrendous honeymoon. This was where it traveled almost due north-south, passing a few miles east of the palace of the Oracle; Stile and the Lady had ridden rapidly north along this stretch on their way to their rendezvous with the snow-demons. That had been the key word "flame" in his poem. Now the key word was "civil" — for he was about to launch a civil war, as Adept fought unicorn and Citizen fought serf. Still to come were the key words "flute" and "earth." He could readily see how the first related, but the last remained obscure.

  "Those key terms!" Stile exclaimed. "I was given a dozen words to fashion into a poem in the finals of the Tourney. Where did those words originate?"

  "With the Oracle, of course. You had to be provided some hint of your destiny."

  "That's what I suspected." The Oracle had been meddling in his life throughout, guiding or herding him in the prescribed direction.

  Yet could he condemn it? The future of the two frames was certainly an overwhelming consideration, and the Oracle's present avenues of expression were extremely limited. There had been rewards along the way. Stile had been given Citizenship in Proton and a worthy ally in the lady robot Sheen. He had been given the Lady Blue in Phaze and such close friends as Neysa the unicorn and Kurrelgyre the werewolf. He had seen his life transformed from the routine of serfdom to the wildest adventure — and despite its hazards, he found he liked adventure. He also liked magic. When this was all over, and he had helped save or destroy Phaze — depending on viewpoint — he wanted to retire in Phaze.

  But there was one other prophecy. "Is it true that Phaze will not be secure until the Blue Adept departs the frame forever?"

  Clef was sober. "I fear it is true, Stile. Possession of the book of magic alone will make you dangerous. You will have great power in the new order anyway, and the book will make it so much greater that corruption is a distinct possibility. That book in any hands in Phaze is a long-term liability, after the crisis has been navigated. The Oracle takes no pleasure in such news — of course it is a machine without feelings anyway — but must report what it sees."

  Stile loved the Lady Blue — but he also loved Phaze. She loved Phaze too; he did not want to take her from it. In the other frame there was Sheen, who loved him and whom he was slated to marry there. He did not quite love her, yet it seemed his course had been charted.

  He closed his eyes, suffering in anticipation of his enormous loss. His alternate self had yielded his life for the good of Phaze; now it seemed Stile would have to yield his happiness for the same objective. He would have to leave Phaze, once the crisis had passed, and take the book with him back to Proton.

  Clef looked at him, understanding his agony. "Scant comfort, I know — but I believe the Oracle selected you for this mission because you alone possessed the position, skills, and integrity to accomplish it No other person would make the sacrifice you will — that your alternate already has made — guided solely by honor. Your fitness for the office has been proved."

  "Scant comfort," Stile agreed bitterly.

  "There is one additional prophecy I must relay to you immediately, before we part," Clef said. "You must marshal your troops."

  "Troops? How can they juxtapose the frames?"

  Clef smiled. "The Oracle prophesies the need for organized force, if Phaze is to be saved."

  "And I am to organize this force? For what specific purpose?"

  "That has not yet been announced."

  "Well, who exactly is the enemy?"

  "The Adepts and Citizens and their cohorts."

  "Common folk can't fight Adepts and Citizens."

  "Not folk. Creatures."

  "Ah. The unicorns, werewolves, vampires-"

  "Animalheads, elves, giants-"

  "Dragons?"

  "They are
destined to join the enemy, along with the goblins."

  "I begin to fathom the nature of the battle. Half the animalheads will die."

  "And many others. But the alternative-"

  "Is total destruction." Stile sighed. "I do not see myself as a captain of battle."

  "That is nevertheless your destiny. I am foreordained to juxtapose the frames, you to equalize them. Without you, my task is useless."

  "These canny riddles by the Oracle are losing their appeal. If this is not simply a matter of picking up a book of magic and moving some Phazite the Little Folk will give me, I would appreciate some rather more detailed information on how I am to use these troops to accomplish my assignment. I don't believe in violence for the sake of violence."

  Clef spread his hands. "Nor do I. But the prophecy tells only what, not how. Perhaps the Elven Folk will have more useful news for you."

  "Perhaps. But won't the enemy Adepts be watching for me to go to the Elven Demesnes?"

  "Surely so."

  "So I should avoid whatever traps they have laid for me there, for my sake and the elves' sake. I can't visit the Little Folk at this time, and I suspect I should also stay clear of the unicorns and werewolves. So it will be very difficult for me to organize an army among creatures who

  know me only slightly. Especially when I can't give them any concrete instructions."

  "I do not envy you your position. I am secure; the Oracle is virtually immune from direct molestation. But you must perform under fire, with inadequate resources. Presumably your Game expertise qualifies you. As I said, the Oracle went to some trouble to secure the right man for this exceedingly awkward position."

  "Indeed," Stile agreed, unpleased.

  Now they reached the curtain. Stile doubted the Adepts would be lurking for him here; how could they know his devious route? But they would soon spot it when he started magic. He would have to move fast, before they oriented and countered.

  Stile plotted his course and spells as they got out of the capsule and walked up a ramp to the surface. There was an air lock there. "The curtain is a few meters distant; best to hold our breath a few seconds," Clef said.

  "You have certainly mastered the intricacies in a short time."

  "The Little Folk are excellent instructors. They don't like folk my size, but they do their job well. I will be sorry to depart Phaze."

  Not nearly as sorry as Stile would be! "I will make my spells rapidly, the moment we cross," Stile said. "The Flute prevents magic from being blocked, so the enemy can not interfere, but it may resist a spell by a person not holding it."

  "Have no concern. I could block your magic by a single note, but don't have to. I trust you to get me to the Oracle in good order."

  Stile paused in the air lock. "We may not meet again, but we shall be working together." He proffered his hand.

  "Surely we shall meet," Clef said warmly, taking the hand, forgetting his own prior doubt on this score.

  Then they opened the air lock, held their breath, and charged out to intersect the faintly scintillating curtain ahead. The air-lock door swung closed automatically behind them. It was camouflaged to resemble an outcropping of rock; Stile had passed it during his honeymoon without ever noticing.

  They stepped through together. The bleak, barren desert became lush wilderness. Stile played a few bars on the harmonica, summoning his magic. Now he was conscious of the spirit of his other self within the instrument, facilitating his performance. No doubt he had been able to practice magic much more readily and effectively because of this help than would otherwise have been possible. "Adepts be deaf; computer get Clef," Stile sang. He was trying to conceal his magic from the awareness of the enemy; he wasn't sure that aspect would work.

  Clef vanished. Stile played some more, restoring the expended potency of the magic. This time he was conscious of its source, Phazite, with an ambience of magic like a magnetic field; the music intensified and focused this on Stile, as a magnifying glass might do with a beam of sunshine. The transfer of Phazite to Proton-frame would diminish this ambience, robbing his spells of half their potency. Still, Phaze would be a magic realm — and of course he would probably leave it, so as to make it safe. "Conduct me whole," he sang, "to the East Pole."

  He splashed in water. Naturally that was why, this region was not a tourist attraction. The water was foul too; the universal Proton pollution was slopping through. All the more reason for tourists to stay clear!

  Stile trod water and played his music again. "Set it up solo: a floating holo."

  A buoyed holographic transceiver appeared. Stile had really strained to get the concept detail on this one. This was to be his contact station, so that he could stay in touch with the two frames from either side. Because it was at the deserted, unpleasant East Pole, it should be secure for some time from the depredations of other Adepts or Citizens. He was sure that by this time the enemy Adepts had booby-trapped his fixture at the West Pole and would not expect this alternate ploy. Satisfied, Stile played more music. "Take me down to see Brown."

  He arrived at the wooden castle of the Brown Adept, feeling nauseous. Self-transport never was comfortable, and he had done it twice rapidly.

  In a moment the pretty, brown-haired, brown-eyed child dashed up to him. "Oh, Blue," she cried. "I was so afraid they had hurt thee!"

  Stile smiled wanly. "I had the same fear for thee. Thou alone didst side with me, of all the Adepts."

  She scowled cutely. "Well, they did tie me up with a magic rope or something. I was going to get a golem to loose me, but then Yellow came and let me go. She's real pretty in her potion-costume! She said all the others were after thee, and she really didn't like it but couldn't go against her own kind. Is that what I'm doing?"

  "Thou art helping save Phaze from disaster," he assured her.

  "Oh, goody!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

  Stile had a second thought about using Brown as an ally. Could a child have proper responsibility? Yet he didn't seem to have much choice. She had at least had the courage to oppose the other Adepts, which was more than Yellow had had. "I need thy help in an important capacity," he said. "There may be hard work and even danger."

  "If Phaze is in trouble, I'm already in danger," she said brightly.

  "Aye. The other Adepts prefer to risk disaster later, for the sake of power now. I must do something that will make magic less effective, but will save Phaze for future centuries. Then must I leave Phaze."

  "Leave Phaze!" she exclaimed, horrified. "I was only just getting to know thee!"

  "I do not wish to leave, but a prophecy of the Oracle suggests Phaze will not be safe until I do. I love Phaze too much to hurt it by remaining."

  A soulful tear rolled down her cheek. "Oh, Blue — I like this not!"

  "I fear the Lady Blue will like it even less," Stile said, choking somewhat himself. "Neither will my friend Neysa the unicorn. But what must be, must be. Now must I cross the curtain before the other Adepts spot me. They tried to trap me in the goblins' demesnes, and now that I escaped, they will be attacking me anywhere they find me. In any event, there is something I must fetch in Proton-frame. So must I ask thee to be my coordinator in Phaze."

  Her young brow furrowed. "What is this?"

  "The creatures of Phaze must be warned. They must be told that the Oracle predicts disaster if certain things be not done, and that the Blue Adept is trying to do these things and may need their help. That the other Adepts are trying to prevent this program from being implemented and may attack any creatures who help me. Canst thou go to the creatures and tell them?"

  "Oh, sure, I can send my golems," she said. "If they are not stopped by magic, they will speak the message."

  "Excellent. I have set up a spell to keep thee in touch, so that thou canst check with me across the curtain. When I have what I need, I will return."

  "I hope thy business there takes not long. This frightens me, Blue."

  "It frightens me too! But I think we can get thr
ough." Stile played his harmonica, then sang: "Create a crystal ball, for Brown Adept to call."

  The ball appeared. Stile presented it to her. "Speak to this when thou must reach me. I will answer if I can."

  She smiled, her spirit rebounding quickly at the prospect of this new toy. "That should be fun!"

  "Now must I go," Stile said. He sang a routine spell to take him to a little-used section of the curtain, then stepped across into a maintenance hall in Proton.

  Soon he was in touch with Sheen and riding with her in a private Citizen capsule. "What is the present state of my fortune?" he inquired.

  "Mellon has manipulated it into about sixty kilograms."

  "Sixty kilos of Protonite? Already he's doubled it?"

  "He's one of my friends," she reminded him. That meant Mellon had access to information not generally available to others, including Citizens — such as what supposedly random numbers might be generated by the Game Computer. That would of course be an enormous advantage. Stile did not like all of the implications, but decided not to inquire about the details.

  "However," she said, "several things are disturbing the Citizens and making mischief for you. It may be difficult in the next few hours."

  "It may indeed," he agreed. "The countdown for the juxtaposition of frames has commenced. I've already set most of the other Adepts against me, and soon the same will happen with most of the Citizens."

  "Yes. First there is the matter of your rapid increase in fortune. They are concerned where it will stop, understandably. Second, they don't like your designating me as your heir. The panel approved it, but now many more Citizens are becoming aware of it. A robot with such a fortune would be awkward. Third, there is a rumor you mean to destroy the society of Proton. That notion is not at all popular."

  "I should think not," Stile agreed. "As it happens, they are not far wrong."

  "Will you update me, briefly? I fear things will complicate rapidly, now that you have reappeared, and I lack the living capacity to adapt to totally changed situations. Some Citizens even expressed hope you were dead, and in that hope their action was held in abeyance."

  "So now they may seek to render me dead," Stile said. "I thought Citizenship would alleviate my problems somewhat, but they have only intensified. Very well — you get me to the Game Computer, and I'll fill you in."