Juxtaposition aa-3

by Piers Anthony

  Now he zoomed for the exit. He had left his robe behind; it made identification too easy for his assassination-minded pursuers. Still, being a serf was not enough camouflage. There would be other assassins on the prowl for him, closing on this region. The majority of Citizens, like the Adepts, seemed to be against him; they had tremendous resources that would be overpowering once they got the focus. He needed to get far away from here in a hurry.

  Could he retreat to the curtain, as he had done when the Adepts had had him pinned in the cavern? No, they would be watching the segments of it through which he had entered Proton this time. He had to surprise them.

  Camouflage seemed to be the answer — but what kind?

  Already Stile was making his decision. The most common and least noticed entities in Proton were machines, ranging from self-propelled hall-brushers to humanoid robots. Some were sophisticated emulations of individuality like Sheen, but most were cruder. Stile paused at a food machine and got some nutri-taffy; this he used to shape bulges at his knees and elbows, and to change the configuration of his neck and crotch. He now resembled a small, sexless menial humanoid robot that had been used in a candy kitchen. He walked somewhat stiffly and set a fixed smile on his face, since this grade of machine lacked facial mobility. Stile was, of course, a practiced mimic. He was unable to eliminate his natural body heat, but hoped no one would check him that closely.

  It worked. Serfs passed him without paying any attention. There was a checkpoint guarded by two brute androids, but they were looking for a man, not a taffy-odored machine. Stile walked stiffly by, unchallenged.

  He was probably safe now, but he did not gamble. He continued his robot walk to a transport capsule and rode to the vicinity of Merle's dome, then took the service entrance. Even here there was no challenge. Functionaries were constantly in and out of Citizens' estates on myriad errands.

  But Merle was expecting him. "Stile, I want you to know I sincerely regret this," she said. "Extreme pressure has been put on me. Believe me, I'm helping you in my fashion." She touched a button.

  Stile leaped to intercept her motion, but was too late. Stasis caught him.

  Merle had betrayed him. Why hadn't he anticipated that? He could so readily have gotten around her, had he only been alert. He had allowed a woman to make a fool of him.

  He was cleaned and packaged and loaded into a transport capsule. He could feel the motion without seeing anything. The capsule moved swiftly south, by the feel of it. At length it slowed, and he was unloaded.

  The stasis released. Stile found himself in a barred chamber — and with him was Sheen. She was inert; her power cell had been removed. The disaster was complete. There was no sign of the book of magic.

  A speaker addressed him. "Serf, you have been assigned to this mine because you have excellent manual dexterity. You will be granted one hour to familiarize yourself with the controls. Then you will be expected to commence processing the ore in your bailiwick. You will have a rest break in your cell of fifteen minutes after each hour, provided your production is satisfactory. Superior performance will result in promotion. Press the ADVISE button if there is any problem. Malingering will not be tolerated."

  Stile knew better than to protest. He had been shanghaied here to get him out of the way. Once he failed to appear at the business meeting, he would lose his fortune, be voted out of Citizenship, become a serf in fact, and probably be deported. He didn't even blame Merle; she had done this instead of killing him. Perhaps she had reported him dead. No doubt her own Citizenship had been placed in the balance. The opposition, in Proton as in Phaze, played hard ball.

  What could he do? A quick inspection of the chamber satisfied him that he could not escape. The Protonite miners were not trusted; each was locked in his cell during working hours, even though he never directly handled the valuable mineral. Security was extremely tight in the mines. If Stile tried to interfere with any of the equipment or wiring, there would be an alarm and immediate punishment; if he tried to sabotage the mining operation, he would be executed. All he could do was cooperate.

  Stile got to work on the mining. He familiarized himself with the controls in moments, and soon had his survey-screen on. Could he use this to get in touch with the Brown Adept? No — this was a different circuit — and even if he could call outside, the monitor would intercept, and he would be in instant trouble, possibly of a mortal nature. Best to sit tight. Probably the game was lost. He had mainly himself to blame; the exigencies of the moment had forced an oversight.

  Of course he was not entirely alone. The Lady Blue knew he was in Proton, and she would be concerned about his failure to reappear. But she had not been keeping dose track of him; she would not be really alarmed until some hours or days had passed without news — and that would be too late. He would have missed the business meeting and the juxtaposition of frames. In any event, the enemy Citizens would now be alert for her; Stile did not want the Lady Blue exposing herself to possible assassination.

  What about the self-willed machines? They might be able to help — if Merle had not acted to conceal his abduction from their view. Since she knew a good deal about him and had referred to Sheen's friends, she had probably done just that. And if the sapient machines did locate him, they would still hesitate to reveal their nature by acting overtly on his behalf. He could not count on their rescuing him.

  That left it up to the Brown Adept, who would be unable to reach him — and what could she do if she did? She was a child who would have no magic in this frame, assuming she could cross the curtain. Best to establish no false hopes. If help was on the way, it would succeed or fail regardless of his concern.

  He was good at mining. Under his direction, the remote-controlled machinery operated efficiently. In two hours he had extracted half a gram of Protonite from the ore, a full day's quota. Whether Citizen or serf, Adept or slave, he intended to do his best — though this sort of mining would soon have to stop, if the frames were to be saved. Ironic, his effort here!

  Then the gate opened. An apparition stood there — the tallest, thinnest, ugliest android he had ever seen. Except that it wasn't an android, but a man. No, not exactly a man-

  Stile's spinning mental gears finally made an improbable connection. "The troll!" he exclaimed. "Trool the troll-in Proton-frame!"

  "I must rescue thee from confinement three times," Trool said.

  Stile nodded. "This is the third, for me and mine. More than amply hast thou fulfilled the prophecy. Sincerely do I thank thee, Trool." There was no point in adhering to Proton language; the troll would only be confused.

  "It is not done yet," the troll said.

  "Thou hast done enough," Stile said. "Thou hast freed

  me."

  Trool shrugged and stooped to pick Sheen up. He shambled through the door, carrying her, and Stile followed.

  Trolls had a way with subterranean regions. Trool took them down into the depths of the mines, passing locks and checkpoints without challenge, until they were in the lowest crude tunnels. Here there were only machines, the forward end of the remote-control chain. Here, too, was the Protonite ore, the stuff of Proton's fortune and misfortune.

  "How are things doing in Phaze at the moment?" Stile inquired.

  "The hosts are massing as for war," Trool replied. "All are with thee except the Adepts, the goblins, and scattered monsters."

  "All?" Stile asked, amazed. "Even the tribes of the demons?"

  "Thou hast made many friends, Adept, especially among the snow-monsters and fire-spirits."

  Ah — his favor for Freezetooth was paying a dividend! "All I have done is the appropriate thing at the appropriate time." Basically, Stile liked the various creatures of Phaze and liked making friends. "Yet I doubt that the harpies, or dragons, or thine own kind-"

  "The trolls are with thee." Trool made a grimacing smile. "I did see to that, lest they call me traitor for helping thee. The harpies and dragons know no loyalty save to their own kind, unless compelled by g
eis. They take no sides."

  Trool was surprisingly well informed. He seemed, under that ugliness, to be a fairly smart and caring person. Stile had assumed all trolls to be ignorant predators; he had been too narrow.

  Suddenly they were at the curtain; Stile saw the scintillation across the tunnel. They stepped through.

  Sheen woke. "Who are you?" she demanded, finding herself in the troll's arms.

  "Thou hast no power pack," Stile protested. "How canst thou animate?"

  She checked herself. "It's true. I must be in Phaze. In golem-state."

  Stile nodded, his surprise shifting to comprehension. Of course she needed no scientific mechanism here! Nonetheless, he conjured her a replacement power cell so that she would not be confined to Phaze. "Thou art a creature of both frames now."

  The troll led the way on up through the tunnel toward the surface. They followed. Stile could have taken them out by a spell, but preferred to acquaint himself with the locale of the tunnel in case he should need it again. Also, he did not want to attract the baleful attention of the enemy Adepts by using magic unnecessarily. Probably he should not have risked conjuring Sheen's power cell at this time; he kept forgetting.

  They neared the surface. Trool paused. "There is yet day," he said. "Needs must I remain below." For he lacked his voluminous clothing, having had to discard it in order to masquerade as an android.

  "By all means," Stile said. "Thou hast served us well, and fain would I call thee friend. We shall leave thee with our gratitude."

  "It behooves not the like of thee to bestow friendship on the like of me," Trool said, gruffly pleased. He put his gnarled hands to the large flat rock that blocked the exit "Beyond this point it curves to the surface." He heaved.

  Suddenly the roof caved in. Trool leaped back, shoving the other two clear. "Someone has tampered-"

  Sunlight shone brilliantly down from above, angling in from the new hole in the ceiling to bathe the troll. "Sabotage!" Sheen exclaimed. "It would have crushed one of us-"

  "Surely," Stile agreed. "The trap was meant for me."

  "Look at Trool!" she cried, horrified.

  Stile looked. The troll had been instantly destroyed by the light. He was now a figure of stone — a grotesque statue.

  Suddenly it made a terrible kind of sense. Stile remembered how Serrilryan the werebitch had been fated to see the sidhe three times before she died; she had seen them the third time, then died. Trool had been fated to help Stile three times; he had done that, and had now been terminated.

  "Damn it, this time I'm going to fight fate," Stile said angrily.

  11. Xanadu (J)

  Clef was in the palace of the Oracle, playing the Platinum Flute. The perfect melody suffused the premises, more lovely than any tangible thing could be. He halted when Stile's party arrived.

  "I have another prophecy for thee," he said to Stile. "Thou wilt be betrayed for thine own good by a young-seeming woman thou dost trust."

  'Too late on that," Stile said. "Merle betrayed me three hours ago."

  Clef was embarrassed. "Sorry; I understood it was scheduled for a few hours hence. The Oracle must have slipped a cog." He looked at Sheen. "I thought thou wast a creature of Proton," he said, surprised.

  "I am," she agreed. "Now I am a creature of Phaze too, a golem." She indicated the statue she supported. "This is Trool the troll, who sacrificed himself to save us. Stile says you may — thou mayest be able to-" She paused. "But doesn't the juxtaposition suffer when thou dost stop playing?"

  "Marginally. It's a long process; inertia maintains the movement for brief interludes. Otherwise I could not take a breath. In any event, what you hear is not the juxtaposition theme; that is only part of it, a single-note exercise that reaches into the deeper firmament. It is not continuous; rather I must play it at the key intervals." Clef considered the statue. "Thou dost wish tire troll's soul piped to Heaven?"

  "Nay, not yet," Stile said. "Canst thou pipe him back to life?"

  Clef stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I fear not, Stile. There is a monstrous difference between directing traffic — that is, routing a soul to Heaven — and revivifying the dead. I can send the soul back into the body — but that in itself will not change stone or flesh. You need a different kind of magic for that. Perhaps there is a suitable spell in the book of magic. You did fetch that?"

  "The book of magic!" Stile exclaimed, stricken. "I forgot all about it!"

  "Merle has it," Sheen said. "She deactivated me — and now the book is gone."

  "Is that why she betrayed me?" Stile asked. "To get that book?"

  "I doubt she knew of it," Sheen said. "She said nothing about it to me. I just happened to be carrying it."

  "She surely has some inkling now, though. She has access to the curtain, to Phaze; she can use those spells to become an instant Adept. We've got to get the book back before she does that!"

  "For the sake of Phaze as well as for the troll," Sheen agreed.

  "I'll surely find her at the Citizens' business meeting." Stile frowned, worried. "I don't have much time for that, either; I've got to move." His hope of studying the spells

  of the book before the Proton crisis came had been dashed; whatever preparations he might have made were moot.

  "I'll go with thee," Sheen said.

  "But first thou must marshal thy troops," Clef said. "The time is nigh."

  "Oh, yes, the troops. I did alert the various creatures of Phaze, and all but the dragons, harpies, and goblins are with us. Has the Oracle finally condescended to inform us exactly how such troops are to be employed?"

  "Only that thou must dispose them as for battle."

  "Dispose them where? Against whom?"

  Clef shrugged, embarrassed. "I know not"

  "That is not a phenomenal help."

  "Thou knowest that prophecies work out regardless of comprehension.'"

  "Look, if I miss that Citizens' business meeting, I'm finished in Proton. I have scarcely an hour as it is. Can't the Phaze side wait at least until I've recovered the book of magic?"

  "The Oracle says the troops must be disposed first."

  "Damn!" Stile swore. "Send my coldest regards to that inscrutable machine. I'll do what I can."

  "I shall keep thy friend the troll statue safe for thy return with the book."

  "Thanks," Stile said gruffly. He played a bar of music on the harmonica, took Sheen by the hand, and spelled them to the Brown Demesnes.

  They popped in at the main receiving hall. The child Adept was waiting. "Oh, I'm so glad thou art back, Blue!" she exclaimed. "And thou too, Lady Machine. Dost thou like being a golem?"

  "It's wonderful, Lady Adept," Sheen agreed.

  The child's mouth went round with astonishment. Then she giggled. "I guess thou meanest me. Nobody ever called me Lady before, 'cause I'm just a girl."

  "That's more than I'll ever be," Sheen said.

  Stile had to interrupt. He had very little time. "Brown, a troll rescued me from confinement, but he got turned to stone by the sun. Can you animate stone?"

  "Oh, sure, some. But you know, it doesn't change the substance. He'd be awful heavy if thou didst not spell him back to flesh, and he'd crack when struck hard. I work with wood because it is strong and light, and the Lady Machine was pre-formed, so she was okay. But a stone troll-"

  "I see the problem. I think I could turn him to wood, but I'm not sure about flesh."

  "Perhaps with the aid of the book of magic," Sheen reminded him.

  "Of course. That should do it."

  "Thou couldst just about create a troll from scratch," Sheen pointed out. "Make a figure, enchant it to flesh, have the Brown Adept animate it, and Clef could pipe a soul into it."

  "If we had a soul," Stile agreed. "That's the one thing magic can't generate."

  "I know," she said sadly.

  "My golems and the wolves have spread the word among all the creatures of Phaze," Brown said. "All but the goblins and monsters have joined. But they know
not what to do now."

  "I wish I could tell them," Stile said. "I am the victim of a prophecy. I don't know where to tell them to go."

  "Well, maybe thou canst improvise," Brown suggested. "The troops will dissipate if not encouraged."

  "So the Oracle seems to think, though I hardly have time to-"

  "Which means we must hurry," Sheen said, enjoying this.

  "And I thought Citizenship was uncomplicated!" Stile worked out several travel-spells, and they were off.

  First stop was the werewolves. Kurrelgyre was there, but the Pack had been depleted by the wolves and bitches assigned to accompany the wooden golems. Kurrelgyre shifted immediately to man-form to shake Stile's hand. "But this bitch — I know her not," he said, looking at Sheen. "Unless — could it be?"

  "This is the robot-golem Sheen, my Proton fiancée," Stile said. "Thy suggestion was good; the Brown Adept animated her."

  "At least conjure her fitting apparel," the werewolf said. "She is too luscious a morsel to go naked hereabouts."

  Clothing! Stile had forgotten all about that for Sheen. Quickly he conjured her a pretty dress and slippers, as befitted a Lady of Phaze.

  "But I can not wear clothing!" she protested. "I'm a serf!"

  "Not here," Stile assured her. "In this frame all people wear clothes." He eyed her appraisingly. "They do befit thee."

  "We are ready for action," Kurrelgyre said eagerly. "But where is it? Whom do we fight?"

  "I know not," Stile admitted. "The prophecy decrees it that is all."

  The werewolf sighed. "Prophecies are oft subject to misinterpretation. I had hoped this would be not that type."

  Stile agreed. "The animalheads are prophesied to lose half their number. I fear this will be typical. I presume much of the damage will be done by enchantments hurled by the enemy Adepts, and by the ravages of their minions. But the other creatures of Phaze will be on thy side — the unicorns, elves, ogres, and such. Do thou gather thy wolves and be ready for action at any time. I know no more. I am but a chip afloat on a stormy sea, doing what I must do without much personal volition."