Blue Adept

by Piers Anthony

  “That must be it,” the woman agreed. “He has quite a taste for women, and does prefer Citizens when he can get them. Is she pretty?”

  “Handsome,” Stile said. “As you are.”

  She nodded knowingly. “But you,” she said to Sheen. “You had best keep that luscious body out of his sight, or you could mess it up for your mistress.”

  Stile smiled. Naturally the serf assumed Sheen was also an employee. Sheen could mess it up for any rival woman, and not just because of her beauty.

  The shuttle slowed. “This is my station,” the woman said. “Yours is next. Good luck!”

  When they were alone, Stile turned to Sheen. “I don’t like this. We can’t skip out on a command appearance, but something seems wrong. Could the message be faked?”

  “It’s genuine,” Sheen said. She was a machine; she could tell. “But I agree. Something is funny. I’m summoning help.”

  “I don’t think you should involve your friends in this. They don’t want to call the attention of a Citizen to themselves.”

  “Only to trace the origin of that message,” she said. “And to rouse your robot double. I think we can stall a few minutes while he travels by fast freight.”

  The shuttle stopped. They got out and moved to a local food dispenser, using up the necessary time. Sheen ate a piece of reconstituted carrot. She was a machine but could process food through her system, though it never was digested. Stile contented himself with a cup of nutro-cocoa.

  In a surprisingly short time a freight hatch opened and the Stile-robot emerged, carrying a shipment tag. “Start breathing,” Sheen told it, and the model animated. “Take this card, report to this address. Broadcast continuously to me.”

  Without a word the robot took the card, glanced at it, and walked down the passage. The thing looked so small! Stile was embarrassed to think that this was the way he appeared to others: a child-man, thirty-five years old but the size of a twelve-year-old boy.

  “Move,” Sheen murmured, guiding him through a service aperture. “If there is trouble, we need to vanish.”

  She located a storage chamber, and they settled down to wait. “Now,” she said, putting her arms about him and kissing him. She was fully as soft and sensual as any live woman. But she froze in midkiss. “Oops.”

  “What—my lips lose their living flavor?”

  “I’m getting the report from the robot.” Sheen used the term without self-consciousness. She was to an ordinary robot as a holograph was to a child’s crayon-picture. “It is a mistake. The male Citizen has no visitor, and he sent no message. Oooh!” She shook her head. “That hurt.”

  How could she feel pain? “An unkind word?”

  “Destruction. He had the robot shoved in a meltbeam disposer. The robot’s gone.”

  Just like that! Stile’s own likeness, presenting himself in lieu of Stile, melted into waste material! Of course it was foolish to get sentimental about machines, Sheen excepted, but Stile had interacted briefly with the robot and felt a certain identification. “Did he know it was a robot?”

  “I don’t think so. But he knows now. People don’t melt the same way. They scorch and stink.” She cocked her head, listening. “Yes, we have to decamp. The Citizen is casting about for other intruders.”

  Stile remembered his encounter with the Black Adept, in Phaze: absolute resistance to intrusions. Enforcement by tacit murder—it seemed that type of personality was not unique to Adepts.

  Sheen was drawing him on. Suddenly they were up and out, on the bleak surface of Proton adjacent to the Citizen’s pleasure dome. She opened her front and removed a nose-mask. “Put this on; it is supplied with oxygen. It will tide you through for a while.”

  Stile obliged. When he found himself gasping, he breathed a sniff through his nose and was recharged.

  The external landscape was awful. The ground was bare sand; no vegetation. A bare mountain range showed to the near south, rising into the yellowish haze of pollution.

  Stile made a quick mental geographical calculation and concluded that these were the Purple Mountains of Phaze. They were actually not too far from the region of the Mound Folk. Except that no such Little People existed in this frame. Or did they? Most people had parallels; how could there be entire tribes in one frame, and none in the other? “Sheen, do you know of any people living in those mountains?”

  “The Protonite mines are there,” she reminded him. “The serfs that work there get stunted—” She broke off, glancing around. Something stirred. “Oh, no! He’s got perimeter mechanicals out. We’ll never get through that.”

  Stile stood and watched, appalled. From trenches in the ground small tanks charged, cannon mounted on their turrets. They formed a circle around the domed estate, moving rapidly, their radar antennae questing for targets.

  Sheen hauled him through the force-field into the dome. The field was like the curtain: merely a tingle, but it separated one type of world from another. As they crossed it, the rich air enclosed them, and a penetration alarm sounded. They were certainly in trouble!

  “Can your friends defuse the robot tanks?” Stile asked as they ran through outer storage chambers.

  “No. The tanks are on an autonomous system. Only the Citizen can override their action. We’re better off in here.”

  There was the sound of androids converging. “Not much better,” Stile muttered. But she was off again, and he had to follow.

  They ducked in and out of service passages. Sheen had unerring awareness of these, being able to tune in on the directive signals for maintenance robots. But the pursuit was close; they could not halt to camouflage themselves or ponder defensive measures.

  Suddenly they burst into the main residential quarters. And paused, amazed.

  It was Heaven. Literal, picturebook Heaven. The floor was made of soft white sponge contoured to resemble clouds; smaller clouds floated above, and on them winged babies perched, playing little harps. The front gate was nacreous: surely genuine pearl. Lovely music played softly in the background: angelic hymns.

  An angel spied them and strode forward, his great wings fluttering. He wore a flowing robe on which a golden letter G was embroidered. “Ah, new guests of the Lord. Have you renounced all worldly sins and lusts?”

  Neither Stile nor Sheen could think of a suitable spot rejoinder. They stood there—while the pursuing androids hove into sight.

  “Here now! What’s this?” the angel cried. “You soulless freaks can’t come in here!”

  The androids backed away, disgruntled. They reminded Stile of the animals of his football game when a penalty was called.

  Now there was a voice from another cloudbank. “What is the disturbance, Gabriel?” a woman called.

  “We have visitors,” the Angel Gabriel called back. “But I am uncertain—”

  The lady appeared. She wore a filmy gown that clung to her lushly convex contours. Stile found the effect indescribably erotic. He was accustomed to nakedness, or to complete clothing, but the halfway states—surely this Heaven was far from sexless!

  The woman frowned. “These are serfs! They don’t belong here!”

  Stile and Sheen bolted. They plunged across the cloud-bank toward the most obvious exit: a golden-paved pathway. It spiraled down through a cloudwall, becoming a stone stairway. Letters were carved in the stones, and as he hurried over them Stile was able to read their patterns: GOOD INTENTIONS. At the bottom the stair terminated in a massive opaque double door. Sheen shoved it open, and they stepped through.

  Again they both stood amazed. This nether chamber was a complete contrast to the region above. It was hot, with open fires burning in many pits. Horrendous murals depicted grotesque scenes of lust and torture. Metal stakes anchored chains with manacles at the extremities.

  “This is Hell,” Stile said. “Heaven above, Hell below. It figures.”

  “The serf on the shuttle mentioned Heaven and Hell,” Sheen reminded him. “She meant it literally.”

  A red-suited, h
orned, barb-tailed little devil appeared. He brandished his pitchfork menacingly. “Fresh meat!” he cried exultantly. “Oh, have we got fires for you! Move it, you damned lost souls!”

  Behind them, feet sounded on the stairs. The androids had resumed the chase. It seemed the soulless ones were not barred from Hell.

  Stile and Sheen took off again. Sheen charged the little devil, disarming him in passing. They ran across the floor of Hell, dodging around smoking pits.

  “What’s this?” a fat full-sized devil cried. “You serfs don’t belong here!” It seemed Hell was after all as restrictive as Heaven. The devil squinted at Stile. “I just had you melted!”

  “That’s how I came here,” Stile said, unable to resist the flash of wit.

  “The Citizen!” Sheen said. “He’s Satan!”

  “Apt characterization,” Stile agreed.

  “I’ll have you torn to ragged pieces!” the Citizen roared, becoming truly Satanic in his ire.

  “You would do better to tear up whoever faked the message that brought us to this address,” Stile said. “Sir.”

  The Citizen paused. “There is that.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Detail on that summons.”

  A screen appeared. “The summons was from a female Citizen, the man’s Employer. The address was incorrect.”

  “Get me that Citizen!” Almost, it seemed that smoke issued from Satan’s nostrils.

  There was a pause. Then Stile’s Employer appeared in the screen, frowning. “You sent for this serf?” the Satanic male Citizen demanded, indicating Stile.

  The female Citizen’s eyes took in Satan and Hell. “Do I know you?” she inquired coldly.

  “You’re a woman, aren’t you? You bet you know me!”

  She elected to change the subject. “I summoned this serf to my own address. What is he doing here?”

  “This was the address he was given, idiot!”

  “It certainly was not!” she retorted. Then she perused the message. “Why—the address has been changed. Who is responsible for this?”

  “Changed …” Sheen murmured, the circuits connecting almost visibly in her computer-head. “Authentic summons, but one address-chip substituted for another. The handiwork of your assassin.”

  The female Citizen bore on Sheen. “Serf, you know who is responsible?”

  “Sir, I know someone is trying to kill Stile,” Sheen said. “I don’t know who or why.”

  The lady Citizen frowned again. “I have entered this serf in the Tourney,” she said to Satan. “He has won two Rounds. I dislike such interference.”

  “I dislike such intrusion on my premises,” the male Citizen said.

  “Of course. I’m sure I would not care to intrude on such premises. I shall initiate an investigation, as should you. But considering that the serfs are in fact blameless, will you not release them unharmed?”

  “They have intruded!” the Satan-Citizen said. “The penalty is death!”

  “I’ve already suffered it,” Stile muttered.

  “Not for my serfs,” the female Citizen retorted, showing more spirit. “If I lose this chance to score in the Tourney, I shall be most upset.”

  “I am already upset, and I care not a fig for the Tourney. The intruders must die, and good riddance.”

  The female Citizen frowned once more. “It is unseemly for Citizens to bicker in the presence of serfs. Otherwise I could mention a drone missile currently oriented on your dome, capable of disrupting your power supply and irradiating your personnel: a certain inconvenience, I might suppose. I mean to have that serf.”

  This gave the devil pause to consider. “I agree. Citizens do not debate before serfs. Otherwise I could mention a couple things myself, such as an anti-missile laser oriented on—”

  “Perhaps a fair compromise,” she said. “Give the serfs a fair start, and we shall wager on the outcome.”

  The devil brightened. “Their lives—plus one kilogram of Protonite.”

  Stile almost gasped. A single gram of Protonite was worth the twenty-year tenure severance pay of a serf, a fee that would set him up comfortably for life elsewhere in the galaxy. These Citizens threw wealth around like sand.

  “Only one kilo?” the female Citizen inquired. Stile could not tell whether that was irony or disdain.

  “Plus you,” Satan amended. “For a week.”

  “Outrageous!”

  He sighed. “A day, then.”

  “Agreed.” She faced Stile. “You will have two minutes to make your escape unfettered. Thereafter the full resources of this dome will be brought to bear against you. I suggest you make good use of the time. I do not wish to have to spend a day with this ilk.”

  “Now!” Satan cried.

  “Follow me,” Sheen said, and took off. Stile followed her without question; she was programmed for exactly this sort of thing. He remained bemused by the negotiation and terms agreed upon by the Citizens. His Employer wasn’t concerned about the kilo of Protonite, but about a day with Satan—yet she had made the wager. What did that tell about the values of Citizens? He really wasn’t sure. His Employer might be upset with him if she lost the wager—but he would already be dead. Perhaps this only indicated the relative values of things: the life of a favored serf, one kilo of Protonite, one day with a boor. Three things of equivalent merit.

  Sheen had evidently surveyed this layout and resources of this dome, using her machine capabilities. She knew where everything was. Stile realized that his life was on the line, but he expected to retain it—because the Satan-Citizen evidently was not aware that Sheen was a robot. Their resources were greater, in the purely limited scope of pursuit, than the Citizen knew. Stile’s Employer knew, of course, and had played her game adroitly. She expected to win her wager.

  Sheen paused at a panel, opened it, and did something to its innards. “That will give us an extra minute,” she said. “I put in a sixty-second implement-delay signal. By the time they notice it, it will have expired—and we have a minute more time.” Then she took off again.

  They came to a tank-reserve unit. Sheen opened the hatch to one of the tiny vehicles. “Get in.”

  “But there’s only room for one person!”

  “I don’t need to breathe,” she reminded him. “I will ride outside.” When Stile looked doubtful, she said: “We’re already into our extra minute. Get in! You know how to operate this device?”

  “Yes.” Stile had played Games with similar equipment; he could handle a tank adroitly. This one was armed with small explosive shells, however, instead of the colored-light imitation-laser of a Game tank. This was a real war machine, and that made him nervous.

  “I can’t help you once we get outside,” Sheen said quickly. “Try to mimic the other tanks, so they don’t know you’re a fugitive. Then break for the mountains or another dome. They won’t pursue beyond this Citizen’s demesnes.”

  Demesnes. Like those of the Adepts of Phaze.

  “Hang on,” Stile said. He closed the hatch, fastened it down, and started the tank.

  The motor roared into life. He ground down the exit tunnel, then up to ground level. Immediately he saw the ring of other tanks. He angled across to merge with their line. Protective mimicry—an excellent device!

  But they were on to him. Maybe it was Sheen, clinging to the top, or maybe the Citizen’s robot-personnel had noted the identity of his machine. The nearest tank oriented on him, its cannon swinging balefully about.

  Very well. Stile was good at such maneuvers, though his life had not before hung so literally on his ability. He skewed to the side, and the enemy’s first shot missed. Beyond him there was a detonation, and a black cloud expanded and drifted in the slight breeze.

  Stile spun his tank about and fired at the one who had attacked him. Stile’s aim was good; there was a burst of flame, and a cloud of smoke enveloped the other machine. He was a dead shot with most projectile weapons, though he had never expected that Game-talent to pay off so handsomely in real life.

&
nbsp; Before that cloud had cleared, Stile whirled on the next, and scored on it too. However, the other tanks were converging on his own. There were too many of them, and Stile was conscious of Sheen on his top. Even a glancing hit, or piece of shrapnel could wipe her out! There was really no chance to escape this region unscathed.

  Stile turned directly toward the Citizen’s dome. This put him between it and the pursuing tanks; they could not fire at him because any missed shot would strike the dome. Machines were generally stupid, but this would be programmed into them.

  The problem was that he remained confined. He could not break out of the ring of tanks without becoming a target. Before long the speck of Protonite that powered this vehicle would be exhausted; a heavy machine consumed a lot of energy. Then he would be stuck, vulnerable to whatever Satan had in mind for him. It would surely be hellish.

  Well, do the unexpected. It was all that remained. Stile roared straight through the force-field and into the dome itself. Let the Citizen deal with this!

  In moments he plowed through the partitions of the outer chambers, scattering stage props and supplies, and emerged upstairs in Heaven.

  Angels scattered, screaming with uneternal terror, as the tank burst through a cloud bank, shedding puffs of clouds and crunching the foam-floor beneath. Stile slowed, not wanting to hurt anyone; after all, the angels were only costumed serfs. Also, if anyone died, his tenure on Proton would be abruptly terminated, and if the police arrested him before he reached the sanctity of the Tourney premises, he would not be allowed to reach it. No one could be arrested in the Game Annex itself. But how would he return to Phaze? As far as he knew, no fold of the curtain passed the Annex. So he was careful—and conscious of the anomaly of a tank touring Heaven, carrying a lady robot. He wanted to stop to check on Sheen, but knew he could not afford the delay; he had to figure out a course of action before the Citizen’s forces reorganized.

  Could he charge on down to the subway shuttle? The passages were fairly broad, and the tank should fit. But what would he do when he got there? This machine would not fit aboard a shuttle, and would have trouble running along the confined channel the shuttles used. But if he left this machine, he would be lasered down. Yet where else would he go? All his alternatives seemed futile.