Empires of Flux & Anchor sr-2

by Jack L. Chalker

  As was the case with master wizards, the effect was instantaneous. One moment the plain-looking Mahta had stood there; now a voluptuous but stupid young woman shook her head as if waking up from a dream and then looked dully around, puzzled.

  “Hi!” he said pleasantly. “What’s your name?”

  “Honey,” she answered in a very sexy voice.

  “Well, hello, Honey. What do you do for a living?”

  “I make men happy,” she told him, cozying up. “Can I make you happy?”

  “You sure can,” responded cheerfully. “And when you do, I got a friend who owns a place in Anchor Logh where you can make lots of men happy night after night.”

  The first problem was solved. Now go on to the next phase.

  It was Holy Day, although that didn’t mean very much to Spirit this time. The portrait of Sister Kasdi in the vestibule, which had always seemed so comforting, now seemed rather silly and out of place. No longer the Reformed Church, or just the Church, but “My Mother’s Church,” she thought a bit sourly. Still, she had gone as always, for social pressure was pretty strong in a small place like Anchor Logh and particularly on the farm and in the riding. She wondered how her grandfather had managed to escape for so many years.

  There was a stranger attending services that morning who was the object of some sidelong attention. There were often strangers at services, particularly this close to the capital, but this one would stand out in any crowd. He was tall, handsome, and muscular, with a neatly trimmed, full brown beard and long brown hair touched slightly by gray at the temples and right on the chin. His clothes were casual, jeans and a red plaid shirt and well-worn boots, standing out against the formal wear of most of the locals. It was almost as if he wanted to stand out, or at least be remembered by everyone who was there.

  He was so much of a standout, in fact, that the other strangers, several well-dressed but nondescript-looking men and women, went completely unnoticed. They all filed into the church together at the bell signal, paid their respects to the altar, and took seats at various points in the church. The service began right on time, and there were no variations this time. The priestess was not one who liked sermonizing, and generally she was strictly business unless there was something special to say. This, in fact, was one of the reasons why she was so popular with the locals and why out-of-towners were steered there for services.

  Anchor Logh was a very peaceful place, and, as the first Anchor taken by the Reformation, it had long been far from any scenes of conflict. True, there were occasional crimes calling for a local police force, but the crimes were few and even a robbery anywhere in the Anchor was big news. As the place that spawned the Reformation and the birthplace of Sister Kasdi, it was not the place troublemakers from outside picked to pull anything illegal. There were far easier pickings both in Flux and Anchor, and even if you got away with whatever you wanted, it was a long, long route to any secure escape with Kasdi and her wizards and generals knowing and controlling all of it. As a result, no one even noticed that the strangers all sat on the aisles.

  The service was almost over now, and the congregation was forward of their seats, knees on the prayer rests, while the priestess faced the altar. Suddenly, in the silence between prayer and benediction, a man’s deep voice said loudly, “I think I’ve stood as much of this bullshit as I can.”

  There was a collective shock at the violation and an almost unanimous gasp echoed through the throngs of worshippers. They looked up as the priestess turned around and saw the handsome, bearded man standing in the front of the church, a pistol drawn and on the priestess. As they looked around, the congregation saw that on all sides they were covered by the strangers, all of whom had automatic weapons drawn. “O.K., Sister, you get down with your flock there,” the leader ordered the priestess.

  She did not move or show fear. “For what reason do you commit this sacrilege?” she demanded.

  The leader smiled. “Thank you, Ma’am. Sacrilege is my chosen profession, so it’s always nice to see that I’m good at it. Now, I’m gonna ask you once more to get over there, and that’s that.”

  “This is my church, and I take no orders from scum in it,” she responded haughtily.

  Without further comment, the man fired his pistol. The force of the bullet struck her in the chest and hurled her back several meters, as if she’d been pushed by a giant hand. She crashed into the altar itself, which tumbled down upon her still body.

  Somebody screamed, and there was a sudden panicky flurry from the congregation, but a few bursts of automatic weapons fire from the others into the ceiling of the church quieted them quickly.

  “Now, everybody just sit down and shut up and nobody else has to get hurt. Anybody who makes a move, looks funny at any of us, or causes any trouble at all will join the Sister there. I won’t make any more warnings. Clear?”

  It was clear. The congregation sat almost like statues, although there was some sobbing. Spirit, sitting near the center, was as shocked and horrified at the violence as any of them, but even now she had no idea what it was all about. All she could think of was how completely mad these people must be to pull this in the early morning in the middle of Anchor Logh. Where could they run?

  She was startled out of her thoughts when the man said, “You, there! Spirit! Stand up!”

  For a moment she did nothing but look up, but the sight of the blood-soaked altar broke through her shock. “Who? Me?” she managed.

  “Yes. Walk carefully out to the aisle and to the back of the church. Don’t do anything funny, just move—now.”

  The tone was unmistakable, and she did as instructed. She realized now that these were the very people she’d been warned about, but she hadn’t expected anything this fast, and certainly not in church on Holy Day. The sheer casualness of the violence was also somehow beyond any evil she had previously imagined.

  “All right, folks, just relax. That’s all there is to it, except for some business. Now, my name’s Coydt, to answer your late priestess’s question, and I’m one of those terrible Seven she kept warning you about.” There were gasps at this, and he grinned, obviously enjoying his power. “Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you that, but there’s a good reason. You see, your Saint Kasdi out there in her temple fortress had a daughter, and while they went to great lengths to fake that baby’s death, it was a lie. Your great Kasdi lies. Me, I tell the truth. That says something about the two of us. That girl we just took out the back is her grown-up daughter.”

  There were more gasps and murmurings at this. Many there had known Spirit since she was a baby.

  “Check it out with her Mama—the real one or the one she was abandoned to ’cause it’s tough to be a saint when saddled with a brat. Now you understand what’s going on here, but don’t be scared. If your scared tin saint got rid of her daughter once, well, she’s not about to surrender the Church or give us Anchor Logh or anything like that. It is a kidnapping, though, and there’s a price, so you hustle on in to the temple in the capital and tell ’em Coydt will be in touch when he feels like it, and that she won’t be harmed so long as nobody tries to free her or hurts me or my agents in this business. Now, aside from all the folks you’ve seen, outside covering the exits are two others you never saw. If you stay here for one hour, you’ll never see them or us. Anybody who goes out before the hour will be killed. It’s that simple. So sit and relax here, and maybe discuss why the hell if your goddess is really up in the sky like that, she allows me to do shit like this down here. Bye now.”

  With that, Coydt walked briskly up the aisle and out the door, followed in professional order, front to back, by the others. The door slammed behind them.

  For a moment, nobody moved, then several rushed forward, jumped the altar rail, and pulled the remains of the smashed altar off the bloody body of their priestess. There was little they could do, though; a caliber that big blew a huge hole going in but an even bigger one coming out her back, and she had most certainly
died instantly.

  Suddenly the place was bedlam, but nobody went immediately for the doors. This was the early service, but the Vice President of the Commune Council was there and, looking pretty shaken himself, he nonetheless tried to get some order and organization. His name was Miklos Ransom, and he was well aware that his career as a professional politician was at stake here.

  “All right!” he thundered. “Settle down! First things first! Now, nobody go sticking their head out the door yet!” He looked around. “Anybody here from Spirit’s immediate family?”

  They all looked, but there was no one. Spirit had been having some problems sleeping the past few days and she’d been up and about long before the usual family gathering. They would not be in until next scheduled service in two hours—a rather unlikely event at this stage. She had come alone, mostly to think, and that, at least, had probably saved the lives of her foster family, who would not have let her go easily.

  “O.K. Now, I’ve been thinking this out. There may be nobody out there, but I wouldn’t bet anyone’s life on it.”

  “I’ll chance it,” one burly farmer growled, and several more voiced assent. “If I can get help fast enough, we can watch those people swing by their necks!”

  “No! There’s a better way!” Ransom shouted back. “You—Zida! You’re the bell ringer. Get back there and ring it for all it’s worth. Give the emergency alarm! Don’t stop ringing for anything. That’ll bring a lot of folks running. Whoever’s out there won’t chance shooting people coming here, or they’ll never get away. They’ll run when they figure what we’re doing. Give it ten minutes of steady ringing, and then we’ll chance somebody making a run for it.”

  The bell ringer scurried through the sacristy and back to the tower loft as quickly as possible.

  Ransom looked around. There were three exits, the main one and two forward that were mainly fire exits. “Quickly—before the bells drown me out. I want one of you volunteers at each door!” He looked at his watch. “I’ll signal you when to try it. Move!”

  The bells began ringing.

  Once Anchor Logh had been not only a country but a fortress. The huge stone wall, itself a fortress with guard stations and battlements and room for four soldiers to march abreast on top, went completely around Anchor Logh, twenty meters high, with gates only at the two outermost ends. The days when Anchor feared Flux were gone now, although few Anchor folk actually went into Flux and many, like Spirit’s grandfather, still distrusted it. The gates at both ends were simple affairs now, and the guard stations were mostly tourist lookouts into the mysterious void beyond. Not only had the wall lost its purpose in the era of the Reformation, but it had shown in the earliest attacks just how ridiculously porous it was.

  Coydt had fast horses, and knew his way around Anchor Logh as he knew his way around much of World. He was more than five hundred years old, renewing and keeping himself young through his own massive Flux powers, and that was a lot of time to explore and get to know even a world.

  He wanted to get into Flux quickly, where he would be nearly invulnerable, but he knew that his inevitable pursuers would also know this and try to second-guess him. He had been close enough to hear the bell ring steadily as they rode off, and immediately guessed its purpose. He cursed himself for overlooking that detail. He did not, however, underestimate the intelligence or will of the people of Anchor Logh. Many people that he’d known well over his long years had died because they had dismissed simple folk as “just farmers” or “just grocery clerks.” A bullet from a determined grocery clerk was just as deadly as one from a professional soldier.

  Most of his band had scattered, changed into different clothes, and made off along predetermined routes to various places in Anchor Logh. Their alibis had been easily prearranged. With him he kept only his two closest aides and adepts, Zekah and Yorek, and they kept close watch on Spirit.

  They were riding so fast that Spirit more than once thought of escape, perhaps by veering off and leading them a chase through any farm or nearby spotted town where help would be available, but both the young adepts had submachine guns and she knew she could be cut down the moment she bolted—a fact they took precious time to point out to her as they forced her to mount.

  As evil and insane as these men were, she had no wish to die like that priestess, and where there was life, there was always the possibility of escape.

  Coydt’s timing and choice of exit points was perfect. He had run a dry run on another church, rigging an accidental-looking fire and a jammed exit, and he had a pretty good idea how long a panicked congregation took to summon help and for that help to arrive, sort things out, and take action. Then someone would have to rush back into the capital, explain the problem, and write out the notes and descriptions. These would then have to be put into capsules, attached to homing pigeons, and sent out to all the outposts around Anchor Logh. He knew the locations of those outposts, and all the back roads, and just how long it would take horsemen from those outposts, once they got the alarm, to adequately patrol their sections of the wall. Although it was an extra hour’s ride, he’d picked the point he had judged most difficult to reach and had confederates waiting there. When the great wall came into view, there was no sign of any opposition force on the Anchor side.

  Someone was atop the wall, flashing a short signal with some sort of lantern and mirror device, and they pulled right up to the wall, stopped, and dismounted.

  From atop the wall came a large and professionally made rope ladder. Zekah scrambled up first, while Yorek covered Spirit. When the adept was atop the wall, he looked around there and on the other side and then came back to the edge. “O.K.! Let’s move!” he shouted back to them.

  “All right, girl—start climbing. Make it fast, or I’ll break that pretty nose of yours and we’ll carry you. Move it! Now!”

  She hesitated a moment, could see no way out, and so did as instructed. Once at the top, Zekah took her arm and pointed. “Now down the other side. Better move quickly. He’s in a bad mood.”

  She hardly had a chance to look at anything before she was on another rope ladder, this one leading down to the ground outside the wall. Only then did she have a chance to stop and get her wits about her. Two monstrous, horrible shapes waited on the other side, one on either side of her and about three meters away. They were grotesque—caricatures of human beings with faces that looked like the leering living dead. Surely, if Coydt’s soul showed his true self, he would look like their brother. She shuddered, and abandoned any hope of running right now. The idea of one of those things even touching her was horrible.

  She stood on the Anchor apron, a bit of solidity that extended past the wall and in the old days had presented a barren buffer through which an attacking force would have to pass to get to the wall. Beyond the apron, perhaps a hundred meters at this point, loomed the Flux.

  It looked like a solid wall of some translucent material, somewhat of an amber shade, stretching from the end of the apron as far up as the eye could follow. There were no features of any sort discernible in it, but the Flux seemed alive, somehow, with thousands of tiny firefly-like sparkles going off at any given moment. She had gaped at this sight from the wall as a student and again as a visitor to a border town, but it still gave off a cold and forbidding chill.

  Coydt and Yorek came down the other side, while Zekah continued to cover them from the top of the wall. It had been four hours since the abduction.

  Yorek ran unhesitatingly into the void and quickly returned, leading three horses. They must have been waiting just inside the Flux, but they had been totally invisible until they emerged into Anchor.

  Coydt’s foul, hurried mood seemed to pass quickly now, and he visibly relaxed, looked at her, and grinned. “You like my little creatures, I see.”

  “They’re horrible,” she muttered.

  “They were normal people once, but they went off in the void by themselves for one reason or another. Both have some Flux power—not much—and it turned
on them. Alone, out there, with power, but no skill at using it, and with no wizard’s protection, your own nightmares become real; you go nuts, and your outer form reflects your inner fears. You think about that as we go. Take the spotted horse there. Once inside, you’ll be lost. You’ll never find your way anywhere except by luck, even back here. I’ll have my string on you, so you’ll leave a trail I can follow no matter where you go or how you twist and turn. But if you get away, I’ll leave you out there a while before I come and get you. Let you have a taste of what they went through. You think about that, and them. Once inside, I’m the only protection you’ve got.”

  It was not a comforting thought. Zekah had pulled in the rope ladder on the Anchor side and now was down on this one. It was unlikely that their crossover point would be undiscovered for long, but they didn’t need much time now. Once in Flux, Coydt’s powerful wizardry made him essentially an all-powerful god, and he was one of the best trained and most powerful wizards on World.

  They mounted, and then she, and rode off towards the void. It loomed ahead of her, until it filled her entire vision, and she could not resist glancing back for one last look at Anchor Logh, its greenery barely discernible over the top of the wall. Then they were through—and into the eerie realm of the Flux and the Void.