The Cyborg and the Sorcerers

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He stepped up the deceleration and turned the scanners ahead, so that the next planet provided rather more information. According to the records, this one had a Mars-like climate and had been lightly settled at last contact.

  Slant found no evidence of life; there were no lights on the nightside, no radio emanations, no detectable electromagnetic radiation at all. There were a great many craters, not of particularly natural appearance, and considerable residual radioactivity.

  It seemed that the war had reached this system. Regretfully, he settled back and waited for the next planet to come into range. Records indicated that this next one was the major population center, with some two billion people at last count. It was the second planet out, and assuming its orbit hadn't changed and had been accurately recorded in the first place, it would be found on the far side of the sun. By traveling in a hyperbolic path down close to the star, he could use its gravity to further decelerate the ship.

  Accordingly, he took the ship in near the sun, and shortly thereafter approached the second planet at a velocity low enough that there was no perceptible difference between his subjective time and the time on the planet's surface.

  The world swam slowly toward him, and he studied it closely.

  There were no radio emanations, no large electrical fields, no microwaves, no sign of any technology or industry. Looping around the nightside, there were no lights above the level of a Class III town, but there were lights; there were hundreds of tiny, flickering lights, just barely detectable.

  There was a good deal of background radioactivity. Slant guessed that the planet had been bombed back to barbarism but not utterly depopulated; those faint, unsteady lights could be campfires or small firelit towns.

  He saw nothing of any interest here. He would be moving on, then, without landing. It had happened before; he had been through two systems where he found nothing worthy of his attention. He suggested as much to the computer. It disagreed, and drew his attention to the planet's gravitational field.

  He had not given that any thought, since he knew of nothing man-made that had any significant effect on gravity; now he shifted his perceptions, and as the ship made another elongated orbit around the planet he studied the gravitational field.

  It was slightly uneven, of course, with a few of the slowly shifting irregularities that indicated seismic activity. However, there was also a sprinkling of tiny localized disturbances; he saw them as a scattered array of little sparkles, like a swarm of lightning bugs seen from half a kilometer away.

  That made no sense.

  These were not movements; those he could have explained, since anything that moved large masses about altered the local gravity slightly. In these spots, though, the intensity of gravity seemed to flicker. There was no movement in any direction, but a variation in strength as if huge amounts of matter were disappearing and reappearing, flashing in and out of existence.

  It made no sense at all.

  "Computer," he asked silently, "could that be some sort of natural phenomenon?"

  "No such phenomenon has been recorded or theorized."

  "Any chance of instrument error?" After fourteen years, one couldn't expect every system to be in perfect working order; there had been various minor failures previously.

  "Error is highly unlikely. No discrepancies or anomalies register in measurements of any other body."

  "That's really weird." He spoke aloud, in a soft murmur.

  "Analysis: It must be assumed that these anomalies represent human action. This system is listed as enemy-held, so it must be assumed that these anomalies represent enemy action. No such anomalies have been encountered previously, and library references indicate the theoretical possibility of a device called 'antigravity' with military applications, so it must be assumed that these anomalies represent enemy weapons research. Orders require that all detected enemy weapons research be investigated immediately."

  "Weapons research? That's stupid. This planet hasn't got any technology; how could its people have developed anti-gravity? If they have antigravity, why aren't they using it for space travel?"

  "Information insufficient. Analysis remains unchanged."

  "Look, I don't want to investigate here; it's a primitive planet now, whatever it was before, and that can't be weapons research. It has to be some sort of natural phenomenon."

  "That conclusion is contraindicated. Take appropriate action immediately or override option will be exercised."

  "What? Oh, no, you don't!" He reached up to tear the plug from his neck but was not fast enough; there was a wrenching mental flash, and he lost control of both the ship and his own body. His limbs twitched spastically as the computer assumed control; then he lay still. He was able to use both the ship's sensory apparatus and his own, but all movement, even so much as blinking or breathing, was now under the computer's direct control; accordingly, his breathing was slow and mechanically steady, and he blinked exactly once every five seconds. He watched in helpless paralysis as the ship slid down from its observation orbit into a landing approach and swept across a vast expanse of dark ocean.

  It was perfectly clear to him that gravity disturbances notwithstanding, this planet had been bombed from the nuclear age back to the level of bow and arrow. The computer, unfortunately, was not programmed to pay attention to such things. It assumed a high-level technology everywhere—or rather, it assumed nothing but acted according to orders based on false assumptions. Those damnable orders had kept him a wandering exile for years, and were now plunging him into a situation where he would probably have to roam over half a world killing innocent people who happened to get in his way before he could convince the computer that there was no secret enemy installation here developing antigravity weapons to use against the ruins of Old Earth. He had no idea what the disturbances actually were, and had no strong desire to find out; if there was anything on this backward burned-out world that could kill him, it was probably whatever was making those anomalies.

  He had little choice, however. When the override released a few kilometers above the surface, to allow human discretion in choosing a landing site, he cooperated and made no attempt to head back into space. It would only have resulted in another use of the override, and if he was going to have to play spy again he might as well get it over with.

  The planet was very Earthlike, with somewhat more than half its surface covered by ocean, the remainder a patchwork of green vegetation, golden beaches and deserts, and the gray and brown and black of bare rock in the mountains and badlands. There were icecaps, smaller than Old Earth's, at each pole; his orbit took him over an edge of one, though he was unsure whether it was north or south, having become disoriented while under the override. The computer's records told him that the planet had mild seasons, slightly less than terrestrial gravity, and four continents, of which only the largest was known to be thickly inhabited. He was coming down over this continent now; it was enjoying the late summer of its four-hundred-day-plus year.

  He skimmed past the coastal plain and into the foothills of a low, ancient, worn-down mountain range that the computer had picked as his landing area. The ship was still traveling at high velocity, at least for atmospheric travel, though it was decelerating fiercely; anyone below was probably seeing the biggest, brightest shooting star in years. If there were any radar, or modar installations, though, they would see nothing; the ship was screened against every form of electronic detection its designers had known.

  The hills below him were blanketed in thick forests, a deep, ominous sea of Earthlike trees—probably imported from Old Earth when the planet was first settled and terraformed. He turned the ship and more or less paralleled the mountains, continuing to decelerate.

  A dim spot of orange light flashed by beneath, and he had the computer play back in slow motion and high magnification the record that was automatically kept of everything detected within "enemy" systems.

  The light was a campfire, with a group of fur-clad men sleeping huddl
ed about it. Spears and swords were in evidence; this was apparently not one of the worlds where a return to barbarism had brought peaceful coexistence.

  Even at stop-frame and maximum magnification he could make out no details that seemed significant; he dropped the image and asked if the ship's records had any evidence indicating when the planet's civilization was destroyed. There was nothing very helpful; the only relevant item was that the war fleet targeted for this system had been scheduled to arrive about six months after the D-series had hit back home.

  That was more than thirteen years ago by ship's time, and three hundred and four years ago by outside time. This ever-increasing differential between himself and the rest of the universe was something that Slant had long ago accepted, even though he did not really understand it. Relativity was beyond him, but he had had plenty of opportunity to observe its effects.

  He was low over the mountains, and turned his attention to getting the ship down in one piece. He suspected that the computer would interpret any increase in altitude as an attempt to avoid landing and use the override again, so that he had to dodge between the highest peaks instead of rising above them.

  Of course, in allowing him to choose the landing site, the computer left him free to choose the worst possible place; he had done so on occasion in the past, as a petty attempt at revenge. The computer hadn't cared in the least; that was outside its programming. This time he didn't bother, but just set down in the first clearing that looked large enough in the area the computer had selected. None of the myriad systems failed. Fourteen years without maintenance made that something that Slant no longer took for granted, but the ship landed softly and smoothly and exactly where he wanted it. It immediately set about camouflaging itself; he left that to the computer and its subsidiary machines, unplugged himself, and went to the galley for a meal.

  He had come down just on the night side of the dawn line, landing by infrared rather than visible light; by the time he had eaten the computer reported light in the east. He was resigned to the task of scouting out the "enemy weapons research," but he refused to be rushed, and took his own time in choosing supplies from the lockers.

  He dressed himself in leather pants and a fur vest, which he hoped would not be too conspicuously alien to the local inhabitants; he could find no shirt that seemed suitable, and the computer reported warm weather, so he left it at that. It was very odd to wear clothes again; with every movement he was uncomfortably aware of the leather and fur brushing and rubbing against his skin. He considered a pair of boots for several minutes before pulling them on; his feet immediately felt cramped and sweaty, but he had no idea how much walking he would be doing, nor what sort of terrain he might encounter. Bare feet might not be suitable.

  Remembering the swords and spears he had seen, he decided that he had best be armed; he dug out a Bowie knife, and after due consideration chose an old-fashioned submachine gun from the rack of firearms. The gun was perhaps the most terrifying weapon he had, or at least the most startling, with its chattering roar, blue smoke, and bright flash, and was useful at a considerable range and against large numbers—though in some situations it was undoubtedly less effective than a hand laser or a snark.

  He found a belt, donned it, and stuck the knife in it; the gun he slung over his shoulder. He tied a leather pouch to the belt, stuffed a few foodbars and other miscellaneous supplies in it, and decided that he was adequately equipped.

  There was a mirror in the shower; he stopped in and checked to see whether his long brown hair hid the socket in the back of his neck. It seemed to; he brushed it back with his fingers, trying to arrange it so it would not fall aside. He doubted very much that the locals would take kindly to a stranger with a gleaming chunk of metal and plastic embedded in his flesh.

  When he had convinced himself that the socket would not show, he marched out the airlock onto the ship's wing.

  The early-morning air was cool and pleasant; a slight breeze blew against his bare chest The natural currents and rich scent of the surrounding pine forest were positively delightful after years of stagnant, recycled air smelling of metal and plastic and algae, and he breathed deeply as he looked about.

  He had landed well on the inland side of the mountains, and the low, rounded peaks reared up in the east, great black shadows against the rosy pink of the dawn sky. On all sides of the ship there stood tall green grass, utterly Earthlike, and beyond the grass was a ring of pine trees, likewise completely terrestrial. Slant surmised that the planet had been lifeless before it was colonized; if not, the Terran flora—and probably fauna—must have driven out whatever was there previously. That was not an unusual pattern on colony worlds.

  The morning sun lit the grass, and dew glittered on every side—but only at a distance. The heat that radiated from the ship had boiled off all moisture for a dozen feet in all directions, and Slant guessed that the ship's approach path was burned brown, if not black, from the heat of its passage. He could feel the warmth of the wing's metal through his boots, and it occurred to him that it might be a good idea to get off. He jumped carefully to the ground, landing with a great rustling in the tall grass. He regained his feet, and saw that the grass reached well above his knees.

  A soft whining drew his attention back to the ship; the service robots had finished camouflaging and were reentering their storage compartments, leaving the vessel smeared with mud and draped in plastic vines twined with real, freshly plucked grass. It still stood out dramatically in the center of the broad, level clearing, but was no longer immediately recognizable as a starship; the metal did not gleam, and the sharp edges and corners were softened.

  Looking back under the wing, he saw that his guess had been correct; there was a trail of burned grass and scorched earth behind the vessel. He considered pointing it out to the computer and suggesting that it be camouflaged as well, but decided against it. The ship could take care of itself.

  Scanning quickly around the edge of the clearing, he saw no sign of a road or trail. There was no evidence other than himself and his ship that any human being had ever been anywhere near this spot. He wondered why there was a clearing in the first place; was it completely natural?

  It didn't matter, of course. It didn't seem to matter what direction he took, either, so he began marching directly away from the ship.

  "A large concentration of anomalies representing enemy weapons research lies approximately one hundred kilometers to the planetary northeast. This landing area was chosen for that reason. Movement in that direction is indicated."

  Slant made a slight noise of startlement; the computer's monotone mental voice seemed out of place now that he was out of the ship. He stopped, took his bearings from the rising sun, and pointed off to his right "That way?"

  "Affirmative."

  He shrugged, turned, and marched on, the pouch and knife slapping his thighs, the submachine gun weighing on his shoulder.

  Chapter Two

  THE FOREST WAS ALMOST ENTIRELY PINE; SLANT NO longer remembered the differences among the various species, but he amused himself by noting the many varieties he encountered. He paused occasionally to study types he hadn't seen before, ignoring the computer's objection to such delays. He found a few trees he suspected were not natural terrestrial species but that were similar enough that he guessed them to be mutants or hybrids rather than anything native to this planet. Given his former government's liking for enhanced-radiation weapons of various sorts, this world must have been largely a radioactive wasteland for a time; it was hardly surprising if a few viable mutations had arisen.

  There was very little underbrush, due to the thick carpet of pine needles, and despite the seemingly endless rolling hills walking was easy once he had left the tall grass and entered the shade of the forest. He found himself enjoying his stroll very much and began idly humming to himself after a while, only to be hushed by a warning from the computer. It took this war game seriously; programming forbade anything that might draw unwanted attention.<
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  Golden sunlight filtered through the trees around him, lighting earth and branch and fallen needles in several shades of brown and gray, and gradually warming the air. By noon he was glad that he hadn't found a shirt he liked in his supplies. The decision had been based on his lack of one primitive enough, but the weather was hot enough that he would have removed it anyway. He kept the fur vest open and loose, and wished he had worn shorts instead of the leather pants; he was perspiring freely, for the first time in years, and it made him feel slimy and unclean. He was not used to such varying temperatures; the air aboard ship was kept within a range of five degrees.

  Noon had been quick in coming; he realized the day must be well under the twenty-four hours of Old Earth's, the standard that he had almost always lived with, whether naturally on Old Earth, artificially in the underground complex on Mars, or from habit aboard ship. Either that or his time sense was further off than he had thought; perhaps his habits had gradually shifted over the years. He asked the computer, which informed him that the local day was in fact only slightly over twenty hours.

  The sun was just past its zenith—which had been somewhat south of straight overhead, as he was well up in the northern hemisphere and it was midway between the summer solstice and the autumnal equinox—when he came across a road. It was reasonably broad and looked as if it might once have been paved, but only a narrow path down the center showed signs of recent use.

  He looked both ways and saw nothing but more road, winding off in either direction until it was lost among the trees. Still, it was a good sign; roads invariably led somewhere, and this one, which curved northeastward off to his right, might well lead where he wanted to go.

  He was tired and hot, though, and not inclined to march onward immediately; instead he sat down by the roadside, took some foodbars from his pouch, and ate lunch.

  Standard procedure called for him to live off the land and use the ship's stores only in emergencies, a course he preferred anyway, in view of the taste of the processed algae he ate on board; he had, therefore, brought only a few bars. He wished he had more; he couldn't eat pine sap, and as yet he had seen not so much as a chipmunk by way of animal life. He had seen insects and various fungi and a few vines and creepers, but he had no way of knowing which were edible—even those that matched terrestrial life in appearance could be poisonous mutants. Besides, such foods weren't much more appealing than algae. Sooner or later, though, he knew he would reach an inhabited area, and anything the locals could eat, he could eat.