The Cyborg and the Sorcerers

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and for a moment seemed to see everything through strange polychrome distortion; the wizards were ringed in golden red, the ground below was suffused with indigo, the sky was a seething pale-blue mass. The effect faded but a curious rippling remained, as if the air were heated, though the night was cool.

  The wizards holding him dipped abruptly, and he forgot about his eyesight as he grabbed instinctively for a better hold.

  "You just keep still," one of the pair muttered. "Don't try and do anything; it'll only interfere. We'll get you there."

  Slant nodded weakly. "How long before you restart the drive?" he asked the computer.

  "Continued operation of photoelectric units should permit reignition within ninety hours."

  "What's the minimum time?"

  "Twelve hours."

  He looked down, ignoring the distortion in his vision, and saw nothing but dark forest in every direction. "How far do we have to go?" he asked.

  "I don't know," replied one of the wizards.

  That was little help; he gazed down at the forest rushing by underneath. The pain in the back of his head and neck had lessened; he could bend his neck slightly. His headache was no better, though.

  A new worry occurred to him; he reached up and felt for the socket in the back of his neck.

  It was still there, but bent completely out of shape; his fingers came away with soot on them. The metal was partially oxidized.

  He would be unable to pilot the ship without the direct-control cable; he was stranded on this planet forever unless he could control the computer and force it to fly the ship for him.

  He wouldn't be able to fly the ship at all if it destroyed itself. He had to reach it before it took off. The forest rolled away beneath; he watched it for a time, his vision finally clearing, and then dozed off again.

  "Slant?"

  The voice awakened him; he was still in midair, slung between two wizards, but the forest was gone; instead the ground below was open plain. It was daylight, cloudless and bright, and they were hovering, not moving forward. There was a faint hint of a heat shimmer to the landscape below, and he could not be certain if it was in the air or his vision. Remembering the trouble he had had before, including the momentary flash of weird colors, he hoped that it was not a sign of brain damage. He would have to ask the wizards to check the optic centers of his brain out very carefully, if he ever got back to Praunce.

  That could wait, though; someone had awoken him. There must be a reason.

  "What is it?"

  "We've reached the plain, but we don't see a city or your ship anywhere. Can you direct us?" It was Arzadel who spoke.

  Slant looked down and saw nothing but open prairie; behind, a few kilometers away, was the edge of the forest and the start of the hills. There were no landmarks he recognized.

  "Where am I?" he asked the computer.

  "Information insufficient."

  "What do you mean, 'information insufficient*? I thought you always knew my location!"

  "Cyborg unit has been terminated. All information received from cyborg unit must be considered invalid."

  "That's ridiculous."

  The computer did not reply.

  "Look, tell me where I appear to be, then. I don't care if the information is invalid. Am I north or south of you?"

  "Apparent location of cyborg unit is south by southwest of ship; distance unknown. Locating equipment not fully operational."

  "Turn north," Slant told Arzadel. "And look for something flat and shiny black." The photoelectric cells would be far more visible than the camouflaged ship.

  The wizards obeyed, turning to parallel the edge of the forest, and when they were moving again Slant asked, "How long before you start the drive?"

  "Continued operation of photoelectric units should permit reignition within twenty-five hours."

  "What's the minimum?"

  "Three hours."

  "What?" For the first time, Slant noticed that the sun was in the west; he had slept away the entire morning. Furthermore, the sun was bright and warm; not a single cloud was in sight anywhere. Only four wizards were left in the party.

  He did not go to sleep again, but watched as best he could the ground ahead.

  Slightly over two hours later he thought the terrain was beginning to look familiar. Before he could say anything, though, one of the wizards called, "Look ahead!"

  He tried; he turned his head, and the pain in his head and neck blurred his vision momentarily. When it cleared he saw a dull glint amid the grass below.

  "I think that's it," he said. Relief trickled through him; he had begun to worry that he would not make it in time. The weather had been bright, clear, and sunny all day. He had wondered how the wizards could possibly have come out so far off course, and whether the computer had told him the correct direction.

  Now he was no longer particularly worried. He only had to get aboard and speak his name three times. All he had to say was his name.

  He couldn't remember it, but he still had time.

  "How long before you can start the drive?" he asked.

  "Continued operation of photoelectric units should permit reignition within a maximum of fourteen hours. Given current weather conditions, reignition Will occur in approximately forty-five minutes."

  Slant had suspected for some time that the minimum time would prove sufficient because the weather on this continent had been consistently clear and sunny since he landed.

  A few moments later the wizards landed; at Slant's suggestion they stayed well away from the ship, in case the computer had devised a way to defend itself. He would approach alone, on foot. This was to be entirely his own battle.

  "Be careful, Slant," Arzadel said as he staggered to his feet.

  "I will," he answered. He was unsteady for a moment; he had not stood upright on his own for more than a day, and his body's reserves had undoubtedly been depleted by healing the wounds on his head and neck, whatever the wizards might have done to help. He realized he hadn't eaten since before the thermite bomb went off; he had not had the time. His body had suppressed his hunger automatically, as it was trained to do. Perhaps that was why his vision had been so faulty, and not improved since first he awoke after the blast. Even now, he seemed to see a bluish shimmer to the ground before him. He blinked, and it was gone.

  As he walked slowly toward his vessel it occurred to him that he might be able to stop the ship from taking off by smashing the photoelectric panels, but he decided against trying it. The computer probably had some way of defending them, and if he was unable to get at them, for whatever reason, he might waste too much time in the attempt. The release code was a sure thing. Even if he could not remember his name, he knew it was written on a slip of paper stuck in a book in the case in the control cabin.

  He would do better to get aboard the ship quickly than to waste time with the photoelectric equipment. Besides, if he wrecked the panels, he might never get the ship off the ground once he had taken control.

  He arrived at the lip of the gully, on the far side from the ship. Carefully, he began climbing down the slope.

  His feet went out from under him on the loose sand, and he slid feet-first down the side of the depression; the spray of dust raised by his body stung painfully on his burns. He lay still for a moment at the bottom, then slowly sat up. He hand, when he raised it to shield his eyes from the slanting sunlight, shook from fatigue and hunger.

  He was twenty meters from the ship; it loomed up before him, an irregular mass of green plastic camouflage covering most of the opposite slope of the gully for meters in either direction. The airlock, he knew, was around the far side, above the whig. There were other entrances, but that was the one that was most easily breached.

  It was possible he wouldn't have to breach anything. "Open the aft emergency hatch," he told the computer.

  "Cyborg unit has been terminated. Commands given on this channel are therefore invalid."


  He had expected that. "How long until reignition?"

  "Approximately thirty-two minutes."

  That was not bad, though he was cutting it closer than he liked. He made his way across the gully and up the far side in eight minutes, staying well clear of the camouflage cover in case the computer decided he was dangerous. The stream at the bottom helped cool him and wash the dust away, and he paused while wading across to drink a few handfuls of water.

  Once he was above the camouflage he approached slowly and cautiously, taking his time in finding his way through the plastic and along the wing in the cool green darkness.

  The computer did nothing to stop him and said nothing; he judged he had slightly under twenty minutes remaining.

  The airlock door did not cooperate; the manual control was being overridden by the computer, and the computer ignored his commands to open.

  "Can you hear me?" he asked aloud.

  "Negative," the computer replied through his communication circuit. "Exterior audio inoperative for reasons of power conservation."

  There was still a way in; the manual control that the computer had overridden operated the same hydraulic mechanism the computer itself used, but he could use an emergency panel just aft of the hatch to uncouple the mechanism, allowing the door to be cranked open by hand, just as he had cranked it shut when he left the ship. He found the panel and pried it open, breaking a fingernail on the metal.

  The coupling lever inside was stiff from long disuse; it took all his strength to throw it. When it finally came free he was unable to stop his forward momentum, and sprawled awkwardly on the ship's wing.

  He lay there for a few seconds, then got to his feet, his ears ringing. Ghost images danced before him, and the metal sides of the ship had a golden sheen. The airlock was still closed. The computer told him, when he asked, that he had fourteen minutes.

  It took one of the fourteen minutes to work the hatch open far enough for him to slip inside. He left it as it was; he had no time to waste in recoupling the hydraulics or cranking it shut.

  The inner door was also shut; he cursed his own caution. There was no need to find an uncoupler for this door; the regular manual mechanism could not be overridden. He had it open in thirty seconds.

  There was an unspeakably foul odor filling the interior of the ship; he gagged when it first reached him, and stopped where he was. It was nothing familiar, no simple failure of the ship's ventilation as had sometimes occurred over the years. It was the smell of something dead and rotting.

  The air within was stagnant; the ship's ventilators had not been running. The computer had been conserving power. "Turn on the fans," he ordered aloud. "Clear that smell out of here."

  There was a soft whirr as the computer obeyed. It was programmed to obey certain orders from anyone inside its hull, so that time would not be wasted on authorization during emergencies; any request for essential life-support systems, such as air circulation, would be fulfilled.

  The stink subsided gradually, and Slant realized what it was. He had left Kurao's head on the acceleration couch in the control cabin.

  That was a minor consideration, however. He was aboard ship, with perhaps ten minutes remaining before the drive could be restarted. All he had to do was speak the release code.

  He couldn't remember his name. It began with 'something that sounded a little like his code name—Slan? Slam? Sant?

  None of those sounded right.

  "Computer, what's your cyborg unit's civilian name?"

  "That information is restricted."

  He had spoken aloud to avoid argument about his termination, so the computer had replied over the ship's speakers; its voice was strange and unfamiliar, very unlike the "voice" that he heard over the communication device in his skull. It had a pleasant contralto, though it spoke in a monotone. He had not expected it to have a feminine voice.

  It might be willing to answer its cyborg; he tried sub-vocalizing. "What's my civilian name?"

  "That information is restricted, available only to personnel authorized by the Command. Cyborg unit does not have authorization."

  He was not worried yet; he still had time. The drive would not be started for a few more minutes, and it would take time to heat up the engines. Once aloft, it could take time to choose and approach a target.

  His name began with an S sound, he was sure. It was a two-part name.

  He couldn't think of it.

  "How long until ignition?"

  "Approximately seven minutes."

  He would have to find that slip of paper in the bookcase. He could not remember the name. He stepped through the inner door of the airlock and moved cautiously down the corridor to the control cabin. The lights were on, dimly, as if during Slant's sleep period.

  The smell of rotting flesh was not completely gone here; it made him want to turn back, to find somewhere to vomit. He forced himself to keep moving forward.

  The storage lockers were still open, as he had left them; he was surprised that the computer had not closed them. It was apparently serious about using the minimum power required by its programming. He was glad that it was required to keep open the communication channel he used, or else he might not have know what it was doing in time to stop it.

  The chameleon fur was a neutral gray color; apparently the computer was not able to keep power from revitalizing it. He had no time to play with it; even though the gray was ugly, he ignored it.

  Kurao's head was a mass of decay, lying on the canvas sack he had carried it in; the idea of having it in the room while he searched through the books was more than he could stand, and he carried it to one of the disposal chutes.

  If he had had more time he might have done something slightly more respectful, but he had six minutes.

  He returned to the control cabin and crossed directly to the bookcase. The smell was already fading. He opened the glass doors and pulled out a handful of old paperbacks.

  The acceleration couch had an unpleasant stain where Kurao's head had rested; it had seeped around the edge of the plastic dropcloth. He did not want to touch it. Instead, he seated himself on the floor beneath the bookcase and began thumbing through books.

  Almost immediately, he found a slip of paper; he unfolded it and read, "#7 locker has broken latch, open with screwdriver."

  He threw the paper and book aside, and picked up the next volume.

  The note with his name on it was not in any of the first dozen books; he paused and looked up at the shelves. They were jammed full. Those dozen books had not made a visible dent.

  It would take half an hour, at least, to go through the entire bookcase, even if he gave each volume only a quick riffle—and the note might be wedged in where a quick riffle would not find it.

  "How long until you start the drive?"

  "Approximately four minutes, thirty seconds."

  He had to remember, and quickly. If he could not remember his name, he had to remember where he had put the note.

  "Computer, do you know which book has my name in it?"

  "Negative."

  He had expected that; the computer's memory was not unlimited, and it couldn't keep records of everything he did. There was nothing to do but keep looking; he pulled down a fat book on late-nineteenth-century art.

  When the warning chime sounded, he sat amid a pile of books he had thumbed through; he had found half a dozen notes, mostly reminding himself of particularly good features in the computer's video library.

  "What is it?"

  "Main drive has been reignited. Prepare for launch."

  There was a sudden series of banging sounds as the computer used its now-plentiful power supply to take care of its postponed maintenance and close the doors to the storage lockers. The lights came up to full brilliance; Slant blinked. Each light appeared haloed in red; he blinked again, and they were normal.

  He had to get onto the acceleration couch, he knew, but he didn't want to leave the bookcase, or to touch that dark-brown stain. He tri
ed to think of his name.

  The pain in his head distracted him. It was no use trying.

  He got to his feet and grabbed another handful of paperbacks from the bookcase, then started toward the couch. He was reaching out toward it when he heard the engines starting. He wasted no more time but threw himself onto the couch, turning as he did to try and get into the proper position. He almost made it.

  The ship's takeoff vaporized the green plastic camouflage; the nose shredded the cover into thousands of fluttering shreds that vanished completely when the heat of the exhaust hit them. The side of the gully collapsed as the ship tore free.

  The photoelectric panels were shattered and partially melted by the shock and heat, but they remained where they were, glinting dully in the sun.

  To the south, four wizards from Praunce watched wordlessly, certain that Slant had failed and that their doom was upon them. To the north, a few Awlmeian fanners saw the launch and wondered what it could be.

  Aboard ship, Slant was slammed back against the couch. He was not properly aligned with the depression in the couch designed to fit his body, so although the machinery performed its function, thrusting upward against him to counteract the acceleration, his head and arm were banged against the edge. Red waves of staggering pain poured through him from the blow to his injured head.

  His body was equipped to handle pain, he told himself.

  There was a pounding and bumping all around him; he managed to pry his eyes open against the pressure of acceleration, and saw through blurred vision that most of the bookcase was empty. He had left it open, and the books had fallen out, tumbling past him to collect at the back of the cabin.

  The acceleration suddenly subsided; the couch shifted under him, adjusting to new acceleration, and he realized the ship was turning. It was preparing for its first attack run.