Spirits of Flux and Anchor

by Jack L. Chalker

  Cassie reassured them at least that there was evidence of civilization in the Flux, between the Anchors and having trade with them. What sort of civilization could exist there none of them could imagine, and Cassie decided it was better not to mention the place that wanted perfect specimens for experimental purposes. What they had now was bad enough.

  They were fed at intervals, again in small groups, and there was some variety despite the basic lack of quality in the food. Two of the three missing ones also arrived during that period, both girls who said that they had been hustled away by parents or other relatives and had just bought a little more time. They had paid for that time, though, and dearly. Every hair on their bodies had been removed, and not by machine, either—even their eyebrows—and they had been tattooed by hand, without anesthetic, not merely with the number on their rump in the standard purple but all over in various colors. They had been tied down and anybody who was around was given a needle and told to write or draw something. From the looks of them there had been an awful lot of people around, and most had cruel or obscene minds.

  The third missing one, they were told, would not be coming at all. She had gone someplace and found a large knife, then entered the Temple and began hacking and stabbing everyone she met, screaming that she was one of the Seven Who Wait, wreaking vengeance on the Holy Mother and

  Her church. It’d taken seven wardens to subdue her, and in the process they’d beaten her to death. Talk was she’d taken several in church robes with her to the next incarnation. They didn’t know her name, but she became something of an instant hero to the group in the gym.

  They were just beginning to get used to the routine and their new situation when the moment they dreaded arrived. The doors opened and in walked not Temple wardens but uniformed soldiers of the border guard, looking tough and nasty. The group was formed up into its now standard rows, and an officer of the guard stepped forward with a list.

  “When I call your name, you will step forward and form a new set of ranks to my left,” he instructed them. “Failure to move immediately or not carry out any and all orders any member of the Guard may give you without question will result in you experiencing more pain than you have ever felt in your lives. There will be no talking or whispering or gesturing of any sort. I don’t care if you have to shit—do it in line. Now, listen and move when I call your name.”

  Fifty-two names were called out, slightly more boys than girls, which left Cassie’s group with a decided female numerical superiority. Whether by chance or what, Dar, Ivon, Suzl, and Nadya all remained with Cassie’s group, although Canty and several other friends were split.

  Now the roll was called for the remaining people, just to make sure that everybody was in fact in the correct group, and both were formed up into regular rows, four across for the smaller group, with one straggler in the odd-numbered other group. They were then told to extend their arms and stand that far away from the person next to them, which they did. There was the sound of clanking metal from the doorway, and everyone in both groups stiffened.

  The guards were quite efficient. First worn-looking collars of some cheap metal were placed around their necks, then tough rope of some unnatural-looking but extremely tough white material was passed through rings on either side of the collar until they were all linked together. More of the rope was then passed through other collar loops right to left, so that they were linked and secured in a cross-hatched pattern. Some adjustments were made for height, but not a lot of attention was paid to niceties that might make things more reasonable or comfortable. Now waistbands of similar metal were brought out and more of the strange rope was used to have them affix the waistbands as the neckbands were.

  There were some attempts to miss loops, of course, but the guards were sharp-eyed and dealt with anyone causing trouble by pointing and shooting small hand-held pistols of some sort at the offenders, who received bloody welts where they were hit and screamed in agony. Few examples needed to be made.

  Finally, it was done, and the final indignity was performed by a guard who used his pistol to melt and seal all the endings, effectively welding them into this incredible position. The officer of the guard stepped forward once more.

  “Stretch yourself out so that both of your ropes are tight,” he instructed. “Keep ‘em tight! No slack. Some people have short legs, some long. Be responsible for your own ropes—the one across and the one directly in front of you. So long as you keep those ropes as tight as you can, you won’t get into any trouble. If anybody isn’t doing their part, one of us will deal with that person. If anybody falls, you are not, repeat, not to stop, but to yell out for help. Those of you in the lead, you will match the pace of the sergeant of the guard. You will move when we tell you, stop instantly if commanded to do so. Now, let’s practice.”

  Cassie was unprepared for the wrenching motion that twisted her around as they began, and there were many people stumbling and falling. The officer and sergeant yelled and screamed and cursed and made all sorts of comments, yet seemed to have almost infinite patience and self-assurance that, sooner or later, they would get it down pat. They did not. Finally, the officer sighed, and brought out a chest of leg manacles. These, however, were not strung together with rope but with rigid telescoping rods that could be adjusted, then locked into position.

  Again they practiced, and this time the rods, running only front to back on both legs, acted like pistons. When those in front moved their left legs forward, those farther back had no choice but to do the same. For most it was a terribly unnatural gait, but after what seemed like hours of marching they managed some semblance of order. At least nobody was likely to fall down.

  The rods could be twisted to telescope, revealing a ball joint that allowed them to sit, so long as they just about hugged their knees, and it was only after a number of perfect marches that they were allowed the luxury. By the end of the day they ached all over, yet they were never released and, in fact, were fed in line—some sort of tasteless meat cake, a small stale loaf of bread, and some fruit juice. That last was the most welcome, and they downed it eagerly.

  It contained, of course, more of the previous day’s hypnotic drug, as many, including Cassie, had suspected, but none of them cared. The thirst could not be denied, and at least the stuff made all the aches and pains seem to disappear.

  After the drug had taken effect, the guard moved rapidly, ordering them to their feet and affixing the rods in place once again. Again they marched, but this time corrective measures were easily implemented. To Cassie, as to them all, the most important thing in the world, the only thing that mattered, was keeping a perfect pace with the ropes taut.

  And, with that, the large doors to the gym were opened, and both groups were marched out, down a corridor, and out through a delivery entrance into the back of Temple Square.

  The chill was still in the air, and there was a light, misty rain. It had obviously rained far harder in the hour or two preceding their exit, for it was quite wet. Night had fallen, but police were posted at all intersections to block off the curious as the sad marchers passed. Once out of the city the roads were unpaved, and the rain had turned them into a sea of thick, gooey mud, although the type of dirt used and the stone mixture in it did not make it particularly slippery, only messy.

  The sergeant of the guard knew his stuff, and kept the pace exactly right, also sensing what they could not—when they had to break—and halting them at regular intervals. Each time they were given cups of juice that contained drug boosters. Finally, near dawn, they were marched into a field guarded from view on all sides by thick trees and halted, fed, and given a different drink. Within minutes of finishing, all had lapsed into the deepest sleep they had ever known.

  They slept through the day, but when they awakened near dark they were all so wracked with tremendous pains through their bodies that they almost fought to drink the hypnotic that would take that pain away, and the pattern repeated.

  They continued to move o
nly after dark, thus avoiding meeting very many curious onlookers or creating the kind of crowd that always seemed to materialize around accidents, and thanks to the drugs and the preset pace one time seemed to merge into another, until they had completely lost track of how long they had been marching. It was certain, though, that the distance was over a hundred kilometers from the capital to the west gate, and their pace was quite deliberate but slow. In a sense the entire period seemed like some sort of hazy nightmare in which there was only the clanking, the occasional chanting and commands of the guards, and the single set of purposes. Keep the ropes taut. Keep the pace exactly….

  The most curious thing, for those able to think about it at all, was that, after a while, they awoke with less and less pain and linked up and marched with perfect adjustment without being told.

  And then, late one night, they reached the west gate, the high fortified wall stretching out into the darkness on both sides of them, its inner guard walkway illuminated by torches every few meters. The whole structure, including the gate structure itself, was made of solid stone. The wall was four meters thick, with a stone guard station every fifty meters around the entirety of the Anchor. The gate added another three meters on each side, and had a headquarters building on top. The inner gates were of solid steel, a third of a meter thick themselves, and it took an entire team of mules just to turn the mechanism to open or close them. Inside was a passage called, with good reason, the Death-way: a stone opening through the wall that had its own small openings from which guards could not only monitor anyone and anything inside but fire upon it as well.

  Above, just inside the gates on both sides, hung a heavy steel portcullis held up on a winch. A single kick of a lever by any guard could cause both to drop, imprisoning anyone inside who managed to jam the gates. The gates themselves were on a clever mechanism that had the outer gates always open if the inner ones were closed and vice-versa. It was said that vats of boiling hot oil could be unleashed in the Deathway with the same ease as dropping the portcullis.

  The officer and sergeant of the guard halted them, then rode forward to the gate itself. There they were met by other uniformed border guards and there was a long conversation. Then there were some shouts, men ran one way or another, then a single shouted signal, and, slowly, the massive closed gates began to open.

  It was a dramatic event in and of itself, but as they opened more and more a figure was revealed framed between them. It was the stringer Matson, on his white horse, idly smoking a cigar.

  As soon as there was clearance he eased his mount slowly forward, then approached the sad-looking column, stopping here and there but taking a ride completely around the group. He mumbled something to himself and then rode back over to the guards watching him.

  “A pretty miserable-looking lot,” he commented sourly. “You could have at least sized them to make it easier.”

  The officer shrugged. “Not my problem. After ten days with ‘em on the trail seasoning them up for you on the juice, I ain’t too particular about anything except gettin’ rid of ‘em. You don’t like their condition, you take the next batch out from the city.”

  Matson snorted. “That ain’t my responsibility,” he responded sarcastically. “How well seasoned are they?”

  “Meekest group in years,” the officer told him. “Hardly any trouble at all. Today they were barely on the juice at all and they made the best time of the trip. You could take them ropes and rods off now and I bet they’d keep perfect distance and interval and even sit just right.. Ain’t but a handful complained about any aches or pains when they woke up today, either. Some of ‘em got real good leg muscles, even the women, and they’re all in better shape than they ever been in their lives. ‘Cept in the head,” he added.

  Matson nodded, a sour expression on his face. “Okay, then, get those damned rods off and remove the strings. I can’t take ‘em through all at once, you know.”

  “You got to sign for them first,” the officer reminded him. An orderly who had been standing nearby brought up a clipboard with pen attached. Matson took it and looked over the forms carefully. They matched the ones he was carrying in his head.

  “All present, if you want to count ‘em,” the officer assured him.

  “I already have counted them, and checked their general condition,” the stringer replied curtly. He scribbled a signature on the sheet. “All right—let’s get ‘em over to my side.”

  It was a strange experience to have the leggings and ropes removed. It had been such a seemingly endless time with them that their removal seemed almost an unnatural, out-of-balance thing to the exiles. The drug used, which was occasionally used for religious indoctrinations and retreats by the church and by guards in basic training, was quite a powerful conditioner. Highly repetitive actions performed over a sustained period were reinforced a hundredfold or more each time, and they had been almost continuously under for more than ten days. The officer was not exaggerating—freed of all linkages, they all still stood as if bound, and guards had to actually restrain the rear part of the party to keep it from following the first group through the gates and in the Deathway.

  Matson went with the first group so he could effectively reassemble them on the other side. The inner gate slowly closed, and, as it did, the outer gate opened to reveal a large, brightly lit tent city crowded with strange and misshapen creatures. This area, technically referred to as the Anchor apron, was as close as most from the Flux were ever allowed into Anchor. Beyond the apron, barely visible in the darkness and reflecting none of the light from wall or apron, was the Flux itself.

  7

  FLUX

  It really wasn’t until they had been fed, bedded down, and slept for some time that their senses started to return to them. Cassie awoke with a strangely disoriented feeling, not quite understanding where she was or what had happened. Opening her eyes and looking around only helped slightly, for the sights of the tent city and its milling throngs of very strange human beings and very scruffy animals did little to orient her or the others. It was only when she looked up and saw the Flux before her, then turned and saw the great wall and gate behind, that she understood exactly what was going on.

  It took a moment more to realize that the leggings, rods, and even the ropes were now gone, although the collar and waistband remained, the latter hanging rather loosely on her hips. Her muscles ached, but not with the terrible pain of the first—what, days?—out. They had just been used to their maximum, pressed to their limits, and were letting her know it.

  All of these discomforts were minor compared to seeing the Flux—and from outside the gates. It was a terrifying sight, even more than it had been when she’d stood on top of that wall back there as a young schoolchild and stared at it.

  There was no difference, really, between the apron and the Anchor itself. The wall had been built well in from the Flux boundary for a number of reasons, some practical and some superstition. There was grass here, and well-worn paths, and it felt quite normal. Still, the Flux lay just beyond.

  It rose upwards as far as the eye could see, blocking off the sky and everything else from view. It looked like a great, infinite wall of opaque glass, a light reddish tan in color, and it shimmered something like an early morning fog in the fields. Inside there seemed to be tiny little flashes of energy, so small they would not even be noticed in isolation but so numerous that they could not be ignored. The overall effect was of a smooth wall or container holding a mass of fog-shrouded, moving sequined material.

  There were a number of grumbles and groans as the group slowly awoke to the new day and the same realizations that Cassie had felt. They had very little time to socialize, though, for Matson, looking sharp in his black outfit, hat, boots, and with his shotgun, knife, and whip on his belt, strode over to them from a nearby tent.

  “All right—everybody up on their feet!” he ordered. “We’re going to have a little orientation talk and then you’ll get food and drink but with no drugs to help you
along. That part’s over. And don’t give me any trouble or any shit or I’ll skip food and water in your case for starters, and once we’re in the Flux you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  There was no problem now. They were too scared to do much more than obey. Scared—and curious.

  “All right. Now, my name’s Matson and I own you. Yeah, I know that sounds funny, but it’s literally and legally true. You stopped being people when your numbers got drawn. Now, that means that there’s no place to run, no appeals, no protection. I’m the law, the absolute authority and if I don’t like you I can do anything I want with you and I don’t even have to have much of a reason. If I wake up in a bad mood and decide that the first two of you I see will have their arms chopped off because I feel like it, that’s the way it’ll be. You remember that. And you remember, too, that anybody who gives me lip can have his or her tongue cut out with a gesture from me and I won’t even lose any sleep over it. Do you understand?”

  There were a few mumbled assents. The rest had progressed in one short moment from being scared to being terrified.

  Matson looked slightly peeved. “When I talk to you as a group I expect to be answered by the group. Now, let’s try that again. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” came an almost uniform response.

  “When you talk to me you call me ‘sir’ always. Now, what was that again?”

  “Yes, SIR!” they responded.

  “Louder! Sometimes it’s hard to hear in the Flux, so shout everything, you understand?”

  “YES, SIR!” they screamed at him.

  He nodded. “That’s better. All right. Let’s start with the apron here. Those people that you see are Flux people. They usually live in the Flux, except when they have business here, although some of them are permanent residents of the aprons, dealing in goods and services for stringers like me. Just in case you never heard the term before, they are called duggers. Duggers are one kind of group that lives in the Flux. Forget that bullshit they sold you in school and church—the Flux is full of life, and death, and is anything but empty. In fact, a lot of stuff that keeps the Anchors going comes from Fluxlands. Anchors trade for the stuff, and what they trade is often information or services, but is also people. You, to be exact, in this case.”