The Cyborg and the Sorcerers

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The flying object was closing; even through the treetops he could see that it was apparently a man, moving through the air with no visible means of support. He began to wonder if wizards really existed on this strange planet.

  The man, if it was a man, was slowing; he was still about twenty meters off horizontally, as well as twenty meters above the ground.

  He stopped, hanging calmly in midair, and called out, "Slant of Tur! Are you down there?"

  This was obviously for form's sake; Slant had no doubt that the "wizard" knew exactly where he was. He said nothing.

  "I know you're there, Slant."

  So much for pretense, then; Slant shouted, "Go away!"

  "Slant, I mean you no harm; none of us do. Listen, please! Let me talk to you! You're possessed by a demon, a metal demon in your head; we saw it! You must come back to Teyzha so that we can remove it! Only wizards can help you!"

  Slant grinned to himself. The wizards really did seem to know their business; they knew about the computer hookup and called it a demon, did they? It sounded reasonable enough.

  "Well, computer, what do you suggest? Should I go back?" he asked silently.

  "Negative. High probability exists that removal of 'metal demon,' proper designation unknown, would impair cyborg function and/or loyalty."

  The idiot machine didn't even recognize that it was the demon, Slant realized. "I think it might be worth a try."

  "Negative. Such action would constitute cooperation with the enemy."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Negative. Further conversation with airborne enemy patrol must be considered counterproductive, increasing probability of enemy action against cyborg unit."

  "Slant? Please, say something!" The breeze briefly parted the leaves, and Slant caught a glimpse of the flying man's face; he was a very young man, and the cyborg thought he recognized him as the youngest of the Teyzhan councillors.

  "If I'm not supposed to talk with him, what should I do? Flee? He can probably follow."

  "Negative. Standard procedures calls for elimination of airborne enemy patrol to prevent relay of cyborg unit location or other data."

  "He's just a kid! And he's one of the wizards you wanted to know about!"

  "Irrelevant. Please take proper action."

  Slant recognized that phrase as one that warned of an imminent override if he continued to fail to cooperate; reluctantly, he raised the gun and fired a warning burst in front of the hovering man.

  The chattering roar of the gun tore through the quiet forest; bits of shredded leaves flew in every direction like green confetti as the bullets ripped through the trees. Slant's ears rang when the roar stopped.

  As the echoes faded off in the maze of trees and the machine-gunned leaves, twigs, and branches finished falling, crackling, and rustling, Slant saw the flying figure fleeing the way he had come, skimming the treetops. He started to call a sardonic farewell, but his voice caught in his throat and his body twitched convulsively as the computer tried to take control of his body. The override was far less efficient at a distance than through the direct-control cable, so for a few seconds Slant was subjected to spastic twitching, but the computer had taken him completely by surprise. Involuntarily the submachine gun was wrenched back up and the remainder of the ammunition clip fired in the direction of the departing wizard, obliterating the new silence and tearing apart more leaves.

  Slant was pleased to see that there was no sign any of this renewed fire had touched the Teyzhan councillor.

  The computer apparently saw the same thing; when the firing mechanism clicked after discharging the last cartridge, the override released abruptly, and a final uncoordinated jerk sent Slant sprawling awkwardly on the carpet of pine needles.

  He lay there for a second, listening to echoes dying once again and watching bits of mangled leaf drift to the ground, then demanded, "What the hell was that all about?"

  "Cyborg unit dysfunction; airborne enemy patrol escaping."

  "What dysfunction? I didn't want to kill him. There was no reason to kill him; he wasn't going to hurt us."

  "Contention unsupported by evidence. Standard procedure calls for elimination of any enemy patrol or individual discovering location of any IRU unit not operating under cover, to prevent relay of unit location or other data harmful to IRU or beneficial to enemy military intelligence."

  "Don't spout orders at me I You know there are special cases, and that it's up to me to assess them, not you!"

  "Affirmative. However, there is no evidence to indicate that recent action constituted a special case calling for deviation from standard procedure."

  "What evidence do you want?"

  "Any evidence that would indicate recent action to be a special case calling for deviation from standard procedure. Providing such evidence will modify record of cyborg unit dysfunction."

  "And if I have no objective evidence, just my intuition?"

  "Record of cyborg unit dysfunction will remain."

  Slant wearily regained his feet.

  "Warning: Cyborg unit has shown high incidence of marginal dysfunction and lack of enthusiasm for mission. Further dysfunction may allow termination without further warning."

  "What?"

  "Warning: Cyborg unit—"

  "No, never mind, I heard you." That, he thought to himself, was just lovely; he might get his head burned off any time the computer thought he was shirking. He wondered whether this was a manifestation of the machine's death wish, and decided that it almost certainly was. He slung the submachine gun over his shoulder, remembering as he did that it was now useless until he returned the ship and reloaded it, and started to trudge south.

  "It's too bad I couldn't just fly, like the Teyzhan councillor," he muttered to himself. He wondered just what he had stumbled into, and how these "wizards" worked their magic.

  "You know, computer," he said thoughtfully, "for the first time on this damn mission we might actually have found something."

  "Affirmative."

  Slipping back into the more familiar subvocalizing, he continued, "It's almost too bad the war's over." The computer did not answer.

  Chapter Five

  SLANT SPOKE ALOUD, DEMANDING ANGRILY, "YOU SERIOUSLY expect me to parachute into the middle of an unfriendly city at night?"

  "Affirmative."

  "It's been fourteen years since I used a parachute!"

  "Query: Advisability of practice jumps."

  "Probably … no, let's get it over with." He lay back on the acceleration couch, hands behind his head.

  "Launch in thirty seconds."

  "Fine."

  "Drop will be from altitude of fifteen kilometers."

  "What? Are you crazy?" He took his hands from beneath his head and sat up.

  "Negative."

  "Why so high?

  "Extreme altitude is advisable to lessen risk of detection."

  And to increase my chances of getting killed, Slant thought. "Right. I'll need oxygen equipment, and maybe a pressure suit."

  "Affirmative."

  He decided he didn't dare argue further; the computer might decide he was disloyal. He had no desire to have his brain fried. He lay back down, and a moment later the ship launched itself forward and upward. He wondered how much of a mess the takeoff had made of the clearing and surrounding forest; perhaps he should have piloted it himself.

  It was a little late to think of that, though; he thought of something else instead. "You know, I was wrong; this isn't exactly a preaviation culture after all. That person who found me in the woods was certainly flying, using whatever this thing is that we're after."

  "Affirmative."

  "Coming in by parachute might not be a good idea: they probably have 'wizards' flying a nightly sky patrol."

  "There is no evidence of airborne enemy patrols."

  "Maybe there aren't any aloft right now, but what if one comes along while I'm halfway down? It's pretty hard to hide while dangling in midair, even with a steer
able 'chute."

  "Cyborg unit will be armed; airborne enemy patrols may be eliminated. There has been no evidence of nocturnal airborne enemy patrols since planetfall."

  "Oh." He could think of no further arguments, and although far from convinced, he wanted to reassure the computer of his enthusiasm. "Okay. That's fine, then."

  He lay back for a moment, eyes closed, but then rebelled against this familiar position; there was no need for it. He had a new planet to look at. Unpleasant though his current situation was, there was no call to return to his habitual shipboard boredom. He opened his eyes and reached behind him for the direct-control cable. Plugging it into his neck, he called for belly-camera relay and watched as the deep green forests slid by below him, receding as the ship gained altitude. Standard procedure for a parachute drop was to approach from a very low orbit, he recalled, to dip down briefly, drop the 'chutist, and then return to orbit; presumably the computer would be doing exactly that

  "How long till drop?"

  "Approximately ninety-four minutes."

  That was probably two revolutions; he was sure the computer wouldn't use that high an orbit for what was, after all, almost a ground operation from its point of view. "Why so long?"

  "Standard procedure calls for initial pass to evaluate weather conditions and tactical situation."

  That made sense, and incidentally added a new worry to his list; he hadn't thought about weather. It hadn't been a concern during the years in space, nor underground on Mars, and the weather had been uniformly calm and beautiful since he landed. With any luck at all, he knew, it would stay that way, and the computer would not be so reckless as to drop him into the middle of a storm should one arise—but he still had visions of falling through rain clouds.

  Well, he had time to worry about it and to try to think of some way to convince the computer there was a better approach than parachuting him anywhere. He watched the land slip away as the ship's orbit took it out past the coast and over the ocean.

  When the first pass brought it back over Teyzha, the computer informed him that the weather was dear and calm, that there was no sign of aerial surveillance, and that he had forty-five minutes to suit up and arm himself.

  At the end of the second revolution, as the ship decelerated and dipped out of orbit, he was waiting in the airlock clad in a lightweight insulating pressure suit, black from head to toe, his black glider-chute packed on his back. The submachine gun, reloaded, was slung across his shoulders, above his chute, and a snark and a flashlight were clipped on his belt. A snug helmet and oxygen mask completed his outfit.

  He had expected to be terrified when the outer door opened and he heard and felt the cold wind roaring past; jumping from the wing of a starship fifteen kilometers up was not something he was confident he could survive. Nonetheless, when the port slid aside and the computer signalled something shifted within him, and he was completely calm, moving with easy self-assurance, as he stepped from the airlock and let the wind rip him from the ship's wing. He had forgotten that he was not a normal man but a cyborg; the computer was regulating his glands, preventing the physical effects of panic, and his conditioning had brought to the fore the schizoid fragment of his psyche that had been trained in military operations of this type, a personality that knew no fear, that thought no more of a parachute jump than of riding a horse or fording a stream.

  It was this fearless Slant that plummeted groundward, opening his 'chute at the most opportune moment to take advantage of the wind patterns the computer had charted on its first pass, calculating how best to maximize his chances of landing safely on target—on target meaning anywhere inside the city of Teyzha, though the Council's palace was his theoretical ground zero.

  Even had he been his normal self, there would have been little for him to fear after the initial plunge; the night sky was indeed clear, the air calm, and there was no sign of airborne activity in the city below. There was very little evidence of any activity at all; by local time it was approximately an hour past midnight, and most of the population was doubtlessly long abed.

  When he first looked down from freefall, with his ship still visible as a dwindling speck in the distance, it had taken him several seconds to find Teyzha at all; the city was nothing but a dot, surrounded by a small patch of paleness, colorless in the darkness, that was farmland, almost lost in the dark immensity of the forest that covered the land in all directions. That dot was now swooping up at him as the wind carried him toward it

  Although the air rushing by and the speed with which the ground approached gave him a feeling of great velocity—an accurate feeling—the fall seemed to take hours. He knew that it was actually only a few minutes between leaving his ship and seeing the city jump up at him with frightening suddenness, but it felt as if he had been hanging in space forever.

  Then abruptly time was rushing by, and he had none to spare to admire the starlit scenery; he had to devote his attention to steering his rectangular web of nylon, riding the air currents over the city wall and into Teyzha.

  As he passed over the parapet his 'chute caught an up-draft, and the few meters that separated his feet from the battlements became a respectable distance again; he guessed that the stone buildings and pavements must still be radiating the day's accumulated heat, warming the air and creating the updraft. He hadn't counted on that; it slowed his descent and made steering much easier, so that he could choose any landing spot he liked. He wished more light were available than the feeble starshine.

  Ahead of him he made out a pale, looming dome; he could not be sure it was actually white, but it appeared to be, and he was fairly sure it must be the dome of the Council palace. The plaza before the palace would be a perfect landing spot, wide and level, and at this late hour he doubted even so public a place carried much risk of his being spotted. He steered toward it.

  Unfortunately, he had more altitude than he had realized, and even in his efficient military persona he was out of practice in guiding a glider-chute, particularly in an environment with slightly less than terrestrial gravity. He passed neatly over the plaza, and before he could loop back he was descending on the roof of the palace itself. He had no choice but to make the best of it, and managed a passable landing just to the right of the dome, on a flat expanse of tile.

  Still acting on programmed reflex, he stood, scanned for enemies, and seeing none hauled in his 'chute, then detached it and bundled it under one arm. That was as far as his conditioning carried him; his normal emotions slipped back, and his knees felt weak as he realized he had just survived a fifteen-kilometer fall, supported only by a couple of kilograms of nylon. He looked about, considering what to do next.

  His immediate goal was to get off the roof; he was no good to anyone up there. He saw no sign of any door, hatch, trap, skylight, airshaft, vent, or other opening; he moved carefully around the dome, but there was no entry to be had anywhere.

  Cautiously he approached the edge of the roof and peered over at the street that ran behind the building, a narrow lane displaying no sign of life at all, not so much as a foraging rat. If he could lower himself over the edge with the lines from his parachute, he could drop down into that alley without any undue fuss and proceed from there; he looked about for some means of anchoring the 'chute to the rooftop.

  A narrow metal chimney stuck up near the edge of the dome; Slant unfolded the mass of nylon under his arm and hooked the approximate center of the 'chute around the protruding pipe. The shrouds were hopelessly tangled; rather than try to separate them he twisted them together further, so that they served as a single thick rope. He lowered this makeshift rope over the edge of the roof.

  It didn't reach anywhere near as far as he would have liked, but he thought it would do; he took a final look around to make sure he hadn't missed a trap door in the darkness, then slid backward over the eaves, his ankles wrapped around the tangled lines and his hands gripping them firmly—but not too tightly, as that could be dangerous.

  Cautiously he
worked his way down the rope until he was below the narrow overhang of the eaves; then he unwrapped his legs and swung them forward, planting his feet on the side of the palace, so that he wouldn't sway from side to side. Thus stabilized, he took a moment to look about.

  The street was still distressingly distant; the palace was at least three, perhaps four stories high, and he had had to hook his 'chute well back from the edge, so that he had less than two meters of line left. That meant an uncomfortably long drop.

  He noticed, however, that his left foot was just a few centimeters from a window, and that he saw no sign of shutters or any other serious barrier.

  This was too good an opportunity to miss; he pushed himself sideways and hooked his foot on the window frame, then slid himself down and over until he was perched on the sill, one hand still clutching the shrouds to steady him as he studied the situation.

  As soon as he got a good look at the window he realized he had made a mistake. Although there were no shutters on the outside, he had underestimated the thickness of the wall; thirty centimeters in, hidden by the shadows and virtually invisible in the faint light, was a casement. One of his knees was actually touching it.

  He cursed silently.

  "Query: Report status."

  "I'm trying to break into the main government building through an upper-story window. Shut up and let me concentrate."

  "Termination of communications contact between ship and cyborg unit imminent."

  "Fine. Look, I'm busy; I can handle this without you. Let me know when you're back in range."

  "Affirmative."

  Without intending to, Slant waited for some sign that the computer really was out of range below the horizon and that he was out of radio contact with it for the first time in years. No such sign came; most of the equipment in his head and body had its own self-regulating mechanisms and was supposed to be able to run for days, coasting, without the computer's control.

  When several seconds of dead silence, both mental and physical, had passed, he roused himself, telling himself that he was stupid to expect something to change just because his ship was gone. Still keeping his right hand firmly on his climbing line, he leaned forward as far as he could and felt the casement with his unencumbered left hand. The motion twisted his shoulders so that the barrel of the submachine gun clanked noisily against the stone wall; he froze but detected no activity, no evidence that anyone had heard.