The Cyborg and the Sorcerers

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  IT WAS A YOUNG FEMALE HEAD, WITH LONG BLOND HAIR, big blue eyes, a long nose, and a shocked expression; an accompanying hand held a small oil lamp.

  "Who are you? What are you doing in here?" she demanded.

  Forgetting for the moment about the other door, Slant dove for her. To do so was not a conscious decision; his training had taken over again, and he had been trained to use physical restraint in this sort of situation. In an instant he had knocked her back on the bed, one hand over her mouth, the other pinning one of her arms, while his body pinned the other and his legs locked around hers. Miraculously, the lamp neither spilled nor went out. His reasonably neat programmed maneuver was complicated by the bed curtains, which had caught on both ends of the submachine gun he still wore strapped to his shoulders; one hanging was ripped half off its rings and remained wrapped around the gunstock, pinched between the stock and strap. Another had been flung forward, and wound up tangled around one of his legs.

  The curtains were not a serious problem, but they were an inconvenience; when Slant was capable of conscious action again, he whispered in the girl's ear, "One sound, one move, and you're dead; do you understand?"

  She nodded; he could tell from her eyes that she was on the verge of panic but thought she would probably keep quiet. He loosened his hold and untangled the hangings, keeping the girl partially pinned. That done, he set the lamp on a convenient nightstand, where it lit the entire room dimly. She remained silent, watching, wide-eyed and unmoving.

  The submachine gun, even untangled, remained an inconvenience; he unstrapped it and set it aside, well out of his captive's reach. The snark remained on his belt, easily accessible; he was scarcely leaving himself unarmed.

  That taken care of, he looked her over, assessing the situation. She wore a thin cotton robe, doubtlessly the local equivalent of a nightgown. It was black, which struck him as a very odd color for a young woman to wear to bed alone; had it been lace or satin he might not have thought so, but it was unadorned and made of cheap fabric. He was reminded of the black robes worn by the councillors, and considered where he was.

  "Are you a wizard?" he demanded in a whisper.

  She tried to speak, realized she couldn't with his hand over her mouth, and nodded, then apparently changed her mind and shook her head instead.

  "Make up your mind!"

  She shook her head no.

  "You better not be. Or if you are, you better not call for help, because I can kill you before they can kill me."

  She tried to squeal, her eyes widening still further and her muscles tensing. Slant took no notice but silently asked the computer, "Now what do I do?"

  "Continue action. Wait for cessation of pursuit"

  "How am I supposed to know when they stop looking for me?"

  "By cessation of gravitational anomalies in vicinity of cyborg unit."

  "What?"

  "By cessation of gravitational anomalies in vicinity of cyborg unit."

  "You mean they're looking for me with whatever-it-is, the way they did before?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Oh, that's just lovely. They found me twice before; they'll probably find me this time, too."

  "Information insufficient."

  "Great. All right, notify me if it appears they've given up."

  "Affirmative."

  That settled, he turned his attention to the girl and whispered, "Listen we're going to lie right here until they stop looking for me, or until they find me. It shouldn't be too long. You just keep quiet and do what I tell you and I won't hurt you. Understand?"

  She nodded. They lay quietly for a moment; then something occurred to him, and. he asked the computer, "When I was moving around just now, why did I have to ask you what to do? Wasn't I trained for eluding pursuit indoors?"

  "Affirmative. Cyborg unit training included evasive tactics. Reason for training dysfunction unknown."

  That was worrisome. Without his conditioning he wasn't much more than an ordinary human being—stronger and faster than anyone normal, but that alone didn't mean much. Was his programming wearing out with age and disuse, or was there something suppressing it? He had no idea, and no way to tell. He didn't even understand the mechanism whereby his supercompetent specialized schizoid personalities took over in the first place.

  He lay quiet, thinking about his situation without reaching any sort of conclusion; his captive shifted occasionally, trying to get comfortable. Several long minutes passed; with a brief warning, the computer slipped below the horizon and out of contact again.

  There was a sudden pounding on the door; he lay still, his hand tight on the girl's mouth.

  The pounding stopped, and he heard the sound of a key turning.

  That wasn't right; the key was on the inside of the door, still in the lock. He'd used it and left it there himself. It couldn't be a duplicate key, as that would have pushed the one on the inside out, and he would have heard it hit the floor. Could it be a different door? No, it was from the direction of the door he had entered by.

  Keeping one hand on the girl, he lifted himself up and back, and peered around the torn bed curtain at the door.

  The key was turning itself in the lock; as he watched it completed its turn, the lock opening with a click. The key then lifted itself from the keyhole and dropped to the floor.

  He didn't need the computer to tell him that this was more antigravity magic. He leaped to his feet, his automatic combat persona taking over, the snark in his hand. His conscious self, which was now a passive observer, asked whether taking the young woman hostage would be a viable tactic; he thought back that he didn't know, having no idea how much respect the people of this society had for individual lives.

  He flashed across the room, snatching up the submachine gun at the same instant that he fired the snark at the door and put enough distance between the girl and himself to minimize the risk of her interference with his actions.

  The panels of the door vanished in a cloud of brown powder; the range was close to the maximum, so that the beam did not penetrate completely, leaving a large oval scar of rough raw wood. The drifting dust served to darken the already dim room still further, and Slant used the darkness to cover his movements as he shifted his weapons between hands, so that the snark, strictly a short-range weapon and with a severely limited power supply, was in his left, while the more primitive but effective submachine gun was held ready in his right. He released the gun's safety but did not fire; he had no idea what he was up against, so it would be foolhardy to try shooting his way out immediately.

  The darkness was abruptly dispelled by a vivid yellow glow from the door; it swung open, revealing a black-robed figure holding a staff aloft. The light came from the head of the staff, and Slant felt an electric tingle in his skin, identical to that he had felt in the Council chamber. Behind the wizard—there could be no doubt that this was a wizard—were three other men, clad like the Council chamber guard, holding drawn swords.

  Slant groped for the latch of the door he had not had time to investigate properly; he stood near it but dared not turn his gaze from his foes to see what he was doing.

  "Slant, as you call yourself," said the wizard, "please surrender. We wish you no harm. There is no need for bloodshed."

  "I can't surrender, damn it. Stay away, or I'll have to kill you." It was his conscious self that spoke, but the combat persona maintained control of his limbs in a curiously uncomfortable way. Two fingers of his left hand found the latch, but he could not easily work it while holding the snark.

  "Please, we can help you, I'm sure we can."

  "Stay away from me. In fact, get out of this room, and close the door behind you. And take the girl with you."

  "Listen, you don't—"

  The wizard's plea was cut off short by the roar of the gun as Slant fired a warning burst into the ceiling. "Get out of here!"

  It occurred to him that the computer might object to his chasing them away rather than killing them; he hoped that it w
ould give him time to explain that killing them would just bring more enemies down on him.

  The wizard stepped back, moving his staff oddly, and Slant thought for a moment that the four Teyzhans were actually departing; then the wizard said, "Take him," and Slant realized that he had simply been getting out of the way of the three swordsmen.

  The warriors marched forward—a mistake, Slant's training told him, as a quick charge would have been their best tactic here. His finger squeezed the trigger, and the gun's roar filled the room again. He watched a dozen rounds ricochet off his attackers' bare faces; more magic was at work.

  The wizard's voice sounded over the echoes as he stopped his useless fire. "We have protective spells. You're helpless."

  The submachine gun might have been countered, but these people had not seen the snark in use before tonight. Could a protective spell stop something other than solid matter? He brought up his left hand and pressed the trigger in a single motion.

  The foremost attacker was just a single pace away; his blood spattered Slant from throat to ankle as the beam cut into the warrior's chest. The man fell forward, gasping in agony, to lie in a pool of his own blood; his companions froze. There was a moment of dead silence when the victim's breath stopped, a moment in which none of them moved; Slant held the snark at ready, his finger on the trigger.

  From the side, where she sat on the bed, the girl suddenly screamed as her horror overcame her initial shock; startled, Slant whirled toward her, pressing the trigger, cutting a narrow slice of destruction that ended in the girl's upraised wrist as she lifted her hand to cover her eyes. Another fountain of blood gushed forth, and Slant had time for an instant of revulsion before the pommel of a sword landed on his skull and knocked him to the floor, unconscious.

  Chapter Seven

  THERE WAS A SHATTERING ROAR OF WHITE NOISE IN HIS head, and the computer's monotone calling "MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY!"

  "Shut up!" he screamed.

  An abrupt mental and physical silence descended; then the computer said, "Waking cyborg unit deemed imperative. Termination of communications contact between ship and cyborg imminent. Immediate evaluation of status and condition of cyborg unit required."

  At that particular moment, Slant knew almost as little about his condition as the computer did; taking into account that everything he saw was relayed to the ship, there was no need to belabor such obvious facts as that he was lying on his back on a hard, thin mattress staring at the ceiling of a stone cell. Cautiously, he sat up and put his feet on the floor.

  The back of his head hurt considerably, but upon investigating with his fingers he felt no blood, either fresh or clotted. There was a perceptible lump. He hoped there was no concussion.

  Naturally, his weapons were gone. His pressure suit and his gloves remained—or had been replaced, as the suit seemed to be twisted about on his body and even less comfortable than he remembered.

  The cell, he noticed, had a metal door with a small barred aperture in it; he noticed this when a bearded face peered through the opening and a voice asked, "Who were you shouting at?"

  "My personal demon."

  The man paused and considered that, then asked, "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I'm fine, thanks, except that my head hurts."

  "You were shouting."

  "Never mind my shouting."

  "All right. I'll tell the Council that you're awake." The face vanished again, affording a view of another blank stone ceiling, presumably that of a corridor.

  Kant looked around the cell, which was perhaps two meters in every dimension, and told the computer, "Other than being unarmed and in captivity, I seem to be all right. Escape may well be possible, so I suggest you hold off on terminating me."

  "Affirmative. Termination of communications contact."

  Slant wasn't sure if he was pleased or not that he was out of touch with the computer; it meant it wouldn't be able to kill him for nearly half an hour, but on the other hand it might have been useful.

  Or it might have been an idiotic nuisance, as it had been when he spoke to the Council.

  He had very little time to consider the matter, as a face appeared in the aperture, a different face, though still bearded. Seeing the prisoner seated quietly on the far side of the cell, this newcomer said, "The Council will see you now." There was a scrape as a key turned, and the door swung open.

  This was not yet the time to make a break, though Slant was quite sure he could easily handle a single guard. He did not yet know where in the palace he was; he did know where the Council's chamber was, assuming this audience was to be in the same place. Furthermore, he might gain useful information from an interview, or even an interrogation; questions could be as revealing as answers. And finally, he had hopes of finding his weapons; he did not like the idea of leaving them in the possession of the Teyzhan wizards, who just might be capable of duplicating and mass-producing them.

  Therefore he followed the guard meekly. Once out of the cell and in the passage beyond, they were joined by two more guards carrying drawn swords and a young man in a black robe, presumably a wizard; they were taking no chances with their dangerous prisoner. Rather, they thought they were taking no chances; the part of Slant's mind concerned with personal combat tactics informed him that the right sort of assault would make the blades an encumbrance rather than a help by removing the intended target and substituting the swordsmen's allies, enabling him to concentrate on a quick killing of the wizard and a speedy escape. It was quite possible, better than a fifty-fifty chance.

  The time, however, was still not right. He wanted to see the Council.

  As he had suspected, his cell was underground; he and his escort ascended two short flights of torchlit stairs and wound through a series of corridors before arriving in the white-domed chamber. The dome was illuminated by daylight; he had been unconscious for hours. He wondered how, even when distracted, he had been so careless as to allow himself to be knocked out

  As before, the seven councillors were seated around their wooden table. He approached and nodded politely, but did not kneel; it seemed inappropriate for a prisoner of war.

  There was a moment of silence, and Slant felt his skin prickling and crawling. He saw nothing that indicated where magic was being used, and guessed, since the sensation seemed more intense than on previous occasions, that he was being studied as his submachine gun had been before.

  The silence was broken by the white-bearded old councillor, who said, "Hello, Slant, as you call yourself. You spoke to us before and lied; will you speak the truth this time?"

  "That depends on many things."

  "Foremost, it depends upon the metal demon in your head, I think. Would you like to be rid of it?"

  Slant considered this. He knew that the Council expected him to say yes; he knew also that the computer would not be happy with any answer that smacked of disloyalty or cooperation with the enemy. It would have a record of his words when it came back into contact. He was unsure whether the computer would be able to figure out that it was the demon in question, but it had already made plain it didn't want enemy personnel messing around in Slant's skull. He might be able to convince it that he was playing along, awaiting an opportunity for escape.

  Whatever he answered, the councillors claimed to be able to tell when he lied, so if he lied, they would know it and know his true answer.

  Or would they? The truth, he realized, was that he wasn't sure what he wanted. He hated the computer's interference with his actions and the constant threat of execution—but he had come to depend on the machine. It was his only contact with his lost home and had been his only companion for fourteen years. Its removal would cut him off from his past

  Was that any real loss? He could start anew and build himself a life based on reality, not on a long-lost war.

  The Council was waiting for an answer. "Yes," he said, "I would." He said to himself, in such a way that he hoped it would register on the computer's records when contact was re
established, "I'm just playing along, keeping them happy."

  "You speak the truth, I see. Do you not fear the demon's anger?"

  "The demon is ever vigilant always watching me; it watches at this very minute." Slant noticed that his command of the language seemed to have returned with practice; he had no trouble at all with it

  "Why do you lie?" The old man looked wary.

  "The demon keeps a record of everything I say and do."

  "Ah, that I see is the truth. I think I understand. Listen, Slant, we are very interested in you; nothing like you has been seen in Teyzha in all our history. However, you cannot speak or act freely, and we cannot deal with you, while you are possessed. That is why I ask only about this thing in your head. If we free you, will you cooperate with us?"

  Automatically, self-preservation his first concern, he answered, "No; I am loyal to Old Earth and will not aid those who seek her destruction."

  "What?" The wizard's confusion showed on his face.

  The middle-aged woman whom he had shown the submachine gun at his first audience asked, "What's this about Old Earth?"

  "Never mind, it's not important," said the old man.

  "But—"

  "We can ask about that later. Our first concern is to remove the demon that controls this man. Slant, is the demon watching you now?"

  "I think so." He was quite sure that the wizards would spot the lie, as they had others.

  "Have you any idea when it does and doesn't control you?"

  "No."

  It occurred to Slant to wonder how the truth-detecting mechanism worked; it was not simply a variation on the polygraph, because his body was regulated so that lying did not affect his pulse or respiration. This was another mystery of this wizardry "magic." He wondered where their machines were hidden; in the table, perhaps, or under those flowing black robes.

  "Will it return soon?"

  Slant estimated the time elapsed since he had lost contact and answered truthfully, "In about ten minutes."

  The old man turned to his compatriots, and they whispered briefly among themselves. He turned back, and said, "It is our consensus that that is not sufficient time for a proper and careful exorcism; let use therefore deal with other matters."