Spirits of Flux and Anchor

by Jack L. Chalker

  The room was a large one, and three women sat within. The one in a plush, comfortable chair to the left of a projection console would have been instantly recognizable anywhere in Anchor Logh— but not quite like this.

  Her angelic Highness, Sister General Diastephanos, sat in that chair in a state more of undress than anything else, puffing away on a big, fat cigar. Sharing the chair, and equally in a state of undress, was undoubtedly a Temple priestess, and she was essentially sitting on the Sister General’s lap. There was no mistaking the placement of this unknown woman’s arms and the reciprocated gentle gestures from the Sister General.

  The third woman in the room was still in her priestly robes, the rich mottled silver of administrative services. She sat at the projector controls, occasionally looking over at several small blinking screens, and appeared totally oblivious to the grotesque scene going on just to her left.

  Diastephanos sighed. “Enough, Daji. We have to get through this sometime tonight, you know, or we’ll be working all the way up the Paring Rite.” The other woman untangled herself and got to her feet, pouting a bit like a hurt little child, but she went obediently over to another chair, pulled it up, curled up in it and relaxed to watch. “Next,” Her angelic Highness ordered curtly.

  The projectionist touched a switch, and a photograph of a boy appeared on the screen, under which was an enormous amount of typed data that seemed to be an abbreviated life history. Cassie could hardly suppress a gasp. She knew that boy! She’d gone to school with him!

  “Good looking bull,” Daji remarked absently in a high-pitched voice that sounded vacuous but was also oddly accented. Her comment was ignored by the others.

  “Okay socially, but the brains of a head of cabbage,” the projectionist noted matter-of-factly, looking down at the screen. “Barely literate, fourteen separate disciplinary incidents starting at age eight. A real brawler. He’d be a good soldier as long as he only had to take orders, not give them.”

  “Wall guard type, then?” the Sister General suggested.

  “Hardly. Oh, sure, if he could be bent into shape, but it’s doubtful that he’d be receptive to military discipline.”

  “Sounds tailor-made, then,” the high priestess noted. “Didn’t that stringer Matson put in an order for replacement field soldiers?”

  The projectionist checked her data. “Um, yes. Up to ten for Persellus, if we had them. No sex preference as usual.”

  “What’s it matter out in the Flux? What’s the old bitch offering for them?”

  “The usual. The goddess, you might remember, has a real gift for duplicating printed circuit boards even though she hasn’t the slightest idea what they are or what they’re used for. Fratina has been complaining about how she’s had to cannibalize a backup unit to keep the water treatment system running, and I could use a couple of extra memory modules. Three like this one and we’ll be set on that score.”

  Her angelic Highness thought for a moment. “Persellus would be close by. How many have we given Matson already?”

  “Eleven so far, but they’re mostly girls. You know the taste of some of our local customers.”

  The high priestess chuckled. “Do I ever! Well, we’ll give him muscle-brain here and two others for the parts list you supply—draw it up and supply the patterns for her. We’ve got a lot of leeway in assignments with only two stringers but we’re in a weaker position. Arden wants a lot of beef, too, if I remember.”

  “Well, there’s the two* males and two females, perfect physical specimens, for Taladon. For experimental purposes, it says here.”

  “Gad! And we’re almost completely through the list now. Looks like we’re going to have to have a second run-through and give up some people we don’t want to.”

  The projectionist touched the switch again and a new boy’s face and record appeared. “Nope, forget him,” she muttered.

  “What? He some kind of genius?”

  “No, he’s a snot-nosed absolute bastard with an asshole where his brain should be, but he’s also Minister Alhred’s son.”

  The Sister General sighed. “Another political goodie! Holy Mother of Heaven! No wonder this takes so long!”

  Cassie knew she should turn right now and chalk up her earlier feelings to the shortest religious conversion on record, but her shock and horror at all this was mixed with a horrid fascination as well. The sexual habits of the Sister General were but a momentary shock. As disillusioning as it was to one who had so recently decided to join the church, it was no more than was commonly rumored and whispered about all priestesses by half the population. No, what was the true and total shock was what those women were doing in that room. It was something quite obvious, yet it undercut the very foundation of Cassie’s entire system of beliefs, and those of her whole society and culture. They were fixing the Paring Rite! They were exempting the privileged, and evaluating and choosing who would go and who would stay according to their own personal criteria.

  She watched as two more boys were evaluated and quickly passed over because they had aptitudes for jobs that were needed in Anchor Logh. It was obvious by the comments, though, that all of these were the finalists in a long selection process that probably began as soon as the numbers had been turned in months ago. These, then, were the worst of the worst, those of The Age who, for political or personal reasons, were of least use to the Anchor. The fact that a Minister’s son, the child of a high-ranking government official, had made it down this far indicated that such a relationship was handy but not a guarantee of safety. It was, rather, a political club to be held over a recalcitrant politician.

  Sin, too, was a criteria, but not necessarily for the boy or girl under review. From the off-handed comments about the “orders” they had taken from Fluxlands, whatever they were, for various types, it was clear that being too smart, or asking too many questions about the system and the church, could be just as dangerous as having as much brains as a head of cabbage. Troublemaking parents could be punished by having their child chosen, too, the selection being a confirmation by the Holy Mother of their parental sins, while some were chosen simply because they fit a specific requirement of some other place in need. This was well across the fine line separating natural balance of population in the Anchors and divine punishment from real crime.

  This was out-and-out slavery, the selling of human beings as property.

  Reluctantly, Cassie decided she’d better get out of there, even though she’d love to just stay and see who was still to come up on that screen. Maybe—her? She shuddered at the thought and turned to go, then realized that she was totally and completely lost. How many corridors and stairways were there in this place, anyway? She moved as quietly as possible away from the door and towards the nearest stairwell anyway, remembering that she’d seen no one on the way and that, at least, she might have all night to figure it out. She reached the opening to the stairs, turned in—and ran smack into two of the largest, meanest-looking Temple Wardens she’d ever seen. Both women, even in the dim light, looked like they could pick her up with one finger each and chew her to bits for lunch—and enjoy every minute of it. Her heart sank, but she couldn’t help wondering just how long they’d been there.

  There was no use in even trying to make a break for it. Even if she managed the unlikely feat of getting away from these two, they knew this place inside out and she had no idea where she was. One of the wardens gave a smirk and gestured with her finger for Cassie to turn around and retrace her steps. She had no choice, really, and walked as directed back to the lighted room. She hesitated at the doorway and got a rude shove into the room that almost sent her sprawling on her face.

  The three women inside all turned and stared at her. Finally the Sister General said, “Well, well, well…. The sewer rats are growing very large this year, I see.”

  “She was pretty blatant about it,” one of the wardens noted. “Tripped every alarm on the main board. The only reason she got this far was she got lost real fast. Her trail’s
so tangled you can’t even figure it out on a security chart and floor plan without getting lost yourself.”

  “How long was she outside the room here?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes. After the first minute, when she decided to stay and watch, we didn’t feel there was any reason for interrupting Your Highness before we had to. Actually, we were just going to pick her up on her way out, if she could manage it—we were betting on that, see—but she stayed around here so long we figured you’d want to deal with her personally.”

  “Oh, yes, I do indeed,” the Sister General purred. “Come here, child.”

  She was none too gently prodded towards the leader of the Temple. When she was standing right in front of the woman, the high priestess reached out and grabbed her arm, pushing back the sleeve and seeing there the slim bracelet that all wore until they were registered.

  “It figures,” the priestess muttered to herself. “We get two or three a year around this time. Huah, check her out on the board.” She looked again at the bracelet and studied its tiny charm. “CXT-4799-622-584M,” she read.

  The projectionist nodded and punched the numbers into a keypad. The screen stayed blank. “Nope. Not on our Bad Girl list,” Huah said, and keyed in some more commands. This time the screen flickered and Cassie’s picture and data came up on it. They definitely updated their files constantly—it was her very recent graduation picture.

  The women studied it for a moment. “Very high I.Q., but only average in school. A dreamer, butch beyond the usual age for such things,” the projectionist noted. “Rather be one of the boys than be with one, but still classified heterosexual. Prefers horses to people.”

  “Kinky,” Daji put in. It was ignored, as usual.

  Cassie was forced to stand there silently as the details of her life and interests were read out, including many incidents and anecdotes she had long forgotten. It was obvious that these files were extremely elaborate and would have been impossible to keep and keep straight without the strange powered devices that worked only here in the city and with the constant cooperation of local priestesses, government officials, and spies that had to permeate the whole of Anchor Logh. It was here that their destinies were plotted, not in Heaven, that was clear—but they were plotted on the basis of very complete information.

  “We had her down for psychological counseling,” the projectionist concluded, “but she’s really good with animals. Wanted a vet’s slot but doesn’t have the mental self-discipline for the boring and routine work required to get the degree. Currently we had her down as a good church prospect—she’d be an excellent midwife, for example—with the usual twist of giving her a choice between that and a menial job like stable hand.”

  “That’s all I came in for—to apply for the novitiate,” Cassie blurted out. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong!”

  “Too bad,” the Sister General commented without a trace of sorrow or pity in her voice. “Well, girl, you surely understand that that way is out now. Even if we could overlook your sacrilege to the Temple and what you saw in this room—nobody would ever believe you anyway, no matter how you blabbed—we can’t overlook the fact that you would know. You’d be a latent rebel, never fully able to take church doctrine or discipline, uncontrollable by us or the government without extreme measures, and you’re smart enough to figure ways around those. You could be the source for some major inconveniences at some point down the road, and we can’t have that. When we identify a potential agent of such instability, we really have no choice.”

  “What could I do?” Cassie asked, half-pleading.

  “Who knows? Perhaps nothing. Very likely nothing. But a society like ours works and survives because it is in a very delicate balance. It works primarily because its people believe it works, and believe that they live in a free democracy where jobs and promotions are based solely on merit and loyalty to the system, and that it’s possible for the lowest—or a child of the lowest—to become the highest. It doesn’t take much to upset that balance.

  That is really why we do all of this, and why we do it this way. Left to itself, this land would get periodically out of balance, opening the way for radical ideas and resultant radical changes. The whole thing would collapse into anarchy, and the living would envy the dead. It’s happened before, child, more than once, long ago and far away. No matter what you think of us, we take our responsibility very, very seriously and are totally bound to scripture. The church’s sole mission is to preserve stability, to shore up the system and eliminate its weakest and most threatening spots, so that the Holy Mother’s plan can continue. By your own actions you have made yourself a potential source of such instability, and you have learned the truth decades before you were ready to understand and handle it.”

  She was about to continue when a buzzer sounded on the projectionist’s console. The controller reached over and picked up a small oblong-shaped object that was apparently some sort of communications device and talked in a low tone for more than two minutes. The rest of them waited, wondering what it was about.

  Finally the projectionist was finished and she turned to the Sister General. “More headaches. That was Ranatan over at the Lazy Bull on Main Street. Seems that last year he got a new girl for the upstairs room from another dive in Anchor Thomb. Now the stringer Arden told him his chit’s been called, and he’s pulled an abduction to pay up.”

  The Sister General frowned. “Damn. Anybody we know?”

  “Not on our list, if that’s what you mean. I remembered her when we were checking slots. A real looker, Ranatan says, although she’s got some brains. Wait a moment.” She punched in a code and checked a screen.

  “Anybody we can live without?” the Sister General asked hopefully.

  “Yeah. Good I.Q. and solid aptitudes, but not in anything we aren’t already overstocked in. I guess we can spare her, but Ranatan owes us one now, coming up with this so late. Says he forgot about it until his marker was called.”

  “I’ll bet,” the high priestess sneered.

  “One problem, though. She has a steady boyfriend, and he woke up from the sapping Ranatan’s boys gave him in a rotten and angry mood. He’s raising holy hell with the local cops right now. Farmhand type. Not on our list but he could easily be our third soldier.”

  The Sister General nodded. “Arrange it. Since there’ll be something of a cover-up necessary to pacify the police and families, better use the tunnel and bring ‘em here. Keep ‘em on ice until after Paring Rite, then just add her in with the crowd and make sure they leave at night. You know the routine.”

  The administrator nodded. “What about her and the boy?” By “her” it was clear that this meant Cassie.

  “We’ll keep ‘em on ice until Paring Day. Use two of the cells below, ninth level. Somebody can work out cover stories for them staying in town. As for Ranatan’s girl, put her in with this one until then. We’ll have to check with the stringers and see who’s heading in the right direction to make delivery.”

  “Check,” responded the administrator crisply, and that was that.

  5

  RITE

  The cell was not, strictly speaking, a jail, but it was clear from some of the graffiti on the walls that it had served as one many times. In point of fact, it was the kind of barren cubicle that novices used when living and studying at the Temple. Under other circumstances, Cassie thought ruefully, she might have been in a similar or identical cell in this very place as a priestess-in-training.

  The box-like cell was roughly three meters wide and three deep, with old and rotting straw on the floor. The rear of the place contained two fixed wooden “beds” of sorts, one on each side; really nothing more than two rectangular boxes filled with more straw. In front of these were two small shelves mounted on each wall, empty now and probably for some time, although, hanging from a nail in one was a tiny oil lantern that provided some, but not much, illumination. Sitting on the floor near the door was a very old chamber pot that was cold, shallow, and r
ust-encrusted. The door itself was of solid wood with the hinges on the outside and a tiny window in the middle. The window was not barred, but it was barely large enough to get a hand through. The door, however, was barred, and with a very solid plank.

  The wardens had stripped her completely before shoving her in, and had warned her that should she cause any problems while there, they would be perfectly willing to bring down some manacles and a gag, too, if need be. She didn’t intend to make any trouble, though—at least not right now. Even if she managed a miracle, where could she go and what could she do with both church and state against her? Anchor Logh was a big place, but the Sister General had been right about one thing—the people believed totally in the system because the alternatives were so horrible. She might make it back home for a couple of days, but once her number was picked in the Paring Rite even her own parents, sad and grieving as they might be, would turn her in.

  She felt curiously ambivalent about her future. The fact was, the high priestess had been correct about her. She had seen too much, and she had lost her faith. The system was based on the scriptures, and now she had caught the church red-handed circumventing its own system. If the church could do that, it must follow the scriptures only when it was convenient for it to do so, and if the church didn’t really buy those holy writings, how in hell could she?

  She wondered again about the stringers who’d invoked such horror in her. It was obvious that they knew it was all a sham, for they participated and even profited by it. Perhaps that explained their callous attitude towards everything and everyone. They knew it was all phony, strictly business and cynically amoral. If you knew that right from the start, as they most certainly did, and you also knew that there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it, what sort of person might you become? The answer to that one made stringers at least understandable as people, although she still couldn’t agree with or like anyone who assisted so eagerly in perpetuating the fraud for personal gain.