Cluster c-1

by Piers Anthony

  On a good day, he could turn out several hundred assorted blades. A year ago, upon achieving his maturity, he had given a public demonstration. Thus he had earned his name and become the flintsmith. As long as there was flint to be had, and his hands remained uninjured, his position was secure.

  That was another reason to marry Honeybloom. She was a sweet girl, and beautiful, always amenable, but not unduly bright The Shaman had tried to argue him out of making the commitment to her, on the grounds that she would become poor company the moment her figure went to fat. But she had a fair talent for magic, and specialized in hands. Even as she had given him the stiff finger—retribution, she had claimed, for what he had done with it one time when he had caught her sleeping—she could ensure that his hands remained strong and supple. That was insurance he had to have.

  Crack! Another blade. Crack! Yet another. It always took him a while to get the rhythm of it, the feel, but he was warming up beautifully now. With luck, he would turn out his full day’s quota despite the loss of the morning.

  “Flint.” The voice startled him, destroying his concentration, and he muffed a shot. A foully misshapen fragment of stone skittered across the ground. Damn!

  He looked up, his upper lip lifting in a silent snarl. But he didn’t speak, for this was no ordinary intruder, no naked tribe child. It was a man wearing the uniform of the Imperial Guard. His skin was so pale as to be virtually white, slug-white, like the Shaman’s, which meant he was Earthborn. From the spaceport, obviously; one of their idle personnel. But the Imperial Guard was not to be ignored.

  Flint, like most natives, didn’t care for clothing. It interfered with necessary activity. Only in winter would he don protective gear.

  “I am Flint,” he said.

  “Come with me.”

  Once every five years the Imperials rounded up all the children of the tribe and ran them through a battery of tests. It was a meaningless procedure, but the kids got a kick out of it and it seemed to satisfy the Earthborns. But this was not the year or the time, and Flint was no longer a child. Earth had no present call on him. “Like hell I will!” he snapped. “I’ve got work to do.”

  The Guardsman reached for his weapon—a regulation blaster.

  Flint was on his feet instantly, poised, a flint blade held expertly between his fingers. “Want to try it, Imp?” he whispered.

  Now a crowd of children had gathered, gawking at the scene. The Imperial reconsidered. If he blasted Flint, he would be deemed a murderer, attacking a naked and effectively unarmed primitive. If Flint killed him with that blade, he would be dead. Either way, he would have failed in his mission. “You have to come, Flint,” he said. “It’s by order of the Regent of Earth. The capsule just arrived.”

  “What does the Regent want with me?” Flint demanded, not relaxing.

  “He wants to send you to Sol. That’s all I know.”

  “Sol!” the children cried, amazed.

  Flint laughed. “Me to Sol! No one goes to Sol. They come from there!”

  But then he remembered the omen. Could this be its meaning?

  In that moment of Flint’s hesitation, the Imperial Guard drew his blaster. “Nothing personal,” he said. “But orders are orders. You’re being mattermitted to Earth—today.”

  But the resistance was gone from Flint. He could have handled the guard, and hidden from the Earthborns—but how could he fight the omen? His magic was weak, and this sign had reached across 108 light-years to touch him. Against that, there was no defense.

  2. Mission of Ire

  *notice target galaxy development*

  —notice taken report—

  *transfer logged 80 intensity motion 1500 parsecs from sphere knyfh to underdeveloped region*

  —potential interest evidently knyfh is searching for assistance unable to monitor outer galaxy alone futile no advanced cultures in that segment—

  *addendum number of technologically incipient cultures in vicinity cluster of spheres*

  —itemize—

  *canopus spica polaris antares sador nath bellatrix mirzam mintaka*

  —cluster of nonentities canopus is slave culture spica waterbound sador regressive to core mintaka interested only in music antares possesses transfer but uses it only internally polaris represents potential threat owing to efficient circularity this is where knyfh transferred?—

  *correction transferred to sphere sol*

  —sol! barely technological small sphere—

  *advanced rapidly in recent period after awkward breakthrough*

  —concurrence detail on sol—

  *abortive mattermission expansion depleted source planet almost to point of nonreturn followed by disciplined starship colonization 400 source planet cycles or years major colonies sirius and procyon atomic level altair formalhaut vega machine technology arich mufrid pollux arcturus denebola castor capella all pre-industrial commerce sheriton deneb-kaitos aldebaran alioth corserpentis sabik all medieval remaining colonies further regressed to subcivilized*

  —enough! with nucleus of only three atomic-level settlements including origin sphere represents very limited actuality and questionable potential no action required at this time continue monitoring to ascertain purpose of knyfh transfer if other than desperation quest—

  *POWER*

  —CIVILIZATION—

  Flint looked about, still angry despite the omen. He was in a huge room, much like the main chamber of the Imp station on Outworld, but larger. Vents set high in the walls let in slits of light—no, it was artificial light after all, that was one of the things the Imps had—and there was a growling as of hidden machines running. The overall effect was awful.

  “Flint of Etamin?” a woman inquired. She had no sex appeal; she was flat-breasted, cloud-white, and spoke with a strong Imp accent. Flint presumed this really was Imperial Earth, and he didn’t like it.

  “Etamin—double star on the Fringe,” she said. Her voice was low but not soft.

  This elicited a spark of interest. “You mean Sol isn’t double?” he inquired. He was not being facetious; it had not occurred to him that Sol should differ from his home sun in this significant respect. No wonder Sol was so faint in the sky. But of course there was no reason a single star should not support life; it was the planet that counted.

  “Please don this tunic,” she said, holding out a bolt of red cloth.

  “You want me to put on a red dress?” he asked incredulously.

  “It is not a dress. It is an Imperial tunic. All citizens wear them, males and females. You will note that I wear one.”

  Flint looked again. This Imp was not merely flat-breasted, but non-breasted. “You’re male!” he said, surprised. The dress and the smooth, unbearded face had deceived him, but the voice and chest should have given him the hint. He was being dangerously unobservant.

  The man rolled his pale eyes briefly skyward in a feminine gesture. “What color tunic would you prefer? Anything except black.”

  “Why not black?”

  “That signifies officialdom.”

  Flint disliked officialdom. “I’m happy the way I am.”

  Now an evanescent smile. “That simply won’t do. You’re no Tarot figure.”

  “Tarow people are naked?”

  “That’s Tarot, with an unpronounced terminal T. Merely illustrations on occult cards used by the cult of Tarotism. Its prime tenet is that all concepts of God are valid.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  Again the rolling of eyes. “You’re to meet the Council of Ministers in fifteen minutes. You must be dressed.”

  Flint realized that argument would only delay his return home. “Give me a green one, then. I’m a green man.”

  “Very good,” the white man said distastefully. He produced a green tunic that came reasonably close to matching Flint’s skin, and Flint put it on over his head. He balked at using the silk undergarment the man tried to make him wear under it, however. A dress was bad enough, but no warrior or craftsman wor
e panties! Suppose he needed to urinate in a hurry?

  A woman—a real one this time, with breasts and hips and hair, though dressed just like the man—came and slicked down his proudly unruly hair, washed his hands and feet, and trimmed off the better part of his strong finger- and toenails. She was, despite her pale skin, an attractive female with a musky odor and a deft touch; otherwise he would not have submitted to these indignities. He hoped he would not have to fight soon; his hands were now as embarrassingly dainty as Honeybloom’s.

  He was ushered into a capsule that closed about him and abruptly plunged through the wall. He had a confused glimpse of buildings like straight vertical cliffs, and crowds of robed people. Up above the sky was blue, not green, and the light of the sun was sickeningly yellowish. This was Imp Earth, all right! Then the capsule penetrated another wall like a spearpoint through hide, and stopped inside.

  A bit dizzy, Flint got out.

  A man stepped up to grasp his hand. Flint was tempted to grab that flabby hand and throw the bastard over his shoulder, but restrained himself. It was better to ascertain the facts before acting, as the Shaman always reminded him. Then he could throw a few Imps about.

  “Welcome, Flint of Outworld. I am the Minister of Population. It was our excellent aura-intensity files that located you. The Council is ready for you now.”

  “Ugh,” Flint grunted noncommittally. He followed the man through bare halls like the base of an overgrown vine forest. He felt confined, his vision, hearing, and smell restricted to the point of uselessness; surely this was one of the fabled Earth prisons. He kept a nervous eye out for predators, though he knew that the larger dinosaurs had died out on Earth.

  The Council of Ministers was a group of undistinguished men in identical black tunics. Their faces and hands were bone-white, except for one brown man. They introduced themselves in rapid order, though they hardly seemed sufficiently distinct from each other to warrant names. Flint made disinterested note in case there were ever any future relevance. He had a perfect memory for such details; it came of practice in hunting and scouting. The Shaman called it “eidetic.”

  “I’ll come straight to the point,” the brown man said. He was the Regent, and seemed to have more character than the others. “You have a high Kirlian aura—er, do you know what that is?”

  “No.” This was something the Shaman had not mentioned, unless it was the Imp name for intelligence. Keer-lee-an aura?

  “Very well,” the man said, with a grimace that showed it was not very well. “I’ll explain. It is a kind of a field of force associated with living things, like a magnetic field—do you know what that is?”

  “No.” Actually the Shaman had mentioned magnetism, but Flint was not in a good mood.

  “Complete savage,” one of the Ministers murmured in a comment he evidently thought Flint could not overhear. The man did not realize that a complete savage would have acute hearing for wilderness survival. Flint was proud of his primitive heritage, though he realized the Minister had intended the remark disparagingly. Well, toss one more Imp—in due course.

  “Hm, yes,” the Regent said. “Well, some four or five hundred years ago, when Earth was just emerging into the space age, the twentieth century, you know, scientists discovered that there were phenomena that could not be explained by conventional means. ESP, PSI, dowsing, precognition—fascinating concepts in their time—”

  One of the Ministers cleared his throat, and Flint realized why they liked to be so similar: it was difficult to tell which one had interrupted the discussion.

  The Regent frowned and continued. “At any rate, it was obvious that force fields of an unknown nature existed. In 1939 a Soviet electrician—uh, the Soviets were a nation, somewhat like a stellar system except they were right here on Earth—called Semyon Davidovich Kirlian photographed the patterns of bioluminescence—that is, a glow from living things—that appeared in certain high-frequency electrical fields. This effect resembled a fireworks display, with multicolored flares, sparks, twinkles, glows, and lines. In fact, a Kirlian photograph of a living human hand resembled the image of our galaxy with all its stars and clusters and swirls of dust and gas. And so this discovery—”

  “Really, our guest isn’t interested in this detail,” the Minister of Population interjected.

  The truth was, Flint was interested. A human hand that had fields of energy like the galaxy? But if he revealed how much he understood, he would spoil his image of barbaric ignorance, so he kept silent.

  “My point,” the Regent continued, “is that this was the start of what was to become the major science of bioluminescence. It has had profound effects on medicine, agriculture, criminology, archaeology, and other sciences, because every living thing has its Kirlian aura, whose pattern is unique to it and varies with its health and mood and experience. Some even call this aura the astral body or the soul. There are religious implications—”

  Again the anonymous clearing of a throat.

  “Well, the Kirlian aura is now subject to precise measurement. It varies in intensity and detail with different individuals. Some have weak fields, some strong fields. Most are average. You happen to have a very strong field. This means you would be a good subject for transfer of identity to another body, for where your Kirlian aura goes, you go—because your aura is your essence.”

  Suddenly Flint caught the man’s drift. “Like mattermission—to someone else’s body!”

  “To someone else’s body and brain—but you retain your own personality and memories, because they are inherent in your aura. As you change, it changes, reflecting your growth. Your aura is you. In this case, it goes to something else’s body. You are about to have the magnificent adventure of traveling to the stars.”

  The notion had its appeal. Flint was intrigued by the stars, and all the stories connected with them. But he remained angry. “I just traveled from a star—and I want to go back.”

  “But this is a signal honor. No human being has done this before. You will be an extraordinary envoy to alien Spheres—”

  “The old goat almost makes me want to transfer,” one of the Ministers whispered to another.

  Not only did Flint overhear this, he knew the Regent heard it too, for the man’s lips twitched into the merest suggestion of a snarl. This Council was like a nest of piranha-beetles when the meat ran out, snapping at anything that moved, including each other. Flint’s own ire was simple: he wanted to go home. The Ministers’ ire was complex, but not his business, unless he could find some way to turn it to his own advantage. Maybe one of them would help him escape, just to spite the others?

  For he had no intention of having his aura transferred. “Go to the stars—in some creature’s body?” Flint thought of being a wheeled Polarian, and was revolted.

  “Precisely. And you will bring to those Spheres the secret of transfer itself, and enlist them in the galactic coalition—”

  But Flint had heard more than enough. He turned and ran out of the chamber so quickly that the assembled Ministers were left staring. “Stop him!” the Regent cried.

  Imperial guards appeared, barring Flint’s passage. But they were civilized and soft, while he was a tough Stone Age warrior. He dodged the first, ducked under the reaching arm of the second, and nudged the third into the fourth. He really felt crippled, without either spear or fingernails! He left them behind in a tangle.

  He came to the capsule area and jumped into one. The transparent cover closed over him and the thing launched through the wall. This time Flint watched closely: The wall irised open as the blunt snout of the craft shoved in, so that it formed an aperture just the right size. He emerged outside, and looked back to see the wall closing behind like the anus of a grazing dinosaur. And what did that make the capsule and its occupant, ejected like this from the bowel of the building? Flint smiled briefly, thinking of what men called Polarians. Now Flint himself was the dinosaur dropping.

  The capsule was on some sort of vine or wire that extended befor
e and after, a bead on a string. That was why it didn’t fall into the chasm between buildings. Flint felt nervous, peering down into the void; if that string broke—but of course it wouldn’t. The Imps were very careful about things like that, being extremely dependent on their machines.

  Now he had only a moment to make plans. The Imps would be waiting for him at the next stop. He had to outmaneuver them. But it would be foolish to go out into this awesome city; he would give himself away in an instant even if he found a way to cover up his green skin. He had to act in a manner they did not expect And he had to get home.

  The capsule punched into the next building. Evidently it was a shuttle, going back and forth between the matter-mission center and the Ministry. Yet that was limited, and outside there had been a network of lines like the spreading limbs of a large vine tree. Surely the string continued to other places.

  There was a little panel of buttons before him, and a sign. He could not read it, but could guess: This was a manual control system, like reins on the horses that more civilized worlds than Outworld used. He punched buttons randomly as the capsule slowed to a halt. He could see the Imp guards clustered at the landing.

  Abruptly the capsule took off again. It shot past the surprised faces of the guards and on through the opposite wall. Now he was back in suspension, seeing the connecting lines spreading every which way. Each one represented potential escape, if only he could figure out the system in time. Flint punched more buttons, and the capsule slowed, as if confused by the multiple directions.

  By quick experimentation and use of his excellent memory, Flint got a notion of how to operate the thing. Each button represented a preset destination, like telling a child runner “Go to Chief Strongspear.” The question was, where did he want to go—and illiterate as he was, how could he choose that particular button?