Cluster c-1

by Piers Anthony

  Flint grabbed a spear from the nearest FreeSlave and used it to knock the man down. This was a weapon he was expert with, in any body! He charged T%x. But the others piled on him in a mass and crushed him down, holding him helpless.

  “One more time, spy,” T%x said to ¢le. It was evident that the sight of her agony had excited him. He was a sadist, sexually stimulated by the infliction of pain. Which meant there would be no mercy in him. “What is the Masters’ plan?”

  ¢le caught her breath and wiped the mud her spittle had formed from her face. “I don’t know anything about—” she said. And leaped for T%x.

  But the pain caught her in midair. Twelve.

  Red froth bubbled from her mouth as she fell. Flint had never seen such an expression of total agony. Her entire body jerked and shook, her wide-open eyes scraped through the dirt unblinking, and she soiled herself involuntarily. The watching FreeSlaves burst into laughter.

  “Turn it off!” Flint bawled. “I’ll tell you anything you want!”

  But T%x did not turn it off. He watched, fascinated, while the thing that had been ¢le shuddered and twisted.

  Abruptly she stopped. Her features relaxed, as though she were sleeping, just as the broken-armed $mg of Y◊jr had relaxed. “T%x,” one of the FreeSlaves said nervously, “I think she’s—”

  “Dead,” T%x said, turning off the box. “Serves the spy right.” He was breathing hard.

  But ¢le wasn’t dead. Her body still breathed.

  T%x turned the dial up again, experimentally, seeing whether he could get another kick out of the victim. There was no response. “Strange…” he muttered.

  “Mindless!” the FreeSlave said, awed. “You killed her mind!”

  T%x considered, startled. “All right,” he said. “That’s even better. Put her in my cave. I can still use her, and she won’t be any trouble now.” He turned to Flint. “Give me his number.”

  Flint realized that this depraved creature would torture and kill for the pleasure of it; the information he sought was merely an excuse. The Master in the saucer had been a better creature, an enemy but no sadist, and not stupid.

  Saucers appeared in the sky—eight or nine of them. The FreeSlaves started to run in terror. Pain-beams cut them down, herding them back to the center. Cattle!

  Flint made a break for his saucer. He scrambled over the rim and jammed his feet into the well, striking the lift pedal.

  Nothing happened.

  “Your carrier has been deactivated,” a pleasant Master’s voice said from a speaker in the saucer. “Remain where you are.”

  Flint hauled himself out and dived for the edge—and into an invisible pain-field. He crumpled. There was no way to resist that flesh-permeating agony; his muscles stiffened involuntarily and prevented controlled action.

  The pain diminished. “Remain where you are,” the voice repeated gently.

  Now Flint could fight it, for the level was only one or two. But the moment he moved, it shot up to eight or ten. He got the message. He was captive.

  “I am B:::1,” the Master interrogator said. “According to your statement to the runaways, you are an agent of Sphere Sol, our galactic neighbor. Were you sent to foment rebellion among the Slave population?”

  “Eat your own eggs,” Flint said.

  “I presume that is intended to be derogatory,” B:::1 said mildly. “We do not react to the remarks of Slaves—but if you are from another Sphere, you are a special case, not subject to our customs. Since you took the life of one of our number, the latter status would be advantageous for you.”

  Flint did not answer.

  “We have drugs,” the Master said. “They are effective in making any Slave tell all he knows. But if you are not a Slave it would be bad form to use them on you. We do not want trouble with our neighbors, and we do not seek a quarrel with Sphere Sol. We ask only to be left alone.”

  Flint had expected to be tortured. This approach perplexed him. What was his proper course?

  “Perhaps you have been influenced by the fact that the Slaves are humanoid, as we understand are the masters of Sphere Sol,” B:::1 continued reasonably. “But you have now observed that the Slaves are not civilized. Before we assumed control, their history was wastefully violent. They were breeding themselves into planetary famine, and rapidly exhausting their irreplaceable resources, such as fossil fuels. Pollution disease was taking hideous toll of their health. They did not precede us into space because they were too busy warring with each other while despoiling their environment with seemingly suicidal determination. We brought lasting peace and health to the Slave populace by providing the sensible control and moderation they lacked. Otherwise they might well be extinct by now, or reduced to truly barbaric levels. Your true affinity as a member of a Spherical sapient species is with us, the civilized, regardless of the accident of physical form.”

  The problem was, it was true. The FreeSlaves were ignorant brutes, and not merely because of recent breeding. The Masters, in contrast, had treated Flint with a certain diffident courtesy despite his insults to them. They were—adult.

  “Why did you not inform the Slaves of your mission at the outset?” B:::1 asked. “I refer to those of the plantation.”

  “I tried. They wouldn’t listen.” Then Flint jumped. “You bastard! You tricked me into admitting it!”

  “It is obvious that you are not a Slave. Your entire manner betrays it. Since we know that through an error Øro of N*kr was subjected to unconscionable punishment, the sensible explanation is that his mind was destroyed and his body taken over by an alien. We know such things are possible; it has happened in the past.”

  “You’re pretty smart,” Flint said grudgingly. He decided not to mention Φiw of Vops, the Slave foreman. Why place a good man in jeopardy? “The Slaves simply would not believe me—any of them.”

  “That is because they are ignorant,” B:::1 said, his mandibles making a little click of understanding. “To them, transfer is superstition, possession by demonic influence. But you could have reached us immediately.”

  “I could?” Flint asked, surprised. He had abandoned any pretense; he did have to deal with these Masters. This was what he had been sent here for.

  “Verify it with your body’s memory.”

  Flint checked… and discovered what had been there all the time: any Slave could petition for an interview with any Master, anytime. Such a petition was invariably granted, and the circumstance of the complaint promptly and thoroughly investigated. Justice was rigorous—within the framework of the system. The Slaves did have rights, zealously protected by the Masters themselves.

  He could have made his petition, even on the punishment rack, and had the complete and personal attention of a responsible Master within an hour. His mission would have been completed had he really wanted to accomplish it that way. But he had preferred to fight, and to seek the humanoid Slaves.

  What did he want—the elevation of brutes like T%x? That would hardly save the galaxy! He had been a fool, allowing superficial appearances and subjective feelings to interfere with his mission. He would not make that mistake again!

  “I am Flint of Outworld,” he said formally. “Sphere Sol, as you surmised. I have come to give you the secret of transfer.”

  “We do not desire transfer,” B:::1 said without even a pause.

  This set Flint back. “We are not demanding payment. We want you to have it. I’ll explain why.”

  B:::1 made a little flutter of his wing-cloak, signifying comprehension and negation. “Transfer would disrupt our system. A Slave economy functions best when identity is irrevocably fixed in its original body. If it became possible for Masters and Slaves to exchange bodies, even briefly, it would evoke disastrous unrest.”

  Flint pondered. He did not understand the intricacies of politics or economics, but was sure this Master did. “More than your system is at stake,” Flint said. “The entire galaxy is in peril.”

  “That well may be. But the moment
we begin to interfere with our neighbor Spheres, we become subject to interference from them. Since we do not desire this, we choose to minimize this possibility by keeping to ourselves.”

  “Even if you are all destroyed—Masters and Slaves together?”

  “We must exist according to our dictates—even at such a risk.”

  Flint shook his head in an un-Slavelike gesture. He didn’t know what to say, not having anticipated such a response. Yet he should have foreseen this, for now he recognized the same pattern shown by the Master of the saucer, who had died rather than yield even a fraction of his self-determination. “Well, I certainly can’t force you. I’d better go home.”

  “Excellent. We shall construct a transfer unit to send you back, then destroy it. I think your government will understand.”

  Flint remembered the Council of Ministers of Imperial Earth. Yes, they were just the kind of fatheads to understand an attitude such as this!

  Three Master technicians discussed the matter with him. They were intelligent, and quickly grasped the principles of what he was saying better than he himself did. He spouted incomprehensible formulas, the gift of his eidetic memory, and they shuddered with delight, admiring the sheer beauty of the logic. First he covered the Kirlian aura, and they modified their equipment to pick this up.

  “As you can see,” Flint said, “most entities have auras of a certain standard intensity. Some have stronger fields… and here is mine.” He stepped into the sensing chamber. Their dial registered to one hundred, but the indicator jammed at the top. They were suitably impressed.

  “Now you have to modify one of your matter transmitters to fix only on this aura—which is tricky, because it completely permeates the body,” Flint said. “Here are the formulas…”

  But it was not so easy after all. The Masters used a different kind of transmitter—one that could ship larger amounts more economically, but was quite limited in range. Ten light-years was the maximum; five was the average. They traversed their Sphere by a series of hops from system to system, and had the routes so well organized that their Sphere suffered much less Fringe-regression than the human Sphere did. But the technology of their mattermitters was quite different from Sol’s.

  Since transfer was a refinement of mattermission, Flint’s information was not applicable. A mattermission expert who understood the formulas of transfer adaptation could have adapted to the situation, but Flint was a Stone Age primitive with only rote information—set for the wrong equipment. It would take the Masters months or even years to iron out the wrinkles.

  So Flint could not, after all, provide them with the secret of transfer. And he could not go home—not by mattermission.

  “We shall take care of you,” B:::1 said with insectoid cheer. “Perhaps within a decade or two some other Sphere will contact us, and you will be able to depart.”

  Small comfort, and the Masters obviously neither expected nor wanted such contact. “In a few months—maybe less—it will be immaterial,” Flint explained. “My Kirlian aura is fading, day by day. In a few months I will be no more than a—a Slave!”

  “There will always be a place in the burl plantations for you,” the Master said consolingly.

  “Thanks.” Nothing like near-mindless drudgery, enforced by the punishment-box! And not even a pretty ¢le to share it with.

  That reminded him. “¢le—¢le of A[th]—what happened to her?”

  “Do not concern yourself about her,” B:::1 said.

  “But I am concerned. She helped me, she resisted torture. They thought she was one of your spies—”

  “So she was.”

  Flint stared, but could not read the alien countenance. Yet why should the Master bother to lie?

  “We hoped she would find her way to more formidable FreeSlave resistance,” B:::1 explained. “There is a constant pilfering, minor disruption, firing of the crops. But all we got was T%x of D)(d and his ragged band. If she learned anything more, it is lost. Her mind was set to self-destruct before she betrayed her mission.”

  So she had not had the chance to betray Φiw. Flint had, realistically, changed sides—but he was disinclined to turn in the Slave who had been sincere, clever, and courageous. “I’d like to see her,” he said.

  The Master made a negligent gesture with one thin black appendage. “She is in the Slave infirmary. You have freedom of this complex; we know you now. I suggest that you do not go outside.”

  “I am a prisoner?”

  “No. It is merely that those outside would mistake you for a Slave.”

  Clear enough! “Maybe someone could escort me. To the infirmary—and back.”

  B:::1 made a little twitch of assent, “Go to the Slave service station.”

  It was evident that the Masters regarded him as akin to Slaves, despite their overt courtesy. Well, nothing he could do about it; he had failed his mission through no fault of the Masters. He went.

  Slaves were not permitted to enter the Masters’ domicile, but were summoned to the Slave station next to it It was understood that no Master would deign to escort a creature resembling a Slave to a Slave function. A responsible Slave would be assigned the task.

  The responsible Slave was there. “Φiw!” Flint exclaimed. “Φiw of Vops!”

  The foreman was as surprised to see him. “Øro of N*kr! You are free?”

  “It’s a long story. I am not what I seem.”

  They walked slowly toward the infirmary. “You seemed like a rebel,” Φiw said. “Or an alien. I did my best to prevent your escape.”

  “The girl was an agent of the Masters. I am now working with them.”

  Φiw was well disciplined, but he was unable to conceal his agitation. “Then they know—”

  “The Masters know you did your best to prevent our escape. The girl might have had another opinion, but she perished before making her report. Since I killed a mounted Master, it was evident that you, a mere Slave, could not have restrained me.” Even if he had tried…

  Φiw was silent. Flint had reassured him, obliquely, but it was obvious that the Masters had hardly been fooled. Why else had they summoned this particular Slave from the field to perform this particular chore?

  ¢le was lying on a bunk in an isolated cell. Flint felt a terrible pity for her. Double agent or not, she had been nice to know, and she had died cruelly. “May I go in?”

  “She has no mind,” Φiw reminded him. “She cannot be revived.”

  “I know. Still…” Flint could not express what he really wanted, as he did not himself know. He felt the way he did at the death service of a friend: awed, useless, feeling a great loss yet unable to do anything to alleviate it. Grief. Yet a land of perverse relief that he himself had not died—this time.

  Φiw, indifferent, touched the lock in an intricate pattern, and the gate slid open. Flint entered. Φiw remained outside, perhaps in deference to the dead, and the gate closed between them. It occurred to Flint that he was a prisoner now, locked in—but the matter was academic. No prison was more confining than nontransfer.

  He looked down at the breathing form, trying to tell whether she was awake or sleeping. But the mindless state made it irrelevant; she would never wake again. Maybe she was better off than he…

  He felt compelled to touch her. It was to a large extent his fault that this had happened to her. She was extraordinarily pretty, and had deserved better. Even though a spy, she had showed a lot of spirit.

  “¢le…” he murmured as his hand met her flesh.

  And he felt the intimate shock of her potent Kirlian aura.

  ¢le sat up suddenly. Her arms whipped around his neck, curling tight. She was hugging him!

  No—she was choking him! Bemused at this seeming vengeance from the grave, and fazed by the remarkable interaction of their auras—for hers was as strong as his!—Flint nevertheless responded automatically. He took her two small wrists in his hands and ripped them away. Her weaker feminine muscles could not compete with his.

 
He held her before him. “If this is mindlessness, I’d hate to see you whole!” he said.

  “What are you doing?” Φiw demanded. “Put her down! It is profane to maul the dead!” He thought Flint had initiated the action.

  ¢le’s foot came up to strike his groin, but Flint had indulged in hand-to-hand combat before, with male and female. Her muscle tension warned him; he twisted aside and threw her back on the bunk.

  Pain caught him. He stiffened against the gate, Φiw had set the punishment-box for his number and activated it. “The dead are sacred,” Φiw said grimly.

  “She’s undead!” Flint gasped. The pain was set at about three—enough to be effective, but not so as to incapacitate him completely. Φiw had good judgment. “Look at her!”

  Indeed she was undead. ¢le had already bounced off the bunk to come at him again. He was paralyzed with pain. She took hold of him and threw him to the floor in what he recognized as an expert combat technique. Then she applied a blood strangle to his neck, her fingers digging for the major artery. But she didn’t quite have it.

  Flint’s pain cut off. The gate slid open and Φiw bounded in. He hauled ¢le off and applied a nerve grip of his own. In a moment she was unconscious. This verified Flint’s prior suspicion: Φiw knew how to fight very well. He had been clumsy by design.

  Flint sat up, rubbing his neck. “You know, you might have been better off if you had let her kill me—then killed her yourself. Unfortunate accident of timing.”

  Φiw met his gaze. “You aliens think all Slaves are stupid—and worse, that the Masters are. The Masters know what I did; they do not punish me because it would accomplish nothing. They know I will never again attempt disloyalty. They are just, and I have learned. Were they to accuse me openly, they would have to punish me, and that would cost me status among Slaves and decrease my effectiveness.”

  Flint nodded. “I have learned, too.” Master and Slave—they understood each other. He had been foolish to try to interfere.