Blue Adept (21 page)

Yet he knew now that even had Sheen been a real person—a real live person—she would not have been able to retain his full devotion after he encountered the Lady Blue. Because what had been his ideal woman two months ago was that no longer. The Lady Blue had a detailed and fascinating past as well as a future; she was changing with the passage of time, as Sheen could not, and so was matching Stile’s own development. The Lady Blue had reshaped his ideal, conforming it to her likeness in flesh and personality and history. He was becoming acclimatized to the world of Phaze, and was losing identification with the world of Proton.

It was not merely a matter of women; he would have loved Phaze regardless. Magic had become a more intriguing challenge than the Game. But he had a commitment here in Proton, and he would see it through. And he had a gnawing need to ferret out his anonymous enemy and bring that person to an accounting. Who had lasered his knees? Who had sent Sheen to guard him? He could never rest content in Phaze until he knew the answers.
 
But Sheen was already bustling him out. “We can’t keep a Citizen waiting; we have to get to that address in time.” “I suppose so,” Stile agreed, resenting the waste of time.
 
In one sense, a serf’s employment by a Citizen ended when that serf entered the Tourney, since all tenure was terminated by such entry. But in another sense employment continued, for Citizens identified with those of their serfs who entered, making bets on their success. Many Citizens gave serfs time off to practice for the Tourney, so as to do better; Stile’s own Employer had done that. And if he won an extension of tenure, he would still need an Employer for that period. So whatever the technical status, he had better act in a manner conducive to the Citizen’s good will.

“I didn’t know she had a dome at this address,” Sheen remarked as they hurried to a subtube station. As a machine, she had little genuine curiosity, but with her programming and under Stile’s tutelage she had mastered this most feminine quality. Hardly ever did she make errors of characterization, now. “But of course all Citizens are obscenely rich. She must be watching the Tourney from a private retreat.”

They boarded the tube shuttle. A third passenger joined them—a middle-aged serf woman, well-formed. She was naked, like all serfs, and carrying a sealed freezer-container.
 
“My Employer insists the ice cream from one particular public foodmart tastes better than the ice cream from anywhere else,” she confided, tapping the container. “So every day I have to make the trip and bring it back by hand. She thinks robot delivery distorts the flavor.”

“It probably does,” Sheen said, smiling obscurely.
 

“Citizens are like that,” Stile said, falling into the ready camaraderie of serfs. “I’m entered in the Tourney, but my Employer requires a personal report instead of the official one, so I’m making a trip every bit as foolish.” He had no worry about visual and auditory perception devices that might report this conversation to the Citizens; of course they existed, but Citizens had no interest in the opinions of serfs, and expected them to grumble privately.
 

“That’s funny,” the woman said. “There are only three Citizens at this terminus. Mine has no interest in the Tourney, and another’s off-planet on business, and the third—“ She broke off.

Sheen became alert. “What about the third?”

“Well, he hates the Tourney. Says it’s a waste of time and only generates new Citizens when the planet has too many already. You couldn’t be seeing him.”

 
“My Employer is a woman,” Stile said.

“Mine is the only woman on this annex—and she surely is not sponsoring you.”

Stile showed her the address-card.

“That’s the Tourney-hater!” the woman exclaimed.
 
“He’s no woman!” She made a small, significant gesture near her midsection. “I know.”

Stile exchanged a glance with Sheen. The woman had signified that the Citizen borrowed her for sexual purpose, as was his right so long as her own Employer acquiesced.
 
Citizens of either sex could use serfs of either sex this way, and surely a woman knew the sex of her user.
 

“My Employer is female,” Stile said, suffering a new qualm. Could she have summoned him in the flesh because she wanted to dally with a serf? He would not be able to refuse her, but this was a complication he did not want.
 
“Are you sure that address hasn’t changed ownership recently?”

“Quite sure. I was there only two days ago.” Again the gesture. “Heaven and Hell.”

“Maybe my Employer is visiting him,” Stile said.
 
“That must be it,” the woman agreed. “He has quite a taste for women, and does prefer Citizens when he can get them. Is she pretty?”

“Handsome,” Stile said. “As you are.”

She nodded knowingly. “But you,” she said to Sheen.
 
“You had best keep that luscious body out of his sight, or you could mess it up for your mistress.” Stile smiled. Naturally the serf assumed Sheen was also an employee. Sheen could mess it up for any rival woman, and not just because of her beauty.

The shuttle slowed. “This is my station,” the woman said. “Yours is next. Good luck!”

When they were alone. Stile turned to Sheen. “I don’t like this. We can’t skip out on a command appearance, but something seems wrong. Could the message be faked?”

“It’s genuine,” Sheen said. She was a machine; she could tell. “But I agree. Something is funny. I’m summoning help.”

“I don’t think you should involve your friends in this. They don’t want to call the attention of a Citizen to them-selves.”

“Only to trace the origin of that message,” she said.
 
“And to rouse your robot double. I think we can stall a few minutes while he travels by fast freight.” The shuttle stopped. They got out and moved to a local food dispenser, using up the necessary time. Sheen ate a piece of reconstituted carrot. She was a machine but could process food through her system, though it never was digested. Stile contented himself with a cup of nutro-cocoa.
 
In a surprisingly short time a freight hatch opened and the Stile-robot emerged, carrying a shipment tag. “Start breathing,” Sheen told it, and the model animated. “Take this card, report to this address. Broadcast continuously to me.”

Without a word the robot took the card, glanced at it, and walked down the passage. The thing looked so small!
 
Stile was embarrassed to think that this was the way he appeared to others: a child-man, thirty-five years old but the size of a twelve-year-old boy.

“Move,” Sheen murmured, guiding him through a service aperture. “If there is trouble, we need to vanish.” She located a storage chamber, and they settled down to wait. “Now,” she said, putting her arms about him and kissing him. She was fully as soft and sensual as any live woman. But she froze in midkiss. “Oops.”

“What—my lips lose their living flavor?”

“I’m getting the report from the robot.” Sheen used the term without self-consciousness. She was to an ordinary robot as a holograph was to a child’s crayon-picture. “It is a mistake. The male Citizen has no visitor, and he sent no message. Oooh!” She shook her head. “That hurt.” How could she feel pain?

“An unkind word?”

“Destruction. He had the robot shoved in a meltbeam disposer. The robot’s gone.”

Just like that! Stile’s own likeness, presenting himself in lieu of Stile, melted into waste material! Of course it was foolish to get sentimental about machines, Sheen excepted, but Stile had interacted briefly with the robot and felt a certain identification. “Did he know it was a robot?”

 
“I don’t think so. But he knows now. People don’t melt the same way. They scorch and stink.” She cocked her head, listening. “Yes, we have to decamp. The Citizen is casting about for other intruders.”

Stile remembered his encounter with the Black Adept, in Phaze: absolute resistance to intrusions. Enforcement by tacit murder—it seemed that type of personality was not unique to Adepts.

Sheen was drawing him on. Suddenly they were up and out, on the bleak surface of Proton adjacent to the Citizen’s pleasure dome. She opened her front and removed a nose-mask. “Put this on; it is supplied with oxygen. It will tide you through for a while.”

Stile obliged. When he found himself gasping, he breathed a sniff through his nose and was recharged.
 
The external landscape was awful. The ground was bare sand; no vegetation. A bare mountain range showed to the near south, rising into the yellowish haze of pollution.
 
Stile made a quick mental geographical calculation and concluded that these were the Purple Mountains of Phaze.
 
They were actually not too far from the region of the Mound Folk. Except that no such Little People existed in this frame. Or did they? Most people had parallels; how could there be entire tribes in one frame, and none in the other? “Sheen, do you know of any people living in those mountains?”

“The Protonite mines are there,” she reminded him.
 
“The serfs that work there get stunted—“ She broke off, glancing around. Something stirred. “Oh, no! He’s got perimeter mechanicals out. We’ll never get through that.” Stile stood and watched, appalled. From trenches in the ground small tanks charged, cannon mounted on their turrets. They formed a circle around the domed estate, moving rapidly, their radar antennae questing for targets.
 
Sheen hauled him through the forcefield into the dome.
 
The field was like the curtain: merely a tingle, but it separated one type of world from another. As they crossed it, the rich air enclosed them, and a penetration alarm sounded. They were certainly in trouble!
 

“Can your friends defuse the robot tanks?” Stile asked as they ran through outer storage chambers.

“No. The tanks are on an autonomous system. Only the Citizen can override their action. We’re better off in here.” There was the sound of androids converging. “Not much better,” Stile muttered. But she was off again, and he had to follow.

They ducked in and out of service passages. Sheen had unerring awareness of these, being able to tune in on the directive signals for maintenance robots. But the pursuit was close; they could not halt to camouflage themselves or ponder defensive measures.

Suddenly they burst into the main residential quarters.

And paused, amazed.

It was Heaven. Literal, picturebook Heaven. The floor was made of soft white sponge contoured to resemble clouds; smaller clouds floated above, and on them winged babies perched, playing little harps. The front gate was nacreous: surely genuine pearl. Lovely music played softly in the background: angelic hymns.

An angel spied them and strode forward, his great wings fluttering. He wore a flowing robe on which a golden letter G was embroidered. “Ah, new guests of the Lord. Have you renounced all worldly sins and lusts?” Neither Stile nor Sheen could think of a suitable spot rejoinder. They stood there—while the pursuing androids hove into sight.

“Here now! What’s this?” the angel cried. “You soulless freaks can’t come in here!”

The androids backed away, disgruntled. They reminded Stile of the animals of his football game when a penalty was called.

Now there was a voice from another cloudbank. “What is the disturbance, Gabriel?” a woman called.
 
“We have visitors,” the Angel Gabriel called back. “But I am uncertain—“ The lady appeared. She wore a filmy gown that clung to her lushly convex contours. Stile found the effect indescribably erotic. He was accustomed to nakedness, or to complete clothing, but the halfway states—surely this Heaven was far from sexless!

The woman frowned. “These are serfs! They don’t belong here!”

Stile and Sheen bolted. They plunged across the cloud-bank toward the most obvious exit: a golden-paved pathway. It spiraled down through a cloudwall, becoming a stone stairway. Letters were carved in the stones, and as he hurried over them Stile was able to read their patterns:

GOOD INTENTIONS. At the bottom the stair terminated in a massive opaque double door. Sheen shoved it open, and they stepped through.

Again they both stood amazed. This nether chamber was a complete contrast to the region above. It was hot, with open fires burning in many pits. Horrendous murals depicted grotesque scenes of lust and torture. Metal stakes anchored chains with manacles at the extremities.
 
“This is Hell,” Stile said. “Heaven above. Hell below. It figures.”

“The serf on the shuttle mentioned Heaven and Hell,” Sheen reminded him. “She meant it literally.” A red-suited, homed, barb-tailed little devil appeared.
 
He brandished his pitchfork menacingly. “Fresh meat!” he cried exultantly. “Oh, have we got fires for you! Move it, you damned lost souls!”

Behind them, feet sounded on the stairs. The androids had resumed the chase. It seemed the soulless ones were not barred from Hell.

Stile and Sheen took off again. Sheen charged the little devil, disarming him in passing. They ran across the floor of Hell, dodging around smoking pits.

“What’s this?” a fat full-sized devil cried. “You serfs don’t belong here!” It seemed Hell was after all as restrictive as Heaven. The devil squinted at Stile. “I just had you melted!”

“That’s how I came here,” Stile said, unable to resist the flash of wit.