The Wizard and the War Machine, page 14
"All right, bastard," she said. "You win for now. I won't shoot you until we settle this." She glanced upward. "And you, computer, you just remember what's going to happen in another sixty hours or so if I don't stop it. Don't push me too far."
Turner got carefully back to his feet, watching her every move, very much aware of the two snarks still in her pockets as well as the one she had dropped. One, he believed, was out of charge, but the others were both still dangerous.
He wondered what she was talking about with her sixty-hour deadline but had no way of guessing. He shoved it aside as irrelevant.
The two of them, he realized, had reached a sort of stalemate. They had absolutely contradictory goals, with no hope of compromise—she wanted Dest dead, and he wanted it alive. Each of them had advantages—he his psionic abilities, she her greater access to the computer and ship and the threat of nuclear weapons—but the net result was a close balance of power, maintained by the computer's refusal to side completely with one over the other. Each move that either of them made, the other could counter; using wizardry against her would bring the combat personality out again and convince the computer to let her fight unhampered, while any direct, unprovoked hostile move on her part would cause the computer to use the override or to force a personality switch, or possibly even to kill her.
So far as he could see, only settling the question of Dest's actual loyalty could break the deadlock by bringing the computer down on one side of the fence or the other.
That was what he had intended in the first place, of course, before he had gotten the idea of digging for her release code. He had intended to somehow prove Dest's loyalty, probably by the simple expedient of asking people. He had gotten the Russian-speaking technician personality to agree to that, at least provisionally, and then he had blown the whole thing by trying to read deeply enough in Flame's mind to find her release code.
That attempt had not worked out very well. He had not been able to look through her memories much while he was busy following her surface thoughts in order to stay alive. He had glimpsed one or two stray items without really meaning to. He now knew what her ship's control cabin looked like. He knew that odd bits of her civilian life were there in her mind, slipping out from under the artificial barrier the Command had built, memories that would be readily accessible to a telepath, though Flame herself might not be aware of them. Turner had caught glimpses of them in what he thought of as the cracks between her several identities.
Her real name, however, was still a mystery. He had not happened across it. He did not have her release code, nor did he dare make another attempt to find it.
With that settled, he fell back upon his earlier plan.
"Listen," he said. "Let's find some of the natives and ask them about Old Earth and get this whole misunderstanding cleared up. They'll tell you they're loyal. Could we do that? Would that be all right with you?"
She watched him intently for a moment, then shrugged.
"All right," she said. "Let's do that." Her eyes narrowed. "I'll be watching to see what sort of trick you're pulling, Slant, I warn you, and if I catch you trying anything, that will prove once and for all that you're a traitor, and that the whole thing about this place being friendly is a sham, and then we can go ahead and blast this planet. Right, computer?"
"Affirmative. No deception may be permitted."
"Fine!" Turner said, smiling, hiding the doubts he felt. He noticed that Flame did not mention the possibility that the natives would support him without any trickery, and for a moment he considered demanding that she promise to accept at face value whatever evidence they found.
He decided not to press the issue. Flame would probably not give such a promise or keep it if she did, and besides, the computer was the important one, not Flame. She could go on thinking whatever she liked. The override and the thermite charge would keep her in line once the computer made its decision.
"So where do we find some of these natives to talk to?" Flame asked.
Turner had no ready reply. Before he could either admit this lack or devise a suitable lie, the computer interrupted.
"Ongoing gravitational anomalies are maintaining altitude of twenty meters, approximately two kilometers from cyborg units," the computer said. "Query: Advisability of investigation by cyborg units."
This, Turner saw, was a perfect opportunity. "I think that it's very advisable," he said. "If people there are using that mutation I told you about, then they must be wizards, as the natives call them. I can show you what the mutation is, and you can talk to them, and you'll see that they're friendly. That should kill two birds with one stone, shouldn't it?"
He knew that they would be friendly enough, since his wife was one of them. The only problem would be in getting them to say the right thing without any obvious coaching. He thought his problems with IRU 247 might be almost over.
"I don't trust you," Flame said, frowning.
Turner shrugged. "I don't trust you very much, either. You keep trying to kill me."
"Give me that rocket rifle," Flame said decisively. "And we can go take a look at those mutant things, whatever they are. But I need the rifle first. I want something with some range."
Turner was not at all happy with that suggestion. "I don't dare give you all the weapons and leave myself unarmed," he said. "You have been trying to kill me, after all."
"Well, I'm not going up against antigravity with nothing but snarks," Flame insisted. "The computer said those things were twenty meters up, and these stupid snarks only have a range of three or four meters."
Turner had to concede that she had a point, and after a moment's hesitation he made a suggestion. "All right," he said. "We'll trade. You give me the snarks, and you can have the rifle. For now, anyway." The alternative, which she had apparently not thought of yet, was to call the ship down so that Flame could re-equip herself from its armory. Turner did not like that idea at all. Giving her the rocket rifle was the lesser of the two evils and would not, he told himself, be impossibly dangerous. The weapon's ammunition was not limitless, after all, and telekinesis ought to be able to deflect the missiles if the target wizard was alert enough.
In fact, Flame had made no mention of extra ammunition for the rifle. It held a single magazine of fifty rockets—no, he corrected himself, forty-nine, since he had fired one as a warning round the night before. He had four more magazines in his pack, but he had no intention of telling anyone that until he was asked.
He wondered how much charge the snarks still had. Flame might be effectively disarming him if they were low enough.
It was worth the gamble, he decided.
"The rifle is right there," he said, pointing out where he had thrown it. "You put all three snarks on the ground where you are now, and we'll trade places and arm ourselves."
She hesitated, then nodded and reached into her pockets. Alert to any treachery, he watched intently, ready to simultaneously dodge and lash out psionically if she tried to kill him.
She picked out each snark and dropped it to the ground.
When the third had fallen and lay motionless on the frost-whitened pine needles, Turner allowed himself to relax. He moved almost casually as he walked over to where the deadly little things lay.
Flame made no pretense of nonchalance; she moved swiftly and smoothly to the fallen rifle and snatched it up, checking it over quickly and efficiently as Turner picked up the snarks, turned them to SAFETY, and stuffed them into his coat pockets. A glance at the dull red of the power dials before he switched the control settings showed him that one held a charge of five percent, another thirty-five percent, and the third seventy percent.
It would not be tactful to crosspatch them and run the best one up to full charge, he decided. That would look too much as if he really expected to use the thing. "All right," he said. "Let's go."
Only at the last moment before he turned did he remember to ask the computer, "Which direction?" He knew perfectly well which direction to take, since he could sense the wizards' presence quite clearly, but he judged demonstrating this seemingly unaccountable knowledge to be unwise.
When the computer had given them a bearing, he marched off, and Flame followed a few paces behind. She was plainly not willing to let him get behind her.
That seemed illogical to him. After all, he had had chances to kill her, and he had not done so. Why should he kill her now, when she was doing what he wanted?
Besides, he was not particularly happy about allowing her behind him, and he glanced back frequently to make sure the rocket rifle was still held loosely before her and not aimed at his back. He would have been much more comfortable had she slung it on her shoulder, but a single quick look at the hostile expression on her face put an end to any thought of suggesting that.
He watched his breath puffing out in the cold air as they walked and gradually became more and more aware that he had not had breakfast, or much of a dinner the night before, and had already spent the better part of an hour in violent action this morning. He was ravenously hungry.
Food could wait, he told himself. He would deal with this meeting between the cyborg and the wizards first. Flame was liable to misinterpret his actions if he stuck his hands in his pockets looking for something to eat.
He felt a slight tug as Parrah tried to call to him again; he ignored it. He did not want the computer to notice anything. If he did not actively listen and did not answer, Parrah's transmission should not register on the ship's sensors as being connected to him at all.
After several seconds the call ceased.
"Gravitational anomalies are descending," the computer announced a moment later.
Turner glanced up, looked back at Flame, and kept walking.
"What are they doing, traitor?" Flame demanded.
"How should I know?" he called back over his shoulder. "They probably got tired. Or maybe they know—" He cut himself off short. He had been about to suggest that they might know the cyborgs were coming and were landing to greet them. Flame, however, would probably have interpreted that to mean that she was walking into a trap.
"Maybe they know what?" Flame demanded suspiciously, her grip on the rocket rifle tightening.
"Maybe they know it's time for breakfast," Turner finished weakly, his hunger still on his mind.
Flame did not seem to be worried about food; she snorted derisively.
"Gravitational anomalies have ceased," the computer said.
Flame stopped dead. Turner, automatically recognizing the difference between her normal walk and the sound of her final footstep, halted and turned.
"What's going on?" she demanded.
"They're resting, I guess," Turner said.
"They didn't just disappear?" Her grip on the rifle tightened.
"How could they disappear?" Turner asked placatingly.
Flame was not willing to be placated. "How should I know?" she said. "You're supposed to be the expert on this planet."
"People don't disappear here any more than on any other planet," Turner said, disgusted. "They're just resting, I guess, not using their magic—I mean, not using the mutation—at the moment. Your ship can't very well see a few individuals through all these trees."
"How do I know they aren't going to ambush us?" Flame asked suspiciously. "What is this mutation, anyway?"
"Why would they ambush us?" Turner knew that was a stupid question even before he finished asking it; Flame did not bother to answer it.
"What is this mutation?" she demanded again.
Turner could think of no answer that would serve better than the truth. "Psionics," he said.
"What are psionics?" Flame asked. "I've heard the word, but I want to know what you mean by it."
"Well, it's mental powers, sort of," Turner said hesitantly. "Levitation, mostly. That's how they can fly." He was careful to make no mention of telepathy or any of the other psychic senses; he was sure that Flame would violently object to the idea of such scrutiny.
"Levitation?" she said. "It is antigravity, then?"
"I don't know," Turner admitted truthfully. "Maybe."
Flame remained dubious. "It's not all just a lot of mystical tricks?" she asked skeptically.
"I don't think so." Turner thought that leaving a little doubt in Flame's mind might be useful later. He certainly did not want to admit that he himself was a wizard.
"We had one of these anomalies centered on us before," Flame said, still skeptical. "We didn't levitate."
Trapped, Turner shrugged. "I can't explain that."
"Oh, I'm sure—just as sure as crayfish whistle," she said sarcastically. "You're lying, you bastard, and we both know it."
"Query: Evidence for assertion of untruthfulness," the computer interrupted.
"The whole general pattern," she replied silently. Turner heard her over the open communication channel. "His entire behavior. Besides, didn't he say earlier that he knew all about the anomalies? Now he's saying he doesn't. That's a contradiction."
"Affirmative."
"I can explain!" Turner called quickly. Shifting to subvocalization, he continued. "Computer, I lied for security reasons. I don't trust Flame; she destroyed a friendly village. After that, how can I trust her with information that might be extremely destructive to our side—to Old Earth? The psionic abilities here are probably unique in all the colonized worlds, and if she is a traitor, she might sell them to the enemy."
"Cyborg unit designated 'Flame' is incapable of disloyalty, due to presence of termination systems."
"You mean the thermite in her skull. But that's just it! Psionic abilities allow the removal of security mechanisms like that! How long do you think she'd stay loyal if she could—"
"That's enough of that!" Flame shouted, the rifle pointed directly at Turner's belly. Her voice trembled with rage; her hands, regulated by computerized micromechanisms, did not. "I won't have a piece of filth like you impugning my loyalty!"
Turner held up his hands placatingly. "All right, calm down; if you shoot me now, you'll just prove what I say, and the computer will blow your head off. Right, computer?"
"Affirmative."
"There, you see?"
Flame's face contorted in wordless fury; after a long silent moment she spat out, "It would almost be worth it! After I went, the ship would nuke your precious planet back to the Stone Age, Slant!"
"But you wouldn't be around to see it, would you?" He forced himself to speak calmly and quietly, calling on the emotionlessness that some of his personalities had been taught so long ago back on Mars.
"Destruction of planetary installations in the event of termination of cyborg unit for insubordination is not definite," the computer put in. "Further analysis required. Circumstances might result in destruction of ship before attack could be carried out."
"See? You might not even destroy the planet. Now, calm down. I'm sorry if you feel I insulted you, but I don't trust you—you're too violent." His tone was that of an adult soothing a child, though his gut twisted at the memory of the burning village.
Turner watched as Flame silently struggled with herself, her face working. He wondered whether more than one personality might be involved but easily resisted any temptation to look into her mind and see. He was attuned to her aura but did not make the effort to listen for fear the computer would notice and disapprove.
"All right," she said at last. "Keep walking. I want to see these psionic marvels." The thought that followed was so intense that Turner, quite inadvertently, picked it up telepathically.
"And when we see them," she thought, "I'll blow them to hell!"
Chapter Fifteen
TURNER QUIETLY SLIPPED THE SNARK WITH THE greatest charge into his hand as they walked and dialed it from SAFETY to HIGH, keeping it carefully hidden from Flame. He did not intend to let her kill any wizards, and most particularly not his wife. He hoped fiercely that Parrah and her companions would be alert and ready to defend themselves when he and Flame arrived.
All he could do was hope. He did not dare try to warn them about the rocket rifle or anything else, while Flame was walking a few paces behind him with her finger ready on the rifle's trigger and while the computer was watching closely for any psionic activity.
As he rounded a tree he glimpsed a clearing ahead. Three robed figures stood in the clearing's center. He glanced back at Flame.
"I see them," she said. "Keep going."
He kept going down a short, needle-covered slope, his breath rising in clouds above him as he descended. His shoulder felt curiously empty without the rocket rifle's weight on it, as if his coat were hovering about him unsupported. Cold gray daylight filtered through the trees and speckled the dark ground with dull colors.
Parrah was sending again, and at her present range he received part of her message without trying, not as words but as concepts and images.
She wanted something; she was here representing the Council, and they had sent her to tell him that they wanted something.
Exactly what they wanted was not clear; Parrah's imagery was of something bright and shining, hidden by something dark and unspeakably hideous.
He decided he really didn't care what the Council wanted, and he resented their use of his wife as a messenger. He had far more important concerns than what the Council, that shortsighted, elitist, arrogant bunch of psionic freaks, wanted. He looked down at his feet.
Parrah stopped sending.
The slope ended in a ditch, a dry streambed; he could see ice crystals on the bottom, in the cold shadows where daylight never shone directly. He climbed the other side, then stepped around a thicket into clear view of the waiting wizards.
They had all known he was coming, of course, and were looking directly at him, their gaze friendly and open.
"Hello, Sam," Parrah called aloud. She stood between Arzadel and Dekert, whom Turner knew to be not only old friends but two of Praunce's most powerful wizards as well. If any wizardry should be needed, she had chosen her companions well—she or the Council.
"I left the children with Haiger and Ahnao," she added before her husband could answer. "I thought you might like a little company out here."
