Out of Phaze

  She turned to him, on the ground. There were twigs in her hair, and dirt was on her breasts. “Mach?”

  “Yes?”

  “Canst—again?”

  “Again? Now?”

  As a robot, Mach could have done it; as a living creature, he found it difficult. “Um, let’s work up to it a bit more slowly, this time,” he said. “But I need it now!” she protested. To be in heat: to have a temporary but insatiable appetite for sex. He understood this intellectually, but his body could not keep the pace. “I’ll try,” he said.

  He tried, and to his surprise found he was able. The body was young and healthy, and the mind retained desire. This time the culmination was slower, but she seemed satisfied.

  He relaxed, glad he had gotten through. She would not have to charge off to the herd.

  But in a few minutes she stirred again. “Canst—?”

  “Fleta, there is only so much flesh can do!” he cried.

  “But an it not do more, must needs I seek the stallion—and this I want not!”

  Because her body governed this need, not her mind. Mach would have found this baffling, had he not had his own experience with involuntary arousal.

  So Mach tried again. This time he made a production of it, deliberately kissing her and playing with her breasts and stroking her body. She tolerated this, but it was not her interest; she craved the breeding, nothing else. Finally he was able to do it a third time, and then she relaxed.

  But too soon she stirred again. “Canst—?”

  Mach lurched to his feet. “Must—urinate,” he said, and headed for the bushes.

  In the bushes he did what he said he would do, but his mind was elsewhere. He had thought that one or two acts would satisfy the need; now he knew that the need was as far beyond his means as the galloping travel across the plain had been. Yet Fleta was under the control of her cycle; she had to be bred, as she put it, and if he could not serve in lieu of the stallion, she would be compelled to seek that stallion. He had to find a way to accommodate her, at least until her cycle moved on.

  He gazed at his limp anatomy. This was hopeless! Then he had a notion. He worked it out in his head, and then hummed to summon his magic. “Grant me the skill to perform at will,” he sang, thinking of sex.

  The fog formed and dissipated—and abruptly his potency was restored. For once his magic had worked the way he wanted!

  He strode back to Fleta. Without a word he took her in his arms and did what she wished. There was no special joy in it; the spell merely made him potent, not satisfied. Perhaps that was why it worked, he realized: he now had no more satisfaction in the act than she did therefore was never satiated. Then, before she could start again, he did it again. And again. He was magically competent.

  Finally, after half a dozen repetitions, she was satisfied. She embraced him and slept. He relaxed, but his anatomy did not. Sure enough, in half an hour she woke, wanting more.

  So it was for the afternoon, and the night, and the following morning. Finally, in the afternoon, her cycle moved on, and she needed no more from him. It was Mach’s turn to sleep the sleep of exhaustion, as the energy drained from his body by the potency spell had to be restored. If Fleta had run hundreds of kilometers in an afternoon, he had performed a similar feat.

  They resumed their journey, climbing the great Purple Mountain. But now some of the urgency was gone. Why was he going to see the Brown Adept? Mach asked himself. To find out how to return to Proton? What, then, would become of Fleta? To escape the pursuit by the various monsters? They seemed to be free of it here. Yet if he did not go—if he just stayed here—what of Bane, whose body and world these really were? He had no right to think only of himself.

  Fleta paused, looking at him. “Thou’rt all right?”

  “Just wishing I could stay here forever, with you. But that would be at Bane’s expense.”

  “Aye. And he be an apprentice Adept. Our love be not for eternity.” She looked so forlorn as she said it, that he had to take her in his arms and kiss her. This time she responded warmly.

  “Funny thing,” he said. “Yesterday, when—you wouldn’t kiss me.”

  “This be love,” she said. “That be breeding.”

  “But can’t the two be joined?”

  Her brow furrowed. “They be two different things!”

  “Not in my frame.”

  “What a funny frame!”

  “I suppose so.” What point to debate it with her? Her nature did not equip her to understand.

  They found a niche to spend the night, well up the mountain. After they had eaten, and the darkness closed in, Mach brought up the question of the afternoon again. “When you’re out of heat, you don’t seek sex,” he said.

  “Aye. It be pointless, then.”

  “But can you do it?”

  “Can, aye. Did, as game with Bane. But why?”

  “Because I prefer to combine love and sex. That’s the way it is, with human beings.”

  “But when it be impossible to breed—”

  “When we did it, it was impossible to breed. But we did it anyway, for another reason.”

  “To prevent me from running away,” she agreed. “And glad I am that thou didst manage that, Mach! But now there be no danger o’ that.”

  “So even your kind can do it for other reason than for breeding.”

  She considered. “Aye.”

  “I’d like to do it for other reason now. For pleasure.”

  “Why of course, Mach, an it please thee! It meaneth naught to me, other than as a game.” She hiked up her cloak and spread her legs. “But be not long about it, so I can sleep.”

  “My way,” he said. He kissed her, and kissed her again, and proceeded from there, and she cooperated warmly, though evidently confused about his progress, until at last they completed the act in the midst of another kiss.

  “Oh, Mach,” she whispered breathlessly. “I think I like it thy way better!”

  “Aye,” he agreed, smiling.

  “Let’s do it again!”

  “Tomorrow!” he said.

  She sighed. But she rested her head against his shoulder and slept, instantly. Mach suspected she had been teasing him, but he was not about to inquire.

  They crossed the range at a high, chill pass, where the wind cut through bitingly. Fleta changed to unicorn form for this occasion, because this body was better for both the terrain and the cold, and Mach rode her, huddling as low as he could.

  But as they moved toward the shelter of the tree-line, a shape loomed in the sky. It was a harpy, and not Phoebe, for the hair was wrong. In a moment there were several harpies, closing in. They had been spotted.

  Fleta raced for the trees. Then she stopped, and changed to hummingbird form, and Mach climbed a twisted tree and hid as well as he could in the foliage. The harpies flapped close and peered about, calling out curses, but could not locate the fugitives. Frustrated, they departed, for they too were getting chilled.

  Mach descended, and Fleta joined him in human form. “But they will alert the goblins,” she said. “And from the goblins we cannot hide thus.”

  “We’ll just have to move as far as we can, so they don’t know where we are,” Mach said. “In a direction they don’t expect.”

  They moved southwest. Fleta showed the way in bird form, and Mach charged along as rapidly as he could. When they came to a clifflike formation that would have taken time to skirt, Mach managed to conjure some rope, and used it to swing himself down, drawing on a skill developed for the Game. In this manner they made good progress, hoping to get beyond the range the goblins would search.

  They succeeded. By nightfall they were painfully tired, but there was no evidence of pursuit. They snatched fruits to eat and found some soft ferns to sleep on.

  “And now it be tomorrow,” Fleta murmured, snuggling in close.

  “What?”

  “When I did say ‘Let’s do it again,’ thou didst reply ‘Tomorrow,’ ” she reminded him.
br />   “Oh.” Mach was so tired that this had entirely slipped his mind.

  Then she laughed, and slept. She had indeed been teasing him. It remained largely a game to her. “But if you try that tease tomorrow…” he muttered as he faded out.

  But in the morning the goblins were casting closer, knowing that the prey was somewhere in the vicinity. Mach and Fleta hardly got moving before they were spied.

  Fleta changed to unicorn form and Mach jumped on her back. She galloped past the goblins and on down and out of the mountains at a rate the goblins could not match. But as they emerged on the southern plain beyond the mountains, the goblins were not far behind. A broad wave of them advanced, preventing any possible cutback to cover.

  Then ahead a new shape appeared. “Oh, no!” Mach breathed. “A dragon!” He remembered that in Proton the dome-city of Dradom was in this region. That meant this would be the Dragon Demesnes in Phaze. If there was one thing worse than goblins—

  Fleta slowed, wary of the dragon. It was a huge fire-breather; they could tell by the plume of smoke drifting up from it. The monster was winged, so it would be able to go after them in the air; they could not avoid it or outrun it. The only escape would be straight back the way they came—and there the goblins waited, in a giant cup-shaped formation. The goblins obviously believed that the quarry would choose to turn back and be captured, rather than proceed forward and be toasted and eaten.

  But Mach knew that though he might be spared, the goblins had no such intent for Fleta. She would be raped and/or eaten by the army of little monsters. He couldn’t allow that.

  “Let me try magic,” he said to her furry ear as she slowed her running. She twitched the ear, acknowledging.

  Mach concentrated, humming a tune to build up his magic. He was gradually getting the hang of it. Music, concentration, and a firm notion of exactly what he wanted—these were the important elements. That firm notion was perhaps the most vital part of it; he had to really want it, subconsciously as well as consciously. Thus his effort to conjure a comb for the harpy misfired, because it was a minor matter to him, while his spell to generate his own potency had worked, because he had really known he needed it. The sung rhyme mostly triggered the magic, somewhat the way one told a computer to “execute.” He had to be sure everything was right before he sang the rhyme; any sloppiness ruined the result.

  The dragon was getting close. It was licking its giant chops. Fleta fluted nervously—and that gave him another idea. “Play a tune!” he cried to her. “I’ll sing to it, when I cast the spell!”

  She played. She was worried, but her music, as always, was lovely. He listened for a moment, enjoying it, getting the feel of it, trying to attune himself to it to the maximum. Then he sang: “Make our flight be out of sight!”

  Fleta vanished. Mach found himself riding along above the plain. She was still there, but she was entirely invisible. He glanced at himself, and found nothing. He was invisible too. This time the spell had really worked!

  “We’re completely invisible,” he told her. “I suppose we can be heard and smelled, so we’d better shy away from the dragon, but no one can track us by sight. I think.”

  She swerved, and the dragon did not. The dragon seemed confused, its head swinging this way and that as it peered about, trying to spot the prey it had seen a moment before. The wind was from the west, carrying their scent east, so Fleta swerved to run east. But her hooves kicked up sand, so she slowed to a walk. Now they were truly invisible.

  They walked sedately away from both dragon and goblins. They circled back to the mountains, recovering the protection of the trees at the base. Mach did not dare dismount lest he lose track of Fleta, or she of him, so he continued to ride. But at this pace it was no strain on her.

  In the afternoon they came to the river that emerged from the range. “This must be the one the dragon is in, upstream,” Mach said. “Maybe we can spend the night here, since no one can see us.”

  Fleta fluted agreement. “If we get separated, make some music and I’ll come to you,” he said, walking to a tree for some fruit.

  But there was no danger of her getting lost. In a moment he felt her hand in his. She had changed back to girl form, invisibly, and rejoined him.

  As they settled down for the night, she whispered, “Is tomorrow here yet?”

  “I thought you’d never ask!” he said, and grabbed her.

  It was a strange and wonderful thing, doing it invisibly. The first time he kissed her, he got a mouthful of hair; then she turned her head to bring her lips into play, giggling. It occurred to Mach that he should neutralize the spell, which he presumed he could do merely by making up a rhyme to that effect, but the invisibility was so convenient for foiling the pursuit that he decided to leave it in place.

  And so it was that they made their way east to the large river that cut through the mountains from the north, and along its shore until they reached the wooden towers of the Brown Demesnes.

  Chapter 9

  Game

  Bane found himself in the apartment, with Agape back to her jelly state. He must have been unconscious, and she still was. Obviously the technicians of Proton had the means to knock a robot out and to knock out an entity of Moeba, and when the charade had been exposed, these means had been used. He discovered that his chewed finger had been restored; someone had done some work on him, perhaps replacing that unit.

  He decided to wake Agape, if he could. He didn’t like the present situation, and wanted to escape it, but would not make the attempt without her. He reached for her, but hesitated to touch that semi-liquid form. It was not that it repulsed him, but that he was afraid he might do her some damage.

  “Agape,” he said. “Can you hear me? Wake!”

  She did not stir. Perhaps she could not hear, with no ears at present. Surely she could not see, with no eyes.

  He extended one finger and touched the protoplasm. It was not actually liquid; it had a translucent skin. His touch depressed a spot, that returned when he withdrew. It was like poking a water bag. Still she did not stir.

  He tried again, this time pushing her surface with his whole hand. The substance proved to be infinitely malleable, giving way wherever he applied pressure, resettling in whatever new configuration was convenient, and slowly returning to its original state when allowed to. But it did not animate itself.

  Finally he took hold with both hands and hauled. The form stretched out like flaccid taffy, and the form elongated. He continued to haul, and the end of it came over the edge of the bed. Finally the rest of the mass slid down, and the substance resumed a more globular form. Bane let go, and the mass sank down on the floor at the foot of the bed, the portion that remained on the bed sliding along to merge with the main mass. Now the body of it was on the floor.

  Bane didn’t like the notion of her getting dirty, so he tried to put the mass back on the bed. He put his arms around it and lifted, but only portions came up; most of it simply slid through his grasp and resettled below. He tried again, sliding his arms more carefully underneath; then the center came up and the protoplasm to either side flowed down, leaving him with a thinning strand that would not stay on the bed.

  He pondered, then fetched a sheet from the bed, put it on the floor, and half rolled, half shoved the protoplasm onto the sheet. Then he caught up the corners of the sheet, making a bundle. He lifted this up to the bed and set it down. But as he swung the mass over, his feet could not follow; he lost his balance and fell face first onto the jelly.

  Now it stirred. Bane tried to lift himself free, but the protoplasm spread out beyond the range of his hands, squeezed flat by his weight, and wherever he tried to set his palm, he was squishing more of the stuff. Meanwhile it was animating more actively, trying to form into the human shape but prevented by his presence on it.

  Bane rolled, squashing one side of the mass but freeing the other side. He made it to the surface of the bed but some of the protoplasm was carried along with him half covering him.
He waited, and the arms, legs, torso and head of Agape formed, beside him and over him.

  She lifted her head, on which the hair was still sprouting, and looked down at him. “You are becoming most affectionate!” she remarked.

  “I was trying to wake thee,” he said lamely.

  “I think you succeeded.” She smiled. “I thought perhaps you were trying to show me how sex is performed.”

  Bane smiled, though he was embarrassed. “If Fleta had said that, I would know she was teasing me; she has that kind of humor. But I think thou art serious.”

  “Yes. But I would like to know your Fleta.”

  “Thou dost resemble her in that thou canst change thy shape, and thou art not human. But I fear thou canst never meet her.”

  “Still, if you are now ready to show me—”

  “I woke thee because I think we were rendered unconscious and returned to this chamber. I think we be prisoners, and I like that not. I want to get away from here.”

  “You are correct. I did not sleep deliberately; I was looking at Citizen White, and then you were handling me.”

  “I don’t know enough about this frame to operate all its mechanisms. But with thy help, perhaps—”

  “You would have gone alone, had you known more?”

  “Nay! I intend not to leave thee, Agape! So I had to wake thee anyway.”

  “I think I knew that, Bane. But I have never wished to impede you.”

  “Let’s see if we can get out of here. Canst thou work the locks?”

  “I’ll try.” Agape got up, walked to the exit panel, and touched it. It did not open. “No, they have attuned it to answer to some other signal. I lack the means to make it respond.”