Out of Phaze (10 page)

He got a fragment of cloth about the size of a Citizen’s handkerchief.

He grimaced. “And if I try it again, I’ll get a thread or two,” he muttered. “It never works the second time.”

“Mach! That be it!” Fleta exclaimed. “Ne’er did I hear Bane use the same spell twice!”

“Good for only one shot,” he said, gratified by the revelation.

“Canst try the same, with other words?”

“Why not?” He pondered a moment, then sang: “Cloth: I implore, bring me some more.” He visualized an even larger bolt.

And the fog swirled, and deposited twice as much of the same type of cloth as it had before.

Now they understood the system. Mach invented a number of rhymes, garnering needle and thread and more cloth so he could sew a shirt. Fleta seemed to have no knowledge of sewing. He found that variation of melody also facilitated the conjurations, and that he got more of what he visualized if he built up to it by humming a few bars first. He was learning to be a magician!

It was close to midday by the time they were ready to travel. Mach had considered trying a spell to move them directly to the Blue Demesnes, but decided not to; he would probably drop them in the swamp instead. If the magic was going to foul up, let it foul up on details that didn’t affect their living processes!

He now wore crudely fashioned sandals, and a ragged broad-brimmed hat, to protect his feet from abrasion and his head and neck from the sun, and in between was as strange an assemblage of clothing as he could have imagined. Swatches of cloth, leaves, vines and even a patch of leather, all fastened together haphazardly. But it covered him, protecting him from both the burning of the sun and the embarrassment of possible involuntary reactions. He would get out of the costume the moment he returned to Proton, of course; rather, Bane would, for Bane would be back in his own body, and surely would recover his normal clothes. In fact, Mach himself would recover those clothes when he got back to the glade he had started from.

Mach spied a huge shape in the sky to the south, where the horizon was a ragged purple range of mountains. Those mountains existed also in Proton, of course; the natural geography of the two frames was supposed to be identical. “What’s that?”

“A dragon,” Fleta said. “Hide if it come near.”

“They are in the air as well as the water?”

“Aye, everywhere, and always hungry. Few other than an Adept fear not their like.”

Mach could appreciate why. He kept a wary eye on the sky thereafter.

The path reached the swamp. Now Mach hefted his crude weapons nervously, remembering the dragon that had been here. Maybe it would be asleep.

They had no such fortune. Fleta knew the path, and led him along it without misstep despite the murkiness of the water, but when they were too far along to turn readily back, the monster reared up.

Gazing at it, Mach abruptly wished he were elsewhere. His axe and staff seemed woefully inadequate. The dragon was so huge!

“I can help, if—“ Fleta said.

“My job. You get on to safety while I hold it off.” That sounded a good deal bolder than he felt. Still, his Game experience had acquainted him with different modes of combat, mock-dragons included. This was more nervous business than that, as it was real, but the same principles should hold. The dragon should be vulnerable in a number of places, and a bold enough challenge should dissuade it. The thing was, after all, an animal.

First he tried his stones. He fired the first at the dragon’s left eye. His aim was good; he knew his capacity here. But the monster blinked as the stone flew in, and it bounced off the leathery eyelid. So much for that.

Mach threw the second stone at the dragon’s teeth.

This one scored, but the tooth it struck was too large and strong; a tiny chip of enamel flew off, but the damage only aggravated the creature without hurting it.

The third stone he aimed at the flaring nostrils. It disappeared inside—and the dragon sneezed. The target was too big and spongy, and the stone too small, to do sufficient damage. But it did verify what Mach wanted to know: that the tissue there was soft, not hard. Few animals liked getting their tender tissues tagged.

Vapor swirled as the dragon warmed up. Mach hoped his clothing would shield him from the worst of the heat if he got blasted by steam; meanwhile, he would do his best to prevent the dragon from scoring with it.

Mach lifted his long staff. As the dragon’s head loomed close, he poked it with the end of the pole. Surprised, the dragon snapped at the pole, but Mach swung it free. He was accomplishing his intent: he had the dragon trying to attack the weapon instead of the man.

When the dragon’s teeth snapped on air, Mach reversed the pole and smashed it into the nostrils. The dragon reared back; that blow smarted!

Then the dragon heaved out steam. But the range was too great, and the aim was bad; no steam touched Mach. He aimed the pole at an eye and rammed; again the dragon blinked, but the pole scored, and pushed in the eye before rebounding. This time the eye was hurt; some blood showed as the dragon jerked back and the pole fell away.

“Thou’rt beating it!” Fleta exclaimed, amazed.

“I intended to,” Mach puffed, discovering that this effort was tiring him. He had forgotten, again: this living body lacked the endurance of the machine.

The dragon, hurt, vented a horrendous cloud of steam, then charged back into the fray. So sudden was the thrust that Mach didn’t have time to swing the cumbersome pole back into position. The dragon bit at it sidewise and chomped it in two.

Mach drew his axe. Suddenly he was worried; he hadn’t wanted to resort to this, because of the close contact required. But apparently the dragon had forgotten to use the steam, and just charged in with jaws gaping.

Mach stepped aside, and bashed his axe violently down on the dragon’s nose as the jaws closed on the spot he had occupied. The stone blade sank into the right nostril, hacking through the flesh. Blood welled out.

But Mach was now on uncertain footing, and his step and blow had put him off balance. He took another step—and found no path. He splashed headlong into the water.

The dragon was thrashing, really hurt by the blow to its nose, but it remained alert enough to spot the sudden opportunity. It whipped its snout about to pluck Mach out of the water. Fleta screamed.

Without purchase on the path, Mach could not strike another blow, or even escape. He was helpless before those descending teeth.

“Without aplomb, bring me a bomb!” he sang with sudden inspiration.

Fog swirled. The bomb appeared in his hand. He heaved it into the opening mouth. In a moment it detonated.

The dragon paused, closing its mouth. Vapor seeped out between its teeth. Mach realized that he had again failed to conjure what he really wanted; the bomb had been a dud, or at least too small and weak to do the job. The one he had imagined would have blown the monster’s head apart.

The dragon lifted its head. Thick vapor jetted from its uninjured nostril. Its near eye bulged. The bomb had not really hurt it, but evidently the vapor bothered it. Mach remained in the water, watching.

Then he caught a whiff of the vapor. It was insect destructant! He knew the smell from the times he had visited one of the garden domes in Proton, where they had occasional insect infestations, and flooded the domes with this vapor. It was supposed to be harmless to larger creatures, but human beings tried to avoid breathing it.

Instead of a real bomb, he had gotten a bug-bomb. Now it was spewing its noxious vapor into the dragon’s mouth—and the dragon didn’t have the wit to spit it out!

In a moment the dragon plunged under the water, but a trail of evil-smelling bubbles showed that the monster still hadn’t let go of the bomb. Mach smiled as he clambered back to the path. His bomb had done the job after all!

“Oh, Mach, I feared for thee!” Fleta exclaimed, coming into his arms as he stood. She kissed him, then drew back. “Oh, I should have done that not!”

“Why not?”

“I think I like thee too well.”

“But you won’t tell me why that’s wrong?”

“Aye,” she agreed with a rueful smile.

“You’re stubborn!”

“My kind be that.”

“Well, I like you too,” he said. “I think you’re a great girl, and I wish—“ But he had to break off. What did he wish? That he could stay with her? That he could take her with him to Proton? Neither was possible, as far as he knew.

She drew away. “I was minded to—to do what I had to to save thee, but it happened so suddenly, and then thou didst vanquish the dragon alone. Thou art a hero, Mach!”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let it eat you,” he said.

“Yes, thou didst urge me to safety, whilst thou fought. No man of Phaze would have done that for my like, except perhaps the Blue Adept, and that be different.”

The Blue Adept. Mach’s father had been that before transferring to Proton, where his magic didn’t work. She referred to the other one, of course. But the two were alternate selves, and yes, either would have done the same to save a damsel in distress.

“We must go on, before more come,” she said.

“There are more water dragons?” he asked, alarmed.

“Many more,” she agreed.

He hurried after her, anxious to depart this swamp.

Bane stared. The landscape was absolutely barren. There were no trees, no bushes, no plants at all. There was only dry sand and grayish mist as far as he could see. It was dusk, but he realized that even by full daylight he would not have seen much more.

‘The country—where be it?” he asked, horrified.

‘This is the country, Bane,” Agape said through speaker-grille in her helmet.

“But it can’t be! There be no life here!”

‘There is no life on Proton,” she said. “Except with the domes. Did you not know?”

“I—I thought it would be like Phaze, only less so,” he admitted. ‘This—how did it happen?”

“I do not know much about the history of this planet, but I believe it was once alive. But the residents paid no heed to the quality of its environment, and so gradually it became as it is now, with good air and life in the dome-cities, and bad air outside. It is not this way where you live?”

“It be all sunshine and forest and meadows where the unicorns graze and rivers and magic,” Bane said. “Oh, what a horror be here!”

“But that means that the one you seek is comfortable, for he is there,” she pointed out. “You can seek him as you intended.”

“But—this,” he said, baffled by the desolation.

“We can walk, or perhaps ride.”

“Ride? There be no animals here!”

‘There are vehicles. I think serfs are permitted to utilize them.”

“Vehicles?”

“I do not know the specifics, but I am sure some are near, for the residents of the domes do not like to walk far outside. Let us look.”

Bane let her take the lead. She moved around the curve of the building they had just exited, and there was an alcove with several squat shapes within. She trudged to one and lifted its glassy upper section. Inside there were two deep holes. She climbed into one. ‘This will do,” she said. ‘Take the other seat, Bane. I think I can drive this.”

He climbed into the other hole. The transparent top settled down, shutting them in. Then there was a hissing, and gas swirled up. He tried to scramble out, but Agape restrained him. “It is not evil, Bane! It is air, so I can breathe without the helmet. When the light shows green, it will be all right.”

And in a moment a green light appeared before them, on a panel in the vehicle. Agape removed her helmet. “It will not release until I reseal my suit,” she said. ‘The gas out here would be harmful to my metabolism.”

“But I want not to stay in here!” he protested. “I want to look for mine other self!”

She smiled. “I think it is good that I am with you. I will make this machine perform.” She touched buttons before her, and took hold of a handle, bringing it out and down toward her.

Suddenly the vehicle lurched forward. Bane almost leaped out of his seat, but this time padded straps appeared and restrained him.

He peered out the forward glass. The terrain was coming toward him, as though he were riding a horse. “This—this be a wagon!” he exclaimed. “It moves by itself!”

“Yes, it is a machine, like your body, but not as intelligent as yours.”

“A machine,” he repeated, assimilating the concept. “Like a golem, or an enchanted object.”

“I think your world is as alien to this one as is mine,” she said.

“My world is natural. This be the alien one.”

“With that, too, I can agree.” She glanced at him. “Where would you travel, Bane?”

“I—I hadn’t thought. I mean, I had expected to circle in the forest, seeking to intercept mine other self. But now I know not.”

“The forest remains there, for him,” she reminded him. “I can circle if you wish.” And she guided the vehicle into a broad loop.

“No, I have other thoughts, now. I think he would not have remained in the glade. There be dangers.” He peered out again. “The night be closing rapidly. He would seek shelter.”