Phaze Doubt Part 34

And the Chief became a dragonfly, borrowing from Lysander's prior strategy, and winged swiftly after him. The onus was on the Chief, but he was playing with greater savvy now. Lysander was on the run-or in flight, in this case.

He didn't want to waste a good predatory form that would be immediately countered; he wanted to force the Chief to use up more of his forms, until he was starved for variety at the end and subject to a power play. He saw water below, and had a notion. He plunged toward it, the dragonfly gaining but not yet in range.

He plunged in, becoming a fish.

The Chief plunged after, becoming a pelican.

Trouble! Lysander became an alligator just as the pelican's beak closed on the fish. The beak closed instead on the hide of the alligator.

Lysander whipped his toothy snout around to snap up the bird, and the bird became a giant sea serpent whose much larger toothy snout whipped around to snap up the alligator. Lysander was having trouble matching change for change, and couldn't think of a good rejoinder on the spot, so became an elephant.

The sea serpent stared. An elephant?

But the water was not deep, and the elephant was only halfway submerged. It wrapped its trunk around the head of the serpent, tying its jaws closed, and pushed the head under the water. Drowning was as good as being bitten to death. Lysander had found a good predator form after all.

The serpent became a fish and slid away. Lysander waited, knowing that no fish could hurt him here; the water was too shallow for any really big one. Nothing much could hurt an elephant. But the Chief had the onus, and would have to try.

Then he spied something sliding through the water. It wasn't a fish, but more like an eel.

Oops-an electric eel! Again by definition, the shock would stun any other creature. Lysander became a frog and leaped out of the water.

So it went, change and counterchange, and the a.s.sortment of animals was depleted on both sides. But Lysander's strategy of forcing the Chief to change more often was pacing off, and it came to the point where Lysander had several top predators left and the Chief was reduced to his next to last form: a sheep. Lysander became a roc and pounced on the sheep, forcing the Chief to take his last form: a mouse.

Lysander became a dragon, and inhaled. He would send a blast of fire that burned out the entire region, the mouse with it.

But the mouse, astonis.h.i.+ngly, did not flee. Instead it jumped onto the dragon's nose and clung there.

Lysander shook his head, trying either to toss the mouse into his mouth, or fling it to the ground where it could be scorched before it fled. Another creature it could hide from, but the fire of the dragon would seek it out regardless. But the mouse refused to be dislodged; it dug its tiny claws into the snout and hung on.

This was a problem Lysander had never antic.i.p.ated. His forelegs were too short to reach his snout. He tried to whip his tail about to wipe the mouse off, but it only stung his nostrils sharply. He tried to roll and squish the mouse against the ground, but it was in the declivity between eyes and nostrils. He could not dislodge that mouse!

He blew out fire. But his snout was insulated so that its own flesh would not be destroyed by the heat, and that protected the mouse too.

If he changed form again, the mouse would get away; he had no specific mouse-catching forms left, having labored to save the largest predators instead. If he hadn't used up his weasel- Maybe he could bounce fire back on his nose. It would hurt his own flesh, but it would fry the mouse, and that was what counted.

He put his nostrils against a rock and blew out fire. It bounced, but to the side. He tried again, and missed again. He needed a rock with a hollow, that would cup and reflect the fire-Suddenly a gong sounded. The minute was up, and he had not destroyed the mouse. Since the onus was his, he lost by default.

The game was over, and Chief Oresmite had won. Lysander had tried his hardest to win, and thought he had the win a.s.sured, until that last astonis.h.i.+ng ploy. He had been fairly beaten, and now was obliged to give the figures to the enemy. Yet, somehow, he was relieved.

Only later did it occur to him that he had blundered crucially. He had been a roc when the Chief was a sheep; the Chief had become a mouse. Lysander's blunder had been in changing to the dragon. All he had had to do was maintain roc form and fly away, and the Chief, stuck with the onus, would have lost in one minute.

Flach and Weva stood before Mischief, and lifted their flutes. They played, and Lysander remembered the magic, figurative and literal, of Clef's music. Flach was good, because of his unicorn heritage, but Weva was better, because of her Hectare heritage. That, of course, was why she had been brought into existence. Only a Hectare mind, trained also in magic, could handle the figures Lysander's algorithm had produced.

The magic came, much stronger than before, almost tangible. The two set aside their flutes, but the music continued, generated by their minds.

Mischief began to run the figures on a screen. It was a ma.s.sive array: thousands of numbers jammed together. But Weva's eyes were on them, and they were being fed through to her mind, and changing the music. No human mind could have done it, but hers could, with the support of her companion.

The world began to change, as the paths for each atom of matter were defined, and the push from the Magic Bomb began. The merged frames would slide around the black hole, nothing changing within them, but everything changing beyond them. Like a cover on a piece of equipment, turning without altering its shape or nature; it was the nature of the universe that was changing instead.

There was a shudder. Dust sifted down. Elves and human beings glanced around alike in alarm. This had the feel of an incipient earthquake, and they were underground.

The shuddering intensified. Cracks appeared in the stone.

"It's going wrong!" someone cried.

The computer screen went blank. Then the single word ERROR flashed, blinking.

"We kept faith with thee!" an elf cried at Lysander. "Thou didst promise true figures!"

"My figures are true!" Lysander replied. "The error must be somewhere else!"

"Cease playing!" Oresmite rapped, and the music halted. "There be error somewhere, but Lysander has honor; he would not cheat on this."

"Then he made a mistake!" Flach said.

"I made no mistake," Lysander said. "Every figure checked. It must be in the translation."

"Nay, none there," Weva said. "We play true!"

"If we resume not soon, the detonation of the Magic Bomb will destroy us regardless," Flach pointed out. "Now be the time; the paths must be set."

"The time factor!" Echo said. "We're accelerated, but how does it relate to the rest of the frames?"

"We allow for that," Weva said. "Our music relates."

"The Poles!" Lysander said. "Their times are different. Do you allow for that?"

"Yes, o' course," she said. "Twelvefold for the East Pole, a hundred and forty-four for the West Pole. I were made there; I would forget my home region not."

"And the North Pole? The one that's slower than normal time?"

Weva looked stricken. "Slower! I adjusted for faster!"

"Can you correct for that?"

"Aye. Now." She lifted her flute again, and Flach quickly joined her.

"Rerun the figures, Mischief!" Lysander said. "The error is being corrected."

The figures reappeared on the screen.

They resumed playing, and in a moment set aside the flutes and continued. This time there was no shuddering; the magic intensified, and there was a feeling of something colossal s.h.i.+fting, but it was smooth. It was working.

Yet there was in the background an almost imperceptible disharmony, a keening as of something not quite right. The error had caused them to start over, slightly delayed; did that make a difference? If so, it could be c.u.mulative, and...

Lysander did not care to finish that thought. He had been an agent for the other side, but he had made a deal, and now was bound to see it through. He would not care for the irony of having his original side win through default. Not after he had resigned himself to the prospect of living, and of love with Echo.

The eerie trace of wrongness did not fade; it got worse. Lysander knew what was happening: the delay occasioned by the failure to zero in the North Pole correctly had thrown the timing off slightly, and that imbalance was recycling and building. If it expanded logarithmically, as such things could, they could still get dumped, and all would have been for nothing.

Echo was near him. He caught her hand and squeezed it to let her know that whatever happened, he was glad for their a.s.sociation. Then an elf girl caught his free hand, and someone else caught Echo's free hand. The impulse spread, and soon everyone in the chamber was linked, including Flach and Weva and Chief Oresmite. The music went on, through all their heads and all the frames, translating the figures to reality, carrying them all on the wave of force that was the detonation of the Magic Bomb.

That Bomb had been confined by the slowed time at the North Pole. That had been a bad Pole on which to err!

The linked hands provided comfort, but the wrongness worsened. Lysander felt as if his guts were being removed and convoluted topologically and strung through the electrical conduits of his brain. He didn't dare vomit, because he didn't want the contents of his stomach suffusing his brain. He suspected that the others were experiencing similar distortions. If the frames didn't complete their journey soon- The music stopped. They were there!

There was a silence. Then the Chief looked around. "We remain alive," he said. "That means it is successful. But per haps not entirely. We must proceed cautiously."

"The timing," Weva said. "I couldn't quite compensate. I think things are all right, but some detail may have changed."

The group let go of hands. Lysander brought Echo into him. "Just so long as you are not changed!" he said.

Her eyes were round. "I fear I be. I-"

"Check your body," he suggested. All around them others were similarly concerned. No one seemed quite certain what had happened, but knew that something fundamental was not the same.

"Well, it be metal and plastic, o' course, as always. I'll show thee." She opened her robe and touched the place where her left breast was latched. "Uh-oh."

"You look fine!" he said. "I don't care if your latch is broken."

"There be no latch."

"Well, whatever. I have accepted the local way, and you are part of it."

She closed her robe. "E'en an I be not exactly the creature thou hast known?"

He experienced an unpleasant chill. "Are you trying to say that your emotion has changed? That now the crisis is past, you don't-"

She put her finger across his lips. "Nay, Lysan! I love thee yet! I would spend my life with thee! But an I be other-"

He swept her in and kissed her. "My emotion didn't change either. I love you too, and no potion is responsible. But I think we have work to do outside."

"Aye," she breathed, seeming relieved.

The others had come to a similar conclusion. They were forging toward an exit.

But when the hatch was opened, a stormy swirl of air rushed in, blowing back the elves.

"Must be a dust storm," Lysander said.

"But it's wet!" an elf protested.

So it was. "Then it's safe to go out there," Lysander said. "I'll do it."

The elves gave way for him, and he scrambled through the tunnel and thrust his body up through a hole. There was a storm raging- all right; warm rain plastered his robe to his body in a moment.

Echo emerged after him. "This be not the heat o' the South Pole!" she said.

"But it's warm enough. Drop your robe and come on; we can handle this."

She did. He took her hand, and forged on, trying to gain a point of perspective.

Then a rift opened in the clouds. The sun shone down, directly south of the Pole.

Lysander froze. South?

Beside him, Echo was similarly amazed. "Be the magic gone?" she asked. "The sunlight bends not?"

Flach and Weva came up behind them. "Now I see what happened," Weva said. "That imbalance-the sh.e.l.l got twisted! The South Pole is now the West Pole!"

"That's why the storm," Flach agreed. "The temperature patterns changed; it has to get resettled."

"A quarter turn!" Lysander said. "We're lucky it wasn't worse."

"It was worse," Weva said. "We have changed similarly."

Lysander looked at her. "No you haven't."

She smiled. "You are an idiot, 'Sander."

"Is there something I've overlooked?"

Echo touched his shoulder. "Aye, because thou be not affected, mayhap, having an alternate self not. Watch me change forms."

Then she a.s.sumed her Phaze-harpy form, and flew a short distance into the air.

Her body was s.h.i.+ning metal, and her feathers plastic. "Now do you understand?" she called.

"You're a robot harpy-a cyborg!" he exclaimed.

"I am Echo." She descended to the ground, and resumed to human form. "And I be Oche. Now dost recant thy pledge to love me?"

Suddenly the change in language penetrated. Echo had been talking in the Phaze dialect! The cyborg harpy talked in Proton dialect. They had changed!

"But you said you still loved me!" he said, stunned.

"Aye, Lysan. I be Echo's living aspect, and I love thee as she does. It were always I who loved thee, but I said naught, lest revolt thee. Now I would be with thee, but I will leave thee an thou ask."

"But if the harpy body is now inanimate-"

"This human form be alive," she said. "I offer it thee, with my love, an thou desire either."

Nepe appeared. "Methinks thou be wisest to accept, Lysan," she said.

He turned his head to look at her. "You are Flach," he said.

"Aye. But I were always both, as be Weva and Beman. It b( a big adjustment, but we shall do it, as we did mergence be fore." She-he-smiled impishly. "Methinks those in the cities have big adjustments to make too!"

Weva became Beman. "Yes, I be Weva," he-she-said "Needs must we all adjust. But it be especially important for thee, Lysan, because thou wills! have to coordinate the integration o' the Hectare into the new order. The faster we can al come to terms with ourselves, the better off we shall be."