Blue Adept (22 page)

“The Citizen!” Sheen said. “He’s Satan!”

“Apt characterization,” Stile agreed.

“I’ll have you torn to ragged pieces!” the Citizen roared, becoming truly Satanic in his ire.

“You would do better to tear up whoever faked the message that brought us to this address,” Stile said. “Sir,”

The Citizen paused. “There is that.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Detail on that summons.”

A screen appeared. “The summons was from a female Citizen, the man’s Employer. The address was incorrect.”

“Get me that Citizen!” Almost, it seemed that smoke issued from Satan’s nostrils.

There was a pause. Then Stile’s Employer appeared in the screen, frowning. “You sent for this serf?” the Satanic male Citizen demanded, indicating Stile.
 
The female Citizen’s eyes took in Satan and Hell.

“Do I know you?” she inquired coldly.

“You’re a woman, aren’t you? You bet you know me!” She elected to change the subject.

“I summoned this serf to my own address. What is he doing here?” “This was the address he was given, idiot!”

“It certainly was not!” she retorted. Then she perused the message. “Why—the address has been changed. Who is responsible for this?”

“Changed ...” Sheen murmured, the circuits connecting almost visibly in her computer-head. “Authentic summons, but one address-chip substituted for another. The handiwork of your assassin.”

The female Citizen bore on Sheen. “Serf, you know who is responsible?”

“Sir, I know someone is trying to kill Stile,” Sheen said. “I don’t know who or why.”

The lady Citizen frowned again. “I have entered this serf in the Tourney,” she said to Satan. “He has won two Rounds. I dislike such interference.”

“I dislike such intrusion on my premises,” the male Citizen said.

“Of course. I’m sure I would not care to intrude on such premises. I shall initiate an investigation, as should you.
 
But considering that the serfs are in fact blameless, will you not release them unharmed?”

“They have intruded!” the Satan-Citizen said. “The penalty is death!”

“I’ve already suffered it,” Stile muttered.
 

“Not for my serfs,” the female Citizen retorted, showing more spirit. “If I lose this chance to score in the Tourney, I shall be most upset.”

“I am already upset, and I care not a fig for the Tourney. The intruders must die, and good riddance.”

The female Citizen frowned once more. “It is unseemly for Citizens to bicker in the presence of serfs. Otherwise I could mention a drone missile currently oriented on your dome, capable of disrupting your power supply and irradiating your personnel: a certain inconvenience, I might suppose. I mean to have that serf.”

This gave the devil pause to consider. “I agree. Citizens do not debate before serfs. Otherwise I could mention a couple things myself, such as an antimissile laser oriented on—“

“Perhaps a fair compromise,” she said. “Give the serfs a fair start, and we shall wager on the outcome.” The devil brightened. “Their lives—plus one kilogram of Protonite.”

Stile almost gasped. A single gram of Protonite was worth the twenty-year tenure severance pay of a serf, a fee that would set him up comfortably for life elsewhere in the galaxy. These Citizens threw wealth around like sand.
 

“Only one kilo?” the female Citizen inquired. Stile could not tell whether that was irony or disdain.
 
“Plus you,” Satan amended. “For a week.”

“Outrageous!”

He sighed. “A day, then.”

“Agreed.” She faced Stile. “You will have two minutes to make your escape unfettered. Thereafter the full resources of this dome will be brought to bear against you. I suggest you make good use of the time. I do not wish to have to spend a day with this ilk.”

“Now!” Satan cried.

“Follow me,” Sheen said, and took off. Stile followed her without question; she was programmed for exactly this sort of thing. He remained bemused by the negotiation and terms agreed upon by the Citizens. His Employer wasn’t concerned about the kilo of Protonite, but about a day with Satan—yet she had made the wager. What did that tell about the values of Citizens? He really wasn’t sure. His Employer might be upset with him if she lost the wager—but he would already be dead. Perhaps this only indicated the relative values of things: the life of a favored serf, one kilo of Protonite, one day with a boor. Three things of equivalent merit.

Sheen had evidently surveyed this layout and resources of this dome, using her machine capabilities. She knew where everything was. Stile realized that his life was on the line, but he expected to retain it—because the Satan-Citi-zen evidently was not aware that Sheen was a robot. Their resources were greater, in the purely limited scope of pursuit, than the Citizen knew. Stile’s Employer knew, of course, and had played her game adroitly. She expected to win her wager.

Sheen paused at a panel, opened it, and did something to its innards. “That will give us an extra minute,” she said. “I put in a sixty-second implement-delay signal. By the time they notice it, it will have expired—and we have a minute more time.” Then she took off again.

They came to a tank-reserve unit. Sheen opened the hatch to one of the tiny vehicles. “Get in.” “But there’s only room for one person!” “I don’t need to breathe,” she reminded him. “I will ride outside.” When Stile looked doubtful, she said: “We’re already into our extra minute. Get in! You know how to operate this device?”

“Yes.” Stile had played Games with similar equipment; he could handle a tank adroitly. This one was armed with small explosive shells, however, instead of the colored-light imitation-laser of a Game tank. This was a real war machine, and that made him nervous.

“I can’t help you once we get outside,” Sheen said quickly. “Try to mimic the other tanks, so they don’t know you’re a fugitive. Then break for the mountains or another dome. They won’t pursue beyond this Citizen’s demesnes.” Demesnes. Like those of the Adepts of Phaze.
 
“Hang on,” Stile said. He closed the hatch, fastened it down, and started the tank.

The motor roared into life. He ground down the exit tunnel, then up to ground level. Immediately he saw the ring of other tanks. He angled across to merge with their line. Protective mimicry—an excellent device!
 
But they were on to him. Maybe it was Sheen, clinging to the top, or maybe the Citizen’s robot-personnel had noted the identity of his machine. The nearest tank oriented on him, its cannon swinging balefully about.

Very well. Stile was good at such maneuvers, though his life had not before hung so literally on his ability. He skewed to the side, and the enemy’s first shot missed. Be-yond him there was a detonation, and a black cloud expanded and drifted in the slight breeze.
 
Stile spun his tank about and fired at the one who had attacked him. Stile’s aim was good; there was a burst of flame, and a cloud of smoke enveloped the other machine.
 
He was a dead shot with most projectile weapons, though he had never expected that Game-talent to pay off so handsomely in real life.

Before that cloud had cleared, Stile whirled on the next, and scored on it too. However, the other tanks were converging on his own. There were too many of them, and Stile was conscious of Sheen on his top. Even a glancing hit, or piece of shrapnel could wipe her out! There was really no chance to escape this region unscathed.
 
Stile turned directly toward the Citizen’s dome. This put him between it and the pursuing tanks; they could not fire at him because any missed shot would strike the dome.
 
Machines were generally stupid, but this would be programmed into them.

The problem was that he remained confined. He could not break out of the ring of tanks without becoming a target. Before long the speck of Protonite that powered this vehicle would be exhausted; a heavy machine consumed a lot of energy. Then he would be stuck, vulnerable to what-ever Satan had in mind for him. It would surely be hellish.
 
Well, do the unexpected. It was all that remained. Stile roared straight through the force-field and into the dome itself. Let the Citizen deal with this\ In moments he plowed through the partitions of the outer chambers, scattering stage props and supplies, and emerged upstairs in Heaven.

Angels scattered, screaming with uneternal terror, as the tank burst through a cloud bank, shedding puffs of clouds and crunching the foam-floor beneath. Stile slowed, not wanting to hurt anyone; after all, the angels were only costumed serfs. Also, if anyone died, his tenure on Proton would be abruptly terminated, and if the police arrested him before he reached the sanctity of the Tourney premises, he would not be allowed to reach it. No one could be arrested in the Game Annex itself. But how would he return to Phaze? As far as he knew, no fold of the curtain passed the Annex. So he was careful—and conscious of the anomaly of a tank touring Heaven, carrying a lady robot.
 
He wanted to stop to check on Sheen, but knew he could not afford the delay; he had to figure out a course of action before the Citizen’s forces reorganized.
 
Could he charge on down to the subway shuttle? The passages were fairly broad, and the tank should fit. But what would he do when he got there? This machine would not fit aboard a shuttle, and would have trouble running along the confined channel the shuttles used. But if he left this machine, he would be lasered down. Yet where else would he go? All his alternatives seemed futile.
 
Then he suffered inspiration. The curtain—of course!
 
He had surveyed it near here, from the other side. If he could locate it and reach it—

It was a gamble at best. The curtain might not be close enough, and if it was within range he might not be able to spot it from the tank, and if he did spot it he still might not be able to will himself through it while riding in the tank.
 
Yet one thing he was not going to do was stop and get out, under the guns of the other tanks!

It was no gamble at all to remain here idle. He would inevitably fall to Satan’s forces. He had to try for the curtain!

He crashed on out of Heaven, through the interim chambers, and on into the barrens of Proton.
 
The enemy tanks were on the other side of the dome, where he had entered. That was a break for him. Stile headed toward the region where the curtain should be.
 
With just a little further luck—

The enemy tanks reacted as one, cruising around the dome on either side and spreading out to form a broad line. Now they were getting him into their sights—and the dome was not going to be in the line of fire much longer.
 
No good luck for him here!

Stile threw his tank from side to side as the firing commenced, making a difficult target. Machines were accurate shooters when the target was stationary or in steady motion, but when velocity was erratic and non-laser weapons were being employed, as now seemed to be the case, it was necessary to anticipate the strategy of the prey. Otherwise the time it took the shell to travel would put it behind the target-tank. Since Stile was humanly unpredictable, the shots were missing. But he could not afford to flaunt him-self before them for long; inevitably a shell would score, at least disabling his machine. Then he would become a stationary target: a sitting quack, as it was described in Game-parlance.

In Phaze, he thought with fleeting humor, he had to watch out for spells. Here it was shells.

But his meandering had another purpose: to locate the curtain. It was here somewhere, but there were such poor reference points on the bare sand that he could not place it precisely. The curtain could curve about, and it shimmered so faintly that it was invisible from any distance, even for those like himself who were able to perceive it at all. He would probably come upon it so swiftly that he would pass it before realizing; then he would have to turn and try to cross from the other side while the enemy tanks had full seconds to orient.

A shell exploded in the sand beside him. The concussion shoved Stile’s tank violently to the side. Something flew from it, visible in his screen. A section of armor?
 
No. If was Sheen.

Then Stile saw the curtain, angling across his path just ahead. He must have been traveling beside it, not quite intersecting it. He could veer right and pass through it now—

Not without Sheen! Yet he could not halt; that would be instant, fiery death. Already his pace slackened, the enemy tanks were closing the gap; their aim would become correspondingly more accurate. He had to get across—or perish.

Sheen had asked to be junked cleanly. Was this the occasion? Should he, after all, allow her to. . . ?

Stile set the controls to automatic, opened the hatch, and climbed out. The tank was moving at about 50 kilometers per hour now. Stile leaped off the side, sprinting desperately forward in midair. His feet touched the ground, and

Still weren’t fast enough. He made a forward roll, eyes and mouth tightly closed, curling his body into a ball. The sand was soft, here, though his velocity was such that it felt hard; he rotated many times before coming out of it, bruised but whole. Oh, that sand was hot! The enemy tanks, for the moment, were still chasing his empty tank. Stile charged back to find Sheen, who lay sprawled where she had fallen. She looked intact; perhaps the shock of the explosion had only jogged a wire loose, interrupting her power.