Blue Adept (30 page)

“Why is he so diffident?” Stile asked. “That’s not the way of a Citizen.”

“He uses the term ‘victim,’” Sheen pointed out. “This will not be pretty.”

“Hulk! Something’s happened—“

The holograph formed a new image: Hulk, talking to Sheen herself. The man seemed even larger than normal, in the confines of the apartment. His head barely cleared the doorway. “Thank you, Sheen,” Hulk said, smiling down at her. Sheen was lovely, looking absolutely human, but of course Hulk knew the truth.

“I never knew this was being recorded!” the actual Sheen exclaimed, looking at her holo-image.
 

“Citizens can have anything recorded,” Stile reminded her. “All the holo-pickups spread throughout the domes of Proton are at their service.”

“I know that. I just didn’t realize I was the subject, in your absence.”

“You may be the subject right now.”

“Oh, shut up and watch the show.”

They watched the holo-Hulk depart, the image sliding in and out of the scene to simulate his motion. He stopped at a communication screen, called Information, and received a slip of paper, evidently an address. The self-willed machines had provided it, of course; Stile hoped the Rifleman had not pursued that ramification.

Hulk read the address and started walking again. Suddenly he was entering a jetporter—and as suddenly emerging at a far dome. The edited tape, of course, skipping across the nonessentials. It was easy to follow, since standard entertainment-holos were done the same way.
 
Hulk arrived at an isolated dome, similar to so many favored by Citizens. This one was accessible by monorail across the sand, so that any visitors were visible well before arrival. Hulk stepped down as the carriage halted, and stood on the lawn, looking at the main building.

It was an almost perfect replica of the Blue Demesnes.

Stile could well understand the amazement of the big man.
 
Who would have thought that such a castle existed in the frame of Proton? It was probably on the same geographic site, too, conforming perfectly to the alternate frame. The frames did tend to align, as Stile had discovered the hard way; when a person died in one, he was likely to die in the other too. Stile had narrowly escaped death in Proton at the time the Blue Adept was murdered in Phaze. Then, in what was apparently another way for the frames to equalize, he had discovered the curtain and crossed over.
 
Thus each frame had Stile, again—in turn. This suggested that the use of the curtain was not coincidental, but in-evitable—when an imbalance existed between the frames.
 
But now here was Hulk—seemingly back where he had started from. And surely the Lady Blue was here, for this was where Sheen had sent him to find her, based on the information her machine friends had provided. But the Lady could not hold the position here that she did in Phaze...

Hulk, evidently having completed a similar mental sequence, strode forward toward the castle. There was one way to find out!

There was a guard at the gate. He stood up straight as Hulk approached, but there was no way he could match Hulk’s height. “What is your business here, serf?”

“I am Hulk, on leave from employment pending the expiration of my tenure. I wish to meet Bluette.”

The guard turned to a communication pickup. “Serf with message for Bluette.”

“Thank you; I will be down.” It was the Lady Blue’s voice. Stile felt a prickle at his spine, though he knew this was merely the Lady’s alternate self. Of course she sounded the same; she was the same, in everything except situation.
 
“I’m not sure I should watch this,” Stile muttered. “It doesn’t relate to my situation.”

“The Rifleman thinks otherwise,” Sheen reminded him.
 
“You can just sit there and watch someone else making time with someone you love. The experience will do you good.”

How bitter could a robot get? But probably she was 1 right; he was doing it to her, and he needed to know how it felt to have it done to him.

Hulk waited, and in a moment she appeared. She was indeed the Lady Blue. The Phaze clothing was gone; she was a naked serf. But she was the same.
 
“She’s lovely,” Sheen said. “I can see how you would like her.”

“This one is for Hulk,” Stile said. But it was hard to believe that. He was glad the scene was only in holo.
 
Bluette—the Lady Blue—he understood why they were so exactly like each other. Yet to see it so directly—this stirred him fundamentally.

“What is your message?” Bluette inquired. She did not use the archaic tongue, of course; Stile found this slightly jarring, but it did help distinguish her from the woman he loved.

“Lady, it is Complicated,” Hulk said. “I would like to talk with thee at some length.”

“Thee?”

“My error,” Hulk said quickly. “A misplaced usage.” He had had so much trouble getting used to the forms of Phaze, and this situation was conducive to the error. Stile would have had the same problem.

Bluette shrugged. “Until my Employer comes, I am not hard-pressed. Yet I am disinclined to heed a complicated message from a stranger.”

“This I understand. Lady,” Hulk said. “I know it is an imposition. Yet perhaps I can tell you things that will interest you. I have known one very like you, a great and gracious woman, a star among planets—“

“Enough of this!” she exclaimed angrily. “I am a serf, like you. Do you seek to get me in trouble with my Employer?”

Hulk’s response was cut off by the sudden descent of a rocket. The thing veered out of its trajectory, dropping rapidly toward the dome. Both man and woman paused to stare at it.

“Lady, it will crash!” Hulk cried. He leaped forward, swept up the woman, and carried her from the projected site of collision.

He was not mistaken. The rocket plunged through the dome’s force-field and landed with an explosive flare of heat against the castle wall. A yellowish cloud of vapor enveloped it, spreading rapidly outward. “Gas attack!” Hulk cried. “Get into the monoshuttle!”

“This is outrageous!” Bluette exclaimed as he set her down. But she ran fleetly enough toward the mono.
 
It was no good. The crash had disrupted the mono’s power; the shuttle was inoperative. “Go outside the dome!” Hulk cried. “The gas can’t follow there!”

But the gas had already diffused throughout the dome.
 
Both Hulk and the Lady held their breaths as they ran for the rim, but collapsed as the gas touched their skin.
 
“Nerve gas,” Stile muttered. “Almost instant. Not neces-sary to breathe it. Used as an anesthetic for animals.” He frowned. “But strange that a shipment of that should crash right there and then. Freight rockets hardly ever go astray.”

“That was no coincidence,” Sheen said. “That was a trap.”

Stile nodded. “A trap set for me, I think. Because it was expected that I would be the one to come for the Lady Blue.”

“Which means that your enemy knows of your life in both frames. And that you would hardly be likely to bring the one person who could help you escape that situation—me.”

Another half-bitter reference to Sheen’s own feelings.
 
She was right; had he gone to see Bluette, Stile would not have brought Sheen along. That would have been unnecessarily cruel. So he would have had no invulnerable guardian to bail him or the Lady out. “Yes, the enemy must be an Adept, who can cross the curtain. But not a Citizen. So the trap is made to seem like an accident, to foil any Citizen curiosity.”

Now he was feeling the reaction. Stile did not like being the object of a murder campaign; that frightened him and generated in him a festering uncertainty and rage. But now the attack had spread to the Lady Blue/Bluette. That aggravated him far more specifically. How dare they touch her!

And Hulk—innocently walking into the trap set for Stile. Hulk’s blood, if it came to that, would be on Stile’s hands. What mischief had Stile done his friend, in the name of a favor?

The holo continued. Robots emerged from the crashed rocket—humanoid, flesh-toned, but probably far simpler machines than was Sheen. They came to Hulk and the Lady, and fitted breathing masks over their faces. Then the robots picked up the two effortlessly and carried them through the force-field and out onto the barren surface of Proton. There the holo-pickup lost them—but the orbiting satellite spotters followed their progress. What a job of tracing the devices of Proton could do, when so directed!
 
The robots trekked tirelessly south across the sand with their burdens. At length they entered the shaft of a worked-out mine at the margin of the Purple Mountains—which were not purple here. The full image returned; it seemed that even a place like this had operable pickups.
 
At last the two were deposited in a pressurized chamber deep within the mine. It was a miniature force-field dome.
 
There was a defunct food-dispensing machine and a holo-transceiver. This could be considered a pleasant private retreat—or a prison.

The robots sprayed more gas, evidently a neutralizer, removed the breathing masks, filed them in their chest compartments, and set a chamber oxygen generator in operation. Then they walked through the force-field and disappeared from the range of the holo-pickup. Hulk was the one this report was on, not stray robots. The impersonal touch of the machine, literally; machines did not care about irrelevancies such as the welfare of serfs or the commission of criminal acts.

Hulk was of rugged constitution, and first to regain consciousness, His eye cracked open in time to see the robots departing. He made a huge visible effort and hauled him-self to his feet. He staggered across to Bluette. “Lady—art thou well?” he asked, lifting her with infinite gentleness.
 
Bluette was at the moment weak physically, but not mentally. She shook off the lingering effects of the gas.
 

“Again you use the archaic form. What is this?”

“I will answer you gladly, Lady. But first we should ascertain our situation. We seem to have been taken prisoner.”

“Why should anyone wish to do that? My Employer is a peaceful man, a scholar of the arcane, who hardly ever comes to his castle retreat. I merely maintain it so that it is never ill-kept should he appear. For months at a time, it is as if it belongs to me—but I am only a serf, destined never to be more.”

“You are more. Lady. Much more. I fear my arrival precipitated this action.” Hulk was already inspecting the perimeter. He took a breath, held it, and stepped through the force-field at one end of their confine. There was only one more tunnel, proceeding interminably. This was an access passage, carved by laser drills long ago, leaving smooth, partially polished walls. It reminded Stile of the bore of the Worm of Phaze. Perhaps that was not coincidence, but another parallel between frames. Operating mines were pressurized throughout, for convenience; since many of the rock formations were porous or semiporous, the passage had to have melt-sealed walls. This was a dead mine, since there was no pressure beyond the Proton-external norm. Hulk passed back through the force-field and moved to the other end. It was the same story.
 
“These passages can extend for kilometers,” Hulk told the Lady. “Without masks, we can not expect to reach a dome on foot.”

“Of course not,” she agreed. “Yet if it were our captor’s purpose to kill us, he could have done this at the outset.”

“I see there is a holo-unit. No doubt our captor will communicate with us at his convenience.”

“Surely he will,” she agreed. “But I still don’t understand why we are here.”

Hulk inspected the holo-communicator. “I could put this out of commission, but that seems pointless. We shall simply have to wait. I deeply regret bringing this upon you; I had no idea this would happen. Yet perhaps it is for the best.”

She frowned, exactly as the Lady whom Stile knew would have, then flung her golden hair back in a kind of acquiescent defiance. She was absolutely lovely. “I was not unduly interested, before, in what you had to say. My interest has grown. Tell me your estimate of this situation.” Hulk settled down against the curving wall opposite her.

 
“Gladly, Lady. I believe this is a trap set for another person, a friend of mine. It was assumed that he would come for you, and the robots were not astute enough to perceive the substitution. When the Citizen who has organized this checks in, he will discover the mistake. He will not be pleased.”

“When my Employer checks his retreat-estate, he will not be pleased,” Bluette said. “Yet I fear that will not be soon.” She looked directly at him. “Give me the rest of it.”

“Lady, I am a master in the Game. Since my tenure expires this year I had hoped to enter the Tourney. I was balked in that effort by a better player. But he showed me an alternate world—Lady, you may find this extremely difficult to believe, so I shall simplify it—“

“Do not expurgate it,” she said.

“You do not appreciate just how remarkable the story is.
 
I do not wish to have you question my sanity.”

“Risk my incredulity. Tell the truth and take your medicine,” she said, smiling.

“I cannot deny you,” he said, warmed as anyone would be. The smile of the Lady was a precious thing. “I should warn you that I came to court you. I do not mean to give offense, and I would have preferred a more esthetic approach—“