Blue Adept (46 page)

“I go, my Lord.” She approached Stile and kissed him.
 
Then Sheen accompanied her to the curtain. Stile continued his research for the next Round of the Tourney, fearing his company would only endanger the Lady Blue, here on Proton. She had acted with considerable courage, coming here and finding her way through the mysterious technological habitat of Proton. He loved her for that courage —but this was not her frame.

Round Nine carried a two-year tenure bonus for the loser, and the prospect of much more for the winner. Stile was now into “safe” territory; he could not be exiled from Proton after washing out of the Tourney. This removed some of the tension. It was now more important to deal with the Red Adept than to win any particular Game. Oh, to win the Tourney would be grand—but the odds remained against him, especially with one loss on his tally.
 
But once he eliminated Red, the entire frame of Phaze was awaiting him, and a happy life with the Lady Blue. So he would play his best, but without the terrible urgency he had had before. That was just as well, since he had other things to do than research his prospective opponents. That research had become a chore.

His opponent this time was a female Citizen. Three Citizens in one Tourney—his luck was bad! But no—probably half the survivors of this level were Citizens, so this was no luck at all.

Still he did not intend to mess with her. He had the letters, so couldn’t stop her from picking her specialty—probably MENTAL or ART. But he might interfere with her plan. He chose MACHINE.

It came up 4C, Machine-Assisted ART. Not his favorite, but probably not hers either. They could find themselves doing esthetic figures while parachuting from a simulated-airplane tower, or playing a concert on a theremin, or doing sculpture by means of selective detonations of incendiary plastic. He would probably feel more at home in these pursuits than she.

But when they gridded through, she outmaneuvered him.
 
They had to compete on the sewing machine, making intricate patterns and pictures on a cloth background. She as a Citizen had had a lot more exposure to cloth than he; indeed, she wore an elaborate dress-suit with borders stitched in gold and silver thread. But she had always had serfs to do her dressmaking for her. So unless she had practiced in this particular art—

Stile, of course, had practiced. He had spent years advancing his skills in every facet of the Game. He knew how to use a sewing machine. He was not expert, but he was adequate.

As it turned out, he was moderately better than the Citizen. It was an unspectacular Game, but the victory was his.

Now for the finish against Red. Sheen’s friends, who as machines had great difficulty perceiving the semi-subjective curtain, had come up with a device to detect it. Sheen now carried this device. She would know, in much the way Neysa knew the whereabouts of Red, where the curtain was. That way Red would not again elude him by stepping across a fold of the curtain he did not know was near.
 
Stile prepared carefully. Sheen carried an assortment of small weapons and devices—a laser, a radiation grenade, a periscope, stun-gas capsules, and a folding steel broad-sword. Her friends had provided a gyro-stabilized unicycle seating two, so she could ferry him rapidly about, any-where where crowds would not find it too attention-fixing.

33A great deal went on in Proton that failed to attract the notice of Citizens, but there were limits. In fact, part of this deadly “game” would be the effort to force Red to call attention to herself, while Stile escaped it. His only crime was the sabotage of Red’s dome; that had probably annoyed her Citizen-mother, but might be attributed to a repair-machine malfunction. Red would have known the truth, but not wanted to report it and have her own situation investigated. She, on the other hand, had been responsible for the deaths of Hulk and Bluette—oh, a double pain and guilt there!—and these were recorded on holo-tape. She would be banished instantly, even if she won more tenure through the Tourney, once those murders came to light.
 
Unless she won the Tourney and became a Citizen. Then she would be immune to all reprisal. Stile had to make sure she did not succeed in that.

They set out in quest of the enemy. Stile had a full day before Round Ten—and if that were not time enough, he would resume the chase after the Round. His oath of vengeance would soon be satisfied, one way or the other.
 
First he went to the curtain at a remote spot and stepped across. Neysa was there—with the Lady Blue.
 
Startled, Stile protested. “Lady, I wanted thee to be under the protection of the werewolves.”

“A wolf went to the Oracle,” she said. “And learned that his oath-friend Neysa was in dire peril from this mission.
 
Since Neysa will not give over, the wolves and unicorns are now patrolling the curtain, ready to aid her if need be.
 
Rather than interfere with this effort, I too patrol the curtain.”

Stile was not wholly satisfied with this, but realized that this was another device of the animals to help him. They wanted to be in on the action. “I expect to deal with Red in Proton,” he said. “My magic is stronger than hers, in Phaze, so she is unlikely to cross the curtain before settling with me. Do you all take care of yourselves.”

“Indeed,” the Lady agreed. “And thee of thyself, my love.”

How glad he would be when this was over, and he could love her without restraint. But that had to wait, lest he void his Oracular guarantee.

Neysa pointed the direction of Red. Then Stile returned across the curtain to Sheen, drove a distance parallel to the curtain, recrossed, and got a new bearing. Now he was able to triangulate. It seemed Red was near the spot she had halted before, when he intercepted her and leaped over her car. She must have a secret place there.
 
They drove there, at moderate speed, so that Neysa could pace them easily. If Red tried to step across the curtain again, she would be in immediate trouble. Of course her amulets could destroy Neysa and the Lady Blue, so Stile still didn’t want them participating in the conclusion. But they could certainly watch from a safe distance.
 
At least they would know the outcome as soon as it hap-pened. And perhaps the Lady’s presence represented a guarantee for Neysa, since the Lady could not bear him any son if she died at this stage. The Lady should survive, and would hardly allow Neysa to perish in her stead.
 
The direction was east. They avoided individual domes and slowed as they neared the spot. It would have been fun, touring the desert like this, comparing the landscape to that of Phaze, if the mission weren’t so serious. There were crevices and mounds and the depressions where lakes might once have been. Where they could be again, if the Citizens ever developed the interest to restore the planet instead of depleting it. But that was a hopeless notion; Citizens cared nothing for the external environment. In fact the very hostility of it gave them additional control over the system, for no serf could flee outside.
 
There was nothing where Red was supposed to be. Sand and low sand dunes covered the entire area.
 
They sought the nearest fold of the curtain. Stile crossed.
 
Mare and Lady were there. Stile obtained two more pointings, narrowing down the location precisely. Red was not in Phaze, but in the equivalent spot in Proton was a bunker, a room set below the level of the ground. It was filled with amulets; obviously a cache of Red’s.

But these amulets would not work in Proton. The curtain passed through this spot, but it was dark beyond it.
 
Stile would have to cross it to find out what was there.
 
Neysa blew a negative note. Red was in the dark be-yond. She could surely see Stile, since he was here in the lighted frame. She could be holding a sword high in both hands, waiting to decapitate the next person who crossed.
 
A simple enough trap.

So Stile avoided it. He removed himself some distance, crossed to Proton, and explained the situation to Sheen.
 
“It is surely a trap,” she agreed. “She means you to come to her. Don’t chance it.”

“I’m not going to let her escape! She’ll never come out if I just leave her alone.”

Sheen opened her chest compartment and brought out the laser-cutter. “Make a hole, drop in a stun-capsule.” That seemed appropriate. Stile started the laser. Quickly the hole formed. Soon it broke through the steel ceiling of the bunker. Then he dropped in the capsule. There was a hiss as it activated, and a puff of the gas emerged from the hole.
 
“I heard something in there fall,” Sheen said. “Now for the periscope.” She brought out the tiny device. It was electronic, and needed no solid extension into the hole; its perceptor-unit was mounted on an almost invisible thread that dangled down.

It showed the Red Adept sprawled naked on the floor of her miniature fortress, an old-fashioned dueling pistol in one hand, an amulet in the other. Had she planned to force the amulet on him at gun-point? If so, she had been amazingly naive.

“I am suspicious,” Sheen said. “There is no entrance here in Proton; she uses Phaze as access. She expected you to enter that way. There could be an automatic weapon set to cover the curtain.”

“Yes. We had better force entry from here.” They set about it. Sheen had several construction bombs, and used them to blast away the sand and rip open a man-sized aperture in the wall of the bunker. Then she entered first.

“No automatic weapon,” she reported. “Still, I think you’d better stay clear.”

“The hell with that,” Stile said, walking down the sand embankment. “I can’t have the ladies doing everything for me.”

“But we can’t be sure this was the extent of the trap! It’s too simple; even I could have worked out something more sophisticated, and I have no creative imagination. At least let me search the premises—“

“You do that. I’ll tie up Red.” Because Stile found he could not kill her, this way. Now when she was unconscious. Funny how she had allowed herself to be gassed, when she must have heard the laser-drill.
 
He leaned over the body, not squatting, because of his knees. Sheen commenced her inspection of the bunker.
 
Something nagged him, but he couldn’t place it at the moment. “I won’t touch that amulet, certainly!” Abruptly, Red moved. Her head turned to cover him, and her pistol whipped up. She was not unconscious after all!

Stile hurled himself to the side as the gun went off. Had he been squatting, as a normal man would have done, he could have been fatally caught; the gun was aimed for the heart of a squatting man. As it was, the bullet slammed into his left thigh.

It was a bad hit. Now Stile exerted his trance-control.
 
He let himself fall backward while clapping both hands to the wound. The pain was terrible, but he was bringing it under control, while he slowed the pulsing eruption of blood. He could not afford to lose consciousness; he could bleed to death rapidly. The major artery had been nicked or severed; he would need a surgeon’s prompt attention.
 
Meanwhile Sheen launched herself at Red. Pistol and amulet flew wide and Red was hurled against the wall.
 
But then Red righted herself and hurled Sheen away, with inhuman strength. “This is a robot!” Sheen cried. “A machine, like me!”

“True,” the Red-figure said. “I bear this message for Stile: make haste away, midget, for at this moment the Red Adept is launching an explosive drone vehicle tuned to the bullet in you. How much damage the drone does depends on your location when it catches you.” They heard the noise of machinery moving, some distance away. Something was rising from another bunker.
 

“Run, Blue!” the robot continued, “Suffer the joys of the chase, rabbit. Message ends.” And the robot went dead.
 

“Sheen!” Stile cried. “Carry me to the curtain. They can help me there, and the drone can’t cross—“

“The amulet!” Sheen cried. “It is the bullet!”

“The bullet!” Stile echoed. Now the full nature of this terrible trap was apparent—and he had almost fallen into it despite the warning the Lady Blue had brought. If he crossed with the bullet in him, it would animate into the basilisk, and he would be dead before he could utter a spell. But if he did not cross—

Now they heard the released drone, cruising across the sand toward them. There could be enough explosive in that to blow up a mountain.

Sheen stooped to pick him up. She carried him to their unicycle and set him in the seat and flung the safety harness around him while Stile clung to consciousness and to his leaking thigh. Then she jumped in herself and started the motor.

The drone-car was rounding the bunker, picking up speed. Sheen accelerated away at right angles to its path. In moments they were traveling seventy kilometers an hour, leaving the drone behind. This was not a particularly fast velocity for travel on a surfaced road, but across the desert landscape it seemed horrendous. “We’ll have to get the bullet out before we take you to a doctor!”

“How can we get it out without a doctor, especially if we can’t stop?” Stile gritted. He was not in the most reason-able of moods at the moment, as he fought to keep blood and body consciousness together. The rough riding did not help.

“I’ll summon one of my friends to intercept us.”

“Summon one to blow up the drone!”

“They won’t do that. It would attract attention to their nature. But one will help you and depart. Then the drone won’t matter.”