To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) (22 page)

"How did the world get into this mess?" he asked the group.

"It's a legacy from your time," Narmada said. "When the pendulum swings as far as it can one way, it has only one way to go: back."

"It seems to me that the pendulum has gone as far as it could the other way now," Blake said. He looked at the faces around him. "Can it be made to reverse again, toward freedom?"

They all looked doubtful. "Perhaps," Narmada said slowly.
"You
would have a better perspective on that than we do."

"Venus could really use him," Neva said, almost to herself. "A man from the free past, thrown into prison, sentenced to a terrible death just because he walked through time."

"I slept through it."

"No matter. Sleeping implies no action at all. 'Leapt through time.' That would be even better."

"Well, how do I get in touch with this Venus?" Everyone suddenly found something else interesting to look at. Blake was frustrated.

From the door Bennett said, "That's right, Mason, we don't know that you
aren't
a Sword or one of the Glorius Cherubs."

"He could even be one of the Friends of the God of Abraham," Rob said. "Or an Archon of the Almighty God."

"Or an Angel of Punishment." Marta shivered.

"Yeah, or from the Lightning Bolts of the Terrifying God of Heaven, or a Temple Virgin of Mary Magdalene," Narmada said nastily. "We have no way of knowing." He looked at Blake. "One thing, though: if they kill you out in the arena, we'll know you were straight."

"Thanks a lot!" Blake said. "Posthumous vindication." He looked around at the other prisoners. "So you think I'm a spy." He shrugged. "All right. I understand. But look, I was arrested with two women from my time, Rio and Doreen. Rio is beautiful – well, both of them are beautiful – and she has long dark hair and a kind of golden skin and ... a very good figure. Doreen has a big chest and, well, she looks like a Doreen. Is there any way I can find out where they are?"

There was a short silence, then Neva spoke. "If they are beautiful, I mean
beautiful,
they are probably in Troop Nine. That's the special group that gets solo executions."

Blake's heart sank again. "Oh, God ...
Why?"

Rob inhaled deeply and then said, "Because the churches are against physical beauty."

"Why? They never were before. They built fancy, glorious churches and altars and temples..."

"You're thinking of the
old
churches: the Roman Catholic and the Episcopalian, those of the Hebrew faith and the Eastern religions. But even back in your time I'm certain there were some that didn't fancy themselves up."

"Yes, but neither did they execute people for being beautiful!"

"You don't understand," Neva said. "They – and you – were sentenced because of your special crimes. They will give your friends special solo executions because of their beauty, that's all. Torn apart by a robot, or–"

"There's some talk of bringing back those
big
robots they used to use," Bennett interrupted, distaste and fear on his face.

Blake looked at Neva in shock. "They do that sort of thing here? My God, I thought they were Christians – people of God, religious people!"

"Exactly," Narmada said. "More blood has been spilled in the name of Christ than in the name of anything else – Christian against pagan; Christian against Christian; Christian against witches, unbelievers, Jews, heretics, anyone who opposed them. Your Christianity has devoured whole peoples, and gods as well! Whenever the Christians moved into a region, if the local pagan gods could be absorbed, they were – Saint Patrick, for one. They became saints or angels or other aspects of God. But when they could not be absorbed, they were outlawed, declared evil, made part of Lucifer, banished, exorcised. Their idols were smashed, precious art and history destroyed. The Aztec Coda was burned and–" Narmada stopped abruptly, breathing heavily.

There was a silence, then Blake sighed. "It's not
my
Christianity..."

"Your Rio, your Doreen," Narmada said, "will meet degrading, horrible deaths, much worse than anything Neva or Marta or the other women here have to face. At least our women face death with trident or sword, and will have a fighting chance, even if the odds are against them. If you face one fighter, you may vanquish him; but, of course, after you've faced a hundred, two hundred, the odds eventually work against you. If you look as if you are going to be able to defeat all corners – which is very rare – they change the rules on you, put you up against twice as many, against a totally new robot you know nothing about, against something you can't handle. Your women will not even have that chance. They'll undergo a few preliminaries, like being put in a drama or a spectacular, but then they will be staked out for the robot ants or–"

"Nar, stop it!" Neva said. She was hugging Marta and they were swaying. "Nar, we know all that, and if you want to tell Mason your grisly details, please do it some other time."

"I'm sorry, Neva, I forgot. I get so angry, though!"

Blake felt sick. Neva stood and pulled Marta to her feet, then they left the cell. Narmada moved to the bunk and sat down. Rob picked at the raveled edge of his sleeve.

"They had the Circus back in my time," Blake said. "It was bloody, all right; but there was some kind of professionalism to it. They just didn't dump in meat – human meat. Everyone watched it, everyone knew it was the ultimate entertainment, real-life drama, life and death."

"The Romans knew it, too," Bennett said. "Bread and circuses. Keep the citizens happy, keep them occupied. When there's no work, at least give them some entertainment. It was the same in your time and it's the same now, only worse."

"People haven't always had Circuses, have they?" Rob asked Blake.

"No, not really. People used to go to hangings, bringing along their children and lunch. Then there was the Mardi Gras, a kind of religious orgy."

"We still have that," Narmada said.

"Then we had a lot of professional and semiprofessional contests. Football, baseball, soccer, boxing, roller derbies."

"What about robot fighters?" Rob asked. "Did they have them back then?"

"No. Not way, way back. They had automobile races." He looked at their faces and tried to explain.

"Automobiles were vehicles, like aircars. Only they went on the ground. Some of them were very fast and people would race them."

"I remember reading about those things," Rob said. "They caused the air to be unusable, isn't that so?"

"They were one cause, yes. But they started having contests to see who could smash up the other's car first. Dozens of people would try at once. They had airplane races, too. They were like aircars. Then along in my time they started having the first robot fighters and robot cars. They used to put fake things on the robots to get knocked off and squirt fluid, just to make the contest look rougher than it was. Then they started matching up men and women against robots. At first, the humans usually won, because they were more agile and could think faster; but the robots improved and–"

"Yeah, that's how it is now," Rob said. "Except now, the robots are like tanks, with flame guns and rockets; and they really fight. There are robot swarms, too – little bastards with teeth that come at you in bunches." Rob shivered and looked at the opposite wall.

"But
why? Why?"
Blake asked angrily. "Are they getting revenge for the Christian martyrs thrown to the lions? Don't they realize they are making the same mistake?"

No one had an answer, and after a few silent moments Bennett said, "I want to get to sleep. It's a long day tomorrow."

Rob and Narmada stood up and left. Blake was slower, and Bennett stopped him.

"I'll get word out. Maybe we can find out where your friends are."

Blake nodded his thanks and walked away.

What am I doing here...?
he asked himself.

The wallscreen showed two fighters in the Arena. One was a retiarius: a slim girl who wore no armor – just a leather-like uniform and sandals – and carried a trident and net. The net was edge-weighted for better control ... and she circled the bigger opponent warily, keeping her trident up and the net moving.

"Notice how she keeps the net in motion so that there will be no betraying gesture to show she is about to cast it." Sergeant White stood at the edge of the screen, holding a long pointer.
"See
how she keeps the trident at the ready. It keeps the secutor at bay, and she can use it to advantage at any time."

The secutor was a broad-shouldered African whom Neva said had been captured while attempting to smuggle some blacks out of the annexed state of Baja California. He wore a helmet, smooth and round, without any decoration that would catch on a net. He had on a breastplate, but no backplate. He wore a greave only on his left leg and his right arm was protected by a flexible armor. He held a small round shield against the jabs of the girl's trident and carried a short, heavy sword in his armored right hand. Blake felt as if he were watching a historical drama.

"The statistics say that if a secutor and a retiarius of equal skill are matched, the retiarius will win 86 percent of the time. But watch this."

The girl cast her net in a smooth overhand motion, using her trident to capture her opponent's sword at the same moment, holding it away from his body just long enough for the net to settle. The big Negro twisted away, entangling himself in the net. The girl released his sword and drew back her arm for a violent thrust of the spear. But the secutor threw himself toward her – net and all – instead of trying to avoid her trident. The three-pointed spear missed him and he swung the sword against her unprotected torso. It cut deeply, and blood gushed. She staggered back, her face in shock, and fell to one knee. She kept the trident up and pointed at the big man as he tore away the net. Contemptuously, he knocked aside her spear. The back of the trident hit the girl in the side and she fell onto one hand. She looked up at the secutor to see the sword falling. He cut through her neck in one slice and the head fell. The secutor placed one foot on her back and raised his sword to the crowd.

Blake did not feel he was watching a historical drama anymore. The tape was silent, but he could imagine the roar of the crowd.

The screen went blank abruptly and Sergeant White started asking questions. "Neva, what did she do wrong?"

"She wasn't prepared for an unorthodox move. She should have been, because getting in past the spearpoint is the best defense-offense."

"Bennett, did the secutor make any mistakes?"

"Well, he won, so he made fewer mistakes than she did. But he should have moved faster at the start, to take advantage of her nervousness on seeing such a strong opponent. Then, in the middle, he allowed her to get the sun in his eyes – something he could have corrected by moving to the right." Bennett stopped to think for a moment, then added, "Finally, she always moved her hand back a little, with a sort of jerk, before she really threw the net. He should have recognized the pattern and been ready."

"Mason, did he kill her properly?"

"Dead is dead, Sergeant. She probably felt pain only for a little while."

Sergeant White looked disgusted. Then he sneered. "All right, now we'll look at the new Attila robot."

The screen flashed into life, and once again Blake was observing the Arena from eye level. Three-meter robots were lined up, four of them against eight humans, who looked pitiful in their archaic armor of breastplates and helmets and their primitive swords against the gleaming steel might of the huge anthropoid robots.

"Sweet mother, look at the size of those rabbles!" a man near Blake said. "They're bigger than the Madman series!"

"These are the Attila, Mark VI," Sergeant White said. "They are by General Robotics, which means they probably have more speed than maneuverability in the upper arms. Remember, the Genghis Khan series was weak in the rear right quarter, upper vector."

"If you can jump that high!" a man in front said.

"Remember the trip techniques you've been taught. Get the iron down and then hit the weak spots. Now watch these pieces of scrap in action."

The battle was one-sided. Only one robot was toppled, and at the cost of one human. But before the other human could attack the fallen robot, it lashed out with a taloned arm and tore the leg right off the charging man. The battle was over in less than two minutes. Dismembered and torn bodies lay all around as the robots methodically grouped together, saluted the bishop's box, and left the field. Their only signs of battle were spurts of human blood drying on their sleek metallic flanks.

The crowd of novices was silent when the picture ended. Sergeant White said, "Don't worry, we'll study all the tapes. We'll find the weaknesses. There will be at least six or eight troops going up against them before you do." No one spoke. "All right, the exercise arena. Mason, you stay."

The others left the room quickly, and Mason followed the sergeant, who took him to a room filled with padded seats equipped with tie-down straps. Blake stared about doubtfully.

The sergeant said, "Don't worry, this is to protect you. Sit down and let me fasten you in." Seeing no alternative, Blake sat and in moments was virtually immobile. The sergeant picked up a headset that hung on the back of the seat, and Blake recognized the induction pickups of a sensory recorder.

Such things had been popular with certain types in his time, especially those who preferred their sex vicariously. The recorders were also superb trainers for certain jobs, and Blake had learned to ski from one. Once he had felt the flex and balance of an expert skier in his own body-mind, the actuality of learning came much faster. Doctors had used them to examine a patient, recording every bit of sensory input that went through the sensory cortex, separating the various impressions, and making playback possible. After an examination, the doctor would play back the tape and then could determine exact areas of pain or distress and more quickly diagnose the illness. Lovers could use the recordings to enter the body, but not the mind or thoughts, of one another; feeling what it was like to be of the opposite sex, they might become much better lovers. Homosexuals found certain heterosexual tapes very popular. With instant replay, two lovers could each know, within milliseconds, exactly what the other felt. "Becoming one" had indeed approached reality. Masochists used certain tapes to achieve unusual effects without a mark on them. Cripples could dive into the depths of the ocean, or sail within the body of a hawk. The old could once again feel the throb of youth, providing their doctors approved. Pornography was the natural medium of the sensory recorder, and an entire industry had been producing sexual epics in Blake's day.

"This'll show you how it is out there," the sergeant said. "The straps are to prevent your sympathetic reactions from getting carried away. They've filtered the pain levels so you'll feel it, but it won't knock you out."

The shaven head of the burly soldier glistened under the lights as he looked through a fistful of recording rectangles. He selected one, stuck it into the back of Blake's chair until it clicked, then said, "By the way, you get killed in this one. But don't worry, they'll pull you out of it before you synchronize." His thumb pressed a button, and the Arena appeared around Blake.

Like a double exposure, he could still see the room full of padded chairs and Sergeant White walking away; but the dominant image was the Arena surrounding him, the steep wall going up five or six meters to the first row of seats. He could see the miters of bishops and the skull caps of priests in the first rows, as well as richly dressed civilians. In the wall he also saw windows and gates, and in some of the windows were television cameras. The noise of the crowd was almost deafening, and several flowers landed on the combed sand near his sandaled foot. He moved and there was a pain along his side – an old pain, like a recent wound not quite healed.

Blake wanted to look down at himself, to get his bearings, but the recording did not let him do that. He was a passenger in the gladiator's body; he did not control it, and he could not sense any of the man's thoughts, but his mind felt whatever the doomed gladiator's body felt, or what it did.

I'm going to die,
Blake thought.
With sensory recorders, a brave man can die as often as a coward...

A gate opened in the far wall and out came a magnificent figure of a man, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, obviously confident, and well-coordinated. He wore a breastplate and a helmet that covered his head, had an armored right arm and two greaves. His weapon was not the traditional short sword but a wicked-looking mace. He brandished the weapon and Blake felt his own arm rise to return the arrogance; for the first time he saw that he held a sword, the usual broad, blunt Roman sword.

Why are they such traditionalists?
Blake asked himself.
I'd love a good Colt Two-Millimeter laser right now.

Blake started moving in on his opponent much sooner than he really wanted, but, trapped in the gladiator's body, he had no choice. The overlay of sensation from the room full of padded chairs dimmed and was gone as the more powerful and more immediate sensation of the Arena took over. Blake felt the grit of sand under his feet and the sun on his skin. The crowd's roar seemed to dim, too, as he concentrated more and more on the impressive figure of the advancing warrior.

They now grew quite close to one another, though neither one was yet in a defensive posture.

Blake was beginning to feel real fear.
Is this some ghastly joke, on the sergeant's part? Is the body I'm in a suicide? Or is he so inept that he stands no chance against the other man? My host body is going to die, probably from a savage blow. Will it be quick or slow? Will I feel much pain?

The fatalism of his situation overcame him. There was nothing he could do. If the body he was vicariously visiting was mortally wounded, he knew he would be saved only by the technicians, who supposedly had monitored and reduced the pain input in the recording. His own body would be untouched, but many deaths back in his own time had been attributed to sympathetic reactions while using a sensory recording.

The two gladiators came within weapon's length of each other, stopped, and turned. They stood in the middle of the Arena, toward the side of the bishop's box.

As the enemy gladiator raised his head and mace for the salute, Blake saw the stands were filled and the bishop's box held many mitered and robed figures. A lavish, ornamented awning shaded them. Darkly robed figures stood in attendance on every side, heavy lasers holstered at their hips and their eyes roaming everywhere but in the Arena.

Blake felt his lungs fill and a great shout go out from his mouth, spoken in unison with his fellow gladiator.
"Hail, Lord Bishop! We who are about to die salute you!"

There was the flutter of a hand from the center figure, a frail-looking old man. A flourish of trumpets sounded, and Blake and his opponent backed away a few steps from each other.

They began to circle one another, each trying to get the sun in the other's eyes. Like an unwilling passenger on a runaway train, Blake felt his muscles tense, his strong legs flex and his body leap forward, his sword slashing and cutting at the other warrior. Metal clashed on metal, and he could distinctly hear the grunt and breathing of the other man – even over the shouts of the crowd.

They fought, it seemed to Blake, for hours. His sword arm was weary and his legs ached, but still the man he was inhabiting drove on. His shield arm was bruised from catching the hard-driving blows of the other warrior, and his head rang from a glancing blow off his helmet. He parried and thrust, parried and thrust, hacking and reversing directions with a speed that dazzled him. The thrusts were made and over before Blake was really aware of them.
If this is the skill I must obtain, I'll be dead in the first minute!

With a suddenness that startled Blake and disoriented him, his host body dodged a blow and dove at the sand, hitting and rolling, his sword cutting at the other's legs in a vicious swipe. His blow, aimed at the junction of greave and sandal, missed by a fraction of an inch, glancing off the metal with a loud clang. Blake's host-gladiator then reversed his swing and cut at the back of the other's leg, behind the greave. The sword struck flesh, but the leg was moving away. Blake dodged a blow, then caught another off his shield as he
scrambled to his feet.

Blood gushed from a deep wound in the other man's calf, but his leg was not hamstrung. He pressed his attack with a vengeance that frightened Blake.
He needs to win, before the loss of blood weakens him!

The attacker jumped close, his mace yanking down at the shield that protected Blake. Blake's sword arm swung hard at the too-close head, glancing off the side protectors of the helmet and cutting shallowly into the neck muscles. For a brief moment the two men were locked together, each fending off the other's weapon with his shield. Blake looked into the slits of the helmet and saw two dark, glittering eyes.

Then they leaped apart. But by that time, his opponent had hooked an ankle behind him, and he tripped and fell. Blake's host crashed to the ground and pain flooded his right side, for his sword and sword arm were under him. He raised his shield to ward off the rain of blows from above, and kicked out at the legs of the other man. Sweat ran into his eyes and blinded him, and he could smell blood and death.