Piers Anthony: Robot Adept

“I come with evil tidings,” the bitch said. This appellation was no affront, any more than “woman” was for a human female. Indeed, the term “woman” might be used as an insult to a bitch. “The Adept let me pass, under truce.”

They settled under a spreading nut tree. “Some mischief to my Herd?” Fleta inquired worriedly. She was tolerated by the Herd, but no longer welcome; still, she cared for the others, and they cared for her.

The bitch smiled briefly. “Nay, not that! It relates to thy golem man.”

Fleta glanced at Mach. “The rovot be not true to me?” she asked with fleeting mischief.

“He be from Proton-frame. The Adept Stile says it makes an—an imbalance, that grows worse the more time passes, till the frames—” She seemed unable to handle the concept involved.

“Till the frames destroy themselves?” Mach asked, experiencing an ugly chill.

“Aye,” Furramenin whispered. “Be that possible?”

“I very much fear it is,” Mach said. “In the days of our parents, many folk crossed the curtain between frames, and Protonite was mined and not Phazite, generating an imbalance. They finally had to transfer enough Phazite to restore the balance, and separate the frames permanently so that this could not happen again. That depleted the power of magic here, and reduced the wealth of Proton there, but had to be done. Too great an imbalance does have destructive potential. But I would not have thought that the mere exchange of two selves would constitute such a threat.”

The bitch looked at the mare. “Be he making sense?” Furramenin asked.

“I take it on faith that he be,” Fleta replied.

“If Stile says it, he surely knows,” Mach said. “I realize that the two of you are not technically minded, but I have had enough background in such matters to appreciate the rationale. They must be able to detect a growing imbalance, and I must be the cause.”

“But what does that mean for thee?” Fleta asked.

“It means that every hour I remain in Phaze, and that Bane remains in Proton, is bad for the frames, and could lead to the destruction of both frames. We must exchange back.”

“No!” Fleta cried. “I love thee; thou hast no right to rescue me from suicide only to relegate me to misery without thee! Didst thou speak me the triple Thee for this?”

“The triple Thee?” the werebitch asked, awed. That was the convention of Phaze; when spoken by one to another and echoed by the splash of absolute conviction, it was an utterly binding commitment.

“No right at all!” Mach agreed, feeling a pang. “Yet if remaining with you means destruction for us both, and the frames themselves, what can I do? We lose each other either way.”

“Nay, there be proffered compromise,” Furramenin said. “That be the completion o’ my message: an thou agree to exchange back for equal periods, that the frames may recover somewhat, truce will be extended for that.”

“The families accept our union?” Fleta asked eagerly.

“Nay. They merely recognize an impasse, and seek to prevent further damage while some solution be negotiated.”

“If I return to Proton for a time, they will accede to equal time here with Fleta?” Mach asked. “A month there, a month here, with no interference?”

“Aye, that be the offer,” the bitch said.

“That seems to be a good offer,” Mach said to Fleta.

She gazed stonily into the ground, resisting the notion of any separation at all. Unicorns were known to be stubborn, and though Fleta was normally the brightest and sweetest of creatures, now this aspect was showing. Her dam, Neysa, was reputed to be more so.

Mach looked helplessly at Furramenin. The werebitch responded with a shrug that rippled the deep cleavage of her bodice. “Mayhap thou couldst offer her something to make up for thy separation,” she murmured.

Mach snapped his fingers. “Offspring!” he exclaimed.

Fleta looked up, interested.

“Grant me this temporary separation from you,” he said, “and on my return I shall make my most serious effort to find a way to enable us to have a baby, and shall pursue it until successful.”

They waited. Slowly Fleta thawed, though she did not speak.

Mach addressed the bitch again. “What of the Adverse Adepts? Do they accede to such a truce?”

The watery bubble appeared, floating at head height.

“Aye,” the Translucent Adept said. “Our observation in this respect marches that o’ the other side. The frames are being eroded. We profit not, an the mechanism o’ our contact destroy our realm. But the two o’ ye can communicate regardless o’ the frames occupied. Hold to thy agreement with us, and we care not which frame thou dost occupy.”

“I cannot implement that agreement unless my other self concurs,” Mach reminded him.

“And the other side cannot profit from the connection unless thou dost concur,” Translucent agreed. “The impasse remains—but an Bane appear here, mayhap we can negotiate with him.”

“I suppose that is the way it must be,” Mach said. “I must seek my other self and offer to exchange with him. I hope I can devise a spell to locate him.”

“Surely thou canst,” Translucent agreed, fading out.

“I must return to my Pack,” Furramenin said. She became the wolf, and exited at a dogtrot.

Mach pondered. To do magic, he had to devise a bit of rhyme and deliver it in singsong. That would implement it, but the important part was his conception and will. If he wished for a “croc” verbally, he could conjure an item of pottery or a container of human refuse or a large toothed reptile, depending on his thought. He had very little experience with magic, and was apt to make awkward errors, but he was learning.

What he wanted was an unerring way to locate his other self. He did not want to risk any modification of his own perceptions, because if that went wrong, he could discover himself blind or deaf or worse. But if he had an object like a compass that always pointed to Bane’s location on Proton, he could follow it, and if he made some error in Grafting it, he could correct it when the error became apparent. Was there any type of compass that rhymed with “self”?

He quested through the archives of his Proton education, but came up with nothing. How much easier it would be if that word “croc” fit! Rock, mock, smock, lock, flock—

Then it came to him: delf. Delf was colored, glazed earthenware made for table use in the middle ages of Earth. A kind of crockery, not special, except that it proffered the rhyme he needed. If he could adapt pottery to his purpose…

He worked it out in his mind, then tried a spell: “Give me delf to find myself,” he singsonged, concentrating on a glazed cup.

The cup appeared in his hand. The glaze was bright: brighter on one side than the other. Mach turned the cup, but the highlight remained on the east side.

“I think I have it,” he said, relieved. He had been afraid he would have to try several times before he got it right. Apparently the effort he had made to work out both rhyme and visualization ahead of time had paid off. He could do magic adequately if he just took proper pains with it.

“All I have to do is follow the bright side, and I should intersect Bane.” For Bane’s location in the frame of Proton would match the spot indicated in the frame of Phaze; the geography of the two worlds was identical, except for changes wrought by man. The separation of the two was of another nature than physical; the two overlapped, and were the same in alternate aspects, just as many of the folk were the same on each. Otherwise it would not have been possible for Mach and Bane to exchange identities, with Mach’s machine mind taking over Bane’s living body in Phaze, and Bane’s mind taking over Mach’s robot body in Proton.