Piers Anthony - Unicorn Point

Now Vodlevile was without his weapon, but that hardly slowed him. He charged her. Phoebe knew that if she got out of the way, he would pick up the flag and run, and she would be unable to catch him. But if she did not, he would crush her. Worse yet, he was about number two on her list of those she wished not to hurt. The others she had struck down be fore she realized their identities, but this time she knew. What was she to do?

She jumped up as he reached her, flapping her wings for stability despite the pain, lashing out with her talons. She hoped he was smart enough to dodge aside. He was. Her strike missed, but he lost his balance and rolled on the ground. She struck the ground herself, and ran toward him, knowing she had to scratch him before he got back to his feet. Wishing she didn’t have to. But she was too late; he was up and moving.

She scrambled to the side, keeping herself between him and the fallen flag. It was her only chance. He had to get by her to take it up, and if he could not—

He paused. “Good show, Phoebe!” he gasped. “But thou canst not balk me fore’er. Already dost thou be tiring from loss o’ blood.”

It was true. Her wings felt leaden, and her legs were tiring.

She could not fight much longer.

He charged, trying to pass her. She jumped at his feet, entangling them. He tripped and fell—but his hand flung out and got hold of the spear. He rolled on his back, brought the haft about, and clubbed her with it, knocking her down on her back. Yet the blow was not as hard as it might have been; he didn’t want to hurt her either. The spear twisted from his hand and fell to the ground again, but it had done its job. Phoebe knew at that moment that she was done for. The frame seemed to be spinning, and she could not summon strength to get back to her feet. Vodlevile, in contrast, was getting up. She could no longer block him from the flag.

Then she heard a heavy flapping. “Fie, batface!” Sabre claw screeched. “Defend thyself, an thou hast the nerve!” They had made it! Phoebe saw Vodlevile dive for his spear, but Sabreclaw only feinted at him. Instead she dived for the ground—and the red flag. She clapped the bats’ blue flag down on it. There was the sound of a gong. That suddenly the siege was over. The harpies had won! Then Phoebe gave herself over to unconsciousness. She had done her best, strategically and physically, and it had been enough. She had vindicated herself. If only it could have been otherwise!

But she was not after all permitted to sleep. Abruptly the pain and fatigue were gone, and she was whole again. Nearby, Vidselud and Suchevane were getting up, and other bodies were stirring. The siege was over, and the bloodshed was undone. It never had been real; the Adepts had spoken truly after all. Only the victory was real—the one she wished she had not had to win.

12 - Troubot

Merle looked at the six hens, puzzled. “I have not been paying enough attention to you,” she remarked with concern. “You have become strangers to me.” Indeed, the birds seemed wary of her, huddling at the far side of the coop. “Come, Henrietta, come. Henbane,” she cooed, squatting and extending a hand. Her short skirt slid up her thighs; she wore nothing beneath. “Here. Henna—I have treat grain. Come and take it; I want to be friends again.” Slowly the hens approached, wary of her. She did not make any sudden motion, and eventually one essayed a peck at what she held in her hand. “That’s it, Henpeck; I certainly won’t hurt you. A man I might usher into Heaven or Hell, but not my pets. I’m sorry I neglected you. I’ve been so busy recently, but I won’t bore you with the details.” The hens formed a semicircle before her, looking at her quizzically. “You mean you are interested?” she inquired, smiling. She was a lovely woman, slender overall yet possessed of truly shapely anatomy that showed in somewhat indecorous manner as she squatted and leaned forward. Her hair was dark, with a blue tint; it changed color slightly every day, so that she never became stale. Similarly her clothing shifted color and style subtly but steadily. Merle was always fresh without being brash.

“Well, that’s very nice of you, Heningway,” she remarked, spreading some treat grain on the ground before them. “Trust you to have a literary bent! And you, Henline—always on the edge. Listen and I will tell you.” The hens settled, attentively. Merle leaned back and sat on the floor, carefully, so that her legs would not cramp. “You see, I am a friend of Citizen Blue,” she said conversationally. “It all started some years back when the serf Stile won the Tourney and became a Citizen. Now your average new Citizen quickly gets lost in the marvels of power and wealth to which he is vastly unaccustomed, but Stile was of different mesh. He was ambitious—oh, my, was he ambitious!—and he went right after the big money, which is the same as the big power. That was when I encountered him: in his preliminary gambles and games, when he was getting the hang of it. He took me for a hundred grams of Protonite in a poker game—a nice little haul for him, at the time. That won my interest, and thereafter I followed his career. In fact, in due course I became a bit smitten with him, though he was a youngster only a fraction my age.”

She paused, her gaze passing fondly across the hens. She reached out and stroked Heningway, who ducked her head nervously but did not retreat. “You make such a good audience, my pretties,” she remarked. “Never any backtalk, never any danger of my secrets being gossiped out. Not even a cackle when I confess something stupid. Ah, what a story you could tell of my indiscretions, if you were in the business!”

She smiled reminiscently, enjoying the indiscretions, then resumed her narrative. “In the end I made him a deal: my help in his endeavor in exchange for his single tryst with me. I called him my bantam—you may have noted my affinity for chickens—and I confess I was hot for him, both personally and as a matter of pride. You see, I have had an undisclosed number of rejuvenations; I am of great-grandmotherly age, not the maiden I appear. I knew my body interested him, as indeed it should; I crafted it to appeal to the masculine taste in subdued but potent manner. Some women believe that mass is everything, and have their breasts and buttocks expanded enormously; it is true that men notice these attributes, but they also convey a suggestion of cheapness. Proportion is the secret; modest projections whose contours are esthetic attract the male interest on a more subtle level, and the resultant desire can be more pervasive and lasting. It is the difference between fish eggs and caviar. So Stile wanted me, but could not admit it; I had to trap him into a commitment. He found my age to be more of a barrier than my nature; indeed, he was having relations with a machine at the time. Men are like that.”

She paused, eying the hens speculatively. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a rooster here?”

The hens looked dismayed.

Merle laughed. “Yes, it is true that a rooster’s notion of love is what my kind would call rape. Not a really significant difference between the species, but we females can live with out it. That, perhaps, is an aspect of the attraction Stile had for me: not only was he small, being shorter than I, but he was a gentleman in the old sense. It was an unconscious chivalry I found most charming. He was more of a man in every respect than most, but small, and shy, and charming in his naivete. But what a change he wrought in Proton society! He assumed power, and brought the frames together, then separated them after alleviating the imbalance which had de veloped because of the export of Protonite. You see, the par allelism between Proton and Phaze is such that what is not equivalent tends to become so, but the Phazite had remained while the Protonite was diminishing, and that struck at the very root of the nature of the frames, and would have led to mutual destruction had he not acted. So he did what had to be done, and separated the frames so that no more mischief could occur, and settled in Phaze.”