Piers Anthony: Phaze Doubt

“Yes. I talked her out of it.”

“Why?”

“It would not have been fair to Echo.”

“But an thou hadst no further love for Echo—“

“It was, as I explained to Weva, a matter of honor.”

The elf gazed at him for a moment, evidently pondering. “Tell me aught o’ honor.”

“That would take all day! It did take a day, and a night, to explain it to Weva. It’s no simple concept.”

“I be not a nascent girl. Give me one sentence.”

“Honor is integrity with a moral dimension.”

“And so it were not proper for thee to dally with another, when one who loves thee waited on thy return,” Oresmite said. “E’en in the absence o’ love and presence o’ one who could compel thee. E’en with the planet ending in a day.”

“Yes.”

“How canst thou feel thus, and thou an agent for the enemy?”

“My brain is Hectare, and Hectare are honorable. I have an assigned mission, which I shall complete to the best of my ability. My relationship with Echo is incidental to that, despite the intent of the Adepts, so my honor applies separately to her.”

“Then surely can we deal. But first I offer thee this notion: wouldst thou find it fair an Echo be also nulled o’ her love for thee?”

Lysander snapped his fingers. “Yes! I never thought of that! It would make us even.”

“Then let me do this now.” The elf turned to the bank of equipment behind him. “Mischief, contact Weva, and suggest that she offer to do for Echo what she did for Lysander.”

“Aye, Chief,” the computer replied through a grille.

“Mischief?” Lysander inquired.

“It be a machine with an elfin humor.”

“Thank you, Chief. When I talk with Echo, and have her leave to separate, I will not have a problem with the local maidens.”

“Now come we nigh our business,” the elf said. “Thou knowest the prophecy?”

“It suggests that only the cooperation of an enemy agent can enable the planet to free itself from the Hectare investment. It does not specify who the individual might be, but there is a strong likelihood that I am the one.”

“Aye. An thou be not the one, we be lost, for there be none other here. But we need to guess not, for we can have the answer.” He turned again to the computer. “Mischief, be he the one?”

“Aye, Chief.”

“Now wait!” Lysander protested. “How can that machine know such a thing?”

“Answer, Mischief,” the Chief said.

“I be what thou didst know as the Game Computer,” the grille said. “ ‘Cept that I ne’er met thee, Lysander; I were gone ere thou didst come to the planet. Before I left, I was in touch with the Oracle, who knew the prophecy, and it gave me information that enabled me to know thee when I encountered thee. I verified it with the Book o’ Magic, which be my current reference.”

“The Game Computer!” Lysander exclaimed. “The one that stopped functioning when the frames merged!”

“Aye, Bern brain. We knew o’ trouble coming when the mergence occurred, and set about dealing with it then. The formerly deserted Pole caverns were occupied and stable communities established barely before the invader came. A lesser machine was put in my place, unable to handle the complete complexity o’ the games, but assisted at need by the Oracle, and I came here to fathom the technical aspect o’ the effort.”

That explained a lot! A concerted planetary effort had been made from the outset of the planet’s vulnerability, so that the investment could be nullified before the planet was reduced to trash. It was impressive, but probably futile; the power of the Hectare was overwhelming.

“What identifies me as the one of the prophecy?”

“Thine honor.”

“Then you know that I will not help your side, regardless of any inducements you may proffer.”

“Nay, not so,” Oresmite said. “The prophecy shows thou mayst do it, an thou choose.”

“Honor dictates my choice.”

“Aye. So must we deal.”

“We can not deal.”

The Chief leaned forward persuasively. “We need thy help now. An we wait longer, all be lost regardless. Willst not yield the accuracy o’ the prophecy so far?”

“So far,” Lysander said grudgingly. “But not only do I have no intention of helping you in the key moment, I have no certainty that I can. I assure you that if I went back to my people now and asked them to depart the planet, they would not heed. I have no authority; I am only a special agent of a type routinely employed.”

“But an thou couldst help us, and thou decided to at the last moment, would it be not ironic an thou hadst let the moment pass and could not? What be best for thou is to keep thine options open, so that an thou dost change thy mind, it will count until the end.”

“Keep my options open,” Lysander agreed. “Is that possible?”

“Aye. Mischief needs thine input now, for calculations that be beyond it o’erwise. An thou help it now, thou canst prevent them from being used on our behalf until thou dost decide.”

“How can I be sure they would not be used without my choice?”

“The honor o’ Mischief.”

“A machine with honor? Or do you mean it is programmed for it?”

“Aye. Dost think we lack this?”

“You serve the interest of your planet, and this is integral to it. I can trust you only to do what you must to save it.”

“But an thou hadst access to the programming o’ the machine? Thou canst verify that we have touched it not, lacking in such expertise.”

“If you let me modify the programming, then I can be sure of the security of the data.”

“We will let thee do what thou choosest, and thou willst be welcome in these Demesnes meanwhile.”

Lysander nodded. “Then I can tackle the problem.”

“Give us an hour to access the sealed panels—“

“No need. I can verify the status and programming from a keyboard.”

“A keyboard?”

“You really have no experience with computers!” Lysander exclaimed. “All your dealings have been verbal!”

“Aye. We be Phaze folk.”

“You know I could completely ruin your system?”

“An thou choose to help us not, there be no difference; all will be destroyed.”

True enough. “Where is the keyboard?”

“Mischief, tell him.”

A light flashed. A panel slid open. There was a standard work station access, with keyboard and screen and accessories.

Lysander sat down before it and began typing. In a moment he was lost in the intricacies of the very type of work for which he had been trained.

“Lysander?”

He looked up from the screen, blinking. It was Echo.

For a moment he was at a loss. “I—I should have sought you,” he said. “To explain—“

“Weva explained. I accepted her offer.”

“That seems best. But I want you to know I did not seek—“

“I know. But we both know that love potion was a contrivance, intended to influence you. That failed, and there was no further purpose. Now we are both free of what was perhaps an imperfect association.”

“Perhaps.” He looked at her. He still found her beautiful. “But I found no fault with it. I never loved before, and was happier in that state than now. If it was imperfect, it remained good enough for me.”

“For me also,” she said. “It was a nice time. But now it is over, and—“

“Does it have to be over?”

She shrugged. “What is the point, without love?”

“What was pleasurable in love, may be so also without it. We do not need to break off our association—“

“Oh. Sex without obligation. Forget it.”

“I didn’t mean—“

But she was already sweeping out of the chamber. She had misunderstood him, but perhaps not completely. He had been thinking of sex—but also of the association. It would have been nice to discover whether their compatibility had been wholly the product of the love potion, or had a natural underpinning. Perhaps, if they had given it a chance...