Piers Anthony: Out of Phaze

Now he tried a special variant. He tried to imagine himself In the mysterious frame of Phaze, where magic supposedly operated and science did not. That was so illogical that it would represent a monumental leap of belief on his part. If he could successfully believe that, he could believe almost anything—including the possibility of somehow coming alive.

He imagined having a living brother his own age, there in Phaze. No, not a brother—an alternate self, who bore the same relation to him that Stile did to Citizen Blue. The same person he was, only split apart from his reality, existing in that nonreality of Phaze. It was of course nonsensical to postulate a robot having an alternate self—but no more so than the notion of a land of magic. How convenient that that land was forever sealed off from Proton, according to his father’s story! No way to prove or disprove it! What had happened, a generation ago? Had Stile exchanged places with another Galactic called Blue, who had been raised on another planet in the galaxy? Called it “a fantastic world” and that was how the idea of fantasy started? But now Mach concentrated, trying to believe in the literal magic, in the living boy just like himself, with whom he might establish rapport. He tried to force the delusion on himself, to make himself irrational. If only he could believe!

Then, almost, it seemed that he achieved it. Something like a thought came to him: Who are you? A thought he might not have originated. A living thought.

I am Mach! he thought back. Let’s exchange places! As the android girl had done, boldly offering to change companions, and succeeding.

All right—for a moment, the thought came back. His imagination was achieving a new level! It really seemed like another person thinking.

Mach made a special effort of concentration and longing—and suddenly experienced a strange wrenching. Alarmed, he eased off; had he blown a circuit? He felt quite strange.

Then he opened his eyes.

His room had changed.

2 - Fleta

Room? It was no longer a room at all! It was a forest glade. He was sitting on a rock in its center.

Mach blinked. Sometimes dust fouled his lenses and distorted his vision; the act of blinking normally cleared it.

The glade remained. Late afternoon sunlight slanted down to touch the thickly braided vines and leaves at one side, and grass grew ankle-deep in the center. None of this existed, of course, in his room.

Mach got up and went to the edge, intrigued to discover how far this illusion carried. He touched a broad leaf—and it felt genuine. He pulled on a vine, and it resisted his effort, being springy.

He had tried to switch places with his phantom twin— and found himself here. Was there really a twin, and had he really switched—or had he merely succeeded in establishing his belief in the impossible? Surely the latter—but this still represented a significant victory. He had achieved illogic!

Moved by the wonder of it, he walked around the edge of the glade. He found a path leading from it, twisting like a serpent between the large trees until it disappeared in the distance. Should he follow this? He looked down at himself, considering—and made another phenomenal discovery. He was clothed! He wore boots, trousers and a long-sleeved shirt—all blue. He had been so distracted by the living glade that he had not noticed his own condition!

His first reaction was shock. He was impersonating a Citizen! That could get him ejected from the planet! Only in very special situations, such as in costumed drama in the Game, were serfs permitted apparel.

His second was wonder. How had he come by such an outfit? Had he taken it from his father’s collection? Citizen Blue did prefer this color. But Mach would have had to be crazy to do such a thing, and that was a state a robot was incapable of achieving.

Or was it? Wasn’t believing the impossible a condition of insanity? If he could convince himself that he was in a glade instead of his room, could he likewise garb himself in his father’s clothing without realizing? If so, this effect was dangerous!

Quickly he removed the clothing. But he discovered as he did so that it fit him perfectly. This was odd, because Mach was five centimeters taller than Citizen Blue. The Citizen was a very small man whose enormous political power more than made up for his lack of physical stature. Mach could have been any height he chose, but did not want to create any awkwardness for his father, so he had compromised by assuming his mother’s height. This put him in the low-average range for women, and well below average for men. But he had long since realized that physical height was not the most important aspect of individual importance, so he was satisfied. But now—how could he have worn his father’s clothing without it binding on him? This clothing seemed to have been fitted specifically for his own body.

His thoughts were interrupted by an appearance in the sky. It seemed to be a huge, grotesque bird—but what a bird! Mach stared disbelievingly. He had studied birds, learning the major types, because Birdwatching was one of the events in the Game. No bird like this was listed. This one had a huge, misshapen head, and dangling breasts like those of an old woman.

A what, and what? Mach shook his head and looked again, but the creature had already disappeared.

He knew what it was, however. The description fit that of a harpy—a mythical construct, part avian, part human. The appearance of such a creature was of course another impossibility. Even if some sinister laboratory had crafted an android in that guise, the dynamics of flight would have rendered the harpy groundbound. The necessary wingspan and muscular attachments—

Mach found his heart beating rapidly. The implausibilities of his situation were threatening to overwhelm his equilibrium! He was not encountering just one unbelievable thing, but a complex of them! Trees, clothing, mythology—

His heart? He had no heart! He was a robot!

Mach set his right palm at his chest. He felt the beating of it. He lifted his left hand, set his right fingers against the wrist beside the large tendon and pressed in. Again he felt that steady beat.

He was breathing, too. He had always been able to breathe, so as to be able to talk, but it had been optional, never necessary, and he normally didn’t bother unless in company. Now he held his breath—and in moments was uncomfortable, exactly as if becoming starved for oxygen.

He reached under his left arm, seeking the stud that opened a panel there. He found none. Slowly he moved his fingers to his forearm. He pinched the skin there, hard.

Pain flared, and in a moment a red spot appeared where his fingernail had dug into the skin.

Mach had to lean against a tree to keep from reeling. He was alive! His body was fashioned of flesh; it had a heart, and it felt direct pain.

Now he knew that he had suffered a far greater breakthrough than he had anticipated. He had made his belief in the impossible total, and stepped into the realm of the living. Of course this could not be literal, but even as a dream it was astonishing, for robots did not dream. That new circuit had really performed! He had achieved what no robot had ever done before: fashioned a total illusion of life.

But now that he had done this, what had he really accomplished? Metallic insanity? Was his body lying on the bed while his brain was locked into its own program of fantasy? That could be fun for a while, but after a few hours he would be in trouble, because his mother would discover him and bring in a technician to repair the glitch. If the case were judged to be too extreme, they would reprogram his brain unit, wiping out everything he had accomplished here, including the memory of it. He would be forever after bound to his natural robotic state.