Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

Still, that offered a possible explanation. Maybe the curtain had moved, perhaps in random jumps that were now forgotten, and several centuries ago it had been here. So the computer had been put across, and stranded by the retreat of the curtain.

How, then, could he be fated to put the computer back across the curtain? The computer was surely far too massive for him to move, even if the other Adepts permitted it—which they would not. Stile was not at all sure he cared to make the effort. If the computer-Oracle was his enemy, why should he help it move to Proton to wreak its vengeance on Phaze? So much remained to be clarified before Stile could decide what side of what situation he was on.

First, however, he had to figure out how to survive. There should be some small emergency supplies of food and oxygen here, for maintenance workers who might get stranded. There might be a storeroom. Maybe even a communication line to civilization, since there was a live power line.

He checked around, his mind growing dull as his scant remaining oxygen thinned. He had rationed it to reach here; now it was gone. He stumbled from machine to machine. No oxygen, no supplies.

The cave narrowed. There was a door at the end. It was an air-lock type of portal—a likely storeroom or pressurized office complex. He needed to get in, but it was sealed. Should he use the disrupter? Two problems there: first, the chamber might be lined with disrupt-resistant material, making it impervious to the attack of this small weapon; second, if he did break in, and there was air pressure, that pressure would decompress explosively. Not only could this be dangerous to him physically, the process would eliminate the very thing he had to preserve—normal, oxygenated air pressure.

He tried to open the lock, but could not; the controls were keyed to particular identities or particular code sequences, and he was not the right person and didn’t know the code. No help for it; he would have to try the disrupter, hoping to find canned air to use with his suit Then a voice came: “Identify yourself.” There was someone in there! Or at least a sapient robot.

“I am—“ He paused. Should he give his true identity? Caution prevailed. “A person in need of air. I beg assistance.”

“You shall have it. Be advised that a robot weapon is trained on you.”

“So advised.” Stile leaned against the wall, growing dizzy as the last of his scuba oxygen faded. He could not blame a solitary maintenance guard for being careful. The portal hummed, then opened. Air puffed out. A figure emerged, clothed in the protective gear of a maintenance worker, using a nostril mask and protective goggles.

“Stile! It’s you!” the figure cried. “God, what a relief!” The man put his arm around Stile’s shoulders to help him into the chamber.

It was Clef, the musician Stile had encountered in the Tourney, and to whom he had given the Platinum Flute. The Foreordained. “I thought you were in Phaze,” Stile gasped as the air lock sealed and pressure came up.

“I was. Stile. Or should I say sir? I understand you obtained your Citizenship.”

“I got it. Don’t bother with the ‘sir.’ Just give me air and food and a place to rest. What are you doing here?” The inner aperture opened, and Clef guided him into a comfortable chamber.

“I’m here to meet you. Stile, on behalf of the Oracle. You and I must work together to fulfill the prophecy and save the frames from destruction.” He pressed a cup of nutri-soup into Stile’s unsteady hands and set him in an easy chair. “I was so afraid you would not make it. The Oracle said there was danger, that no one could help you, and that it could not foresee your arrival. Its prophecies are unreliable when they relate to its own destiny. I had no notion when and if you would arrive, except that it had to be within a three-day time span. I fear I was asleep when the moment came. Then I could not be certain it was you, for there are enemies—“ Stile ceased his gulping of the soup to interrupt Clef.

“Enemies? To save the frames? I understood I was to destroy Phaze, and I don’t know whether that makes me friend or enemy to whom.”

Clef smiled. “That depends on how you see it. Stile. The present order will be overturned or greatly weakened in both Proton and Phaze. That’s why Citizens and Adepts oppose the move. Most of the rest—the serfs and creatures —will benefit by the new order. You are no enemy to them!”

“Viewpoint,” Stile said, catching on. “To an Adept, the loss of power of Adepts would be disaster, the end of Phaze as he knows it. To a unicorn, it might be salvation.”

“And to a werewolf,” Clef agreed. “Big changes are coming. It is our job to make the transition safe. If we don’t, things could get extremely ugly.” Stile was recovering as he breathed the good air and ingested the nourishment of the soup. He started to strip off the wetsuit, all that had protected him from the chill of the cave passages. This chamber was like a slice of Heaven, coming so suddenly after his arduous trek.

“Tell me everything.”

“It’s simple enough. Three hundred years ago, when they discovered that this planet was one of the occasional places in the universe where the frames of science and of fantasy intersected—would you believe Planet Earth was another such place in medieval times?—they realized that there were certain dangers in colonizing the fantasy frame. So they set up some powerful instruments for the purpose of securing an optimistic new order. A sophisticated self willed computer and a definitive book of magic.”

“A book of magic? I never heard of this.”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to. It contains the most potent spells in all modes, so that it would take years for a single person to invoke them all—not that anyone would want to. Spells of creation and destruction, of summoning and sending, of healing and harming. Any person with access to that book in Phaze would become an instant Adept, more powerful than any other, one who could virtually change the face of the frame in minutes. The computer contains all the data for science, finance, economics, and politics known at the time. Despite the passage of three hundred years, this knowledge is enough to assure the operator enormous power in Proton—perhaps enough to dominate the government.”

“And someone is destined to get hold of these tools and turn them to wrong use? That could indeed be troublel”

“No, great care was taken to safeguard against this danger. The two tools had to be preserved for the time when they were needed, and kept out of the hands of those who might squander or abuse them. They had to be ready for the great crisis of separation.”

“Separation?”

“It seems the intersection of frames is a sometime thing. The elves who instructed me are not sure about that. As you know, they consider me to be the one they call the Foreordained, which simply means my particular talent will be useful in negotiating the crisis; there is nothing religious or supernatural about it. So they have been preparing me in a cram-course, while you have diverted the Adepts who might otherwise have interfered.”

“So that’s what I was doing. I was a decoy!”

“That’s only part of your task. Anyway, they think the frames are going to separate, so there will be no more crossings, no further interactions. This is simply part of the natural order; it happened on Earth as the medieval period ended. After it, no one in Proton need believe in magic, and no one in Phaze need believe in science, and the episode of the interaction of the systems will seem like fake history. Since on this planet the fantasy frame was colonized from the science frame—though a number of Phaze creatures are evidently native to the fantasy realm, and perhaps the Little Folk too—er, where was I?”