Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“Cyborgs?”

“They are combination people, part human, part machine, strange in appearance but worthwhile when—“

“They are like us!”

“Very like thy kind,” Stile agreed, startled.

“We are ready,” the elephanfhead said.

Now Stile was prepared to place the first wad of explosive. But as he returned his awareness to his invisible body, he discovered that Sheen was already attending to it. She had mined two wedges and was on the third. But the goblins were all about, digging their trenches and organizing themselves for the battle.

Stile had always thought of goblins as occurring in undisciplined hordes; these were highly disciplined. They were supervised by sergeants and commissioned officers, their insignia of rank painted or tattooed on their arms. Despite his indetectability. Stile was nervous. There were too many goblins, and they were poking around too many places; at any time, one of them could make a chance discovery of the plastic explosive. He needed to distract the goblins’ attention right now, before the cyborgs and animalheads went into action, lest his game be lost at the outset.

“Goblin leader,” he murmured.

He stood beside a command tent. An ugly goblin with an authoritative air was surveying the field with binoculars. “I trust it not,” the goblin murmured. “They be too quiet.”

“Perhaps I can help thee,” Stile said.

The goblin glanced quickly at him, showing no surprise. “I had thought to see thee ere now. Adept,” he said. “I be Grossnose, commander of this expedition.” Stile could appreciate the derivation of the name; the goblin’s nose was unusually large, and shaped like a many eyed potato. But physical appearance had little to do with competence. Stile found himself liking this creature, for no better reason than that he must have risen to power in much the way Stile himself had, overcoming the liability of appearance to make his place in his society.

“I compliment thy expertise,” Stile said. “I had thought thy forces to be intercepted by our ogre detachment.”

“We force-marched around the ogres,” Grossnose said. “They be not our enemy.”

“I prefer not to be thine enemy, either.”

“Then hear our terms for peace: leave the Phazite in place, and thy party will be granted safe passage else where.”

“Declined,” Stile said. “But if thy troops depart in peace, we will not hinder them.”

“Now understand this. Adept. If fight we must, we shall be forced to seek the source of thy power. We shall make a thrust for the book. We have held off so far only that it be not destroyed. The book may be more valuable than that entire ball of Phazite, and it were a shame to put it into hazard. But this forbearance makes mischief; already the Adepts be quarreling as to who shall possess that book. I prefer to leave it in thy hands, as thou art least corruptible by power. But I can not allow that demon ball to Cross to Proton-frame; that be the end.”

“The end of the present order, mayhap,” Stile said. “For Citizens and Adepts. They will have to share power more equitably in the new order. Other creatures will have proportionately more power, including thine own kind. Dost thou really oppose that?”

“Nay,” the goblin admitted with surprising candor. “But I do serve the present order.”

This was an honest, clever, incorruptible commander, the worst kind to oppose. “I regret what will come to pass,” Stile said. “If we meet again after this is over, I would like to converse with thee again. But this next hour we are enemies.”

“Aye. Go about thy business. Adept. Thou dost know what be in the making.”

Stile knew. It was the irony of war that slaughter and destruction came about when both sides preferred peace. He faded out, and found himself back with Sheen. “We have to move fast,” he said. “They are going to go after the book.”

Indeed, a troop of goblins were already charging the hill, lasers blazing. But they were met by the animalheads, who sprang from ambush and grappled with the goblins before the latter’s modern weapons could be brought into play against this close-range opponent. The goblins’ inexperience with such weapons cost the enemy dearly now; the animalheads were wresting them from the goblins and using them themselves.

Simultaneously the cyborgs commenced action—and their weapons were completely modern. Some had stunners, some gas jets, some lasers, and some projectile hurlers, and they knew how to use them. The battle was on. Stile and Sheen moved hastily along their projected channel, placing the remaining explosive. Their hour was passing, and the plastic would detonate at its assigned moment regardless of their proximity. It was funny stun, gray-white and slightly tacky to the touch, like modeling day; it could be torn into fragments of any size, shaped as desired, and it would adhere to whatever it was pressed against. They fitted it into the chinks of stones like mortar, and on the undersurfaces of wooden beams. The goblins should not notice the plastic unless warned about its nature.

The sounds of the battle behind became louder. Stile looked back—and saw a squadron of winged dragons coming from the south. The cyborgs fired bazookas at them. Their aim was excellent—but after the first few dragons went down in flames, the others took evasive action. They dived down close to the ground and strafed the cyborgs with their flaming breath. The goblins who had been engaging the cyborgs screamed; that strafing was hurting them, while the metal bodies of the machine-men with stood the heat better. The dragons might as well have been the cyborgs’ allies.

“Keep moving,” Sheen cautioned Stile. Indeed, he had become distracted by the action, forgetting his own important role. He hurried to place more plastic. But haste made waste. They ran out of plastic and time before the job was done; several barriers remained. They had had enough of each, and had wasted part of both. “We must move,” Sheen warned. “In ten minutes the plastic detonates, with or without us.”

“Better head back for the ball,” Stile said. “I want to be ready just before the plastic goes off, so we can start the ball rolling right at the moment of goblin disorganization.” They began running back toward the Phazite. New contingents of goblins were arriving from the north; they were swarming all over. Stile saw that the enemy was winning the battle of the hill; both animalheads and cyborgs were being contained and decimated. The goblins were absorbing huge losses, but prevailing because of their greater numbers and overall organization. A new force was advancing toward the Phazite. They would overrun the site before Stile could return.

“Conjure us there!” he cried.

“Can’t,” Sheen snapped. “The enemy Adepts have focused their full attention on this place, blocking off new magic. They’re learning how to impede the potent book spells by acting together. This is the final squeeze. Stile.”

“Then send my image there; that’s an existing spell.” Suddenly his image was in the chamber. There were the Brown Adept and the troll, holding laser rifles clumsily, trying to oppose the advancing goblins. The remaining golems stood about awkwardly; their hands were not coordinated enough to handle modem weapons, and their wooden minds not clever enough to grasp this rapidly changing situation.

“That’s no good,” Stile said. “You can’t stop a hundred vicious goblins by yourselves.”

They looked at him, startled. “We feared for thee!” Brown exclaimed.

“Fear for thyself; they will be upon thee before I can return in the flesh. They want the book, and we must keep it away from them at any cost.” Stile pondered a moment. “Trool—canst thou take Brown and the book into the tunnel and shield them with thine invisibility?” Trool faded out. In a moment Brown faded out too.