03. Masters of Flux and Anchor (22 page)

"Sure. If I make myself into one of their Fluxgirls and act the proper slave."

"Or make yourself into a man. Wouldn't be the first time."

Jeff stared at Sondra. "You've changed into a man'.'"

She laughed. "Sure. Didn't you try it as a woman during your early lessons'?"

"Well, we did the spells, sure, but just as an exercise."

"I did it for two whole years including riding string. You can never really understand men unless you live as one. You ought to try it the other way around. You guys don't know what you're missing."

"Don't embarrass him, daughter," Matson chided. "Any wizard who likes himself as he is has a point in his favor. You're still beggin' the question, though. Go or stay?"

"It really doesn't make any difference to you, does it?" she asked him, a little angry.

"A little time as one of those Fluxgirls might give you a whole new perspective on what the common folks' lives are like," he responded calmly. "Still, I'd spend half my time worrying about you and not get a full mind to the business at hand. The freer I am to move the safer I'll be. You know that."

She nodded, came to him, and kissed him. "I know. But you take some of your own advice. Don't go believing your own legend."

He stopped what he was doing, turned, and faced her, a dead serious look on his face. "Ain't nothin' in my legend that's not fact. I always expected to be bumped off sooner or later, but it won't be in New Eden. I understand them and they understand me. You just watch yourself here. They're up to something over there in New Eden. Lots of troops running around in Flux of late, or so I hear, and lots of warnings to Fluxlords to get out or get hurt when they test something big. They got word to Mervyn just this morning, which is why I think it's time I got along."

Sondra looked over at Jeff. "You know about this?"

He nodded. "I got the original message. We've got two weeks to clear out temporarily or suffer the consequences, whatever they are. Mervyn thinks it's a test of some new kind of super amplifier."

"Is Mervyn going?" Sondra asked.

"He's taking the precaution of moving his most valu¬able records and research and most of his people to a temporary pocket outside the cluster, but that's all," Jeff replied. "I think he's more curious than afraid and wouldn't want to miss what they're trying."

Matson nodded. "Still, a super amplifier would drain a lot of Flux energy. You've already seen what just one regular amplifier could do in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. Pericles might collapse like a house of cards and sweep the bunch of you with it."

Jeff was unmoved. "Still, sir, I'd like to come with you."

"To New Eden?"

"Yes. It's the first time I've had a way in."

Matson shook his head from side to side. "No, son. Same thing applies to you as to her, and if you think you're a better shot or bareknuckle fighter than she is, forget it. Besides, all she wants is to keep an eye on the old man. I'd lose the whole show and any chance of success now or in the future if my associate made an attempt on Judge Tilghman's life. Uh, uh, son. Sorry. No, you, Mervyn, Sondra, and Spirit and that Soul Rider of hers should be strong enough together to get out in one piece. I'm not so sure if you break up and scatter."

"What about you?" Jeff asked him. "What's your protection?"

"Me? I'm gonna be guest of honor in their own Anchor. I'm gonna be the safest outsider in the whole damned cluster."

11

SOME COMMUNICATIONS DIFFICULTIES

It had been more than half his lifetime since Matson had ridden this particular string to this particular location, and almost that since he'd been in or near the place at all. It wasn't as easy as the old days even to get here; armed patrols backed by amplifiers checked every bit of all strings leading to or from this point, and he'd already had to pass several dozen checkpoints. As a stringer this offended him greatly; the void was a place without governments and rulers, where a man was free and independent and the only authority his quick mind and reflexes and maybe a good gun. The stringers had owned and controlled the void since the beginning, and finding it in the hands of others, even in this relatively small area, made him feel as if his house had been robbed.

Still, they had been expecting him, and hadn't impeded his progress. They had been, in fact, quite kind and helpful, and he hated their lousy guts for it.

There was a sudden brightening of the void just ahead, and in a few moments he rode through it as if through a curtain of fog and into a warm, bright day. The Anchor apron was another armed camp, this one bristling with well-disciplined troops, but he'd expected that. In their own land they could play at anything they wanted; they just shouldn't be in his.

The old stone wall still rose up in front of him and went off in both directions as far as the eye could see. Both men and machines manned the top of it for that distance and probably completely around the Anchor, and he knew that the trick that had taken them into Anchor wouldn't work twice. The old, thick Gate, with its ancient booby traps, was still there as well, but they had rigged it so that both great doors were open at the same time. He had no doubt that they had defenses that made the double doors unneces¬sary in this day and age.

He rode straight to the guard post at the Gate and pulled up, ignoring the others, reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a large envelope and handed it to one of the sentries. The soldier opened it, then gave him the once¬over with his eyes. Finally he turned to another sentry and said, "This is the one they told us to expect. Notify Major Taglia." He handed the papers back to Matson, who put them back in his saddlebag. "Go on through and hold up on the other side," the sentry instructed him. "You'll be met in a couple of minutes."

Matson nodded, tapped his hat brim with his finger, and rode on through. Then he stopped, dismounted, lit a cigar, and settled back to wait for his escort.

Major Taglia proved to be a short, stocky man with bushy black hair and an olive complexion. Matson got up and shook hands as they exchanged introductions.

"Mr. Matson, it's an honor to meet you. They still drill your theory and tactics in school here."

"Didn't know I had those things," the stringer responded. "I wonder if I wrote the textbook?"

Taglia looked blank, and Matson rescued him.

"We've got a ways to go, if I remember rightly, Major," he said calmly. "You want me to just follow the road or do I get company?"

"I'll accompany you, sir," the major responded. "We're something of a closed society, as you may know, and it'll be a lot easier if you have someone in authority along."

Matson nodded. "Might as well get started, then. I assume it's still a good two-day trip to the big city."

Taglia seemed awed and uncomfortable with the old stringer, and it was easy to see his problem. On the one hand, Matson was something of a hero and legend in New Eden, the man who'd shown that you didn't need Flux power to survive or even triumph, and who had worked out the deal for New Eden's independence to save the lives of the population. Still, legends are awesome things, partic¬ularly when real life actually does measure up to the mental image, and Taglia was acutely aware that this man was both extremely dangerous and an outsider not likely to be too keen on the ways of the land he'd helped bring into being.

Taglia joined him on a sleek, black military horse, and the two set off down the broad highway to the capital. "You want my weapons, Major?" Matson asked him.

"No, that won't be necessary, sir. We're honored to have you visit, even in an official capacity. I mean, sir, well, uh, they taught us in school that you were dead."

"Son, I die every once in a while, but I always come back when things are important. What you mean about the weapons is that my popgun and my whip aren't much of a threat against your whole society no matter what I did. The real question is how you know I'm really Matson and not some Flux creature made up to look and sound like him?"

Taglia grinned. "You know the answer to that, sir. Your credentials are spell-encoded and were checked time and time again as you rode in."

They took it nice and easy, and it gave Matson a chance to get a feel for this land and its changes with the aid of a native guide. He was pleased to see that there were still trees and broad farms and that this new machine society hadn't paved it all over like they had the central part of the road, leaving only a dirt strip down each side for the horses. The central road as it was, though, provided a smooth ride for wagons and coaches.

Along the roadway spaced every forty meters or so were barren tall poles set deep in the ground, with crossbars at the tops carrying wires and containing funny-looking shaped things as well. Taglia explained that this was actual voice communication by wire, as well as steady electrical power gained not just from the old temple—he called it the Scientific Center—but from other sources as well, includ¬ing wind and running water. Every once in a while, high up on a pole, there'd be a lineman checking or repairing the wires, perhaps with a whole support crew.

The economic pattern of New Eden soon became clear to him. The fact was, no matter what the ideal, women were required to do far more work than just that in the home. Their illiteracy and mathematical limitations limited the types of jobs they could perform, but there were far more women than men and a lot of necessary work had to get done. He saw large numbers of women in the fields planting or picking crops—he couldn't tell which—and grooming animals. Wherever their physical limitations did not interfere with their capabilities, women were working and working hard.

After the twentieth time they'd had to identify themselves, Matson had a whole new definition for the term "regimented society." You couldn't buy or sell or use anything without identification. Even the public johns had a sign-in sheet. Finally he had to ask Taglia, who took it all for granted, how the powers that be kept from drowning in all the paperwork.

"Oh, it's not that bad," the major replied. "They have recording machines that they just feed the information into on a district by district basis. It all goes over the wires to the bigger machines in the capital, and they spot anything odd and notify the local authorities. Those machines have everybody's numbers and descriptions on them. New Eden is crime-free and peaceful, thanks to the system. Everyone knows his place and does his duty." He said that like it was something to be very proud of.

Machines, Matson thought sourly. That's what the place was—one big machine. Everybody was cared for, absolutely, cradle to grave, and protected from all harm, so long as they did everything exactly the way it was ordered. Individ¬uality was frowned upon, and creativity might rock the boat, but if you conformed and did your duty you'd have everything you needed. If you didn't like it, well, the government had ways of making you love it, too. To Matson, it made people of equal importance to the electric poles and other gadgets: all were just cogs and gears in a larger machine.

They spent the night in a small town that had once been much larger, but wasn't as necessary now to supply the surrounding farms and provide a rural cultural and service center. Still, in the town he saw his first Fluxgirls at close range, and realized how different they were. Nature could never make such exaggerated beauty and sexuality, yet in their own way they were as dull and docile as the female workers. The only difference was, the Fluxgirls had more fun, and mooney-eyed men made fools of themselves around them. Yet in the dining room he saw men making it with other men while Fluxgirls served them dinner and drinks and always with a smile. Fortunately, Taglia seemed to be the kind that doted on the Fluxgirls—fortunately for Taglia, Matson thought sourly.

He had expected not to like New Eden, and he hadn't been disappointed, but he certainly hadn't expected the men to be as oppressed as the women. The Fluxgirls probably had the best of the bargain, he decided. They didn't know any better, and he bet they enjoyed what they were designed for more than any man or normal woman.

He couldn't help wondering if those fools of the old Anchor Logh would have fought against liberation at the cost of mass death if they could see what their society had turned into. Hell, probably some of them were still around, turned into what he saw. It was one thing to be at the mercy of a wizard in Flux, unable to do or even be anything that wizard didn't wish, but it was quite another to have a choice, even this or death, and see how somebody could choose this.

It took another day and a half to reach the city, but once there he was quickly quartered and his horse bedded down in government stables. The city was so radically changed he could hardly recognize it, with its tall buildings and stately mansions and mass apartment blocks stretching out in all directions. Still, it was a very big city with all the basics needed to support a large, population, including various shops and markets, and it seemed to have the kind of life of its own cities seemed always to take on. General use of horses was banned in the center city, but the masses of people seemed to get along well on foot and using various kinds of bicycles, tricycles, pedicars, and even pedal-powered wagons.

Here the Fluxgirls roamed freely, in various states of dress and undress, and it seemed like every other one was pregnant and carrying at least one small infant in a carrier on her back as well. This was the home of the key bureaucracy of an expansionist empire, and it looked and felt it, even if the place and most of the buildings were pretty dull and drab. Still, the people seemed generally happy, not the dull-eyed creatures he'd so often seen populating Fluxlands.

He had a special visitor's card and they'd not given him any restrictions on where he could go, but he didn't feel like walking around much. It seemed like there was a cop on every street corner and while they didn't spend all their time asking for I.D.s—the paperwork would have killed them young—he was a marked man if only because he stood out.