Dancers in the Afterglow (18 page)

Supplied, too, were the animals, precious few but there was a bull for every ten villages and a rooster in every henhouse.

What he'd aimed for, what he'd achieved, was to strip them of their essential self-awareness. The concept of property, of ownership, was gone. So, too, the relationship of male and female. It wasn't ignored; they just didn't think of it. And yet, they
would
breed, he'd seen to that.

He'd gradually reduced their vocabulary, forcing them to use only monosyllabic words, and selecting even those. They were practical words, words that related to them and their group life. They thought little about the past—and it was darkly that they thought of it, so they worked to sponge it away—and nothing of the future. They existed, and they were happy.

They shared everything, knew each other's simple thoughts almost before they were spoken. Some contact had already been established with nearby villages whose people were absolutely identical to those here, although the experiences attaining that state might have differed some from place to place and person to person.

Pain would not deter them, for they would all experience it and all take it as natural. Even death— for they had no more awareness of themselves as individuals, but only as components of a group. There would be no sadness, for each one of them lived on in the others.

And each had a job, a function, or a set of functions. There was no insignia, no uniform, no leaders, either. It was like a machine, a simple machine, each part doing its job and knowing that it related to the welfare of the group as a whole. It was unthinkable not to perform the function, and each of them knew and could perform the function of any of the others in such a simple subsistence economy. And they
would
occasionally trade roles, if one were feeling a bit off, or, sometimes, merely because they felt so close that they often became one another without thinking about it

Nor were they sad that Ponder was leaving, although they were going to celebrate his departure joyously. They knew his function was to bring the joy to others, and they remembered how many, many worlds full of the beings they had once been needed help.

The generator was shut down now, no more glowing fences and silver collars. They were self-programed now; they would not think the rebellious words because such words are not to be thought. They would not escape, because they considered themselves free, and escaping was an individualist thought

They were children—singing, dancing, laughing children, but skilled and knowledgeable enough to provide themselves with all they needed and to build on it. But not machines. Not automatons, without emotion or feeling. They hugged and kissed and touched and laughed and rejoiced in it. Theirs was a life of pure, uninhibited emotionalism, over which a sense of duty and purpose had been laid.

The Child ran to him. They weren't very different from her, he knew, and they didn't regard her as being different. She did what she could do. And she was the most loved and happiest child of all times. But tonight the Child was a man.

Ponder hugged and kissed him, and he beamed. "We will eat now," he was told proudly. "We will eat, and sing, and dance to the late-dark!"

Ponder nodded, and walked with him to the diamond. It was another example of transference. Someone else was being the Child tonight other than the Child herself. And, for a while, until another transference, this grown man would really think he
was
the female Child. And the fact that the Child would also be there, and perhaps another one or two, wouldn't bother any of them in the least. Ponder smiled in true happiness and satisfaction as he ate with a people who were the result of his hard work and instruction.

And then, they danced the dance of sunset, and went on into the dark, until, finally, the flyer came for him and the last of his equipment. They did not say goodbye; there was no need. He was in all of them.

It had been a celebration no different from any other. They always ended their days like this.

And when the fire burned down, they gathered and cleaned up like so many well-programed robots, each knowing his or her job exactly, and doing it precisely. The next day it would start again, but they didn't think of that.

And now, as one, they went into the sleep-place, all lined with straw, and they joined, emotionally, in the Feeling.

And at first light they would awaken as one, and go off to another beautiful day.

And, all across Ondine, the same thing was happening. Many thousands of camps had attained their state; most others were not far from it. There were variations: some villages fished, for example, but the system was not really different. Essentially, every village was as interchangeable as every person in it.

Had the Machists had more time, they would have established economic zones, and specialties, and an interdependent trading network which would have included factories and sophisticated technology. It was as easy to have factory groups, and building groups, and service groups, as it was to have farming groups if they had the time to sort out the skills of the various people, recombine them, and develop them properly— as they had on numberless other captured worlds, as they were doing, much more leisurely, on the other captive human worlds.

But they didn't have the time for more than this, and they had no regrets. They were confident that they had fulfilled their plan, that the processes set in motion were too far along now to be reversed.

The Combine hadn't guessed the Machists' final step, the one that would bring even more purpose to their mission. Time was on
their
side, now.

Time...

Dissonance

THEY HAD BEEN ON THE MOVE FOR ALMOST FOUR DAYS.
Crossing the mountains had been the hardest part; the weaponry and equipment was heavy, and it was difficult to get the bulky stuff around even the wide bends on well-worn paths.

Daniel wished that he'd been able to drop the stuff closer to the target, but it couldn't be done. From the moment they'd reached the top of the mountains, they'd discovered how dense the population below was. Thousands upon thousands of campfires.

Amara had held up better than most of the rebel band, and she carried a heavy burden strapped around her. She was a definite asset to have along from a military viewpoint, Daniel had to admit. Some still remembered the old Amara, and kept going when they wanted to quit simply because she was a reminder of the alternative. Others—most, it seemed—regarded her with awe and admiration. If she, an armless cripple, could do it, could carry those loads, could keep on—well, then, they weren't going to be the ones to drop out. Not before
she
did, anyway.

And Daniel knew she'd never quit.

Yet, emotionally, her presence disturbed him. She was the most vulnerable of the group, the most likely to get hurt when the fighting started, and he resolved to keep her with him, under close watch and protection, at all times.

They relaxed, and she stood while he undid the straps around her chest and waist that held the launcher she carried, a device which weighed thirty-six kilos and looked something like a giant wood screw with a hole through its point. Amara weighed no more than fifty-five or sixty herself. She sighed in relief, and sank to the ground. He watched, and others watched while pretending not to, as she took a canteen in her feet, uncapped it with her toes, then brought it between the soles of her feet up to where her mouth could grasp the nozzle. Then, holding it with her teeth, she drank. Some of the water splashed on her, but the method worked. Finished, she lowered the canteen to her feet and actually rescrewed the cap.

"Hell, if she can't kick a Machist she'll bite him in two with those teeth and jaws," Daniel heard someone say, and he chuckled. It was true. When you have to use things for purposes you've never used them for before, they tend to grow stronger.

She breathed hard in relaxation for a few moments, then she turned and looked out at the coastal plain. They were most of the way down the other side of the mountain, and
it
was getting light.

She turned to him. "How will we get through
that
with all
this
without getting spotted?"

"If we can cover up in the next few minutes and avoid being spotted by the flyers, I can get us through tomorrow night, I think. Look out there," he gestured. Everyone nearby looked.

"See the lights down there? They're generator-powered. Not as many lights as there were when we first saw it, are there?"

They looked, and saw that this was so. The lights were widely scattered over the plain, while earlier they seemed to be more closely spaced.

"Know why?" he continued. "Because the early fires were natural fires. The powered ones—that's where Machists still live. I mean the enemy ones, that is. Those we avoid. They can report."

They murmured and nodded. There were several relatively large areas of darkness leading almost straight to the coast.

"But, Captain," someone said after a moment—he insisted they call him "Captain"; the alternative was "Ma'am" and he couldn't have stood that—"if no lights means the Machists have gone, then they must've done their work, right? I mean, my God! That was maybe seventy, seventy-five percent of all the lights we saw!"

They all knew what the man meant.

Daniel knew he had to rally them. "See those big lights over there?" He pointed to the still dark horizon. 'That's the spaceport and Machist headquarters at Lamarine."

That cheered them a bit, but their feelings were mixed. Most of the people were
from
Lamarine, and the ghostly blackness where most of the city should have been reminded them of what had been lost.

It was Amara, with no ties to Lamarine or Ondine, who realized this.

"Remember, the Machists didn't get
us,"
she said proudly. "What's done can be undone, if we're successful. Whether or not those city lights burn bright and happy again depends to a large measure on all of us."

They accepted this, and with that acceptance despondency turned to anger, to hatred of the enemy that had done this to their world.

"Now get this stuff under cover and get some sleep!" she told them. "We aren't going to be stopped this close to our goal!"

They snapped to it, and, when most had gone, she turned and looked at Daniel smgly. "See? What would you have done without me along?"

He grinned. "Okay, so rub it in." His expression turned suddenly serious. "But I'm worried. Worried for you. Worried for them," he gestured toward the raiders, "and terribly worried about
them."
He gestured at the plain.

"I wonder what they're like now," she mused, looking to the coast. "Can anything on this scale ever be reversed? I mean, completely?"

He shook his head sadly, and put his arm around her.

"No, not really," he told her honestly. "They've been through a hell of a lot. If the Machists had done nothing but herd them into camps to live like primitives for several months, the experience would have permanently changed them. No, we do it for the sake of those who didn't get changed—although they'll never be the same, either. And for the children, the future. There
can
be an Ondine again."

She nodded, and they were quiet for a minute.

"Daniel?" she said lazily, breaking the silence.

"Yes, hon?"

"What do you
really
look like?"

He chuckled and turned to face her. "If I told you I was old and fat and bald, would you believe it?"

She laughed pleasantly in that infectious, high voice of hers.

"I don't believe it," she told him, and they lapsed again into silence as dawn broke. Both were under a tree cover, and there seemed no need to move.

"Daniel?" she started again in that same soft tone.

"Uh huh?"

"You're a symb, aren't you?"

He froze, as if struck by lightning and his other selves all missed a step. His mind raced, trying to think of new lies, new ways to laugh it off, but he couldn't. He'd known this had to come, and better now than in the thick of battle.

"How long have you known?" he managed.

"Since the first night, I guess, although it took me a little time to put all the things together. Nobody built like you, bioengineering or not, could have that kind of strength and speed. And then I noticed you pretending to sleep. It's your worst impersonation. And I knew you couldn't feel the sex. I don't know how—it's
good
—but I just
knew.
And then I remembered that handsome stranger Sten shot. Too clean, too antiseptic. That's still close to what you really look like, isn't it?"

He sighed. "Yes, pretty much. The way I
used
to look, anyway."

Now it was her turn to be stunned. "You don't anymore?"

Of course she'd assumed that he was a real person, someplace. Symbs were illegal, but occasionally used by agencies like Naval Intelligence. Basically self-aware robots, they didn't have the linkages for complex actions, so for particularly dangerous things, such as bomb disposals, or impossible things where only a human would do, like some rescues in space, they'd take the person with the requisite knowledge and skill and imprint a duplicate on the symb. It was never permanent; it faded slowly unless renewed. And symbs always had a programed time-wipe in any case, for they
knew
they were symbs, copies, strong echoes of real people, and that was the worst of it.