To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) (26 page)

The hypospray reduced his pains to distant hurts, and Rio walked beside him as they bore him out of the arena. Blake saw the secutor and the retiarius pass him and heard the thunder of the crashcars as they moved up, revving their engines noisily. Blake, Rio, and the medics went past the long line of cars, past the patient cleanup robots, and down the corridor to the medical station.

Rio stood by Blake as the human and robotic attendants cleansed his wounds, sealed his cuts together with a sonic needle, and sprayed on bandages.

The ringmaster entered and congratulated Blake. "You'll be a big draw here, Seventeen, er, Mason. They are already editing the tape for national distribution tonight. By tomorrow, you'll be the celebrity of the week.” The ringmaster looked pleased. He beamed at Rio, saying, "You were perfect, perfect! They'll probably want to use you again. I've already spoken to the circusmaster and we'll get an island for you – water all around, some electrosnakes and animatronic alligators in the water – and Blake–" He stopped and laughed. "We'll work it out. Don't want to give it away, huh?" He slapped Rio on the shoulder, then said, "Take care of yourself, Mason. You're going to raise the San Francisco rating at least three points!"

Blake stared at the departing man blankly. "He sent us out there to be killed and now he thanks us for raising the ratings!"

Rio looked around, and helped Blake off the medical-examination table. "Come on."

At that moment, a group of television newsmen came bursting into the room. Their lights went on and in a few seconds Blake was surrounded by inquiries.

"How does it feel to be the first man to kill an Attila in three years?"

"Are you going to protest the decisions of the Ecclesiastical court?"

"Do you employ any particular spells in your defense?"

Blake looked blankly at the last questioner. "Spells?" he asked.

"Yes, are you a member of any of the outlawed covens?"

"You can speak freely, you are already condemned."

"No, I–"

"Is there any truth to the rumor that you are a Catholic and that the pope aided you with special outlawed prayers?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Blake said.
Covens? The pope?

"All right, that's enough!" Sergeant White's voice cut through the babble. "Leave him alone, he's mine. Let me through, let me through." The sergeant grinned broadly at Blake. "Bless your bones," he said, smiling. He turned toward the news reporters. "One of my best gladiators. Reminds me of myself when I was younger. I fought a pair of Nebuchadnezzars in the Romulus Arena in '42 – me and my mate – and we knocked them both out!" Behind his back, White was gesturing to Blake to get away.

White jumped up on a chair. "You'll want to know how I train my people for the ring. Well, I use pyschology and..."

Blake and Rio slipped out of the door quietly. Only one reporter saw them, and followed.

"An exclusive, gladiator? I can get you some special food down here, I promise you that. Maybe even a chunk of real meat, how about that?"

The reporter followed them down the corridor to the elevator. "Mingus Arcoman,
Peninsula Seven.
Come on, we'll just go down here away from the others, and you can tell me all about it."

Blake looked past the newsman and saw the short, dark accountant again, the one who had mysteriously nodded to him earlier. The accountant was looking at him, but so
were several passing gladiators and others.

Blake steered the newsman further along the passageway. "Yes, yes, you are probably wondering about how I, a mere novice, and a stranger to your time, could conquer a mighty fighting machine like the dread Atilla. Well, it was this way ...”

Blake moved Rio in close to the accountant and kept up his stream of words to the newsman. He saw Rio and the other man exchange a few words, but his attention was on the story he was giving the reporter. "...You see, the men of my time have it all over your people here. We lived close to the soil then, and draw our strength from it. And I was but the lowest of warriors fighting for his faith, a mere beginner in the art of robot slaying..."

Rio looked at Blake and gestured with her head.

"So you see, Mr. Arcoman, that I will make a very good drawing card for whatever Circus holds my contract."

"Contract? I thought you were a condemned criminal? What's a 'drawing card'? You use such ancient terms that I–"

"Later, Mr. Arcoman, later. I must go. Orders, you know. I don't want to be late for my meditations." Rio drew him toward the elevator, and Blake smiled back at the reporter. "Mason, Blake Mason. M-a-s-o-n. Thank you, thank you."

The door closed and Blake fell silent. He put a hand to his arm, which throbbed alarmingly, but the nu-skin was smooth. He looked at Rio, then at the others – a dull-looking minister bearing an autographed greave and a janitor with a can of something. Rio shook her head slightly and Blake kept his mouth shut.

They got out at Blake's cell-complex level and he pulled Rio aside. "Well? Was he the contact?"

She nodded. "He said to go to your cell and wait."

"What about you? Are they going to miss you?"

Rio smiled wanly. "They didn't really expect me back, anyway, but I guess they'll start looking soon." She pressed herself against Blake's arm. "But by then it will be too late – you'll be out!"

"Me? What about you?"

"They're just taking you."

"Oh, no! Either we both go, or no deal!"

"But–"

Blake grabbed her arm and pulled her along toward his cell section. "That's the way it is," he said firmly.

Bennett, Neva, Rob, Narmada, Kapuki, and several others greeted Blake noisily.

"We saw it on the screen!" Bennett shouted. "You were fantastic!"

"A tiger!" Kapuki said.

"And this is the girl..." Neva said, looking Rio over in one sweeping glance.

"This is Rio," Blake said.

As the others continued to congratulate him, he pulled Bennett aside. "They want to take me out today – but only me. I'm taking Rio, or I don't go. You tell that to ... to whoever.
Both
of us, understand."

Bennett nodded, his eyes on Rio. "Not bad," he said, "if you like the type."

"Mason, Blake!" came the sharp words from the entrance.

Mason looked over to see four black-clad Swords of St. Michael standing arrogantly in the doorway.
Are these the ones?

"Mason, Blake!" one of them said sharply.

"I'm Mason. What do you want ... sir?"

"You. Come with us. The Bishop of San Francisco wants to see you."

"All right. Rio." He reached out for her, but the Sword put up a hand.

"Just you, Mason. We don't need any fallen women." He studiously avoided looking at Rio's ripped dress.

"I think the Bishop would like to see both of us, sir." He tugged at Rio's hand and forced her to his side.

The Sword looked around, and Blake thought his eyes stopped on Bennett's face. But he could not be certain. The black-clad man shrugged and gestured them on.

The soldiers formed a box around the two of them and walked briskly to the intersection.

This was the moment of truth. If they turned left, they would be going toward the bank of elevators reserved for high officers and the higher echelons of the clergy. If they turned right, they would be heading toward the service elevators and cargo lifts. They turned right.

Blake squeezed Rio's hand. He thought about Neva and Kapuki, Bennett and the rest, but his elation did not make him feel guilty.
I'll come back for you!
he vowed.

They took one elevator down several levels, crossed through an animal-containment area, then up to a robot-repair shop, walked up a flight, stepped out into an accounting sector, and went down a hall. It was quiet here, with only a little choral music from the wall speakers. The hall might have been in any office building anywhere, and not the business offices for a Roman-style arena.

They stopped before a door marked DEACON J. JACKS, PROVISIONAL ACCOUNTING, and a Sword gestured them through. Before the door was closed, the four men were walking briskly away.

There was an outer office and a smiling, dark-haired woman behind a desk. She stood up, opened an inner door, and said, "Please. And hurry!"

Inside, the short, dark man was getting up from his desk; and he was also smiling. "Congratulations, Mason. I see you insisted upon bringing your rescued damsel. Very romantic. We can use that, I think." He looked her over with a certain lust in his eyes. "Very nice. Why they would want to destroy such a lovely object, I'll never know." He turned toward his desk, saying, "Christians! I'll never understand them. Never!"

Jacks reached into a drawer and took out a small device that Blake recognized as the kind of magnetic key to the explosive neckband they both wore. Blake's unspoken fear had been that the Arena police would trigger the neckpieces and kill them both.

Jacks pressed the end of the mag key to the side of Rio's neck and then to Blake's. The explosive bands fell off.

Blake threw his in the wastebasket, but Jacks retrieved it and took both of the prison devices out the door. In a few moments he returned. "If they set it off now, they will be quite surprised where it goes bang. Now, for clothing."

He took a key from his pocket and opened a side door. Inside was some clothing. In a few moments Blake was dressed as a robot technician and Rio was wearing the tunic and brassard of a novice medic. They returned to the hall, where Jacks was waiting.

They followed him at a distance. He went into one elevator, holding three fingers pointed down. Rio and Blake waited for another cage, then dropped three floors. They picked him up again and followed him several hundred meters around the curve of the Arena, through several training sections, and into another elevator. Up five levels, they followed him through an unmarked door. A gaunt, harassed woman inside gave them new identification papers after she had taken their photographs. Blake and Rio then followed Jacks for several more level changes.

They finally stopped in a secluded niche, and Jacks said, "They should be catching on by now."

"What do we do?" Blake asked.

"Go to that elevator there. It will lead you to the service exit. Just walk out as if nothing were wrong – but not together. Oh, here!" Jacks dug into his pocket and handed them each a Unicard. "Use these. They're stolen, but I don't expect the alarm for several hours yet, so the alarms won't go off. Take the Two-Fifteen to downtown and get off at
Sutter Towers.
Don't go in the front; use the service entrance. Go to condo Six-Oh-One. That's on the Gold Dust level. Don't be frightened by the way it looks. Just act like you are on call."

"What then?" Blake queried nervously.

"You'll be met. You'll be asked about something in your past, Mr. Mason. Don't worry, you'll be among friends."

Blake nodded. He knew that this group, whatever it was and whatever it stood for, planned to use him in some way; but he didn't mind, not as long as they got him and Rio out.

"Come on," he said to Rio, and they walked quickly toward the elevator bank.

Blake took the service elevator to the Gold Dust level. The escape from the Circus had been easier than he'd expected, although they were standing on the monorail platform when they heard an alarm go off. But now, buried safely in the giant arcological complex that was San Francisco, he began to relax. Rio was a few minutes behind him, coming up another elevator.

Blake's elevator door opened and he found himself in the rear service passage. The walls were studded with readout dials, bolted access panels, barred rear exits from the condos, tube terminals, and an occasional television monitor. As Blake walked towards the 600 series, he passed an occasional repairman whose head was buried in a panel or who worried over a plug-in unit with intermittent cutout. They ignored him or nodded casually.

He found the 600 series and stopped at the rear door of number 601. Trying not to look around to see if anyone was watching, he knocked sharply on the door. In a few moments he sensed a darkening of the peep-eye and then heard a voice coming through a cheap speaker.

"Yes?"

"I'm here to repair your robbie."

"Where did you say you were from?"

"Uh..." Blake glanced down at the small toolkit

Jacks had given him. "Uh, General Robotics..."

There was a pause, and Blake could not resist looking up and down the Service corridor. Then the speaker squawked again.

"When were you born?"

"What does that...? Uh ... October 24th              ... uh." He had started to give the year, and his near-slip disturbed him.
I'll have to be more careful!

No answer came, but in a few seconds he heard the mag locks snap open; then the door slid back. A small brown man stood inside; he was dressed in a plain tunic. He was balding and appeared very clean, as old men often did.

He smiled and gestured Blake in, and closed the door behind him. "This way," he said.

Blake hefted his tool kit and followed.
What if I have to really repair some robot? I'll fake it and get out as fast as possible.

Blake knew he would have to work quickly and find out what was going on, because Rio was due in less than five minutes. He had not wanted her to come with him, in case there was danger. Unless a code word was given, she was to pretend she had the wrong condo and leave.

The condo was plain, and hardly looked lived in. It had standard furniture, the usual GE wallscreen, and a few copies of newsfax. Blake swept the room in one quick scan and watched the other doors alertly.

The old man stopped, and said, "Let me introduce myself. I am Emelio Radiodifundir. Would you like a drink,
Senor?"

Blake's eyes flicked again over the apartment. It was too clean, too impersonal! Either no one lived here, or it was a trap. He began edging toward the rear door again. "No. No, thank you. Where is the robbie you wanted fixed?"

The old man smiled and sat down. "Don't be alarmed,
Senor
Mason. You are quite safe. Is
Senorita
Volas coming up the front or the back?"

Blake's tenseness drained out of him. They either already had him, or he was safe. "The back." He gestured around him. "Who lives here?"

"No one. Or I should say, no one permanently. It is merely a convenience address for our organization."

"The People for a New Day?"

The old man smiled and nodded. "Among others. Are you certain you would not like a drink? We have some passable Rugan Vifion from Napa and a rather good
juntamente vino
from the Brothers."

Blake shook his head. He was listening for sounds in the condo, and for the sounds of Rio at the rear door. He still stood, and was still not completely satisfied.

The old man seemed to sense this, and said, "Please,
Senor
Mason, you are quite safe here. Please, not to worry." He smiled again. "Perhaps it would put you at ease to know who I am." He held up his hand. "Oh, I am Emello Radiodifundir, all right, even though my papers say I am Paul Mendoza. You might know me better as Urban IX, the bishop of Rome."

Blake stared, disbelieving this little brown man in the rather shabby tunic and ill-fitting trousers.

The man smiled wryly. "Ah, yes, I know. The robes, the miter, the jewels, the incense, the acolytes – I know." He sighed deeply. "I never knew them. I have seen pictures, of course, and a few relics and some lovely crucifixes people have hidden. But all that was before my time."

"But you are supposed to be in New America or somewhere down south," Blake said.

The little man nodded, his bald head gleaming. He smiled with a sort of childish glee as he said, "Yes, yes, good! It is good you think so. Perhaps
they
shall, too. The outlaw pope." He looked up at the ceiling. "It has a certain romantic air, does it not?" He looked with quick concern at Blake. "Not an anti-pope, you understand. Bless me, no! The Church has had enough of those, dear me, yes. Even one Urban, who was not my idea of a good prelate, I'm afraid – not an anti-pope, that Prignani, a rather savage little man, but then I suppose they were all a bit that way in the fourteenth century. Ah, but I digress. My apologies, my son."

The little man's spout of words had given Blake a few seconds to think.
An outlawed pope ... A revolutionary underground ... Escaped time travelers?
He had to smile, and was still smiling when he opened the rear door to Rio's knock.

"It's all right," he said, giving her the code word he and she had agreed upon. "Come, I want you to meet a pope."

The little Spaniard was both gallant and regal as he met Rio. Blake saw her accept him at face value, and that settled it for him. Once again they were given a change of clothing, this time a figure-concealing dress and cloak for Rio and a severely cut drab suit for Blake. They changed clothes, then sat down to eat some food.

Urban talked as they ate. "I am but one link in your underground route. Next, you will go to Venus." He smiled at their expressions. "No, Venus the organization. They will guide you to the New Day people."

"It sounds as if there are many dissident groups," Rio said.

"There are a few, yes," Urban said, nodding. "But they are not very effective. They have their own internecine battles. The People for a New Day are political. We Catholics are, of course, religious. Venus is ... um, rather pagan in its beliefs. The Lutherans are different still, and the Mormons were always independent. But those two groups appear to conform."

The old man shook his head. "Mankind was never
one,
but it has rarely been so militantly fractionalized.  Each group develops its own plans, ignores the others. Each is too weak to do anything itself, so nothing gets done,"

The thin pope leaned forward to emphasize his words. "This is why
you
are so important. The timing of your arrival was superb! The New Day people finally had three plans approved by the majority of factions – which is the first step. But no one has agreed on the date, nor on what to do afterward. Everyone is afraid we will lose what gains we make in the in-fighting after it is over."

"Why do they need me, or us?" Blake asked.

Pope Urban leaned back. "Let me give you an idea of what we have done. First, the religious oppression is such that no one is happy with it, not even many of the churches. They maintain armies and do what they must do because they are afraid of being overrun by other religions."

"Holy wars..." Rio said.

Urban nodded. "Worse. Civil wars are always the most vicious. But this fractionalizing among the religions – if you can call some of them that ... forgive the chauvinism, my dear – has broken down communications between countries, between the people in the middle, between philosophies. But the plans the New Day people have made seem feasible. The best plan was given a 64.2 percent chance of succeeding, given certain factors. You are one of those factors, and a major one."

"How can one or two people make any difference?" Rio asked.

The prelate smiled. "Psychological. A sign from a more liberal time. A neutral factor, not aligned with any of the dissident groups – one they can all rally around. Let me tell you about revolutions."

The old man poured himself a glass of wine and sat back. "Revolutions succeed when, and only when, governments have become rotten or soft, or have disappeared or abdicated their duties, or are just too distant to enforce the laws and/or are too busy doing something else. Revolutions succeed in power vaccuums. How?" He held up his hand, a finger in the air. "One, revolution depends upon organization and communication. We are organized into cells, with each of us knowing only one above and one in the organization below. We communicate mainly through the Total Information System net, on sealed circuits. We have enough people in the TIS to be reasonably sure we will not be tapped."

He held up another finger. "Two, there are always betrayals. Three, it is easier to get people to hate than to love, and the whole oppressive church system is helping us there. Four, revolutions are won by a few who have been trained for it. Five, revolutions are not won by the masses.
They
only provide the foundation, an atmosphere in which to work. If the masses are not basically on your side, they must at least not be on the side of the opposition. Six, revolutions succeed only when they take place at the proper moment. Too soon, too late, and they don't work. We have decided that
now
is the time. If we do it right, there will be a minimum of bloodshed. If we do it wrong..."

The old man shrugged.

"But," he continued, raising his hand, "I think this is the time. Lurid, programmed events like the Arena slaughters can only entertain the people for so long.  Likewise, the television dramas, the staged miracles, the pageantry, all the propaganda slop the people have been getting, telling them no one ever had it so good..." His lined face was grim. "These ...
'churches'
have ruled unwisely. They proscribed too much, limited life too much, though those at the top live a different life entirely. You haven't been here long enough, or traveled enough, to hear the grumbling, the frustration. The people are rebellious and ready. Ready for a leader."

He paused, then went on. "Remember," he said, "revolutions never work in the midst of happiness. They start as conspiracies of dissidents, then build to a ground swell, but succeed only if properly managed. You must use only those elements that are necessary, and no others. For example, we never accept anyone as a member just because he wants to join up. That would be the grossest breach of security."

Blake grinned. "But you take people who don't even want to join."

"Speak for yourself," Rio said.
"I
want to join."

"I'm not yet convinced it is going to work," Blake said. "Bomb-throwing anarchists, outlaw popes, reckless hedonists, gladiators, time travelers–"

"We have done our homework," Urban insisted. "For instance, despite the fact that there are so many different churches and that they fight, they do align themselves in groups. These groups are serviced by master computers, which we have people ready to sabotage or to control. Centrality increases vulnerability, but decentralization and parallel, fail-safe systems cost money – so brother-churches share computer systems. No modem complex system can get along these days without some kind of computer facility. People are basically lazy, and they tend to let machines do more and more of the drudge work. As a result, most of the logistics, bookkeeping, simple storehousing, and a hundred other things are done by computers. Sometimes only the master computermen can read the programs correctly. Forty-eight percent of those computermen are our people."

"Your Holiness," Rio said, "when does a revolution have the
right
to succeed?"

"When its philosophies and goals truly reflect the majority opinion. And when it has the guns," he added with a grin. "But we have developed alternate plans and organizations you need not know about."

"The less we know, the less we can tell," Blake said.

"There is always that chance of capture, yes," Urban said. "Speaking of that..." He dug into his tunic and took out some papers. He sighed, then smiled at them. "Now, on your way! Here are your identification documents. You are Noble and Dyami Youngblood, of the Sparrowhawks ... the Crows, that is. Indians. You are on your way to fetch a dead chief and bring him back to the tribal burying grounds. Take the seven-o'clock shuttle to Los Angeles, to the Palmdale Airport. Call the number on this slip of paper. Identify yourselves as Metatron – he is the 'chancellor of heaven' – and as Batna." He smiled at Rio. "One of the names of Lilith, my dear. I hope you don't mind."

Rio shook her head and smiled faintly. Urban concluded, telling them they would then get further instructions.

"Will we see you again?" Rio asked softly.

Urban shrugged. "Only God knows, my child."

Blake spoke. "May I ask you a question?"

Urban smiled at Rio and said, "I have never understood why people say that, do you? I usually say 'No,' but they ask anyway. Go on,
Senor
Mason, ask your question."