Cluster (12 page)

The problem was, it was true. The FreeSlaves were ignorant brutes, and not merely because of recent breeding. The Masters, in contrast, had treated Flint with a certain diffident courtesy despite his insults to them. They were—adult.

“Why did you not inform the Slaves of your mission at the outset?” B:::1 asked. “I refer to those of the plantation.”

“I
tried.
They wouldn't listen.” Then Flint jumped. “You bastard! You tricked me into admitting it!”

“It is obvious that you are not a Slave. Your entire manner betrays it. Since we know that through an error Øro of N*kr was subjected to unconscionable punishment, the sensible explanation is that his mind was destroyed and his body taken over by an alien. We know such things are possible; it has happened in the past.”

“You're pretty smart,” Flint said grudgingly. He decided not to mention
Q
iw of V°ps, the Slave foreman. Why place a good man in jeopardy? “The Slaves simply would not believe me—any of them.”

“That is because they are ignorant,” B:::1 said, his mandibles making a little click of understanding. “To them, transfer is a superstition, possession by demonic influence. But you could have reached us immediately.”

“I could?” Flint asked, surprised. He had abandoned any pretense; he
did
have to deal with these Masters. This was what he had been sent here for.

“Verify it with your body's memory.”

Flint checked, and discovered what had been there all the time: any Slave could petition for an interview with any Master, anytime. Such a petition was invariably granted, and the circumstance of the complaint promptly and thoroughly investigated. Justice was rigorous, within the framework of the system. The Slaves
did
have rights, zealously protected by the Masters themselves.

He could have made his petition, even on the punishment rack, and had the complete and personal attention of a responsible Master within an hour. His mission would have been completed had he really wanted to accomplish it that way. But he had preferred to fight, and to seek the humanoid FreeSlaves.

What did he want—the elevation of brutes like T%x? That would hardly save the galaxy! He had been a fool, allowing superficial appearances and subjective feelings to interfere with his mission. He would not make that mistake again.

“I am Flint of Outworld,” he said formally. “Sphere Sol, as you surmised. I have come here to give you the secret of transfer.”

“We do not desire transfer,” B:::1 said without even a pause.

This set Flint back. “We are not demanding payment. We want you to have it. I'll explain why.”

B:::1 made a little flutter of his wing-cloak, signifying comprehension and negation. “Transfer would disrupt our system. A Slave economy functions best when identity is irrevocably fixed in its original body. If it became possible for the Masters and Slaves to exchange bodies, even briefly, it would evoke disastrous unrest.”

Flint pondered. He did not understand the intricacies of politics or economics, but he was sure this Master did. “More than your system is at stake,” Flint said. “The entire galaxy is in peril.”

“That well may be. But the moment we begin to interfere with our neighbor Spheres, we become subject to interference
from
them. Since we do not desire this, we choose to minimize this possibility by keeping to ourselves.”

“Even if you are all destroyed, Masters and Slaves together?”

“We must exist according to our dictates, even at such a risk.”

Flint shook his head in an un-Slavelike gesture. He didn't know what to say, not having anticipated such a response. Yet he should have foreseen this, for now he recognized the same pattern shown by the Master of the saucer, who had died rather than yield even a fraction of his self-determination. “Well, I certainly can't force you. I'd better go home.”

“Excellent. We shall construct a transfer unit to send you back, then destroy it. I think your government will understand.”

Flint remembered the Council of Ministers of Imperial Earth. Yes, they were just the kind of fatheads to understand an attitude such as this.

 

*
 
*
 
*

 

Three Master technicians discussed the matter with him. They were intelligent, and quickly grasped the principles of what he was saying better than he himself did. He spouted incomprehensible formulas, the gift of his eidetic memory, and they shuddered with delight, admiring the sheer beauty of the logic.
 

First he covered the Kirlian aura, and they modified their equipment to pick this up. “As you can see,” Flint said, “most entities have auras of a certain standard intensity. Some have stronger fields, and here is mine.

 
He stepped into the sensing chamber. Their dial registered to one hundred, but the indicator jammed at the top. They were suitably impressed.

“Now you have to modify one of your matter transmitters to fix only on this aura, which is tricky, because it completely permeates the body,” Flint said. “Here are the formulas.”

But it was not so easy after all. The Masters used a different kind of transmitter, one that could ship larger amounts more economically, but was quite limited in range. Ten light-years was the maximum; five was the average. They traversed their Sphere by a series of hops from system to system, and had the routes so well organized that their Sphere suffered much less Fringe-regression than the human Sphere did. But this meant the technology of their mattermitters was quite different for Sol's.

Since transfer was a refinement of mattermission, Flint's information was not applicable. A mattermission expert who understood the formulas of transfer adaptation could have adapted to the situation, but Flint was a Stone Age primitive with only rote information that was set for the wrong equipment. It would take the Masters months or even years to iron out the wrinkles.

So Flint could not after all provide them with the secret of transfer. And he could not go home in this body. Not by mattermission.

“We shall take care of you,” B:::1 said with insectoid cheer. “Perhaps within a decade or two some other Sphere will contact us, and you will be able to depart.”

Small comfort, and the Masters obviously neither expected nor wanted such contact. “In a few months, maybe less, it will be immaterial,” Flint explained. “My Kirlian aura is fading, day by day. In a few months I will be no more than a—a Slave.”

“There will always be a place in the burl plantations for you,” the Master said consolingly.

“Thanks.” Nothing like near-mindless drudgery, enforced by the punishment-box. And not even a pretty
C
le to share it with.

That reminded him. “
C
le–
C
le of A[
^th
]–what happened to her?”

“Do not concern yourself about her,” B:::1 said.

“But I
am
concerned. She helped me, she resisted torture. They thought she was one of your spies.”

“She was.”

Flint stared, but could not read the alien countenance. Yet why should the Master bother to lie?

“We hoped she would find her way to more formidable FreeSlave resistance,” B:::1 explained. “There is a constant pilfering, minor disruption, firing of the crops. But all we got was T%x of D)(d and his ragged band. If she learned anything more, it is lost. Her mind was set to self destruct before she betrayed her mission.”

So she had not had the chance to betray
Q
iw. Flint had, realistically, changed sides, but he was disinclined to turn in the Slave who had been sincere, clever, and courageous. “I'd like to see her,” he said.

The Master made a negligent gesture with one thin black appendage. “She is in the Slave infirmary. You have freedom of this complex; we know you now. I suggest that you do not go outside it.”

“I am a prisoner?”

“No. It is merely that those outside would mistake you for a Slave.”

Clear enough. “Maybe someone could escort me. To the infirmary, and back.”

B:::1 made a little twitch of assent. “Go to the Slave service station.”

It was evident that the Masters regarded Flint as akin to Slaves, despite their overt courtesy. Well, nothing he could do about it; he had failed his mission through no fault of the Masters. He went.

Slaves were not permitted to enter the Masters' domicile, but were summoned to the Slave station to escort a creature resembling a Slave function. A responsible Slave would be assigned the task.

The responsible Slave was there. “
Q
iw! Flint exclaimed. “
Q
iw of V°ps!”

The foreman was as surprised to see him. “Øro of N*kr! You are free?”

“It's a long story. I am not what I seem.”

They walked slowly toward the infirmary. “You seemed like a rebel,”
Q
iw said. “Or an alien. I did my best to prevent your escape.”

“The girl was an agent of the Masters. I am now working with them.”

Q
iw was well disciplined, but he was unable to conceal his agitation. “Then they know–”

“The Masters know you did your best to prevent our escape. The girl might have had another opinion, but she perished before making her report. Since I killed a mounted Master, it is evident that you, a mere Slave, could not have restrained me.” Even if he had tried.

Q
iw was silent. Flint had reassured him, obliquely, but it was obvious that the Masters had hardly been fooled. Why else had they summoned this particular Slave from the field to perform this particular chore?

C
le was lying on a bunk in an insulated cell. Flint felt a terrible pity for her. Double agent or not, she had been nice to know, and she had died cruelly. “May I go in?”

“She has no mind,”
Q
iw reminded him. “She cannot be revived.”

“I know. Still...” Flint could not express what he really wanted, as he did not himself know. He felt the way he did at the death service of a friend: awed, useless, feeling a great loss yet unable to do anything to alleviate it. Grief. Yet a kind of perverse relief that he himself had not died. This time.

Q
iw, indifferent, touched the lock in an intricate pattern, and the gate slid open. Flint entered.
Q
iw remained outside, perhaps in deference to the dead, and the gate closed between them. It occurred to Flint that he was a prisoner now, locked in. But the matter was academic. No prison was more confining than nontransfer.

He looked down at the breathing form, trying to tell whether she was awake or sleeping. But the mindless state made it irrelevant; she would never wake again. Maybe she was better off than he...

He felt compelled to touch her. It was to a large extent his fault that this had happened to her. She was extraordinarily pretty, and had deserved better. Even though a spy, she had showed a lot of spirit.

“
C
le,” he murmured as his hand met her flesh.

And he felt the intimate shock of her potent Kirlian aura.

C
le sat up suddenly. Her arms whipped around his neck, curling tight. She was hugging him!

No—she was
choking
him! Bemused at this seeming vengeance from the grave, and fazed by the remarkable interaction of their auras—for hers was a strong as his!–Flint nevertheless responded automatically. He took her two small wrists in his hands and ripped them away. Her weaker feminine muscles could not compete with his.

He held her before him. “If this is mindlessness, I'd hate to see you whole!” he said.

“What are you doing?”
Q
iw demanded. “Put her down! It is profane to maul the dead!” He thought Flint had initiated the action.

C
le's foot came up to strike his groin, but Flint had indulged in hand-to-hand combat before, with male and female. Her muscle tension warned him; he twisted aside and threw her back on the bunk.

Pain caught him. He stiffened against the gate.
Q
iw had set the punishment-box for his number and activated it. “The dead are sacred,”
Q
iw said grimly.

“She's
un
dead!” Flint gasped. The pain was set at about three, enough to be effective, but not so much as to incapacitate him completely.
 
Q
iw had good judgment. “Look at her!”

Indeed she was undead.
C
le had already bounced off the bunk to come at him again. He was paralyzed with pain. She took hold of him and threw him to the floor in what he recognized as an expert combat technique. Then she applied a blood strangle to his neck, her fingers digging for the major artery. But she didn't quite have it.

Flint's pain cut off. The gate slid open and
Q
iw bounced in. He hauled
C
le off and applied a nerve grip of his own. In a moment she was unconscious. This verified Flint's prior suspicion:
Q
iw knew how to fight very well. He had been clumsy by design, in their prior encounter.

Flint sat up, rubbing his neck. “You know, you might have been better off if you had let her kill me, then killed her yourself. Unfortunately accident of timing.”

Q
iw met his gaze. “You aliens think all Slaves are stupid—and worse, that the Masters are. The Masters know what I did; they do not punish me because it would accomplish nothing. They know I will never again attempt disloyalty. They are just, and I have learned. Were they to accuse me openly, they would have to punish me, and that would cost me status among Slaves and decrease my effectiveness in managing them.”

Flint nodded. “I have learned, too.” Master and Slave—they understood each other. He had been foolish to try to interfere.

They carried
C
le to the border of the Master's domicile. B:::1 appeared. “This is strange,” he remarked after hearing of
C
le's violence.