Chapter Six

IT WAS A YOUNG FEMALE HEAD, WITH LONG BLOND HAIR, big blue eyes, a long nose, and a shocked expression; an accompanying hand held a small oil lamp.

"Who are you? What are you doing in here?" she demanded.

Forgetting for the moment about the other door, Slant dove for her. To do so was not a conscious decision; his training had taken over again, and he had been trained to use physical restraint in this sort of situation. In an instant he had knocked her back on the bed, one hand over her mouth, the other pinning one of her arms, while his body pinned the other and his legs locked around hers. Miraculously, the lamp neither spilled nor went out His reasonably neat programmed maneuver was complicated by the bed curtains, which had caught on both ends of the submachine gun he still wore strapped to his shoulders; one hanging was ripped half off its rings and remained wrapped around the gunstock, pinched between the stock and strap. Another had been flung forward, and wound up tangled around one of his legs.

The curtains were not a serious problem, but they were an inconvenience; when Slant was capable of conscious action again, he whispered in the girl's ear, "One sound, one move, and you're dead; do you understand?"

She nodded; he could tell from her eyes that she was on the verge of panic but thought she would probably keep quiet He loosened his hold and untangled the hangings, keeping the girl partially pinned.

That done, he set the lamp on a convenient nightstand, where it lit the entire room dimly. She remained silent, watching, wide-eyed and unmoving.

The submachine gun, even untangled, remained an inconvenience; he unstrapped it and set it aside, well out of his captive's reach. The snark remained on his belt, easily accessible; he was scarcely leaving himself unarmed.

That taken care of, he looked her over, assessing the situation. She wore a thin cotton robe, doubtlessly the local equivalent of a nightgown. It was black, which struck him as a very odd color for a young woman to wear to bed alone; had it been lace or satin he might not have thought so, but it was unadorned and made of cheap fabric. He was reminded of the black robes worn by the councillors, and considered where he was.

"Are you a wizard?" he demanded in a whisper.

She tried to speak, realized she couldn't with his hand over her mouth, and nodded, then apparently changed her mind and shook her head instead.

"Make up your mind!"

She shook her head no.

"You better not be. Or if you are, you better not call for help, because I can kill you before they can kill me."

She tried to squeal, her eyes widening still further and her muscles tensing. Slant took no notice but silently asked the computer, "Now what do I do?"

"Continue action. Wait for cessation of pursuit"

"How am I supposed to know when they stop looking for me?"

"By cessation of gravitational anomalies in vicinity of cyborg unit."

"What?"

"By cessation of gravitational anomalies in vicinity of cyborg unit."

"You mean they're looking for me with whatever-it-is, the way they did before?"

"Affirmative."

"Oh, that's just lovely. They found me twice before; they'll probably find me this time, too."

"Information insufficient."

"Great. All right, notify me if it appears they've given up."

"Affirmative."

That settled, he turned his attention to the girl and whispered, "Listen we're going to lie right here until they stop looking for me, or until they find me. It shouldn't be too long. You just keep quiet and do what I tell you and I won't hurt you. Understand?"

She nodded. They lay quietly for a moment; then something occurred to him, and. he asked the computer, "When I was moving around just now, why did I have to ask you what to do? Wasn't I trained for eluding pursuit indoors?"

"Affirmative. Cyborg unit training included evasive tactics. Reason for training dysfunction unknown."

That was worrisome. Without his conditioning he wasn't much more than an ordinary human being—stronger and faster than anyone normal, but that alone didn't mean much. Was his programming wearing out with age and disuse, or was there something suppressing it? He had no idea, and no way to tell. He didn't even understand the mechanism whereby his supercompetent specialized schizoid personalities took over in the first place.

He lay quiet, thinking about his situation without reaching any sort of conclusion; his captive shifted occasionally, trying to get comfortable. Several long minutes passed; with a brief warning, the computer slipped below the horizon and out of contact again.

There was a sudden pounding on the door; he lay still, his hand tight on the girl's mouth.

The pounding stopped, and he heard the sound of a key turning.

That wasn't right; the key was on the inside of the door, still in the lock. He'd used it and left it there himself. It couldn't be a duplicate key, as that would have pushed the one on the inside out, and he would have heard it hit the floor. Could it be a different door? No, it was from the direction of the door he had entered by.

Keeping one hand on the girl, he lifted himself up and back, and peered around the torn bed curtain at the door.

The key was turning itself in the lock; as he watched it completed its turn, the lock opening with a click.

The key then lifted itself from the keyhole and dropped to the floor.

He didn't need the computer to tell him that this was more antigravity magic. He leaped to his feet, his automatic combat persona taking over, the snark in his hand. His conscious self, which was now a passive observer, asked whether taking the young woman hostage would be a viable tactic; he thought back that he didn't know, having no idea how much respect the people of this society had for individual lives.

He flashed across the room, snatching up the submachine gun at the same instant that he fired the snark at the door and put enough distance between the girl and himself to minimize the risk of her interference with his actions.

The panels of the door vanished in a cloud of brown powder; the range was close to the maximum, so that the beam did not penetrate, completely, leaving a large oval scar of rough raw wood. The drifting dust served to darken the already dim room still further, and Slant used the darkness to cover his movements as he shifted his weapons between hands, so that the snark, strictly a short-range weapon and with a severely limited power supply, was in his left, while the more primitive but effective submachine gun was held ready in his right He released the gun's safety but did not fire; he had no idea what he was up against, so it would be foolhardy to try shooting his way out immediately.

The darkness was abruptly dispelled by a vivid yellow glow from the door; it swung open, revealing a black-robed figure holding a staff aloft. The light came from the head of the staff, and Slant felt an electric tingle in his skin, identical to that he had felt in the Council chamber. Behind the wizard-—there could be no doubt that this was a wizard— were three other men, clad like the Council chamber guard, holding drawn swords.

Slant groped for the latch of the door he had not had time to investigate properly; he stood near it but dared not turn his gaze from his foes to see what he was doing.

"Slant, as you call yourself," said the wizard, "please surrender. We wish you no harm. There is no need for bloodshed."

"I can't surrender, damn it Stay away, or I'll have to kill you." It was his conscious self that spoke, but the combat persona maintained control of his limbs in a curiously uncomfortable way. Two fingers of his left hand found the latch, but he could not easily work it while holding the snark.

"Please, we can help you, I'm sure we can."

"Stay away from me. In fact, get out of this room, and close the door behind you. And take the girl with you."

"Listen, you don't—"

The wizard's plea was cut off short by the roar of the gun as Slant fired a warning burst into the ceiling.

"Get out •" of here!"

It occurred to him that the computer might object to his chasing them away rather than killing them; he hoped that it would give him time to explain that killing them would ' just bring more enemies down on him.

The wizard stepped back, moving his staff oddly, and Slant thought for a moment that the four Teyzhans were actually departing; then the wizard said, "Take him," and Slant realized that he had simply been getting out of the way of the three swordsmen.

The warriors marched forward—a mistake, Slant's training told him, as a quick charge would have been their best tactic here. His finger squeezed the trigger, and the gun's roar filled the room again. He watched a dozen rounds richochet off his attackers' bare faces; more magic was at work.

The wizard's voice sounded over the echoes as he stopped his useless fire. "We have protective spells.

You're helpless."

The submachine gun might have been countered, but these people had not seen the snark in use before tonight. Could a protective spell stop something other than solid matter? He brought up his left hand and pressed the trigger in a single motion.

The foremost attacker was just a single pace away; his blood spattered Slant from throat to ankle as the beam cut into the warrior's chest. The man fell forward, gasping in agony, to lie in a pool of his own blood; his companions froze. There was a moment of dead.silence when the victim's breath stopped, a moment in which none of them moved; Slant held the snark at ready, his finger on the trigger.

From the side, where she sat on the bed, the girl suddenly screamed as her horror overcame her initial shock; startled, Slant whirled toward her, pressing the trigger, cutting a narrow slice of destruction that ended in the girl's upraised wrist as she lifted her hand to cover her eyes. Another fountain of blood gushed forth, and Slant had time for an instant of revulsion before the pommel of a sword landed on his skull and knocked him to the floor, unconscious.