“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 ¢le to share it with.
That reminded him. “¢le—¢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—”
“So 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 Φiw. 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.”
“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 him 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 next to it It was understood that no Master would deign to escort a creature resembling a Slave to a Slave function. A responsible Slave would be assigned the task.
The responsible Slave was there. “Φiw!” Flint exclaimed. “Φiw of Vops!”
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,” Φiw 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.”
Φiw 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 was evident that you, a mere Slave, could not have restrained me.” Even if he had tried…
Φiw 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?
¢le was lying on a bunk in an isolated 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,” Φiw 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 land of perverse relief that he himself had not died—this time.
Φiw, indifferent, touched the lock in an intricate pattern, and the gate slid open. Flint entered. Φiw 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.
“¢le…” he murmured as his hand met her flesh.
And he felt the intimate shock of her potent Kirlian aura.
¢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 as 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?” Φiw demanded. “Put her down! It is profane to maul the dead!” He thought Flint had initiated the action.
¢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, Φiw had set the punishment-box for his number and activated it. “The dead are sacred,” Φiw said grimly.
“She’s undead!” Flint gasped. The pain was set at about three—enough to be effective, but not so as to incapacitate him completely. Φiw had good judgment. “Look at her!”
Indeed she was undead. ¢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 Φiw bounded in. He hauled ¢le off and applied a nerve grip of his own. In a moment she was unconscious. This verified Flint’s prior suspicion: Φiw knew how to fight very well. He had been clumsy by design.
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. Unfortunate accident of timing.”
Φiw 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.”
Flint nodded. “I have learned, too.” Master and Slave—they understood each other. He had been foolish to try to interfere.
They carried ¢le to the border of the Master’s domicile. B:::1 appeared. “This is strange,” he remarked after hearing of ¢le’s violence.
“It seems you were mistaken about her mindlessness,” Flint said.
“We were not mistaken. Bring her to the examination room.”
Φiw held back. “Sir, I may not enter—”
B:::1 turned his faceted gaze upon the Slave. “You may do what I tell you to do.” Flint recognized this as a forceful rebuke. The Master’s word was law!