Spirits of Flux and Anchor Page 2

  But if that’s true, where does it leave us? Just as we are neither born nor die, what is our purpose and role in this scheme if it be true? We have been around a long time and have long memories, and know that holy books are often adjusted, and religions go through social evolution the same as governments. And yet there is some consistency and truth in all of it which gives us pause.

  The Seven Who Wait exist. The gates of Hell exist, and there is certainly something foul and evil beyond them. That something is so seductive to some humans, but not to any of us. It is that sense of overwhelming evil emanating from those terrible sealed gateways that drives us ever onward on our missions. We fight the Seven and their agents wherever and whenever we can, and we seek them out for this battle. We alone are feared by them, for we are the immortal last line of defense.

  And, still, while we do the work of the church it continues to brand us demons, agents of the Seven, Hell-spawns and half-creatures. They will not listen to more rational pleas, nor change their view, for they do not understand us and so fear us as much as the Seven do. Nor is this fear without some justification, for this is a place of certainty in its beliefs, a place where everything has an explanation and where Heaven and Hell can be glimpsed. We are the wild cards, the unexplainable in the midst of the totally explained, and if we do not understand our own selves then how can they be expected to do so?

  It is certain that somebody, somewhere knows the answer. Someone who knows why World has the holy name that must not be spoken aloud, the cryptic and unintelligible Forfirbasforten. The church says it is an angelic name bestowed on World by the Holy Mother and is not for humans to know or understand, but someone does. Someone, or something, directs our actions in unknown and unseen ways, so that we go to a new host at just the right moment, and live their lives with them unknown and unseen to them until they have need of us against the Seven. Perhaps it is the Nine Who Guard, but I have encountered some of them many times and they seem as mystified by our presence and natures as are we ourselves, although, at least, they understand that we are not enemies but allies in their unending battle and do not fear us.

  Some say that humanity did not originate on World at all, but came here from some other, better place. That is, of course, consistent with both the evidence and scripture, but did we come with them? Or were we, perhaps, here before, the original inhabitants of this place caught in the middle of a great war we were powerless to do anything about? Some believe this, and see us as the ghosts and racial memories of such a race, yet this is not at all consistent with cosmology, for it would put us outside the Holy Mother’s creation until wrenched into it, and that opens up a series of philosophical knots that can never be untied.

  I think, perhaps, that we were once humans ourselves, and walked the face of World directly. It is possible that, for some reason, our souls were not placed into new bodies but remained suspended in the spirit world, bound to World but not of it. Why this should be so I do not know, but it was clearly not a random choice, as our numbers, as I said, are quite fixed.

  I prefer to think of us as once-great warriors, the best of our human race, who were so valued that we were appointed the last line of defense against the forces of evil, supporting first the church and then the Nine Who Guard.

  If what they say of birth and death are true, intellect survives memory, but memory dies as it gets in the way of true intellectual, or spiritual, growth. Thus we have no memories of our human lives, no sense of all those trillions of stimuli that flood in and confuse the mind even as it grows. Perhaps, I certainly hope, we were the ones who reached purification far ahead of the masses and were thus given our guardian duties with no need to be born and reborn again and again.

  And yet I feel that I was once a soldier. Certainly I feel most comfortable when mated with one, and it certainly fits my own theory of origin, as well as our long and complex work.

  I digress as I float, my random thoughts going out to any of my kind who may be in the area and less inclined to introspection. Very well, I will stop, for matters press, and I feel myself drawn from the Flux, where I have been these past seven lifetimes, back again at last to Anchor. Whoever or whatever guides our destinies has a new job for me, and I am anxious to begin.

  I emerge from the energy flow and there bursts upon me the clean, crisp certainty of Anchor. Which Anchor it is I do not know, but it seems somehow familiar, and welcomes me as some long-lost relation. This is an odd sensation, worthy of further study on its own.

  I drift above the hills and treetops, and below me bum the souls of Anchorfolk, the sheer density and clarity of their life matrices telling me that this is a large Anchor indeed. The specific features are beyond my present perceptive abilities, yet all around me screams not merely life but, most importantly, unambiguous life, its mathematical symmetry and distinct solidity oddly reassuring. I have been too long in the Flux.

  I sense the capital ahead of me now, with a density of souls that I can scarcely handle, and in its center, a shining beacon, its Focal Point. It is truly odd, this particular Focal Point, for it seems to broadcast directly to me. It seems right somehow, in a way I cannot explain. It is almost as if it sends to me a half-completed equation, for which I am myself the other half, and which, if joined, will give the answer to it all. The answers are here. The threat is large and the time is short. That much I am certain of.

  Ah, but no, I am to be stopped short of the Focal Point, the answer so close and yet so disturbingly out of reach. I am directed not at the Focal Point, but at a human soul who lives below, and even now I descend for the mating. Down, down, to ground level, and forward to the soul whose matrix will mate with my own. The one is moving, yet I come upon it, envelop it, mate with it and draw within those recesses of its mind it does not even know exist. I bind myself, and see, hear, and feel once more as humans do. I ride a new soul.

  Cassie walked from the cubicle towards the stables, her bag hanging from her shoulder, deep in thought. Suddenly she stopped as a cold chill came over her, and for a brief moment she felt both dizziness and nausea. It passed quickly, though, leaving her standing there a moment, puzzled, and wondering if she should go at all now. She must be coming down with something— she was still a good ten days from her period. But, no, she felt fine now.

  Just nerves, she told herself, and continued walking towards the stables.

  3

  STRINGER

  Matson wasn’t his real name. No stringer ever allowed his or her real name to be known—that way led to potential blackmail, for anyone could then determine the stringer’s relationship to others and have a hold on them. Stringers feared only that someone would have something on them, something that would eat into their absolute independence and freedom. They did not fear challenge, and particularly did not fear death, since it was better to die free than live with any strings at all, including compromises of their lifestyle. To have it any other way would be to be harnessed just as surely as they harnessed their characteristic mule trains, the long strings, or ropes, giving them their name and title.

  Matson was a stringer in his mid-thirties, which meant he was a very good stringer indeed in an occupation that often saw you dead in the Flux while still in your teens or twenties. He’d been around a lot in his time, and he still enjoyed the constant challenges of the job.

  He’d left his duggers and mules at the clear spot at the western gate. At the moment he was deadheading, and he hated like hell to do that—all expenses and no profits. This particular Anchor’s census, though, should make up for it. He’d heard that only one other stringer was close enough to take advantage of the bargain, and that meant a good deal of business. Usually there were so many stringers you had trouble even filling your local Fluxland orders and paying back your I.O.U.s for the quarter, but here, even with a small census, he’d wind up with half the crop.

  It did not trouble him to deal in human beings, just as he also dealt in gold, silver, various manufactured goods, and anything else tha
t was in demand in one place and surplus in another. While he lived by a strict personal moral code, this was the way of World, a system he’d been brought up to accept and believe in and, since “right” and “wrong” are always defined by the culture of a place, this sort of traffic—for which there was good socioeconomic justification—was simply taken for granted.

  It was a good two days’ ride from the Anchor wall to the capital, and a pretty boring one at that. Farming Anchors were perhaps the least interesting of all, all the more so because these people considered themselves free and autonomous. Theirs was a happy little worldlet, and most would never leave nor want to.

  They were as domesticated and spiritually dead as their cows, he thought sourly.

  He amused himself by playing mental word games and by double and triple checking his mnemonic tricks that allowed him to keep all his orders, requests, I.O.U.s, and accounts in his head. Permanent records were dangerous to a stringer’s freedom, too, even if you could keep decent account books in the Flux.

  Still, it would be good spending a couple of days in a real city, one that was what it looked like and wouldn’t change or dissolve on you because of a paranoid wizard’s bad dreams, and to sleep in a nice, comfortable bed, drink some decent booze, and maybe fool around a little.

  He reached the city before nightfall, and went immediately to Government House to register himself and then paid the usual brief courtesy call on the local temple, writing out his specific requirements for their perusal, while also dropping off a box of the local Sister General’s cigars. It always paid to do a little homework before coming in to a new town.

  Next he went over to Main Street—dull name for the entertainment district, the kind of name you’d expect a bunch of cow herders to come up with—and checked into a decent hotel. Capital districts were always nice if only because they alone had electricity, which included hot and cold running water and in-room baths. Since the hotel was taking care of his horse, he quickly stripped and ran the bath water, then slipped into the hot tub. It felt really good. He never realized just how many minor muscle aches and pains he lived with until they were taken away. About the only trouble was, they always made the damned bath tubs about a finger’s length too short.

  Still, he leaned back, lit a cigar, then reached over and picked up the small pile of papers he’d been given at his two prior stops. One set was a bunch of orders for various goods the Anchor needed, and these he would either try and fill or, if a better trip came along, he’d pass along to some other stringer going this way for the usual finder’s fee. Also included was a smaller list of what was usually called “desired personnel,” and those were more high-ticket items. He might find and arrange transport for the two needed gunnery instructors, although why they needed them for this place was beyond him, but he suspected that they were going to have to pay and pay big and actually hire by enticement the electrician with experience and the civil engineer, and they’d be damned lucky if they got either one at any price. Anchorfolk didn’t like to travel in the Flux at all, and for good reason. Making it worth the while of this level of skill to travel would cost them before, during, and after. Still, he’d see what he could do.

  He had only raw numbers on his own outgoing goods. They would have to check their census and see how many of the unlucky losers fit what he needed to fill other orders. He liked the numbers, though. A hundred and six to go out, fifty-six females and fifty males, split between two stringers. True, he’d have to make a good stab at filling the Anchor’s orders, but he liked this kind of arrangement. No up-front outlay and the goods came on consignment.

  After bathing, he unpacked a bit and rummaged through his pack to find civilized clothing. Although he’d be here three to five days, he did not even glance at the drawers and closets in the room. He never unpacked any more than he had to, the quicker to make a getaway if it were ever needed.

  Dressed in the same manner as when he arrived, but with all clean clothes save hat and boots, he rearranged his belt, removed the shotgun holster and its deadly occupant and clipped on a knife in its scabbard and the bullwhip. He liked the bull-whip—it had such an intimidating effect on the locals, particularly the self-styled toughs.

  Finally, he shaved, all except the moustache. It was still just coming in, but he’d been suffering lately from a series of runny noses and decided that a moustache was the best local cure for a constantly chapped upper lip. Finally satisfied, he left his room and went down to the street, looking first for a restaurant and a good meal. Before he was ten meters down the street, though, he stopped, seeing a black-clad figure riding in on a spotted horse. The second stringer had arrived.

  “Arden!” he called out. “Good to see you!”

  The horse stopped and the rider stared for a moment. “Matson? That you? Well, I’ll be damned!”

  She was several years younger than he, but still tough and long on experience. She was tall, lean, and lanky, but well proportioned, and if the strain of the job showed as much in her face as it did in his it made that face no less pretty, and while she hadn’t bothered to put on a wig as yet to hide her shaven head, her oval face seemed complimented by its very baldness. She jumped down off the horse and walked over to him. “It’s been a long time,” she said softly.

  He nodded. “Tuligmon, two years ago.”

  She grinned. “How sweet! You remembered!”

  “How could I forget? You beat me out of some of the best damned merchandise I’ve seen since I started stringing.”

  She laughed. “Well, no contest this time, unless a couple of wild card stringers show up. Good stuff here and it’s all ours, my dear.”

  “Well, since we’re not competitors this time, what do you say to a night on the town? Um, such as it is, anyway.”

  “You’re on! But let me check in and get cleaned up a little first.”

  “I’m not starving. I’ll wait for you in the hotel bar.”

  He’d first met Arden years ago, when she was just out of her teens and he was a big, experienced stringer in his mid-twenties and anxious to show off to the younger generation. That was over in Anchor Mahri, a depressing factory land half a world from here. She’d been such a sexy, wide-eyed innocent, hanging on his every word and vamping him constantly, and he’d started regarding her less as a stringer than as just another barroom girl with not much future. She’d hung around with him while he’d made some of his calls and discussed orders and deals, and he hadn’t thought much of it. She’d even moved into his hotel room.

  Of course, one morning he awakened to find her gone, and thought little of it, until he made his rounds to firm up his deals and found that she had been there first. Not just to one, but to every damned account on his list—and with a better offer and a take it now or forget it style. She’d taken note of every single item of business he did and every offer under discussion and beaten him by just the exact deal that would make them switch. She’d given him one hell of a sour stomach and a worse wallop in the pocketbook, but he also admired her gutsy style. He was pretty sure afterward that, given a day alone with a recalcitrant prospect, she would wind up owning his business.

  She also had a quick mind, a superbly trained body and the reflexes to make it work for her, and more talent with the Flux than anybody he’d ever met. She could hold her own in any fight, and he’d heard the stories of some of those as well.

  She joined him in about half an hour, having washed up and changed into her city clothes. They were still stringer black, of course, but made out of some tight, clingy material that seemed to form-fit itself to her body and make her seem, while fully clothed, almost naked. At least it left very little to the imagination. She also wore her dress boots, with the heels so high it gave her the sexiest walk in the world.

  “Well? Shall we go?” she prompted.

  He nodded and signed the tab. “I guess steak would be the best in a place like this. At least farmers make good home-grown beer and booze.”

  They barely notice
d the stares and nervous looks they got from those they passed. Stringers were used to such things, and both Matson and Arden were experienced enough that they no longer even got the slight charge from knowing they were feared by all the “decent” folk of Anchor and Flux. Like monarchs, they tended only to notice when such reactions were absent.

  The food was good, and perfectly prepared, although the wine was lousy. While the beer and booze were good, this was clearly not grape country. They relaxed with shop talk, mostly telling tales of good and bad experiences and filling one another in on people and places the other hadn’t been to, at least in a long time. Neither, of course, discussed future plans or routings—she would never give away anything by reflex, and she’d sure taught him long ago not to, either. So it surprised him, after dinner and after checking out a couple of inferior bar shows, when she said, “You know, I’ve been thinking of quitting for a while. Going to a Freehold and contribute while there’s still time.”

  That stopped him. “Huh? You?”

  “So what’s wrong with me?”

  He chuckled. “That would take too long to list, but it’s all mental. No, I just can’t see you taking off all that time and becoming a mama to a screaming kid, that’s all. I think you’d go nuts.”