Cluster (11 page)

In a moment, he knew, he would feel the pain-beam on his fingers. The saucer was now high in the air; the fall would be fatal.

Flint swung crazily, using Øro's muscles in a way Øro never had. The saucer rocked; the ground far below seemed to tilt. He flexed his torso, thrusting a foot up.

The pain caught his hands, but now he had a leg hooked inside the center depression. He twisted and rolled, cursing the backward joints that made this activity much more difficult than it would have been in a human body, but he made it up into the bowl of the saucer.

The beam played over him, a flexing python of agony, but inertia kept him rolling. He crashed into the Master.

Øro's memory carried only a dire warning: it was death for any Slave to touch a Master. The very act was unthinkable. But Flint, raised on the free, unruly, primitive Outworld of Sphere Sol, had no such restriction. The beam was off, the projector knocked out of the Master's grasp and lost over the rim of the saucer. Flint reached around the cowled figure and hauled it out of the control well in the center. The creature came up easily; it was paper-light, like a winged insect.

The saucer veered, angled, and skated down, out of control. Flint held the Master helpless. “How are you at dying?” he inquired.

The creature's face turned to him. The eyes were faceted, and the mouth parts had mandibles. “You are no Slave!” it said, no trace of fear in the melodious voice.

Flint plumped it back down into the well. Immediately the craft pulled out of its dive, as the segmented feet resumed operating the controls. The Master seemed completely unshaken.

Now was Flint's chance to tell the Master of his identity and mission. Yet he balked. Why deal with these parasites, further entrenching them in their power, when the Slaves were the humanoids? The natural affinity of human beings was with the downtrodden Slaves, not the insectoid Masters.

“I'm no Slave
now
,” Flint said. “Now tell me how to manage this craft, or I'll see that we both crash.”

Still the insectoid was unruffled. Did it have nerves of steel, or did it lack real emotion? “I am taking you in for interrogation. You evince none of the mannerisms of a Slave, despite your history. An extreme oddity.”

Flint had to admire the thing's courage. The Master was trying to bluff! And it proposed to do exactly what Flint had wanted—until an hour ago. “I'm taking
you
to the FreeSlaves,” Flint shot back. “Unless you'd rather die right now.”

“Die we may,” the Master said calmly as the saucer looped smoothly about. “But
I
control the vehicle.”

It simply would not be shaken. “Then I must take over the ship,” Flint said. He hauled the Master up again.

Pain lanced into his arms. Numbed, he let go.

“I have activated my personal shield,” the Master said. “You have the option of coming—or going.” It nodded toward the edge of the saucer. Flint saw there could be no bargaining. A Master simply did not give way to a Slave—or any other creature.

Flint swung his half-closed hand at the creature's head, hard. The contact felt as though he had smashed every bone in his hand, but mere pain could not abate the force of his blow. The Master's head caved in like a structure of woven grass.

The saucer veered again. Flint grabbed the corpse, receiving no pain this time; the creature's death had deactivated the shield, fortunately. He jerked it up and out of the well and threw it overboard. Then he lowered his own feet into the hole. They barely fit, for his torso was larger than that of the Master, and constructed differently.

There were knobs and pedals down there, inconveniently placed. Flint had no idea how they worked, but he experimented rapidly. Suddenly the saucer flipped over, redoubling its acceleration toward the ground. This was no Earth-type shuttle-capsule strung on a safe wire; this was a free ship, and any hesitation or mistake could quickly smash him flat. Flint clung to his perch and wiggled his toes, searching for the right combination of controls.

The saucer braked, looped, and headed down again, almost hurling him out. But Flint was catching on. There were a dozen foot controls, each with a wide range of positions. One was for the orientation of the craft, another was for velocity, a third for elevation. Just as he was about to intercept the ground at half-mach speed, he slowed the vehicle and brought it to a wobbly hover, right side up. Then he lifted it and started it back toward the spot where
C
le should be.

He spotted her easily, running through the field toward the distant hills. Sensible girl! He came down as low as he dared—for he was a long way from achieving precise orientation—and bobbed behind her. “Hey,
C
le of A[
^th
]!” he called.

Startled, she glanced behind. “Øro!” she cried, amazed. “How did you resist capture?”

“Never mind,” he called. “Get up here! We're going to the hills in style!”

 

*
 
*
 
*

 

The FreeSlaves were astounded. “You killed a Master?” they kept asking, refusing to quite believe it.

“Once again, lightly,” Flint repeated. “I am an envoy from Sphere Sol, neighbor to Sphere Canopus, transferred to the body. I killed the Master and took the saucer so as to make contact with you.
C
le of A[
^th
] helped me. If you organize, revolt, take over this planet, spread the revolution throughout this Sphere, throw out the Masters, you shall have the secret of transfer.”

“Yes!”
C
le breathed. “That's what A[
^th
] lacked. Transfer!”

But the FreeSlaves only stood about uncertainly. They were a motley crew, ill clothed and ill fed. The Slaves of the plantation not only looked healthier, they seemed happier.

Flint saw it wouldn't work. These were not human beings; centuries of ruthless selection had bred out the backbone of this species. They could no more revolt successfully than the domestic animals of Sphere Sol could. Some might run amok when prodded too far, but that was a far cry from organized, disciplined revolution. No wonder they were called FreeSlaves; they were just that. Slaves without Masters.

C
le was as disappointed as he was. “I wish you'd come to A[
^th
] a century ago,” she said to him.

The FreeSlave leader appeared. He had evidently held back, lost in the crowd, listening to Flint's story before committing himself. The attitude of the FreeSlaves changed, becoming more disciplined. Perhaps there was hope after all.

“I am T%x of D)(d,” the leader said, omitting the Slave intonation. Yes, a man of power! “You tell an interesting story, and you bring an excellent piece of equipment. But it proves only that you are
here
, not that you work with us. I do not believe you could have captured this vehicle by yourselves; the Masters gave it to you, and sent you here as spies to subvert our group.”

“That's a lie” Flint snapped. But he saw that the FreeSlaves didn't believe him. T%x had provided a believable rationale, and it gave them confidence.

“We shall make you tell the truth before we kill you,” T%x said. He produced a punishment box, no doubt stolen from the Masters.

“That won't work,”
C
le said. “
O
ro was put under eleven pain for three days and didn't crack. No Slave could do the things he did!”

“No genuine Slave,” T%x replied. “But a spy dealing with cooperative Masters and faked pain–”

“/
O
ffal!” she spat derisively, employing the baton sinister.

T%x grabbed her by the shoulder. “You're a pretty one,” he said. “I'll take you for my harem.”

She kicked him in the groin, which was fully humanoid. The blow was glancing, but it infuriated him. Flint took a step toward them, but was barred by the spears of a score of FreeSlaves.

“We'll torture her first!” T%x cried. “What's her number?”

Two men grabbed
C
le and read the number off her shoulder. T%x laboriously set the box. Then he turned the dial.

C
le stiffened. The box was operative, all right.

“Now,” T%x said grimly. “Talk, spy. Why are you working for the Masters?”

“I'm not working for the–” she cried, but was choked off by six-level pain.

“Stop it!” Flint said. “I can prove my origin. I can tell you all about it.”

“We'll get to you soon enough,” T%x said. “Now, girl spy, who are your other accomplices?”

“I have none! I'm a loyal A[
^th
]!”

This time the pain was nine, held too long.
C
le writhed on the ground, her face grotesque in agony, her well-shaped legs spreading far apart, their muscles quivering. Someone chuckled evilly.

Flint grabbed a spear from the nearest FreeSlave and use it to knock the man down. This was a weapon he was expert with, in any body. He charged T%x. But the others piled on him in a mass and crushed him down, holding him helpless.

“One more time, spy,” T%x said to
C
le. It was evident that the sight of her agony had excited him. He was a sadist, sexually stimulated by the infliction of pain. Which meant there would be no mercy in him. “What is the Masters' plan?”

C
le caught her breath and wiped the mud her spittle had formed from her face. “I don't know anything about–” she said. And leaped for T%x.

But the pain caught her in midair. Twelve.

Red froth bubbled from her mouth as she fell. Flint had never seen such an expression of total agony. Her entire body jerked and shook, her wide-open eyes scraped through the dirt unblinking, and she soiled herself involuntarily. The watching FreeSlaves burst into laughter.

“Turn it off” Flint bowled. “I'll tell you anything you want!”

But T%x did not turn it off. He watched, fascinated, while the thing that had been
C
le shuddered and twisted.

Abruptly she stopped. Her features relaxed, as though she were sleeping, just as the broken-armed
S
mg of Yæjr had relaxed. “T%x,” one of the FreeSlaves said nervously, “I think she's–”

“Dead,” T%x said, turning off the box. “Serves the spy right.” He was breathing hard.

But
C
le wasn't dead. Her body still breathed.

T%x turned the dial up again, experimentally, seeing whether he could get another kick out of the victim. There was no response. “Strange,” he muttered.

“Mindless!” the FreeSlave said, awed. “You killed her mind!”

T%x considered, startled. “All right,” he said. “That's even better. Put her in my cave. I can still use her, and she won't be any trouble now.” He turned to Flint. “Give me his number.”

Flint realized that this depraved creature would torture and kill for the pleasure of it; the information he sought was merely an excuse. The Master in the saucer had been a better creature, an enemy but no sadist, and not stupid.

Saucers appeared in the sky, eight or nine of them. The FreeSlaves started to run in terror. Pain-beams cut them down, herding them back to the center. They were cattle.

Flint made a break for his saucer. He scrambled over the rim and jammed his feet into the well, striking the lift pedal.

Nothing happened.

“Your carrier had been deactivated,” a pleasant Master's voice said from a speaker in the saucer. “Remain where you are.”

Flint hauled himself out and dived for the edge—and into an invisible pain-field. He crumpled. There was no way to resist that flesh-permeating agony; his muscles stiffened involuntarily and prevented controlled action.

The pain diminished. “Remain where you are,” the voice repeated gently.

Now Flint could fight it, for the level was only one or two. But the moment he moved, it shot up to eight or ten. He got the message. He was captive.

 

*
 
*
 
*

 

 
“I am B:::1,” the Master interrogator said. “According to your statement to the runaways, you are an agent of Sphere Sol, our galactic neighbor. Were you sent to foment rebellion among the Slave population?”

“Eat your own eggs,” Flint said.

“I presume that is intended to be derogatory,” B:::1 said mildly. “We do not react to the remarks of Slaves. But if you are from another Sphere, you are a special case, not subject to our customs. Since you took the life of one of our number, the latter status would be advantageous for you.”

Flint did not answer.

“We have drugs,” the Master said. “They are effective in making any Slave tell all he knows. But if you are not a Slave, it would be bad form to use them on you. We do not want trouble with our neighbors, and we do not seek a quarrel with Sphere Sol. We ask only to be left alone.”

Flint had expected to be tortured. This approach perplexed him. What was his proper course?

“Perhaps you have been influenced by the fact that the Slaves are humanoid, as we understand are the masters of Sphere Sol,” B:::1 continued reasonably. “But you have now observed that the Slaves are not
civilized.
Before we assumed control, their history was wastefully violent. They were breeding themselves into planetary famine, and rapidly exhausting their irreplaceable resources, such as fossil fuels. Pollution disease was taking hideous toll on their health. They did not precede us into space because they were too busy warring with each other while despoiling their environment with seemingly suicidal determination. We brought lasting peace and health to the Slave populace by providing the sensible control and moderation they lacked. Otherwise they might well be extinct by now, or reduced to truly barbaric levels. Your true affinity as a member of a Spherical sapient species is with
us
, the civilized, regardless of the accident of physical form.”