Unicorn Point (30 page)

But they still had the grid to play. Purple had the choice of numbers or letters—and he amazed her again by taking the letters. That gave her the chance to choose row 11 and be guaranteed a game of her choice.

“Take it, luscious,” the Citizen said grandly. “You asked for it, you got it; now put your body where your mouth is.” He really wanted to play that game! Sheen realized that she was committed; she had asked for it, and had gotten it, and now would look like a bad sport if she didn’t follow through.
 
Of course she should not let appearances interfere with sensible choosing—yet it did seem sensible to her. She had rehearsed the dynamics of flying in the past; she should be able to manage a properly designed dragon.

She touched 11. Immediately the box lighted. They had selected Dragon Duel.

The Citizen’s estate turned out to be capacious indeed. It covered a region of the Purple Mountain Range hundreds of kilometers square. Citizen Blue had the greatest financial leverage, therefore the most power, but he had never gone in for luxurious surroundings. Purple obviously believed in catering to his selfish interests. But it was impressive not only for scale; the detail was intricate. This was a replica of Phaze, so realistic as to be deceptive. Sheen had been there, decades ago when she was new, and her memory banks were untarnished by time; she could appreciate the accuracy of this replication. Purple’s devotion to the image of Phaze was obviously genuine.

Citizen Blue brought in his own crew to check the mechanism of the dragons. They were in perfect working order: giant metal and plastic bodies governed by living animal brains crafted in the laboratory for this purpose. When they were put through test flight, they seemed indeed alive, glaring balefully around as if wishing to chornp the spectators. Probablythose living minds hated this servitude, and would in deed attack if not bound by effective strictures.
 
The dragons were ready. Sheen mounted hers and was given instructions: the creature was responsive to the pressures of the rider’s legs, as with a horse, with additional leg commands for ascending and descending. It would not react to the human voice, as this was unreliable during wind-sheer ing maneuvers. It would obey immediately, so that very soon it would seem like an extension of herself. She was also per mitted to take off first, so as to gain the feel of it before the combat started.

She was in a saddle, and in a harness that she could not have escaped had she wanted to. She would not fall from the dragon, and it could not crash, because there were repulsive magnetic fields at the ground that would buoy it. She wore goggles to protect her eyes from wind, flying dust, or the bright flashes of the “fire” jets. She, as a robot, had less need of these than a living woman might, but was satisfied to accept any protection offered.

She knew she was outclassed; the Citizen had had decades to perfect his technique on artificial dragons, and would be far superior in the air. But she did have some small assets.
 
She weighed less, for Purple was portly, and since the two dragons were even, hers should have a slight edge in velocity and maneuverability. She also had the ability to catalogue the precise nature of the commands she gave the dragon, and their effects, and repeat these exactly. The living human brain was more sophisticated than hers in most respects, but when it came to rote learning, hers was better. Thus she could quickly calibrate her maneuvers to an extent the arrogant Citizen might not appreciate, and so he could underestimate her.
 
That could be critical!

They launched. The repulsor field came on, and the dragon flapped its great wings, but that was not all. It had downward pointing nozzles along the underside of its body and wings that jetted air; this provided extra lift. In Phaze the flight of dragons was augmented by magic; the wings alone were not sufficient. Here science did the job. If one dragon flew under another, here, it would be pushed down by the jets; but these were set to splay out so that the effect was not dangerous except at close range. Still, it was a strategy to remain aware of; if she saw Purple’s dragon trying to come down on hers from above, she would get out of the way. In this respect the jets substituted for an attack by the feet; these dragons had no feet.

She had been pondering strategies for the combat from the moment the game had been set. She had to surprise the Cit izen in some way, and that was her greatest challenge, be cause her mind was bound to be both less experienced and less original than his. What could she come up with that he would not anticipate? She could think of only one thing—and, like her ploy of choosing a game not on the list, it had to be done only at the end. Only if she was bound to lose anyway would it become worthwhile.

The ride was uneven. The dragon lurched forward and up with each wingstroke; it would have been almost impossible to remain mounted bareback! She had seen pictures of maidens riding dragons without harness, saddle or reins; indeed, she had read such stories to Mach, bringing him up just like the boy he emulated. But she had felt obliged to explain to him that this was sheer fantasy; only with magic could such riding be done. He had looked and nodded. “Or a spot floating force field,” he had suggested. He had been literal as a robot—but later it had turned out that the seed of magic had indeed taken hold of his soul, and he had found a way to go to Phaze.

Now here she was, a naked woman on a dragon—but the saddle and harness enclosed her to such an extent that she might as well have been clothed. Her arms and legs were mobile, but her body was locked in place. The harness straps were padded, but she knew that a real woman would soon have chafed flesh, because of the violence of the motion.
 
She pressed with her knees, and the dragon veered immediately. It was responsive, all right! She squeezed in the “down” configuration, and the dragon leveled out, then nosed down. She reversed signals immediately, and it wobbled, then resumed its climb into the bright sky. Already the trees were well below, and the landscape was opening out. Ahead was the impressive slope of the Purple Mountain Range, but be hind was a lot of open air.

She decided to experiment. She made the dragon level out, and fly directly toward the mountains, which rose higher than her present elevation. Would it veer clear on its own, or would it obey her?

The dragon turned its head, glancing back at her. Its neck was not limber enough to enable it to aim its head fully back, and as she looked into its baleful red eye, she understood why. The living brain that animated this body hated her, be cause she was directing it; it would gladly destroy her if it could. It knew it could not—not intentionally. But by accident—perhaps.

The head faced forward again, and the dragon stroked more vigorously forward. It wanted to crash into the slope of the mountain! Since it could not do so literally, what did it think would happen? She tried to analyze the dynamics, and thought she knew.

Sure enough, the dragon plowed into the invisible repulsor field at full speed and glanced off. It did a vertical loop, so that she was upside down. She gave it the roll-over command with her feet, and, reluctantly, it turned over and flew level.
 
It had obviously hoped that the surprise would shake her, perhaps causing her to vomit; it did not know that it had done exactly what she wanted. She had gained a vital bit of information.

Meanwhile, Purple’s dragon had launched. She was re quired to give him time to assume an elevation similar to her own; thereafter there were no conventions. The better dragon-flyer would win—or the more cunning one. She was neither, unless her concluding ploy worked.

All too soon, the Citizen was with her. The duel was on!
 
She knew she could not flee or hide. Her only chance at the outset was attack, to keep the Citizen occupied, and hope she made a lucky score. She guided her steed toward the other.

Purple was not fazed. He oriented his own dragon to come straight at her. A direct collision was impossible; the cyborg dragons would not allow it, tempted though they might be.
 
They would take turns passing above and below each other.

She gave her beast the toe-stab that was the fire command.
 
The dragon dutifully aimed its snout and fired its laser. But this was not an instant thing; the seeming fire curled out visibly. That gave the Citizen time to dodge, and the fire passed below. Then Sheen’s steed was struck by the down blast of the other’s elevation jets, and she had to guide her mount to stability.

She heard something. She craned her neck to look back ward—and saw the Citizen’s dragon looping straight up. Then, as it hit the top of its loop, it rolled over and oriented on her.
 
The fire started.

She made her dragon veer to the side, and the jet missed.
 
That was a maneuver she hadn’t thought of! The vertical loop was faster than a horizontal turn would have been; she had almost been caught as a sitting duck, as it were.
 
She made a horizontal circle. Could she catch him from the side, so that he could not fire back immediately? She tried, but found it to be impractical; the slowness of the fire meant that it would either miss far behind the other dragon or, if aimed sufficiently ahead, be readily avoidable. That slowness—how was that possible, with lasers? It had to be a timed sequence, twin beams invisible until they intersected, then “catching fire” at a distance from the snout. That region of intersection was moved outward as the beams shone, so that the fire progressed forward in the manner of a real flame.
 
Clever—and frustrating for her, because the Citizen was better at these maneuvers than she was.

She would have to get very close to be sure of her shot—and that would make her vulnerable to Purple’s shot. Unless she could close from behind.

She turned to follow the other dragon, and urged her steed forward. Yes—her lighter weight made a difference, and they were gaining! She could close slowly, and toast the other’s tail!

But when the Citizen saw what she was doing, he dived.
 
Now his extra weight helped his steed, and he gained. As they swooped low, he looped up again, and she had to dodge to avoid his shot. But she tried a ploy of her own: after she moved aside, she moved back, orienting on him as he slowed at the top of his loop. If she could catch him now—

But he fired first. She had forgotten that the dragons could move their heads as they fired; they did not have to be straight forward. She had to bank desperately to avoid getting tagged, and did not quite succeed; there was a flare of light at her dragon’s right wingtip, and her ride became ragged. Some of the control circuits had been shorted out, and the wing was crippled.

She was losing in rapid order. It was time to use her final ploy. She guided the dragon upward, and it made erratic progress while the Citizen made a smooth horizontal turn.
 
As his dragon set up for another shot. Sheen gave her mount conflicting commands: climb and dive. It was the kind of error a novice or a flustered combatant would make. A steed who liked its rider and was used to the rider’s ways might have paused, waiting for the correction. This one did not like its rider, so took the pretext to go out of control. It lifted its forepart, let its rearpart drop, blasted with its elevation jets, and spun out of control.

Which was exactly what Sheen wanted.

They plummeted toward the ground, while the Citizen cruised down, orienting for a shot when the repulsor field halted the fall and left the dragon spinning in place. But Sheen started a series of commands just before then, and recovered control. Her dragon had to obey. Instead of crashing in air, the dragon bounced back up, in yo-yo fashion—and as it did, she fired, causing its jet to swing in an arc toward the Citizen’s steed. This was her ploy: to catch the Citizen just when he thought he had a helpless target.

But Purple’s dragon was not hovering, it was circling.

Sheen’s shot missed by a wide margin.

Then Purple’s dragon fired from behind her, and she was unable to get up speed to avoid it. She knew before it struck that she was lost. The Citizen had anticipated her, and the victory was his.

The mock fire did not hurt her physically, of course. But she knew she had failed her husband in this most important contest. She had indeed been overmatched, and Citizen Blue would pay the price. Her emotional circuitry took over, and she wept.

Phoebe perched in her den, desolate. She had done wrong; she knew it. She had let an unharpylike compassion lead her into helping the ‘com-boy Flach escape—and Translucent had caught her at it. Yet the boy was the foal of the unicorn Fleta, who had befriended her and cured her tailfeather itch, and of the Rovot Adept, who had given her a hairdo that had made her the Flock Leader. How could she turn Flach away? She knew that a true harpy would have pounced on the boy and offered him up to the Adepts, gleefully reneging on any debt owed his family. By her action she had proved that she lacked the proper harpy attitude. So now she was barred again from the Flock, and there was to be a scratch-off to select a new leader, and she was in the dumps.

Yet such was her depravity, she knew she would do it again.
 
The rovot and unicorn had given her an illicit taste of some thing virtually unknown in harpydom: friendship. Now she cravenly clung to the notion. She wanted to be among folk who cared for those they were with, instead of perpetually cursing them. So here she was, deprived of the kind of company she no longer desired anyway. She was sorry the lad had been recaptured. It was an irony that he had been hiding from those same folk who had befriended her. But she knew that they did not really want to be on the side of the Adverse Adepts, any more than she did. They too were stuck in a nasty situation.