Out of Phaze

In Proton, if he wanted to travel outside, he would have requisitioned a vehicle of some sort. Could he do the same here?

What kind of vehicle would be best for mixed terrain without roads? Not a wheeled one, for there was grass and some rocks and gullies, and streams. One that floated.

An aircar, its cushion of air supporting it and moving it forward.

He thought up a suitable rhyme, then hummed to work up the music. He concentrated on what he wanted, in order to get it exactly right. Then he sang: “Bring me a car, to travel far.”

Fog appeared and swirled. It dissipated, leaving an object. Success!

Or was it? As he got a closer look, he realized that this was not a car; it was more like a boat. In fact, it was a canoe, floating placidly. There were two paddles in it.

What could he do with a canoe, here in the middle of the plain? There was no water in sight! And if there were a navigable river, he would have to follow where it went, rather than where he wanted to go. He had bungled the spell again.

Floating?

He stared at the canoe. It was indeed floating—in air.

He had concentrated on a floating car. It seemed that he had gotten part of it right.

He put his hands against the side of the canoe and pressed down. It rocked, threatening to overturn. But it did not descend to the ground.

Well, now. He held it as steady as he could and threw a leg over. The thing depressed slightly as it took his weight, and seemed quite unstable, but it supported him. He got himself in and took a seat. Still it floated.

He picked up a paddle. He pretended there was water, and dipped the paddle where the water should be.

There was resistance. He stroked the paddle back, and the canoe slid smoothly forward.

Mach decided not to question this any further. He was experienced at canoeing; he could move along comfortably. He did so.

Progress was not swift, but this was far more pleasant than walking. The canoe developed some inertia, so that it continued moving forward between strokes, allowing him to economize on his effort.

Even so, it was obvious that he was not going to reach the Blue Demesnes by nightfall. So he guided his craft to a copse of trees he hoped bore fruit, for he was hungry now.

He was in luck. There was fruit, and a small spring. He pulled down some vine to tie his canoe, then drank deeply. He plucked enough fruit to eat, then some more to store in his craft.

He considered, then piled some brush in the canoe and settled down on it to sleep. He didn’t want the craft to drift away during the night, and he felt safer in it anyway.

He woke in the morning, refreshed, and resumed his journey. He made good progress, and came to the place where the paths diverged. He took the east path, not caring to tempt the demons of the Lattice. Even so, he stroked swiftly and nervously by the region where he and Fleta had had to turn aside to avoid the goblins awaiting them. He doubted he could outpaddle goblins.

But there were none. He proceeded north without interference. In due course he spied the blue towers ahead. He had made it!

He drew up at the moat. Should he float right on across, or call out to make himself known?

He was saved from the decision by the emergence of a beautiful older woman. He knew her immediately, though he had never seen her before: The Lady Stile, Bane’s mother.

“Tie thy boat and come in, Mach,” she called to him. “Supper awaits thee.”

So they had been expecting him! That meant that Fleta was here.

But she was not. The Lady explained that the mare had departed two days before, going to her Herd. “But the Adept has been long eager to meet thee,” she assured him.

Stile looked exactly like his father, Citizen Blue. It was eerie. Mach cleaned up and joined them for themeal, and found them pleasant to be with. But it was Fleta he had come for.

Stile shook his head. “She hath a notion to marry thee, and this be impossible,” he said abruptly.

“Why? I know her nature, and I love her. I returned to Phaze to be with her.”

“Ne’er in all the history of Phaze has man married animal. Thou mayst be from a more liberal frame, but thou art not in that frame. Here thou art known as the son of an Adept. It would be shame on these Demesnes.”

Now the difference between Blue and Stile was becoming apparent. Mach’s father had encouraged the integration of the species, so as to break down the barriers that had stratified the Proton society. But it seemed that in these same twenty years Stile had gone the opposite direction, becoming more conservative.

“But when there is love—“ Mach started.

“There be more than love here,” the Lady said gently. “An Adept must have an heir, or great mischief rises in the selection of his successor. Thou couldst generate no heir with a ‘corn.”

Mach had never thought of that, but he realized that they had a point. This was not just his own business; he had the body of their son, and if he misused it, he could destroy what they had worked for. He had no right to do that.