Out of Phaze

“Bane, I have seen thee do magic many times,” she said. “E’en when we were little, thou wouldst tease me with thy conjurations, but always I forgave thee. My dam likes magic not, but I have no aversion to it, for how could I love thee and not thy nature?”

Mach shook his head. “Fleta, you must understand this: I am not Bane. I can’t do magic. The first time I met you was last night.”

“Thou certainly dost look like Bane, and sound like him, except for thy funny affectation of speech, and smell like him,” she said. “Else would I not have come to thee.”

“I’m in Bane’s body. But I’m from the other frame. My name is Mach, and science is all I have known.”

“If thou wouldst have me believe thee, let me touch thee,” she said.

“Touch me?” She came to him, and took his hand, and brought it to her forehead. She pressed it against the gem in her forehead.

“Speak,” she said.

“I am Mach, from Proton,” he said firmly. “I exchanged bodies with my other self in Phaze, with Bane. Now I am here and he is there, and I’d like to change back.”

She lifted his hand away from her head and brought it down before her, staring at him over it. ‘Truth!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. “No joke!”

“No joke,” he agreed.

‘Thou’rt not the man I know!”

“I am not.”

She dropped his hand and backed away. “And I spent the night with thee!” she said, appalled.

He had to smile. “Nothing happened, Fleta.”

“And I kissed thee!” she continued. “Oh, had I known!”

“And a nice kiss it was, too,” he agreed.

“And now I stand naked before thee!” she said, seeming shocked.

“It’s the natural way.”

“Not for grown folk!” she said. In a moment she had gotten back into her robe.

“But you’re no Citizen!” Mach said. “If anyone catches you in that—“

“This be not Proton!” she snapped.

He had to smile. ‘Touche! No Citizens here.”

“No science here.” She squinted at him as if trying penetrate his disguise. “But if thou really canst not do magic—“

“I really cannot,” he agreed.

‘Then there be hazard here,” she concluded. “Best I change form and carry thee back to the Blue Demesnes before any learn!”

“Change form?” he asked. “What are you talking bout?”

She hesitated. “Ah, now I remember! Thou dost not ke—Oh, what must I do?”

Mach spread his hands. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. Why don’t you just show me where these Blue Demesnes are, and maybe there I can learn how to return to Proton. Then you’ll have your friend Bane again.”

She still seemed doubtful. “Bane—Mach, this be no garden within thy demesnes! Here there be monsters, and as we be—we cannot travel through the fell swamp.”

Mach remembered the swamp. He realized what she meant. If it had not been for the unicorn, he would have been lost.

That unicorn! What had been its intent—and where had it gone? What would it do when it returned and found him gone? “Is there any other route? One that doesn’t go through the swamp?”

“None we would care to take,” she said.

“Worse than the swamp?”

She nodded soberly.

“But how did you get here, last night?”

‘Thou really dost not know!” she said, as if verifying something she couldn’t quite believe.

“All I know is that I slept, and when I woke, you were beside me. You must have had some safe route.”

“Not one I care to use at the moment.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Surely thou dost not,” she agreed. “But mayhap we have another way.”

“Another path?”

“Another way. Thou must use thy magic.”

“But I told you, I have no magic!”

“How dost thou know?”

“I come from a scientific frame. I don’t even believe in magic!”

“Well, I don’t believe in thy science,” she retorted. “But if I were in thy land, I would at least try thy way.”

Mach realized that there was some justice in her position. “Very well, tell me how to do magic. We’ll see what happens.”

“Always before, thou hast sung a ditty.”

“Sung a ditty?” he asked incredulously.

“A little rhyme, and it happens.”

“This is ridiculous!”

‘Thou didst promise to try,” she reminded him, pouting.

So he had. “What ditty do you want me to sing?”

She shrugged. ‘Try some simple spell, first.”

“No spell is simple, to my way of thinking!”

“Conjure a sword, mayhap. That can slay a monster.”

“A sword.” Now Mach shrugged. “I just make a rhyme, and sing it?”

“About what thou dost want.”

Mach’s experience in the Game on Proton had made him apt at quick challenges. He could sing well, and he could write poetry, including nonsense verse. That last was an achievement he was proud of, for no other robot he knew of could do it. In a moment he had fashioned some doggerel verse: “I’ll be bored, without a sword,” he said.

Nothing happened. “Nay, thou must sing it,” Fleta reminded him. “And I think thou must concentrate, make a picture of it in thy mind.”

Mach pictured an immense broadsword. “I’ll be bored, without a sword!” he sang.

There was a puff of smoke and an acrid smell. Something was in his hand. As the air cleared, he looked at it.

It was a toy sword.

“Dost thou still mock me?” Fleta demanded. “What canst thou fight with that?”

But Mach was amazed. “I conjured it!” he said. “I actually did conjure it!”