Empires of Flux & Anchor

As much as it was irritating, the comment nonetheless warmed her. She suddenly had a real family now, and at least one who cared.

“There’s no question,” the woman agent told her boss. “In fact, once you find her, everything just falls logically into place. Even the name—Spirit. And on the same farm, in the same family! She’s not much at concealment, is she?”

The man facing her took a swallow of beer and shrugged. “No need. You’ve been too deep in cover too long. The records were well doctored, so there was no clue there. The people involved all had their minds voluntarily meddled in to back up the phony story. After that, why not put her where you can keep an eye on her and have people around you can trust? I mean, even if we suspected that our enemy’s child lived, which we always did—that kid’s stillbirth was just too convenient to believe—we still had a world to search and thousands of suspects that right age. She’s physically matched to the family she’s with and with a convincing cover. There are hundreds more with stories just like hers.”

“Yes, but—”

“Hey!” he cut her off. “Look, remember—it took us all these years. That’s pretty good. These things always look easier in hindsight. That’s no longer the problem. Tell me—how did you do it?”

“It was the Janise disguise. She was never there. Never. But when Sister Kasdi went on retreat, suddenly Janise was packing her bags to leave—and always here. It was simple to follow her from that point.”

“Well, we might be suspicious of Sister Janise, but she also could be any one of a lot of other unpleasant folks needing a cover. We just timed it perfectly, though, dropping that story that we were on the trail of Kasdi’s daughter through that sidebar stringer stopping at Globbus just before ordination. We set the trap and watched her get the news, then were ready because she had to go through ordination, so the time was known. Then she did the predictable—rushed to check on her daughter as soon as she could. The same as somebody carrying a lot of money will always check their wallets and tell a good thief exactly where the wallet’s hidden. You were one of many we had staked out all around, following every red herring. Now it’s time to plan our next move.”

“I spent two years in that hole eating shit,” the agent reminded him. “Now I expect a big payoff.”

He gave a low chuckle and drained his glass. “You have no Flux power,” he reminded her. “You were homely and pushing fifty when we offered you this job. We made you sixteen again. That’s a pretty good deal for two years you otherwise didn’t have, and they even improved your looks. What other kind of payment do you expect?”

“You can’t know what I went through for you!” she spat. “The humiliation, the hard conditions, the constant acting. No sex, no freedom, lousy food. Nothing you can give me would be enough payment.”

“But you’ll accept it anyway,” he said sarcastically.

“You bet I will! I want all the things I didn’t have, all the things I never had. I want to be gorgeous. I want men lusting after me. I want never to have to worry about anything again!”

He thought a moment. “And in Anchor, I presume?”

“Of course! This is no place for somebody without the power.”

“O.K. I’ve got just the thing.” He made an idle gesture with his left hand and she froze, unable to move. “You know too much and you could blow too much, but we do owe you for services rendered, and what you want is easy.” He wove the mathematical spells idly in his mind and sent them to her as forms of binding energy. “First we’ll erase the last three years from your memory completely—that’ll cover all your contacts with us. We’ll make life before that fairly muddy, not clear or important to you. We’ll give you a face and body that every red-blooded male wants, and we’ll bind your personality to total passivity, so you’ll be happy to give ’em what they want. Then we’ll constrict your usable I.Q. to maybe half its potential, so you’ll have a one-track mind that’s ruled by your body and your needs. You’ll giggle a lot, but you won’t think beyond the moment. And maybe a new name that won’t trigger any of those old memories. ‘Honey,’ because it fits.” He snapped his fingers and the spell was cast.

As was the case with master wizards, the effect was instantaneous. One moment the plain-looking Mahta had stood there; now a voluptuous but stupid young woman shook her head as if waking up from a dream and then looked dully around, puzzled.

“Hi!” he said pleasantly. “What’s your name?”

“Honey,” she answered in a very sexy voice.

“Well, hello, Honey. What do you do for a living?”

“I make men happy,” she told him, cozying up. “Can I make you happy?”

“You sure can,” responded cheerfully. “And when you do, I got a friend who owns a place in Anchor Logh where you can make lots of men happy night after night.”

The first problem was solved. Now go on to the next phase.

It was Holy Day, although that didn’t mean very much to Spirit this time. The portrait of Sister Kasdi in the vestibule, which had always seemed so comforting, now seemed rather silly and out of place. No longer the Reformed Church, or just the Church, but “My Mother’s Church,” she thought a bit sourly. Still, she had gone as always, for social pressure was pretty strong in a small place like Anchor Logh and particularly on the farm and in the riding. She wondered how her grandfather had managed to escape for so many years.

There was a stranger attending services that morning who was the object of some sidelong attention. There were often strangers at services, particularly this close to the capital, but this one would stand out in any crowd. He was tall, handsome, and muscular, with a neatly trimmed, full brown beard and long brown hair touched slightly by gray at the temples and right on the chin. His clothes were casual, jeans and a red plaid shirt and well-worn boots, standing out against the formal wear of most of the locals. It was almost as if he wanted to stand out, or at least be remembered by everyone who was there.

He was so much of a standout, in fact, that the other strangers, several well-dressed but nondescript-looking men and women, went completely unnoticed. They all filed into the church together at the bell signal, paid their respects to the altar, and took seats at various points in the church. The service began right on time, and there were no variations this time. The priestess was not one who liked sermonizing, and generally she was strictly business unless there was something special to say. This, in fact, was one of the reasons why she was so popular with the locals and why out-of-towners were steered there for services.

Anchor Logh was a very peaceful place, and, as the first Anchor taken by the Reformation, it had long been far from any scenes of conflict. True, there were occasional crimes calling for a local police force, but the crimes were few and even a robbery anywhere in the Anchor was big news. As the place that spawned the Reformation and the birthplace of Sister Kasdi, it was not the place troublemakers from outside picked to pull anything illegal. There were far easier pickings both in Flux and Anchor, and even if you got away with whatever you wanted, it was a long, long route to any secure escape with Kasdi and her wizards and generals knowing and controlling all of it. As a result, no one even noticed that the strangers all sat on the aisles.

The service was almost over now, and the congregation was forward of their seats, knees on the prayer rests, while the priestess faced the altar. Suddenly, in the silence between prayer and benediction, a man’s deep voice said loudly, “I think I’ve stood as much of this bullshit as I can.”

There was a collective shock at the violation and an almost unanimous gasp echoed through the throngs of worshippers. They looked up as the priestess turned around and saw the handsome, bearded man standing in the front of the church, a pistol drawn and on the priestess. As they looked around, the congregation saw that on all sides they were covered by the strangers, all of whom had automatic weapons drawn. “O.K., Sister, you get down with your flock there,” the leader ordered the priestess.

She did not move or show fear. “For what reason do you commit this sacrilege?” she demanded.

The leader smiled. “Thank you, Ma’am. Sacrilege is my chosen profession, so it’s always nice to see that I’m good at it. Now, I’m gonna ask you once more to get over there, and that’s that.”

“This is my church, and I take no orders from scum in it,” she responded haughtily.

Without further comment, the man fired his pistol. The force of the bullet struck her in the chest and hurled her back several meters, as if she’d been pushed by a giant hand. She crashed into the altar itself, which tumbled down upon her still body.

Somebody screamed, and there was a sudden panicky flurry from the congregation, but a few bursts of