Out of Phaze

Mach’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle. This thesis was reasonable—but what would a human person do in the body of a machine?

The path led to an island rising out of the swamp. Relieved, Mach sloshed toward it—and stepped off the path again, taking another messy dunking. The path curved about, as it had on land, and he had to check for it constantly.

He drew himself out of the muck, then proceeded to the island. It was thickly overgrown with reeds and brush and small trees, but the path was clear. This was certainly better than the water.

Mach rounded a bend—and came across a worse monster than before. It was a man—with the head of a giant roach. The antennae waved and the complicated insectoid mouth-parts quivered. The thing looked hungry.

Mach backed away—but another roach-head came onto the path behind him. He was trapped.

Well, not quite. He leaped into the brush to the side. Too late he discovered that it was solid brambles; the thorns raked along his legs and torso stingingly. Yet the roach-heads were blocking the path, their ugly mandibles working. He had not been programmed to abhor roaches; indeed, they did not exist in the natural state in the frame of Proton. But his living body evidently loathed the notion of contact with such creatures, and certainly he didn’t want those mandibles chewing into his tender flesh.

Trapped between unacceptable alternatives, Mach let his body govern. His head went back and he screamed. “Heeelp!”

There was a distant sound of music. Then an approaching beat. It sounded as if a horse were approaching.

Mach screamed again. He knew how to ride a horse; that was one of the Game challenges. If the creature were tame, or even if it weren’t—if he could somehow get on it—but of course it was tame, for he heard the music of the rider.

In a very brief time the beat became splashing. The horse was charging through the water. Maybe there was a patrol whose duty was to come to the aid of distressed travelers. Mach called again, making sure the rider could find him.

Now it thundered onto the island, the music of its rider becoming loud. It sounded as though a flute were playing, or several of them. The roach-heads abruptly scuttled into the brush, apparently not bothered by the brambles.

“Here!” Mach cried.

The horse came into sight.

It bore no rider. It was glossy black, with golden socklike coloration on the two hind legs. From the forehead sprouted a long spiraled horn.

This was a unicorn.

Mach was beyond caring at this point. “I beg you, beautiful creature—carry me from here!” he called.

The unicorn stopped. It was a mare, not large for a horse, but in fit condition. Her head turned toward Mach. She sounded a double note of query.

The horn was making the music! Citizen Blue had mentioned this, long ago, but Mach had assumed this was mere embellishment of a tale told to a child. Now he realized that it was literal. His father had come from this frame, and had known unicorns.

Mach pulled himself painfully from the brambles. His body was bleeding in several places. “If you will carry me—“ he repeated, afraid the mare would bolt before he could mount her.

But she made an acquiescent note. He came up to her and scrambled onto her back, taking firm hold of her glossy mane. “My gratitude to you, lovely creature!” he gasped.

She started walking, then trotting, wending her way on along the narrow path with sure-footed confidence. As she moved, she played a pretty double melody on her marvelous horn. Mach was good at music, both because he had been programmed for perfect pitch and because it was a useful talent in the Game; he knew quality when he heard it, and that horn was as good as an instrument could be. To think that a mere animal could do it so well! There was no further sign of the roach-heads; evidently the music warned them away.

The path proceeded to the other side of the island and back into the water. The animal trod it with confidence, evidently knowing exactly where to place he: hooves. The water swirled with fish, some of them large three vertical fins cut through the ripples toward them. The unicorn pointed her horn at the largest and blew triple-note chord of warning; the fin altered course immediately, approaching no closer, and the other two did likewise.

Farther along a thing like a crocodile lifted its Ion, snout, hissing. Again the unicorn blew her chord, and

the thing backpedaled. Mach was impressed; it was evident that this equine creature was not to be trifled with. How fortunate that she had come to his rescue!

But why had she done so? Mach remembered that his father had spoken of associating with a unicorn. Or his alternate self had done so. But he had never provided any details. “That life is past,” was all he would ever say. Mach had gathered that unicorns were not necessarily friendly to man; apparently it had been a remarkable thing for a man to befriend one. Yet this one had come right to him, a stranger, and rescued him.