Jack L. Chalker - Soul Rider 5 - Children of Flux and Anchor

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SOUL RIDER V:

CHILDREN OF FLUX AND

ANCHOR

Jack L. Chalker

ISBN: 0-812-53286-4 0987654

E-book ver.1.0

This one is for the female members of the Whitley clan:

Eva, who became First Editor when she married me,

and also Brigit and Lucy,

and even Mama Agnes who doesn't like this stuff.

For very different reasons, it's appropriate.

To New and Old Readers of the Soul Rider Saga

This is the fifth, and probably final, novel in what has been labeled "The Soul Rider Saga."

Faithful readers, and the books have created quite a large following, will probably wail, but they

wailed when I ended my past long-form series as well, and I always have subscribed to Henny

Youngman's advice to "always leave them wanting more."

The fact is, this book wasn't supposed to exist at all. The original novel as outlined, Spirits of

Flux & Anchor. was to be it. One novel, broken into three volumes because of its length. These

were published as Spirits, Empires, and Masters of Flux & Anchor by Tor in 1984. When

completed, I discovered that my research and background material had an independent book all

its own in it, and this was published as The Birth of Flux & Anchor (Tor Books. 1985).

While doing that one, a lot of things I'd wanted to put in Masters and could not because of that

book's great length coincided with a lot of new interesting problems raised by the situation at the

end of Masters and the new information

provided in Birth. This book is the result. It is less a sequel to the original than a direct

continuation. Familiarity with the first three books, and with Birth, is assumed, although the book

will, I hope, stand on its own.

Readers new to the series, however, are urged to read the first four first to get the maximum

benefit. They should be available where you bought this one; if not, your local bookstore has

them or can get them quickly and easily (and don't let them tell you otherwise!).

Readers who have been faithfully following the saga will not, I think, be disappointed. If

anyone gets through Chapter 15 and claims not to be very surprised, I guess I should hang it up. I

will not, though. I'm already thinking up new characters and new strange places to go and new

themes to explore, and I'm already working on them. That's what keeps it fun and interesting for

both of us.

Melrose. Maryland

April 15, 1985 Jack L. Chalker

SOME VISITORS FROM DOWN

UNDER

For forty-seven years the seven great Hellgates had been guarded, and the guard duty was the

most boring assignment anyone could draw. Mostly it was left to a few people in bad graces with

one of the local powers charged with providing the rotating detail.

Gate One, in particular, was fairly remote from even the historical events that made the guard

necessary. When, after twenty-seven hundred years, the Hellgates had been opened and the alien

demonic enemy faced, that enemy had come through only three Gates, none of them this one.

All Gates, though, as well as direct access to the monstrous computers who ran and maintained

them, had been closed by common consent after the crisis had passed. The enemy had been met,

and defeated, at a great price in lives, but that enemy was no longer feared. They knew it now,

what it was and what it could do, and they knew that now, at this stage, even an invasion at all

seven gates could be met if need be. Then, and only then, the computers would automatically

reactivate; the human-to-computer interfaces, the Soul Riders and the Guardians, would activate

with access to all the defense computers; and the powers that be on World would unite against a

common foe.

Thus, the primary concern of those who'd fought the battles wasn't that any enemy would

appear, but rather that some people would use the powers of those great computers to dominate or

perhaps destroy World. Access to the computers had been terminated for that reason, although not

before a tremendous amount of knowledge had been pilfered from it, some little of which was

just now beginning to make sense to those who studied it. But only the wizards of World, those

with the power, could command anything from those great machines, and they were as limited as

always. None could again get into the great control rooms of the ancients nor speak directly to the

tremendous thinking machines that ran everything automatically. The Gates themselves were

almost an afterthought; they had been closed, and set to "outgoing," but they had been locked.

Nobody really knew how they worked, or how to use them, and the computers had been strictly

limited by the ancients so that even if they possessed that knowledge they could neither release or

reveal it.

The huge dish-like depressions had been filled with debris based on the information that no one

could use a dish for transportation if that dish was occupied, but there was uncertainty as to just

how effective these measures were. If debris alone could stop an enemy, why had the ancients

gone to so much trouble to seal them?

The Guardians, creatures with life created by the great computers out of Flux, roamed the

system, beings of pure energy beyond human understanding, and kept things running smoothly

and repaired properly. The Soul Riders, kindred creatures who alone possessed the codes that

would open the computers to human command, rode as symbiotic things inside people all over

World, many of whom were ignorant that they even had such things inside them.

The guard at each of the seven Gates was almost perfunctory and certainly not taken seriously

by anyone. Everybody knew that if an enemy were to use any of the Gates, the Soul Riders would

already be on station and the Guardians already in place. It was automatic. It had happened last

time, when things had been in a state of ignorance. It would happen again.

Around Gate One were the four Anchors—Frinkh, Wahltah, Patah, and the one once called

Holy Anchor and still referred to that way even though the great Church whose seat it once was

now was no more.

Far beneath the former administrative centers of the Anchors, the "temples" of the old Church,

the great control rooms and laboratories lay silent and deserted, access to them barred by

command of those who had last been in them and had voluntarily left and surrendered their

powers.

Now, though, in the transportation and communication centers of all four Anchors surrounding

Gate One, lights automatically came on, and complex instrumentation became lit with flashing

lights and digital readouts. A bell struck, and then some klaxons sounded, although there were no

ears to hear, and then a woman's voice sounded in all four control rooms, the voice of the master

transportation computer.

"Incoming, Gate One," the voice announced, casual and without real expression.

Guardians, taken completely off guard, rode the transmission lines down to check on things.

This was simply not supposed to happen. An alert was suddenly sounded through the entire

worldwide computer network, including the Soul Riders, but they were not yet activated.

The Guardians checked the information with their computer masters, then called off the alert.

No one, in fact, was even aware that an alert had been called, least of all those in which bodies

the Soul Riders lived. The defensive programs had never been designed to guard against Earth,

but only against an alien menace, to block its progress towards Earth along the great strings of the

Flux universe. This traffic was not inbound—towards Earth—and thus was not a threat by their

mission and charge. It was outbound traffic.

The Guardians and Soul Riders of the Great War had been people of World: ignorant of high

technology, backward, superstitious, and unable, really, to ask all the right questions or think of

everything. They had been assured that the Gates could not be purged of debris by any invader's

incoming signal without the joint consent of the Soul Rider and the Guardian. Their context,

however, was defensive, and the types of computers and programs to which they had direct

access were military in nature. These were the Forward Fire Base programs, modified thousands

of years earlier to meet an unknown threat. By definition, though, incoming from the inbound

direction was friendly; only incoming from the outbound direction was assumed hostile. The Gate

locks had been absolute, barring friend and foe alike, but the Gates had not been re-locked. It

seemed futile, since the codes to open them were now known but the means of changing them

was not.

The Guardian assumed quite naturally that traffic from this direction was friendly, and the four

Guardians of Gate One agreed and sounded the outer alarms for a purge.

The dozen men and women sitting in their camp at the edge of Gate One, reading or sleeping or

playing games to amuse themselves, had been there for several weeks and had only a few days to

go. Just a few days more to keep from going mad in the silence of the Flux and the eerie crater of

the Gate. They all had some of the power and included a lean, hawk-nosed man named Bandichar

who was a powerful wizard. Unlike the others, who were there because they were ordered to be,

he was there because, by common agreement of the Fluxlords of each region, somebody powerful

must be on duty at all times. Bandichar had been practicing some new spells and making

everyone else nervous, but it was quiet now.

Suddenly a loud klaxon sounded three times, echoing across the crater floor and bouncing off

its walls; it sounded as if the end of the world were coming, and guards jumped in startled fear,

one woman rolling off her cot.

Bandichar had been asleep but was quickly brought awake by the terrible and unexpected noise

and stormed out of his tent wearing only a pair of shorts. He certainly did not look like a powerful

Fluxlord. He looked, in fact, like a man caught with his pants down.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded to know.

Atita Saag, a small, lean woman in an olive military uniform who was the officer in charge,

shrugged and shook her head. "It came from the Gate." Suddenly the enormity of that statement

hit her, and she yelled, "Everyone up! Full arms and packs immediately! Positions in view of the

Gate but well back of the apron!" The apron, or lip, was a smooth area several meters wide that

led to the depression.

"Attention! Attention! Please remain clear of the Gate area until further notice," said a ghostly,

amplified woman's voice from the crater's center. It, too, echoed eerily around the complex.

"Son of a bitch!" swore Bandichar. "Something's coming through! It had to be on my damned

watch, too!"

There was a final warning buzz, and then the voice of the gate announced, "Purging!"

The small company of guards edged back as the entire Gate complex began to glow a sickly

yellow-green. Then there was a roar that sounded like a huge volume of water coming down a

pipe, but there was no water.

An incredible amount of junk had been thrown into the massive crater, from the remains of

buildings to concrete and steel-like masses created out of Flux and allowed to flow in and harden.

One could almost walk across the top of it.

Now that mass of junk glowed, was outlined in a crackling fire, and then vanished.

Atita looked at Bandichar, who was just staring, transfixed. If she didn't know better, she'd have

sworn that the Fluxlord was as scared as she was. "I thought this couldn't happen!" she said, her

voice trembling. "So what do we do now?"

"It couldn't! Wasn't supposed to, anyway," Bandichar responded, his voice not sounding any

better. "Still, that's why we're here. Just in case."

"Well, it's just in case! Now what? Anybody tell you 'just in case' of what?"

"We see what shows up, then if it's bigger than we can handle we run like hell and get help," he

responded honestly.

"Maybe they won't come out here anyway, just go down the tube," she muttered hopefully.

"Uh uh. Even those furballs of fifty years ago couldn't get by that. It'd run another purge

automatically, destroying them in the tubes, unless they knew the codes, and nobody that's not

from here can know that code. No, they'll come out this way."

"Purge complete," the Gate announced. "Stand by. Flag set to incoming. Incoming received.

Gate flag reset to outbound. Transport personnel may now attend to offloading duties." The glow

died, and the silence returned.

Atita nervously stared at the Gate. "I don't see nothin'," she noted. "We should see it, shouldn't

we?"

"I was there at Gate Two when they came the last time," Bandichar responded. "We should see

a ship in there." Fear was being replaced by nervous curiosity. "What in hell happened?"

Nervously, expecting a trick, he walked towards the lip of the Gate, stopping just before it, so

that he could see most of the crater. He made a simple hand gesture and materialized a pair of

field glasses in his left hand, then put the glasses to his eyes and scanned what he could.

Except for the fact that for the first time in forty-seven years the entire dish was clear of debris

and visible, there was nothing unusual. There was nothing in the dish at all. Frowning, his nerves

more on edge from this than if the dish had held a huge invader ship, he walked forward to the

edge of the depression itself and stared, first with his naked eyes, then with the glasses. Nothing.

He focused on the small black hole in the center of the dish, the normal access to the Gate. For a

moment he thought he saw the reflection of some internal light in there, but then it was gone. He

stared hard through the binoculars, squinting because it seemed that something was blurry right

by the access hole, but it was certainly nothing substantial.

He still didn't like it, but he couldn't help but give a sigh of relief. "There's nothing in there!" he

called back to the soldiers. "Come and look!"

Slowly, apprehensively, arms at the ready, they did. "Now what in the name of anybody's

heaven was that all about?" one man muttered, voicing the thoughts of the rest.

"Anybody see anything?" Bandichar asked, not able to believe what he wasn't seeing.

"Looks like a couple of little puffs of mist or something floatin' up over there," a woman noted,

pointing. They all looked and spotted the two clouds or whatever they were— transparent, not

terribly large, and rising to the rim about a hundred and fifty meters away from them. Bandichar

realized that those were the indistinct blurs he'd seen in the glasses.

"Probably just some aftereffect of the Gate opening and closing," he told them. "Either that or

the residue of whatever was sent."

They all looked at him, startled.

"This don't make any sense unless you think along the lines of somebody who wants in," he

explained. "Say the fuzzballs check and find the Gates are open, but they got no report from their

advance forces even after all this time. Maybe they just noticed after all the years that they were

open at all. Now, after all those centuries, if I suddenly checked and found the Gates open, I'd

send through something first to see if my senses or machines or whatever were lying."

"Well, what in hell would they send?" somebody asked. "Air or a bomb or something? It sure

didn't look like much."

"Who knows how fuzzballs think?"

"Holy Angels!" somebody else swore, betraying a link with the old faiths. "Suppose it was

some kind of poison gas or something?"

That started a mild panic reaction, but Bandichar shook his head. "Naw. Two little mist balls? If

they were anything like that we'd be goners, and I think anything of that kind would be a lot

bigger than what we saw. Anybody still spot the two little clouds?"

Everybody strained to look but nobody could. They had risen like the steam they resembled to

the top of the dish wall and merged into Flux.

One middle-aged bearded man with a shotgun sighed and turned away from the dish and

stopped dead, his mouth dropping, staring. Immediately behind the small group hovered two

mist-like clouds, each smaller than a human and with no clear form, yet distinct from the Flux

and flashing inside with a singular intensity of electrical activity. Suddenly the man raised the

shotgun and shouted,

"Hey! Look—" but he was cut off, frozen in mid-sentence and mid-gesture, just as the others

started to turn and bring their own weapons up if they had them. They, too, were suddenly frozen

in an eerie tableau.

The two clouds approached the statue-like forms of the guard and drifted among them, as if

looking them over and trying to decide just who and what they were seeing. Had the guards been

able to see and think and react, they would have discovered that the clouds were not clouds at all,

but two dense, pulsing masses with a mathematical logic about them. By their movements, there

was no question that the things were either sentient in some impossible way or directed by ones

who were.

The "clouds" moved from the humans to their dwellings and animals, seeming to take a full

inventory as if inspecting the premises before deciding whether or not to buy the place. The

horses were not frozen, but ignored the things, although when they were almost literally

enveloped by them, one at a time, they expressed not so much distress as annoyance.

Finally they moved out into the void itself, clear of all recently arrived beings and artifacts, and

touched the soft, sponge-like floor of the world. Had Bandichar been able to view the scene he

would have recognized immediately that the clouds were sending and receiving "spells" along the

computer grid that underlay the entirety of the world. The spells were quite complex, too much so

for any human, and entirely in the language of the great machines themselves.

Bandichar and the others might have been upset, even threatened, by this sight, could they have

seen it, but they knew that whatever talked in this way was nothing more than a local threat. The

great machines had taken their minds somewhere else almost three thousand years earlier, leaving

only data and automatic programs to handle maintaining and nurturing the world and its people,

and indiscriminate access even to the data was blocked by firm military-imposed and reimposed

codes that not even another great machine like the ones buried in the Anchors of World could

break.

The "clouds" themselves were discovering this, and were clearly agitated by it, pulsing and

changing shape rapidly as their questions and commands were mostly refused or ignored. Clearly

whatever they were they could feel anger, or at least frustration.

Finally they stopped, seemed to merge, and clearly had a heated discussion on what to do next

and how to do it. Finally, they decided on something, at least, broke apart, and drifted back

towards the frozen humans. Then, after giving a series of spells to the grid, they were away again

into the void, quickly vanishing from view.

The humans unfroze. "What the hell . . . ?" the wizard muttered, looking puzzled. They all

looked puzzled, or so it seemed, each one aware that something had happened, some time had

passed, but unsure of whether or not the others felt the same or if they'd just gone a little bit mad.

There was a sudden crackling sound from inside the great dish itself, and several of them cried

out and stepped back as the delayed program went into action.

As they watched, awed and more than a little scared, the dish gathered in sufficient Flux and

transformed it into a precise duplicate of all the enormous volume of junk and trash that had been

in the dish before.

Atita Saag turned white-faced to Bandichar. "Now what? There's not even any evidence

anything happened. Who's gonna believe this now?"

"We'll report it," he told her. "They'll pick us clean but they'll be convinced that we all saw

what we saw and heard what we heard. It's even possible that the incoming calls were heard in the

Anchor temples. But we'll let wiser heads than ours figure it all out."

"Figure what out?" she wanted to know. "Just what did happen here?"

"Hell, ma'am, that's simple," said the old fellow with the rifle behind her. "Somebody just done

stole our garbage, didn't like it, and dumped it back."

DISCOURSES ON SOCIOLOGY AND

POKER

The air was damp and slightly chilled in the early morning light, the huge orb of the gas giant

that provided World's illumination sending eerie ripples over the land as it rose. Two riders

mounted on strong black horses made their way slowly down the well-worn dirt road, side by

side. One was an older man with a full gray-black beard and long flowing hair of the same color,

dressed in a long black suit coat and heavy black work pants, looking like the elder in some

ancient and austere religious group. The other was far younger, dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and

blue denim trousers; a man of medium build, clean-shaven and with dark hair cut very short. Only

the most astute observer would see any resemblance in the two, or even guess a relationship.

They had now been two days together in New Eden, that vast Anchor area three thousand

kilometers across, and still with vast empty stretches of land like the one they now traversed.

"I can't get over how little has changed," said the younger man in a low, raspy tenor. "Forty-

seven years, all the leadership dead, the women freed of their spell-enforced limits, and it all

seems the same."

This was not the first time he had said it, but he still couldn't really believe what they'd found.

"It's not so odd," the older, bearded man responded in a rich baritone. "It's the way people in

groups work, son. You take a bunch of lifelong slaves from some Fluxland. Something happens

to the Fluxlord, and the slaves are suddenly free and they run off with one of them who's a wizard

himself and set up their own Fluxland. Do they establish freedom and democracy and equality for

all? Hell, no. They were born into a system with slaves and rulers and taught from the cradle that

it was the system that was right, just, God's will, and whatever. They ain't been thinking of a

different world—they don't know any other anyway. So they set up the same system with them on

top and make slaves out of everybody else they find. Same system, only they're on top. You seen

it again and again here, and I hear tell in the old histories of the ancients there's hundreds of

similar things."

"Yeah, but this isn't like that."

"No? What's the difference?"

The younger man shook his head wonderingly. "I mean, O.K., it's one thing for the original

New Eden. That far I'll accept your analogy. Coydt hated all women, and he got his men from

matriarchal Fluxlands where they were on the bottom so naturally they set up this system. And

when the Church the anchors all had been born and raised with, an all-female hierarchy, was

shown false, there was some natural resentment there as well among some of the men. But they

used Flux, after all, in the long run, to physically change the women so they couldn't read, write,

do simple math, or fully control their emotions. But after the Invasion was beaten off—mostly by

women, as it happened—and those brain changes were reversed, you'd think women would

demand their rights."

The old man sighed. "Son, you sell old Adam Tilghman short. Like most of Coydt's hand-

picked leaders, he was a brilliant man. He was actually born in Anchor, and thrown out under the

old lottery system. Sold to some doddering Fluxlord goddess where he became one of her

bodyguards and kept men, serving and servicing the underwizard women who worked for the old

girl and ran her affairs. He had good cause to hate women, since it was women in the old

priesthood who threw him out into Flux and it was in a Fluxland dominated by women that he

was a courtesan, slave, and if need be, soldier. The fact was, though, he didn't hate women."

"I didn't know all that about him. So you mean he was just a product of his environment? When

he got sprung by Coydt he just wanted to reverse things?"

"Well, you sell him a little short there, but not much. Fact was, he was a brilliant man who

learned everything well. Even bright enough to understand what I'm saying about him. Trouble

was, he was too human to accept that in himself, or see it in his own makeup. He felt comfortable

with his new role and his new society, although not with its early brutality, but he felt a need to

justify it all to himself. See, Coydt was honest with himself. He was out for revenge against

women and he felt he had good cause. Old Adam, though, was too moral a man to be honest with

himself. So he went through all of those fragments of ancient books Coydt had collected over the

years, and out of it he built the religious foundation for New Eden. He was the New Eden

theoretician, so to speak, and because he found that level of justification for all they were doing

they accepted his conclusions wholeheartedly."

"Yeah, well, I know New Eden was the original name our ancestors had for the whole world

when they came here, and I know they had a lot of religions, but I don't know if they led in this

direction."

"Well, that depends. You read fragments and excerpts from holy books and it's taking things

out of context. You can draw all the wrong conclusions. Then there was selectivity. He read lots

of stuff from old religious texts—the Bible, the Koran, a couple of ones from a religion called

Hinduism, and there he found what he wanted to find. The parts that didn't fit his vision he just

ignored. Oh, I doubt if he knew he was ignoring them or being so selective; it was probably a

subconscious editing. And remember his background—the old Anchor Church. You think the

way you're raised, and even though he didn't believe in the Church he still thought in the same

logic and context as the Church did. He couldn't help it. He read where Adam came first, then

Eve was created second. That's in both the Bible and the Koran, so it's one good nail. Now, he

figures evil couldn't corrupt Adam, so it worked on Eve and corrupted her. She was the one who

disobeyed God and got punished for it, dragging Adam down with her. When two different

religious books agree, that's holy writ. And when it becomes clear that the other beliefs were also

basically patriarchies and that patriarchy was the rule for much of early human history—well, that

cinches it. He's got God on his side."

"But he's forty-seven years dead!"

"Uh huh. But think about this place. Only a handful of New Eden's citizens are older than New

Eden. The vast bulk of them were born and raised in the system, and even the older ones lived

under it for decades. It was always a collective leadership after Coydt was killed, and only Adam

died. The rest just made him a saint and enshrined his system as holy writ. These folks have been

born and raised in this in the same way as he was born and raised in the system of the Holy

Mother Church. They don't know any other system, and they believe in their religion. Besides,

they have no alternative system anymore."

"Yeah, but doesn't your analogy hold? I mean, women are on the bottom here, so wouldn't they

want a reverse?"

"You might be right—hell, there's Fluxlands founded for just that reason out there right now.

You might be, but you'd ignore the other things. The Holy Mother Church lasted for over two

thousand years and it was rigidly sex compartmentalized at the leadership level. The women set

policy and interpreted it. The men carried the policies out, but the women had the veto. The one

thing they all had was a fear of Flux. Anchor life was comfortable, and you always knew where

you stood. Not everybody was happy with it, particularly some men, but the alternatives were all

much worse. They gained safety and security from it, so they paid the price and griped. And the

Church was smart enough to sort of borrow a little bit from the Hindu, and Adam was smart

enough to keep it: the idea that we live more than one life, and that we live those lives as alternate

sexes. It freezes the system. If everybody believes it, then there's no penalty for being on the

bottom because in the next life you'll be on top, and you better be good while on top 'cause in the

next life you'll be on the bottom. See?"

The younger man nodded. "Yes, I think so. It's a little hard to swallow, though. There's no

outlet for the women here. There's still no schools for them except religious studies, where the

rightness of their lot is pounded into them. They can't own property or inherit, can't get the

training and skills to hold down a professional job, can't hold office, be a church official, or even

get a divorce. An unmarried woman has less rights than a horse here."

"Yep, it's crazy, all right, but it's also a secure system. It may be a waste and it may be wrong,

but it works, just like the old Church system worked and like many of the crazy Fluxlands work.

And, you got to think of the pragmatic side. Old Adam's system is really insidious, just like the

old Church's."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it. Now, say you're a woman who feels this system's unfair, and there are

probably lots of them. Lousy husband, or maybe you're bored or ambitious or whatever. So what

can you do about it? Move out? Now what? If you take anything at all the husband can charge

theft and they'll be out to hunt you down. Bitch to others? If anybody hears you who doesn't

agree, you'll get charged with blasphemy and they'll send you to one of their conditioning clinics

and you'll come back in six months or so a true believer ready to turn in your own daughters. You

can't even hide it for very long, since those church meetings are required. I saw one once. They

shoot questions at you so fast you don't have time to think, you have to answer automatically.

Answer wrong, and the whole group turns on you so they aren't singled out. The husband's

notified, and penalized, and is expected to discipline you. After a while, the only way to keep

from getting caught in that trap is to start totally believing in everything and its rightness and

purging all doubts and discontent from your mind. It's a technique taken from the old Holy

Mother Church's method of indoctrinating novice priestesses, but I hear from folks studying the

old records that it's a lot older than that. Works just as good on men, too, as some of the Anchors

up north are proving."

"Sheesh! I'd pack up and sneak out and try and make the border."

"So? And what if you did make it? Outside of New Eden is Flux. You wind up a dugger, dead,

or the slave of the first wizard you come across. You and me, we're children of Flux. We were

born and raised there. We know it and its tricks and we can even use some of 'em. They can't. If

you're going to make a run, you got to have a place to run to. Don't think the men got it any

easier, even if they're on top."

"Huh? Seems to me that would be what you wanted to be here."

"Sure. But see over there—there's women in the field picking beans or something. Probably

from a lot of farm families—they pick one, then the other. The system guarantees them the

basics. Their husbands or fathers must provide for them. The Church makes sure you do, and

those men go through their own indoctrination and reinforcement sessions. The system makes

them a hundred percent responsible for all women and children in their families. All of it. They

are not allowed to fail. If those women screw up the harvest, they're not responsible. He is. If he

doesn't feed, house, and protect them even at the cost of his own life, he is held responsible. Hell,

if his wife and daughters go off and rob a train, he's punished for the crime. And if his business

fails, the Church will help out the women but he's left to starve in the gutter. The pressure's

enormous. I've yet to meet a New Eden man who didn't have ulcers and whose hair wasn't gray

while he was still relatively young. Very few of the women commit suicide—I don't think I know

of one offhand. But a fair percentage of the men do."

"Some system," the younger man noted dryly.

"Yeah. Yet there are folks, men and women both, who know the score and yet beg, borrow, or

steal some stringer or friendly wizard to get 'em here. If you're willing to accept the system as a

price, there's still land to homestead here, protected from all wizardly magic and capricious

Fluxlords and Anchor civil wars—stability and security. New Eden has contracts with the Guild

to bring anyone here who wants to come, you know, and their missionaries have converted an

Anchor or two far from here."

The younger man nodded glumly and sighed. "Seems like we never learn. We get rid of one

bad system, then trade it for another one that's even worse."

"People will swap liberty for security every time, son. Right now old World's just living

through a period like our ancestors did back on Earth long ago. Maybe still do, for all we know.

We had it easy all those centuries, 'cause everybody traded for the same system and it worked.

Now folks are trading for other systems that also work but are both equally unpleasant and

mutually antagonistic. That's how bloody revolutions and wars come, and that always feeds the

largest and strongest no matter how ugly it is. Somehow, I think Coydt knew that and planned it

this way. He's laughing at us from someplace in Hell. By God, sometimes I wish I believed in this

reincarnation business. It'd be real justice if he was reborn as one of those New Eden girls, now

wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, but I never put much stock in that stuff myself. Who cares if we are reincarnated if we

don't know it and can't remember our old selves? Might as well be dead, since without memory

you're dead anyway. As you're fond of saying, there ain't no more justice in the world than in a

crap game."

"Yep. Life's a crap shoot, but it's more of a poker game. You play the cards you have, and if

you're good enough you'll win even if you were dealt shit. Win, that is, until you meet a better

player than you. Most folks are bad players or never try the game. I learned long ago that the bulk

of humanity are born victims, and no matter what you do they keep running back to being victims

again."

The younger man looked at the old one seriously for a moment. "Seems to me with that attitude

you might as well just stop and blow your brains out."

"Uh uh. Son, I been killed twice, once for real, and the cards kept coming back good. The

purpose of life is to play the hands. You don't fold when you're holding aces, and you sure as hell

don't quit the game when it hasn't beat you. One of these days I'll meet the one who's better than

me, but not yet. If I check out now, I'll never find out what they're like."

"Grandpa, you sure got a sick outlook on life."

"Maybe. But I'm still here."

The young man's tone changed and he pointed forward. "Riders up ahead."

"I saw 'em. Most likely a patrol. Yeah. Look real smart in their shiny leather uniforms, don't

they?"

They did not speed up to meet the oncoming riders, but let them come to them. The patrol

consisted of a dozen men, all clean-shaven, muscular, and handsome, almost like a recruiting

poster. They certainly didn't look very routine, though; while the officer wore a traditional re-

volver, the rest had submachine guns in their saddle holsters and a few appeared to have some of

the new laser pistols as sidearms as well.

The old man nodded casually. "Morning, Lieutenant," he said pleasantly.

"Morning, gentlemen. I don't remember seeing either of you in these parts before. May I have

your serial numbers and travel permits, please?"

"We're registered guests, Lieutenant, not citizens, but here are our papers." Both he and the

younger man produced small packets in neat squared envelopes and handed them over. Neither

could miss the fact that the two men in the rear with the clearest shots had their hands on their

sidearms.

The lieutenant looked over the booklet and papers inside the first envelope. "You are James

Patrick Ryan, Stringer's Guild, Retired?"

The old man nodded. "I am."

"This is not your first time here?"

"First time in a long time. I was here many years ago—during the Invasion—in the Signals

service and helped on the railroad telephone project."

"Before my time," the lieutenant responded, but there was a note of respect in his voice. Very

few stringers of the old man's day, and not too many even now, lived long enough to retire from

the Guild. The officer opened and looked at the younger man's papers. "Rondel! Hattori Akbar of

Freehold. You are of the Freehold families?"

"I am," the younger man responded.

"Freehold is to the northeast. Why are you approaching from the west?"

"Colonel Ryan is an old friend of my family who we have not seen in quite some time. There is

a war breaking out now between Atram and Tambaloo which he couldn't have known about. I

went to make certain he came through New Eden rather than Flux."

The officer nodded and handed back the packets.

"May I ask why all the heavy guns?" the bearded man said. "These days this is the most

peaceful spot on the whole world."

"Well, sir, most of it is, but we've had real problems with these border areas of late. A lot of the

settlers here have pulled out and moved south, abandoning farms and fields and even a couple of

towns. There's a nasty dugger gang that's been raiding of late out of Flux. We've got a whole

army division up here trying to catch them but so far it's been like chasing smoke."

"From Atram?" Ryan was surprised.

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SOULRIDERV:CHILDRENOFFLUXANDANCHORJackL.ChalkerCopyright©1986byJackL.ChalkerISBN:0-812-53286-40987654E-bookver.1.0ThisoneisforthefemalemembersoftheWhitleyclan:Eva,whobecameFirstEditorwhenshemarriedme,andalsoBrigitandLucy,andevenMamaAgneswhodoesn'tlikethisstuff.Forverydifferentreasons,it'sappropriate...

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