Cluster by Piers Anthony Page B

the Master of his identity and mission. Yet he balked. Why deal with these parasites, further entrenching them in their power, when the Slaves were the humanoids? The natural affinity of human beings was with the downtrodden Slaves, not the insectoid Masters.
    â€œI'm no Slave now ,” Flint said. “Now tell me how to manage this craft, or I'll see that we both crash.”
    Still the insectoid was unruffled. Did it have nerves of steel, or did it lack real emotion? “I am taking you in for interrogation. You evince none of the mannerisms of a Slave, despite your history. An extreme oddity.”
    Flint had to admire the thing's courage. The Master was trying to bluff! And it proposed to do exactly what Flint had wanted—until an hour ago. “I'm taking you to the FreeSlaves,” Flint shot back. “Unless you'd rather die right now.”
    â€œDie we may,” the Master said calmly as the saucer looped smoothly about. “But I control the vehicle.”
    It simply would not be shaken. “Then I must take over the ship,” Flint said. He hauled the Master up again.
    Pain lanced into his arms. Numbed, he let go.
    â€œI have activated my personal shield,” the Master said. “You have the option of coming—or going.” It nodded toward the edge of the saucer. Flint saw there could be no bargaining. A Master simply did not give way to a Slave—or any other creature.
    Flint swung his half-closed hand at the creature's head, hard. The contact felt as though he had smashed every bone in his hand, but mere pain could not abate the force of his blow. The Master's head caved in like a structure of woven grass.
    The saucer veered again. Flint grabbed the corpse, receiving no pain this time; the creature's death had deactivated the shield, fortunately. He jerked it up and out of the well and threw it overboard. Then he lowered his own feet into the hole. They barely fit, for his torso was larger than that of the Master, and constructed differently.
    There were knobs and pedals down there, inconveniently placed. Flint had no idea how they worked, but he experimented rapidly. Suddenly the saucer flipped over, redoubling its acceleration toward the ground. This was no Earth-type shuttle-capsule strung on a safe wire; this was a free ship, and any hesitation or mistake could quickly smash him flat. Flint clung to his perch and wiggled his toes, searching for the right combination of controls.
    The saucer braked, looped, and headed down again, almost hurling him out. But Flint was catching on. There were a dozen foot controls, each with a wide range of positions. One was for the orientation of the craft, another was for velocity, a third for elevation. Just as he was about to intercept the ground at half-mach speed, he slowed the vehicle and brought it to a wobbly hover, right side up. Then he lifted it and started it back toward the spot where C le should be.
    He spotted her easily, running through the field toward the distant hills. Sensible girl! He came down as low as he dared—for he was a long way from achieving precise orientation—and bobbed behind her. “Hey, C le of A[ th ]!” he called.
    Startled, she glanced behind. “Øro!” she cried, amazed. “How did you resist capture?”
    â€œNever mind,” he called. “Get up here! We're going to the hills in style!”
    Â 
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    The FreeSlaves were astounded. “You killed a Master?” they kept asking, refusing to quite believe it.
    â€œOnce again, lightly,” Flint repeated. “I am an envoy from Sphere Sol, neighbor to Sphere Canopus, transferred to the body. I killed the Master and took the saucer so as to make contact with you. C le of A[ th ] helped me. If you organize, revolt, take over this planet, spread the revolution throughout this Sphere, throw out the Masters, you shall have the secret of transfer.”
    â€œYes!” C le breathed.