Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  There was something sad about the Circus Solara. Most of the performers were clearly middle-aged, their costumes were ragged, and the first fifteen minutes of the “most exciting show in the galaxy” were extremely boring. However, there was a significant shortage of things to do in the city of Tryst, which meant that the seats surrounding the circular arena were packed with people, some of whom had started to doze by the time two fancifully dressed clowns secured the local prefect to a brightly painted disk. But Rebo sat up and began to pay attention as the formally attired ringmaster strutted out to the center of the arena and stood next to the turntable to which the official was being secured. He spoke through a handheld megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! Behold the wheel of death! In a matter of moments this diabolical device will be set into motion . . . Then, once the disk becomes little more than a blur, Madam Pantha will throw her hatchets. Yes! That’s correct! You could have a new prefect by tomorrow morning!”

  The joke stimulated laughter, catcalls, and a round of applause. Madam Pantha wore a yellow turban, sported a curly black beard, and was dressed in a loose blouse and pantaloons. Her clothes might have been white once, but had long since turned gray and were patched in places. She waved a hatchet at the audience, tossed the weapon high into the air, and waited for it to fall. Then, having positioned herself just so, Pantha missed the catch. The hatchet generated a puff of dust as it hit the ground—followed by more laughter as the crowd entered into the spirit of the thing.

  The prefect was an extremely good sport, or that’s what Rebo concluded, as a pair of mimes put the platform on which both the wheel of death and the bearded lady stood into motion. Now everyone could see as the platform began to rotate, and a couple of acrobats began to spin the wheel of death. It took the better part of thirty seconds to get the disk turning at top speed. A drumroll began as Madam Pantha accepted a hatchet from a sad-faced clown, brought the implement back over her right shoulder, and let fly. Even the runner stared as the wheel rotated, the hatchet turned end for end, and the somewhat corpulent official continued to rotate. Then came the solid thwack of metal biting into wood, followed by a gasp of indrawn air as the crowd realized that a second weapon was on the way, quickly followed by a third. Fortunately, the second and third hatchets flew true, both sinking into wood only inches from the politico’s body, even as both the platform and the wheel continued to turn.

  The audience roared its approval as the clowns brought the much-hyped “wheel of death” to a stop and freed the prefect from his restraints. Though somewhat disheveled, and a bit dizzy, the official seemed otherwise none the worse for wear. He waved in response to a standing ovation and was escorted back to his seat.

  The formally quiescent crowd was engaged, the ringmaster could feel it, and hurried to take advantage. “Thank you . . . I’m pleased to announce that this is the 3,672,416th performance of the famed Circus Solara. Some claim it originated on Sameron, more than ten thousand years ago, while others say it was founded on Cepa II some twelve thousand years ago. But enough of that!” the ringmaster proclaimed loudly. “The show continues. . . . Bring forth the beasts!”

  There was a blare of horns and something of a stir as a man wearing a leather hood, vest, and pants led a column of pathetic-looking animals out into the arena. A white angen led the way. It had what Rebo assumed to be a fake horn secured to its forehead and was harnessed to a cage on wheels. An old dire cat could be seen lying inside the bars, tongue lolling, either too old or too sick to stand.

  A hairy tusker had been secured to the back of the cage and followed head down, its tail drooping. A dog rode on top of the mammoth and continually turned somersaults, as if trying to bite its own tail. The children loved that, but their parents were becoming restive, and a piece of overripe fruit sailed through the air. It hit the cage, exploded into fragments, and sprayed the dire cat with orange pulp. It snarled, and that generated scattered applause.

  “This is absurd,” Rebo said disgustedly, as he whispered into Norr’s ear. “Let’s leave.”

  The sensitive was about to agree when the animal that was supposed to be the main attraction followed the tusker out into the arena. Like all its kind, the L-phant had been bioengineered to perform a variety of tasks. Hauling mostly, which was why the ancient engineers had chosen to eliminate what had once been huge heads and thereby create more cargo space above their immensely strong spines. Of course it was important for the L-phants to see the road in front of them, so their eyes had been moved down under their prehensile trunks, forward of their chest-centered brains.

  But after more than ninety years of hard labor in Thara’s southern jungles, this six-ton beast was no longer useful. Everything from the slowness of his gait, to the way his tail drooped, suggested the same thing. The angen was sick, tired, and depressed. Something that Norr experienced as a vast heaviness. The sensitive was familiar with the breed, having ridden them on Ning, and had come to admire them. So now, as the L-phant plodded out into the center of the arena, she shook her head in response to Rebo’s suggestion. “In a minute. . . . I want to see what happens next.”

  Rebo was about to reply, but a blare of trumpets overrode the runner as the beast master went to free the L-phant from his tether. “Look at this mighty beast,” the ringmaster commanded, “and imagine his power!”

  That was the cue for a clown to carry a huge melon to the beast master, who ceremoniously placed the object on the ground next to one of the beast’s enormous pillarlike feet. It was clear to everyone present that the angen was supposed to raise its foot and bring it down on the object, thereby demonstrating its strength, but nothing happened. The beast master reacted to what he saw as a betrayal by prodding the L-phant with a six-inch-long steel needle. The poor beast produced what sounded like a human scream, and Norr came to her feet. “Stop that!”

  But either the beast master didn’t hear the sensitive, or didn’t care, because, when the L-phant failed to lift his foot for a second time, the goad went in again.

  Rebo had already started to stand, and was in the process of reaching for Norr’s arm, when the sensitive stepped up onto the knee-high wall and jumped down into the arena. Puffs of dust exploded away from the variant’s feet as she landed. Logos yelled, “Stop!” from the vicinity of her neckline, and the audience produced a reedy cheer. Some of the onlookers felt sorry for the L-phant, while others were simply bored and eager for some sort of conflict. None had any reason to support the beast master.

  But the members of the troupe did, and they came out to defend one of their own, as the angry young woman crossed the arena. Some were armed with cudgels, others carried wooden staffs, and some wore ancient brass knuckles. A sure sign that they were not only ready for a dustup—but had been in plenty of them before.

  The Crosser hung butt down under Rebo’s left arm as he followed Norr into the ring, but the runner didn’t plan to use it unless forced to do so since it would be best to resolve the dispute without bloodshed if that was possible. And, since war hammers weren’t welcome at public events, Hoggles was unarmed. That didn’t stop the heavy from uttering his characteristic war cry, however, as he landed in the arena and hurried to catch up.

  Meanwhile, Norr felt a wave of resentment and anger roll over her as the distance between her and the self-styled beast master began to close. But, while she could block some of the incoming thought forms, there was no way to make Logos shut up. “This is insane!” the AI declared angrily. “What if that brute attacks you? I could be injured! I insist that you return to your seat at once!”

  But Logos could have been talking to a brick wall for all the good that his imprecations did him—and was still in midrant when Norr came face-to-face with the enraged beast master. “Leave the L-phant alone!” the sensitive demanded. “You’re hurting him!”

  “So?” the circus performer replied insolently. “The animal belongs to me. . . . That means I can discipline it in any way that I choose.”

  Rebo arrived just as the res
t of the circus troupe began to gather behind the beast master. “He has a point,” the runner said hopefully. “The L-phant is his after all.”

  “No,” Norr replied through gritted teeth, “no one has a right to hurt angens. Give me the goad,” she demanded, and extended her hand.

  “Or?” the beast master wanted to know.

  “Or I will take it from you,” Hoggles replied grimly, as he took up a position at Norr’s side.

  “Can’t we discuss this?” Rebo inquired reasonably. “Surely there must be some way to . . .”

  But the runner never got the opportunity to finish his sentence as the beast master launched a sucker punch at Norr, was surprised to discover that the sensitive had already stepped back out of the way, and was therefore perfectly positioned to kick him in the balls. The man in the hood uttered a grunt of pain as the variant’s foot came into contact with his private parts and made a grab for the much-abused organs as he fell to his knees. That left his leather-encased skull vulnerable to attack, which Hoggles took immediate advantage of as he locked his fists together and brought them down on top of the performer’s skull. That put the beast master out of his pain and the fight.

  But rather than terminate the conflict as the heavy hoped that it would, the massive blow had the opposite effect. Angered by what they had seen and determined to have their revenge, a mixed force of clowns, acrobats, and musicians rushed to attack the threesome. Rebo positioned himself to Norr’s left. “Now look at what you’ve done,” the runner said, as he intercepted a blow, and returned it with interest. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” the variant replied defensively, as she eyed the oncoming strongman. “What was I supposed to do? Let him hurt the L-phant?”

  “Yes,” Logos put in. “You were.” And the AI might have said more, but Rebo had come under attack by a pair of mimes, while Hoggles was staggering about with three acrobats on his back. That left Norr to deal with the strongman alone, or try to, since the matchup was anything but fair. She attempted to backpedal, but wasn’t able to do so quickly enough, and soon found herself wrapped within the embrace of the weightlifter’s huge arms. Muscles writhed, all the air was forced out of the variant’s lungs, and she was just about to lose consciousness when Logos came to her defense. Or his defense, since that was the AI’s actual priority, consistent with his programming.

  Suddenly, just as the heavily muscled norm felt the woman in his arms go limp, the surface of her dress delivered 775,000 volts of electricity directly into the strongman’s body! He let go of his victim, fell over backward, and hit the ground hard. Norr collapsed a few feet away. Having dispatched both mimes and a clown, Rebo was there to scoop Norr up and throw the sensitive over his shoulder. Then, as Hoggles threw an acrobat at a group of bellicose musicians, the off-worlders started to back away. And because the crowd was pelting the circus performers with food, none of the troupe was able to follow. Norr, who had recovered her senses by then, made use of both fists to pound on Rebo’s back. “Put me down, damn you!”

  The runner made sure he was well up into the seats before acceding to the sensitive’s demand. “There,” Rebo said, as he placed the young woman on her feet. “You’re welcome.”

  “No you’re not,” Logos put in resentfully. “Don’t ever do that again!”

  Norr wanted to sound angry, if only to maintain an appearance of independence, but the fact that her dress was talking back to her made that hard to do. She laughed, Rebo joined in, and Hoggles rumbled loudly. Then, having passed an interesting if not especially relaxing evening, the threesome hired one of the many torchbearers who were waiting outside and followed the boy home.

  Having sent Dyson into the runner’s guild to investigate, and having confirmed that a sensitive and two male companions had checked in, Shaz knew that the troublesome trio were right where he expected them to be.

  However, because the runner’s guild had excellent security, it soon became obvious that there was only one member of the team who was likely to get inside the facility, and that was the combat variant himself. So Shaz sent the rest of the team away, chose a vantage point in the shadows opposite the guildhall, and waited for his chance. Despite the fact that his built-in camouflage was good, it wasn’t perfect, which meant the guards would spot the operative if he were to walk in through the door. But if there was a distraction, something to claim at least some of their attention, then the variant stood an excellent chance of slipping past them. Once inside, Shaz felt confident of his ability to locate and enter the correct room. And, if the subjects of his investigation were present? Then he would wait, and wait some more if that was necessary, because he was nothing if not patient. Which was fortunate, because the better part of an hour was to pass before the combat variant heard the rattle of an approaching carriage and saw the conveyance pull into the brightly lit area in front of the hall.

  There was no way to know who the passenger or passengers were, but they must have been important, because once the doorman blew his brass whistle, all manner of staff boiled out to greet the newly arrived guest or guests. Which was exactly what Shaz had been hoping for. In their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the woman who was exiting the coach, the guards missed the momentary shimmer associated with the operative’s passing and remained unaware as the variant made his way across the lobby toward the front desk.

  The next part was somewhat tricky, because even though Shaz knew the people he was interested in were staying at the hall, he had no idea which room or rooms they were in. So, conscious of the fact that the hustle and bustle associated with the VIP’s arrival wouldn’t last much longer, the variant made his way around the end of the counter, and sidled up behind the burly receptionist. His opportunity came as the newly arrived guest made her grand entrance. Whereas most runners preferred to maintain a low profile, lest they be targeted by members of the thief’s guild, this individual was an extremely obvious exception. She wore a glittery headband, complete with a red feather, and a bright green dress, all meant to impress her upscale clientele, or so Shaz assumed.

  But, rather than ogle the woman’s considerable cleavage, as the receptionist was doing, the operative examined the guestbook instead. And, when he couldn’t find what he sought, Shaz had to flip the current page out of the way in order to inspect previous entries. That was when the variant saw Rebo’s signature, followed by Norr’s, and the nearly illegible scrawl that probably belonged to the heavy.

  Shaz took in the fact that the threesome had taken suite 303, and was already backing away, when the receptionist turned to pull the guestbook over in front of him. He noticed that the ledger was turned to the wrong page, assumed that an errant breeze had been responsible for the change, and wondered what the woman in front of him would look like naked.

  A scant five minutes later the combat variant had climbed three flights of stairs, made his way down a long hall, and was standing with his ear to a door with the numerals 303 on it. Then, having waited for a full minute without hearing any activity within, Shaz made use of a pick to open the lock. Having glanced both ways to make sure the hall was clear, the variant pushed the door open and slipped into the room. Once inside, the operative discovered that the suite was not only dark but momentarily empty, which suited his purposes well. The possibility that the AI was there, resting within a few feet of him, caused the variant’s heart to beat faster. The search began.

  Rebo yawned as he led the other two up the broad flight of stairs, tried to remember which room he and Crowley had stayed in thirty years earlier, and couldn’t. Once on the third floor he turned to the right. Wall-mounted lamps marked off regular intervals and threw pools of light onto the floor. Once in front of 303, the runner inserted his key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open. The next couple of minutes were spent fumbling with matches and finicky lamps. “Bring them to me,” Norr offered, having mastered the process. “And I’ll light them for you.”

  Hoggles nodded gratefully,
went to remove one of the lamps from a wall bracket, and swore when it burned his fingers. “Damn! That thing is hot!”

  Rebo frowned, slid his hand in under his jacket, and wrapped his fingers around the Crosser. “Hot? Why would it be hot?”

  “Because it was lit,” Logos grated contemptuously. “Check the bedrooms. I predict that someone came to turn the beds down.”

  “He’s right,” Norr confirmed, as she peered into her room. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”

  Having taken refuge in one corner of the sitting room, Shaz stood perfectly still and strove to defocus his mind. Because just as combat variants had been provided with the means to fool the eye, they had also been equipped to evade detection by sensitives, but only if they exercised perfect control over both their thoughts and emotions.

  Now, having discovered that Norr not only had the AI, but was wearing the device, the operative was hard-pressed to contain a sense of jubilation. Fortunately, there were things to worry about as well—which meant Shaz could use one emotion to counter the other. What to do? Attack the threesome and attempt to steal what he had come for, or escape and follow them? Though of value to the Techno Society in and of himself, Logos would be worth even more if they knew where Socket was, and given his present frame of mind, the AI wasn’t likely to tell them.

  In the end it was that, plus the fact that Shaz couldn’t be absolutely sure that he would win what would almost certainly be a hard-fought battle, that helped to make up the variant’s mind. Rather than attack the AI’s custodians, the operative resolved to follow them to Socket, where he could take both prizes at the same time. Assuming he could escape, that is—which was anything but certain.

  Norr was just about to bid the others good night and enter her room, when she sensed something strange. The almost indiscernible glow was similar to the aura that all living beings generated, yet different somehow, as if partially shielded. The sensitive opened her mouth, and was about to comment on the phenomenon, but never got to do so as Milos Lysander took control of her physical body. The invading spirit preferred male plumbing but had occupied this body on previous occasions and gradually grown accustomed to it. “He’s in the corner!” the dead scientist proclaimed loudly, as he pointed at the spot where Shaz was hiding. “Grab him!”