Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  “My snake,” the animal trainer said urgently, as he struggled against the pain in his head. “Where’s my snake?”

  “Sweetums is right here,” Lila answered soothingly. “Giggles found him clear over on the other side of hold and brought him back.”

  The beast master saw the pod, felt the six-inch-long serpent land on his chest, and found himself looking into a single beady eye. The human saw a long narrow tongue test the air as the tiny head jerked from side to side. A hole opened up at the pit of the animal trainer’s stomach, and his voice was hoarse. “The bandage! Who put the bandage on my head?”

  “The sensitive did,” Lila answered innocently. “Why do you ask?”

  But the circus performer never got the opportunity to answer, because Sweetums chose that particular moment to strike, and the overwhelming need to scream consumed the remaining minutes of the beast master’s life.

  lt was quiet inside the Security Control Center. So quiet that Mog could hear air whisper through the vent above his head. The image on the screen was dim. But there was no mistaking the man with the guns, the heavy with the war hammer, or the woman with the wooden staff. The same female that he and his brothers had lusted after for days. “What are they up to?” Ruk wondered out loud, as the threesome continued to walk directly into the camera.

  “They want to kill us,” Mog replied thoughtfully.

  “But that’s impossible,” his brother objected. “They can’t get in—and we have better weapons than they do.”

  Ruk was correct, Mog knew that, so why did he feel uneasy? The emotion wasn’t logical, but the outlaw had experienced such misgivings before and learned to trust them.

  “Let’s get our guns and kill them,” Ruk suggested helpfully.

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Mog replied, as he ran thick fingers through his greasy beard.

  Ruk looked surprised. “You don’t? Why not?”

  “I just don’t,” the older man said firmly. “So shut the hell up.”

  Ruk knew better than to mess with Mog when the older man’s back was up, so rather than aggravate his sibling, he went back to work on his dead brother’s left femur. Eventually, after the bone dried out, the outlaw planned to carve the story of his dead sibling’s life into the leg bone. But, before the scrimshaw could begin, it was first necessary to scrape all of the remaining tissue off the shaft.

  Ruk’s blade made a rasping sound as Mog watched the disparate threesome arrive in front of the Security Control Center’s hatch. Who were they, he wondered? And why were the other passengers still sitting around the hold? There was no way to know.

  Then, even as the outlaw watched, the man with the guns brought one of them up and pointed it at the camera. There was a smile on his face, as if he knew that the outlaw was watching, and wanted him to see it coming. Mog said, “No!” the screen went black, and the cannibals were blind.

  “Okay,” Rebo said, as he returned the Hogger to the cross-draw holster. “That ought to mess with their minds. . . . Assuming they have minds. Give me a time check.”

  “Twenty seconds,” Logos said authoritatively. His voice seemed to originate from Norr but actually issued forth from the tattered coat that she wore.

  “Light the fuse,” the runner ordered, “and hand the bomb to me.”

  Norr held the canteen up to the torch that Hoggles was carrying, saw the oil-soaked rag catch fire, and passed the weighty container to Rebo. “All right,” the runner said grimly. “Get ready . . . And remember . . . We need to close with them fast. If they get a chance to fire those automatic weapons, we’ll be in deep trouble.”

  The others nodded and took up positions to either side of the hatch. Logos provided the countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five . . .”

  Suddenly, without warning, the red light mounted over the keypad flashed green. The hatch was unlocked! There wasn’t time to ask Logos how such a thing could happen. All Rebo could do was pull the door open, lob the fuel bomb through the opening, and hope for the best.

  Thanks to Mog’s premonition, as well as the attack on the camera, both he and Ruk were armed and waiting when the assault began. But neither bandit was prepared for the previously impregnable hatch to swing open—quickly followed by an explosion of flames as the earthenware canteen shattered, and highly flammable oil sprayed in every direction. Some of the burning fluid splattered Ruk’s chest. That forced the outlaw to drop his machine pistol, slap at the flames with his bare hands, and swear monotonously.

  Then, just as Mog triggered his weapon, the ship’s fire suppression system came on. Because even though Shewhoswims allowed small fires in the main hold, that was the only place where such activities were tolerated lest critical systems be damaged. Distracted by the flames, plus the sudden onslaught of white foam, Mog’s bullets hit the overhead and whined away. That gave Rebo the opportunity he required. The Crosser barked three times, and while the outlaw was forced to take three steps backward as the slugs hammered his chest, Mog was still on his feet when Hoggles brought the war hammer down on the top of his skull. There was a thud, followed by a soft sigh, and a thump as the cannibal hit the foam-covered deck.

  That left Ruk. No longer on fire, but unable to locate his machine pistol under the surrounding foam, he produced an eight-inch knife. And, since Norr was the closest opponent, she was the one he chose to attack.

  The sensitive saw the movement, heard Logos shout, “Run!” into her left ear, and parried the blade with her staff.

  There was a loud clack as the weapons made contact, followed by a grunt as the distal end of the stick sank into the outlaw’s belly, and a solid thwack as Norr struck Ruk’s temple. His eyes rolled back in his skull, and he was already falling when Rebo shot him.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” the sensitive complained, as the outlaw’s life force drained out of his body.

  “True,” the runner agreed matter-of-factly. “But it sure as hell felt good.”

  The next voice to be heard belonged to Shewhoswims, or the AI’s voice synthesizer, which amounted to the same thing. “You have sixty seconds in which to evacuate the Security Control Center,” the ship announced. “Subsequent to that, the hatch will be sealed, the atmosphere will be pumped out of the compartment, and the external keypad will be permanently disabled.”

  “She’s afraid that you will use the Control Center the same way the cannibals did,” Logos advised. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Later, Rebo would wonder why he hadn’t taken the moment necessary to retrieve one of the automatic weapons that lay on the deck, but that was later, after the hatch had been sealed tight. They were still in the corridor, making their way back toward the hold, when Logos spoke. “The foam destroyed three percent of my photo receptors,” the AI complained to no one in particular. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

  “Yes,” Rebo responded wearily. “I think we are.”

  FIVE

  Old Wimmura, on the Planet Derius

  By recognizing the assassin’s guild as a legitimate organization having the same legal standing as the metalworker’s guild, or the runner’s guild, Emperor Hios was able to take what had previously been a criminal enterprise and convert it into something positive. Because so long as the assassins worked for the government, pursuing law breakers in return for bounties, they were a force for good.

  —Heva Manos, advisor to Emperor Hios, in his biography, A Web of Stars

  The angen snorted as it topped the hill, sent twin columns of lung-warmed air out through its flared nostrils, and tossed its head when Shaz hauled back on the reins. Even though more than a thousand years had elapsed since Wimmura had been nuked, the burned-out ruins were much as they had been immediately after the massive explosion, except for the thin layer of vegetation that covered the city like a greenish gray scab. No one went there, no one in their right mind, that is, since everyone knew that the soil had been poisoned, the water was tainted, and evil spirits roamed the rubble-filled streets at
night. And Shaz couldn’t blame them, because as he looked out on the ruins, it felt as though the once-proud city was brooding over the disaster that had befallen it so many years before. And given the fact that the nuke had been transported through space using a star gate, there was little wonder as to why the local population remained fearful of technology. Interestingly enough it had been Milos Lysander in his incarnation as Emperor Hios, and Jevan Kane, in his role as Hios’s son, who nuked cities such as Wimmura in a last-ditch attempt to remain in power. Now, these many centuries later, the father worked to make amends, while the son sought to regain what he continued to see as his birthright.

  Shaz found the whole thing to be amusing—and smiled thinly as he gazed down on the ruins. Many weeks had passed since the attack on Techno Society headquarters, and, assuming that the great starship had completed its journey from Thara, the shuttle would arrive soon. And then, as if in response to the combat variant’s thoughts, a white contrail marked the sky, artificial thunder rolled across the land, and the past was brought back to life.

  The shuttle was crowded, very crowded, and some of the passengers were spacesick. But given what they had managed to survive, and the prospect of putting down safely, most were in an excellent mood. Except for Jak Rebo, that is, and the source of his unhappiness was plain to see. The travelers had no reason to believe that Techno Society operatives would be waiting for them on the ground, but they knew it was possible, especially given the fact that Kane was in league with the technologists. That was why Rebo had suggested that both he and his companions wear disguises.

  What the runner failed to anticipate, however, was that Norr would turn to the Circus Solara for help. And that was how he wound up dressed as a clown. And not just any clown, but a particularly absurd creature with a head of curly blue hair, white cheeks, and a bulbous nose. His loose-fitting gown was white with red polka dots and came with floppy shoes that he categorically refused to wear. The outfit smelled musty, made Rebo want to scratch, and was the subject of crude jokes by other passengers. It was an affront to the runner’s dignity and something that had begun to wear on him.

  There was no way to conceal the fact that Hoggles was a heavy, but by placing a leather hood over the giant’s head and dressing the variant to look like a strongman, Norr hoped to disguise his identity if not his genotype.

  By chance, or by design, the sensitive’s outfit was a good deal more becoming than those worn by her companions. It consisted of a feathery headdress, a lime green skin-suit, and slippers. And so it was that after the shuttle put down, and the ramp hit the ground, the crowd that had assembled to witness the ultimate manifestation of evil, was confronted by a completely unexpected sight as thirty-plus fully costumed members of the Circus Solara marched off the ship and onto the surface of Derius.

  The band went first, instruments blaring, closely followed by a column of colorfully dressed acrobats, jugglers, and clowns, who, with the single exception of the dour-looking individual with blue hair, tumbled, cavorted, and generally made fools of themselves as the rest of the circus brought up the rear. All of which was by way of an impromptu advertisement for the troupe’s first performance in New Wimmura, and proved to be so distracting that not a single rock was thrown until all the passengers were well clear of the ship, and it was beginning to lift. That was when a priest remembered his duty, called upon his followers to rebuke evil, and threw the first stone.

  Meanwhile, having observed the landing from his vantage point high on the hill above, Shaz smiled as he peered through an ancient pair of binoculars. Having been warned about the likelihood of disguises, the combat variant had been able to pick the blue-haired clown, the oversized strongman, and the slender acrobat out of the crowd within a matter of seconds. And since any one of the threesome could have been wearing the highly mutable computer, it seemed safe to assume that Logos had survived the journey as well.

  Satisfied that everything was going according to plan, Shaz lowered the binoculars and returned the proscribed device to the nondescript bag slung alongside of the angen’s saddle. Then, having wrenched the animal back toward the trail, the variant spurred it forward. It would take the newly arrived passengers a good three hours to reach the city, and the variant intended to arrive there first. The trail followed the contour of the hill downward, past the shattered observatory, and onto the remains of a paved road. The cold air nipped at his skin—and it felt good to be alive.

  Having successfully made it off the shuttle without being injured by the stone-throwing mob, and followed by a group of merchants into the suburbs of New Wimmura, the travelers paused long enough to shed their costumes at an outlying tavern and buy the troupe a round of drinks before paying the city’s gate tax and passing between a pair of largely symbolic stone pillars. New Wimmura was a fairly typical city for the most part, other than for the fact that it had been established on the site of an open-pit mine, and unlike many of the cities Rebo was familiar with, seemed to eschew all technology beyond the lever, wheel, and pulley. All of which seemed to make it an unlikely place for the Techno Society to recruit new adherents, but the techies had never been shy and no doubt felt a need to preserve and protect the local star gate.

  Eventually, having followed a road down into the bottom of the pit, the travelers passed a noisome stockyard, wandered along the edge of a fabric-covered marketplace, and strolled into the shadow cast by the mine’s western rim. That was when they spotted the huge box-shaped construct that squatted atop a pair of twenty-foot-high treads. The crawler had been used to process ore at one time. But that was back before the original city had been nuked—and the huge machine had been repurposed as the Ore Box Inn. Or that’s what a hand-lettered sign claimed—and the off-worlders were in need of a place to spend the night. “What do you think?” Rebo inquired as he eyed the ramp that led up through an ancient hatch.

  Norr shrugged. “It looks okay to me. . . . Besides, it’s getting dark, and it would be nice to find a place to stay before the sun goes down.”

  “I agree,” Hoggles rumbled. “Let’s give it a try.”

  So Rebo led the way up the ramp, entered a cramped lobby, and shrugged the pack off his back. The desk clerk was a balding, middle-aged man who had the look of a weight lifter. “Yeah?” the proprietor inquired. “What can I do for ya?”

  “We’d like a couple of rooms,” Rebo answered.

  “Where ya from?” the innkeeper demanded suspiciously.

  “We came in on the shuttle,” Norr answered cryptically.

  “Oh, ya did, did ya?” the man asked rhetorically. “Well, let me tell ya something right now. . . . I run a clean inn! That means no machines, no gadgets, and no gizmos.” The proprietor looked down toward the Hogger. “How ’bout that pistol you’re packin’ son? Is that a muzzle-loader? Cause if it’s a breechloader, then we got us a problem.”

  “Yes, of course it is,” Rebo lied, knowing full well that Logos probably qualified as a machine, a gadget, and a gizmo.

  “All right then,” the inn keeper said pompously, “but be warned! The penalty for possessing techno contraband is death.”

  “As it should be,” the runner agreed. “So, how ’bout those rooms? Have you got any vacancies?”

  The proprietor did, and half an hour later Norr pulled Logos on over her clothes, and ordered the AI to be very circumspect about what he said and when he said it. With that out of the way, she followed the others along a lamplit hallway and through the cramped lobby. It was dark by then, or would have been had it not been for the thousands of torches and oil-fed lamps that kept the night at least partially at bay.

  Meanwhile, even though Logos knew that the biologicals were hungry and focused on finding something to eat, the AI’s priorities were considerably different. Unbeknownst to them there was a task that the computer needed to accomplish before he could safely seize control of Socket, which explained why he wanted to reach the Planet Haafa as quickly as possible. “New Wimmura has a star gate,” Logos whi
spered urgently. “I can feel it. . . . The old city had a gate, too, a commercial portal that was destroyed by the nuke that Kane sent through it, but this one was the property of the mining company, and it survived.”

  Rebo, who was close enough to hear, frowned. “First,” he said sotto voce, “shut the hell up! Second, what we want is something to eat. . . . The gate can wait until tomorrow.”

  “No,” the AI countered emphatically, “it can’t. We should scout it tonight—and use it tomorrow. Or would you like to walk the thousand-plus miles to the city of Feda instead?”

  “All right, all right,” the runner grumbled. “Point us in the right direction and shut whatever it is that you talk through.”

  Logos gave the humans some basic directions and let the biologicals find their way across the pit to a bank of ladders that carried them up to the appropriate bench. Once there, the threesome soon discovered that, unlike any other planet they had been on, the Techno Society’s local headquarters constituted a very popular destination. Not because the local population supported the organization’s goals—but because they opposed them. So much so that hundreds of people turned out each evening to parade back and forth in front of the much-abused building, hurl rocks at it, and shout antitechnic slogans. Such activities were tolerated it seemed— so long as the crowd didn’t venture too close.

  Having been absorbed by the angry crowd, the off-worlders found themselves pushed about like chips of wood on an angry sea. It was difficult to hold a conversation due to the chaotic nature of the situation—but Norr managed a brief interchange with a friendly antitechnic priest. “Hi there!” she said, as the two of them bumped shoulders and were pushed along. “My friends and I just arrived. . . . Is it always like this?”

  “No,” the young man replied. “No one comes here in the mornings. . . . The faithful have to work. We gather at night, to rebuke the techno devils and prevent them from polluting the minds of our children.”