In addition to a brace of semiautomatic pistols, Shaz had armed himself with a fully automatic assault weapon, which the combat variant held at the ready as he advanced toward the bright oval of daylight visible where the hatch should have been. Phan followed close behind.
Seconds later, they were standing at what had once been ground level, looking down into a broad valley through which a river wound back and forth. A herd of animals could be seen grazing next to a marshy area, skeletal-looking birds circled above, and the shadows cast by clouds caressed the land. “It looks like the ground dropped away,” Shaz observed. “There must have been a quake or something.”
“Yeah,” Phan agreed phlegmatically. “I sure hope Logos knows what he’s doing.”
“Oh, I think he knows what he’s doing,” the combat variant replied cynically. “But for whom?”
No sooner did the hearse rattle through the nunnery’s gates, than a shout was heard, and half a dozen nuns came running. There was a bang as the wagon’s tailgate fell, and Rebo was brushed aside as Norr was literally snatched out of his arms before being rushed inside.
Rebo, still dazed by what had taken place, grabbed the lamp and followed the nuns into what turned out to be a spacious medical clinic. It was the only facility of its kind available to the city’s poor. The operating room was tiled, spotlessly clean, and better equipped than the runner would have expected. Sister Kartha was present, as were two capable-looking assistants. She ordered the runner into a corner while she washed her hands. In the meantime, the other nuns proceeded to strip Norr of both her weapons and clothes prior to turning the sensitive facedown on the operating table. Once that was accomplished, the two women went to work mopping up what looked like an extraordinary amount of blood, and began to prep the area immediately around the blue-edged wound. “So, she’s alive?” Rebo ventured tentatively.
“Yes,” Kartha replied irritably. “She is. No thanks to you. But just barely, and truth be told, I have no idea why. By all rights your wife should be dead.”
“She isn’t my wife,” Rebo said dully, his eyes fixed on Norr.
“No?” the abbess inquired caustically as she waved her hands to dry them. “And why is that?”
“Because I’m an idiot,” the runner confessed miserably.
“Now there’s something we can agree on,” Kartha said grimly. “Now shut up so we can get to work.”
There were advantages to being located in Pohua, where ancient medical artifacts surfaced on a fairly regular basis, and—though never cheap—could sometimes be purchased at a relatively reasonable price, especially if a certain king wanted to be treated for the venereal disease that continued to plague him.
Norr felt a strange sense of detachment as she “stood” next to her physical body and looked down on it. The scene was murky, which meant the details were hard to discern, but there was no mistaking the urgency with which the nuns were preparing to operate on her. And judging from the size of the hole under her right shoulder blade, the team was wasting its time. That was why Norr was tempted to turn away and seek higher planes, where physical pain was unknown.
But a tendril of energy still connected the sensitive to her physical body. It was rather weak, however, and Norr knew she could sever it if she chose to, but something held her back. But what?
“The answer is simple,” Lysander, said as his thoughts began to flow into the variant’s mind. “Look at the thought forms around Rebo. . . . That’s why you’re tempted to stay.”
The sensitive looked, “saw” how miserable the runner was, and felt what he felt. A vast longing combined with an impending sense of doom.
Lysander glowed with internal light as he came to “stand” at her side. “And there’s one more thing,” the spirit entity added. “Rebo is here because of you. Should you choose to terminate this incarnation, he will be lost in grief—and Logos will take control of Socket. And not just Logos, but the Techno Society under the leadership of Tepho, who wants to control the star gates for the same corrupt reasons that I did.
“So I beg you to stay, not just for the sake of the man who loves you and came back to the physical world in order to protect you, but for the sake of humanity as well. Because the long slide into darkness has begun—and the gates represent the only hope for something better than barbarism.”
Norr was about to respond, about to say something, when Sister Kartha pushed a probe down into the open wound, and the resulting pain sent the sensitive reeling. “There it is,” the abbess announced, as the metal stylus made contact with the lead ball. “Now to get it out.”
Rebo had seen medicos extract bullets before, which was why the runner expected Kartha to pick up a scalpel and cut the projectile out.
But the abbess had another tool in mind, something that had been common once, and would be again if craftspeople were able to successfully duplicate the artifact. Metal scraped on metal as the solar powered surgical scarab was removed from a basin filled with disinfectant and placed on the sensitive’s bare back.
Rebo watched in fascination as the tiny insectlike robot scurried up to the wound, circled the hole as if to determine its exact diameter, and dived inside. “First the machine will cauterize all of the bleeders,” the abbess explained. “Then it will make its way down to the musket ball and remove it.”
The runner had seen something similar on a previous occasion, and was about to say as much, when a novice burst into the surgery. “Sister Kartha! Come quick! The police are at the door. They claim the sensitive is a thief!”
The abbess looked at Rebo, uttered one of the many swear words she had learned during a childhood spent in the slums of Pokua, and turned back again. “Tell them I’m busy. . . . Show them into my study and bring them some tea. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
The aspirant nodded, turned, and hurried into the hall.
Under normal circumstances, the fact that the authorities were practically standing outside the door waiting to arrest him would have sent Rebo into the fight-or-flight mode. But now, with Norr’s life on the line, the only thing the runner cared about was the scarab. A lot of time had passed since the robot had descended into the wound, or so it seemed to Rebo, and he was just about to comment on that when the slightly deformed musket ball popped up out of the hole.
Sister Kartha made use of a pair of forceps to pluck the projectile off Norr’s skin and hold it up for inspection. It was flattened on one side. “Here it is . . .” the abbess said. “It looks like the bullet slanted upward and came to rest against her scapula. Now, as soon as the scarab finishes repairing the damage to her tissues, it will back its way out and close the wound. At that point I will allow the police to enter.”
“But you can’t!” Rebo objected. “They’ll throw her in jail, and she’ll die there.”
“You should have thought about that possibility earlier,” the abbess responded sternly. “You may have a relationship with Nom Maa . . . But that doesn’t entitle you to steal other people’s property! The sisters and I have a spiritual obligation to heal the sick—but we aren’t required to harbor criminals. Oh, and surrender your weapons. . . . We’ll have no killing here.”
The runner was tempted to argue his case, to try and explain why the theft had been justified, but could see that it wouldn’t make any difference. “All right,” he said humbly. “I’m not ready to surrender my weapons, not yet, but I’ll bring our things in here. Maybe they’ll let us keep some of our clothes.”
If the abbess thought Rebo was about to flee, she made no effort to stop him as the runner bolted out of surgery and sprinted down the hall. Once in the cell where the two of them had been allowed to sleep, the off-worlder grabbed what few belongings they had and went back the way he had come. The scarab had surfaced by that time, Norr’s wound had been sealed, and the robot’s tiny feet continued to wiggle as the abbess placed the device back in its basin.
“Okay,” Rebo said, as he dumped both packs next to the operating table. “I can’t
tell you how much I appreciate all that you’ve done. . . . The police are sure to separate us once they come in—so could I have a moment alone with Lonni?”
Kartha’s expression softened. “Yes, of course. But don’t take long.”
“I won’t,” the runner promised, and felt for Norr’s pulse as the nuns left the room. It was weak, but still there, and Rebo allowed himself to hope.
Norr wasn’t entirely sure what was taking place in the physical realm, but allowed herself to be drawn back into her body, where it was necessary to grit her teeth against the pain. Conscious now, but still laid out on her stomach, the sensitive heard Rebo speak. “Sogol? Can you hear me?”
The AI slithered up the sensitive’s bare arm to gather itself on her shoulder. “Yes,” the computer answered, “I can hear you.”
“Good. Lonni damned near got killed stealing that gate seed . . . So the least you can do is get us out of here!”
“I would be happy to,” Logos 1.2 responded. “But before I can activate the gate seed you must remove the sphere from the cage that presently surrounds it.”
Now, having been reminded, Rebo knew that the AI was correct. Once activated the globe would start to spin— which wouldn’t be possible until the object was released from the lamp. But how to free it? And do so before the police came to get him?
The runner swore a long string of oaths as he secured a grip on the big instrument cabinet, wrestled the piece of furniture over to the door, and pushed it into place. The obstacle wouldn’t keep the authorities out for very long, Rebo knew that, but figured any delay would help.
Having bought some time, the runner began to rifle through the cabinet’s drawers. He had already rejected a number of instruments, none of which looked like they would be appropriate to the task, when he saw what appeared to be a bone saw. But would it cut through metal? Rebo was about to experiment when Sogol spoke. “What about Norr’s sword? Would that do the job?”
“Damn!” Rebo exclaimed. “I should have thought of that.” The bone saw clattered as it hit the floor.
The nuns had removed both the sword and scabbard shortly after bringing Norr into the operating room. The runner hurried over to where the weapon lay and heard the whisper of steel as he pulled the blade free. Norr, who had been witness to the conversation, managed to croak his name. “Jak . . .”
Rebo felt his heart leap. He hurried to the young woman’s side. “You’re conscious! Thank God! How do you feel?”
“Never mind that,” the sensitive whispered hoarsely. “Be careful with the sword! The blade is extremely sharp. If you aim for the center of the lamp, it will cut through the framework and the gate seed.”
“Which would be most unfortunate,” Logos 1.2 put in. “Because the resulting explosion would destroy this room, the nunnery, and half of Pohua.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Rebo said dryly. Then, having placed the lamp well clear of the operating table, the runner brought the sword up over his head and brought the supersharp edge down along the right side of the lamp. There was a shower of sparks as metal parted, the runner took a nasty shock, and the acrid scent of ozone filled the air. His arm was still tingling when Rebo returned the weapon to its scabbard and bent to retrieve what remained of the lamp. He was relieved to see that the sphere was intact. Then, as the runner struggled to bend a piece of metal out of the way, someone began to pound on the door. “This is the police! Open up!”
Rebo drew the 9mm, fired two shots into the very top of the door, and heard loud scuffling noises as the police beat a hasty retreat. “Okay,” the runner said, having returned the pistol to its holster, “where were we? Ah, yes, the gate seed. I press on both dimples for sixty seconds . . . right?”
“That’s correct,” Sogol assured him. “Then, when you feel the locks give, twist both hemispheres in opposite directions.”
Rebo pressed, heard noises out in the hall, and knew the police were getting ready to take another crack at the door. “Hurry,” Norr croaked. “Or we’ll rot in whatever passes for Pohua’s jail.” The sensitive made an attempt to rise, but the pain was too intense, and she collapsed.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the locks gave. Then, having secured a good grip on both halves of the sphere, the runner twisted them in opposite directions. Beams of bright light stabbed the walls, the object started to oscillate, and Rebo had to let go as a battering ram hit the door.
TWELVE
The Planet Zeen
Those who swim the sea must ride the currents, for to oppose them is to challenge the planet itself, and therefore the stars.
—Saylo Imono, phib philosopher, Currents
The elders had been hung by their thumbs from the framework that normally served to smoke meat during the fall months, when the entire village labored to make itself ready for winter, and the dogs grew fat from eating scraps. The villagers’ bare feet had been weighted with rocks, and hung only six inches above the coals, which meant that those who were conscious could smell their burning flesh. All because the village’s chief had been so brave, or so stupid, as to spit on the crippled man.
But, in spite of the systematic torture, the locals refused to surrender their secrets. Or so Tepho assumed, as he ordered one of the metal men to throw another bucket of water onto Subchief Milo Vester, in hopes that the shock would revive him. The water hit the villager’s smoke-blackened face, brought him back into full consciousness, and provoked an explosion of steam as it hit the hot coals. The subchief screamed, or tried to, but produced a strange choking noise instead.
Meanwhile, those villagers lucky enough to survive the spitting incident stood in a sullen group with downcast eyes. Tepho made use of the dead chief ’s hand-carved totem stick to point at Vester’s badly charred feet. “You think that’s painful?” the off-worlder demanded contemptuously. “You know nothing of pain. . . . I was born in pain, have lived with pain every day of my life, and know what real pain is. And so will you unless you answer my questions truthfully.”
“But I have,” Vester protested pitifully. “There is no island of Buru, not that I’m aware of, so how can I tell you about it?”
Tepho slapped his leg with the totem stick and was about to order one of the metal men to put more wood on the fire, when Logos spoke. Because the AI’s voice seemed to originate from Tepho, the villagers assumed that two spirits occupied the stranger’s twisted body. They stirred uneasily and sketched protective symbols into the air. “He could be telling the truth,” Logos suggested. “I doubt any of these people have been more than a couple of hundred miles from the village—so their knowledge of geography is bound to be somewhat limited. Not to mention the fact that the island could have been renamed during the years I’ve been absent.”
Vester wasn’t sure where the second voice was coming from, but sensed a potential ally and was quick to agree. “That’s right!” the subchief said desperately. “We’re ignorant people here. . . . We know nothing of such important matters.”
Tepho tapped his cheek with what had become a swagger stick. “Then who would?” the technologist inquired mildly.
“Lord Arbuk would!” Vester answered eagerly. “He rules from the city of Esperance.”
Tepho turned to the assembled villagers. “Is that true?”
Heads nodded, and a number of voices answered in the affirmative.
The administrator eyed their grimy faces. “Who among you has been to Esperance?”
After a pause, and some whispering, three slightly hesitant hands went up.
Tepho turned to Shaz and Phan. “Put them in shackles. Kill the rest.”
Rather than waste ammunition on a planet where it could be difficult to obtain more—the combat variant ordered the metal men to carry out the executions with their clubs. Some of the villagers tried to flee, but were quickly run down and dispatched on the spot.
Vester passed out at some point during the bloody process but was returned to consciousness when the rain hit his face. The off-
world killers had departed by then, so even though the subchief wanted to die, no one remained to grant his wish. Tendrils of steam rose around the subchief, rain-drops fell like tears, and Socket passed high above.
The Planet Haafa
There was a loud crash as the battering ram made contact with the operating room’s door, followed by the sound of splintering wood, and a prolonged screech as two burly policemen pushed the heavy storage unit out of the way. Once the path was clear the chief of police and Ulbri Alzani stepped into the surgery and paused to look around.
They saw the operating table, the nude woman who lay facedown on it, and the man who stood next to her. Then there was a flash of light, followed by a miniature clap of thunder, and the tableau disappeared. The table, the woman, and the man vanished into thin air, as did part of the nearest wall, a sizeable chunk of the tiled floor, and the Alzani family’s prized lamp. The reality of that, the finality of it, brought the old man to his knees. And that’s where Ulbri Alzani was, still sobbing, when his number three son came to take the patriarch home.
The Planet Zeen
When Rebo came to he was drowning. The water was crystal clear, which meant he could see the operating table, Norr, and all manner of other objects as they drifted toward the sandy bottom. The runner wanted to breathe more than he had ever wanted anything before. But if he needed to breathe, so did Norr, who continued to sink toward the bottom in spite of her feeble efforts to swim. It felt as if his lungs were on fire as Rebo fought his way down to the variant, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and kicked as hard as he could. Bubbles raced them to the surface, spray exploded away from the runner’s head, and Norr emerged a second later.
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