Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  Both spluttered as they gasped for air. Rebo spotted an island, wrapped an arm around Norr’s torso, and kicked for shore. The bottom came up quickly, Rebo found his feet, and cradled the sensitive in his arms as he marched up out of the water toward the smokestack-shaped construct that dominated the center of the island.

  Norr winced as the runner laid her down in the shade. Rebo saw the grimace, rolled the sensitive onto her side, and saw that her wound had reopened. A rivulet of blood was running down her back. The runner unbuckled his weapons harness, hurried to remove his shirt, and worked to wring as much water out of the wet garment as he could. Norr made a face when the cold, salty fabric came into contact with her wound but knew Rebo was doing the best he could.

  Satisfied that the makeshift pressure dressing would stop the bleeding, the runner set about gathering driftwood for a fire. Thankfully, there were more than a dozen wax-coated matches in one of his belt pouches. The first stick broke off just below the head, but the second produced a wisp of smoke, followed by a bright yellow flame. Twigs crackled as they caught fire, larger pieces of wood burst into flame, and it wasn’t long before waves of welcome heat rolled over Norr. The shaking stopped soon thereafter, her color improved, and her respirations evened out.

  And that was when Rebo realized that Sogol was missing. The last time he’d seen the AI she had been coiled up on Norr’s back. The runner wondered where the construct was now. . . . Back on Haafa? But he had more pressing problems to deal with, starting with the fact that Norr still looked pale, and he had very few items to work with. That was when the runner remembered seeing the operating table drift toward the bottom of the sea—and wondered what else might be laying around out there? There was only one way to find out. Rebo added more wood to the fire, knelt next to Norr, and was about to tell her about his plan, when the runner realized that the sensitive was either asleep, or unconscious, a possibility that made his mission that much more urgent.

  A quick scan revealed that outside of what might have been another island, and a sail on the far horizon, there was nothing else to be seen other than a nearly cloudless sky and the sea below. Or was it a lake? No, he was a fisherman’s son, and knew that the line of seaweed and other debris that ran horizontally around the island represented the high-tide mark, the presence of which implied at least one moon.

  Having left both his weapons and boots piled next to Norr and equipped himself with the remains of a broken plank, Rebo retraced his earlier steps down into the sea. Besides providing additional flotation, the plank’s other purpose was to help the runner bring salvaged materials back to the beach, assuming he recovered any. The first objective was to find the operating table, which, being the largest object transferred, would also be the most visible. Then, assuming the water wasn’t too deep, he would dive to retrieve whatever he could.

  Rebo stretched out on the plank, paddled his way out to what he hoped was the correct area, and rolled off into the salty water. Then, with his face down and one arm thrown across the length of wood, he kicked with his feet. Thanks to the fact that the water was extremely clear, he could see all the way to the sandy bottom. There were outcroppings of rock, along with spiral-shaped plants, that swayed from side to side as the runner passed over them. Fish, if that’s what the pancake-shaped creatures could properly be called, fled ahead of the human, their pale bodies undulating as they hurried to escape the dark menace above.

  It was all very pretty, but Rebo couldn’t tell whether he was cruising over the correct area, and that led to a lot of fruitless swimming before the runner spotted the gleam of what might have been metal. He didn’t have any way to secure the plank, but the water was relatively calm, so he figured the length of wood wouldn’t drift very far while he went down to investigate.

  Rather than the operating table, which the off-worlder expected to find first, the object in question turned out to be Norr’s sword. Rebo carried the weapon up to the surface, where he laid it on the plank. More dives produced more treasures, including the bone saw that the runner had discarded back on Haafa and both of their packs. So, knowing that the sensitive kept a small first-aid kit among her things, the runner battled to bring the waterlogged leather sacks up to the surface. Once there, he hung them below the plank, which was partly awash by then. Finally, by dint of considerable kicking, Rebo pushed all of his loot ashore.

  The fire was still burning, albeit much lower by then, as the runner made his way up out of the water. He was encouraged to see that Norr had not only raised herself into a sitting position but managed a wave. That was when Rebo saw the light reflect off gold, realized that Sogol had come ashore on her own and wrapped herself around the variant’s arm. “Hey, there,” the runner said, as he dropped the packs next to Norr. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” the sensitive replied. “Look! Sogol brought me this!”

  The sensitive opened her fist to reveal the tiny scarab. The machine turned circles on the palm of her hand as it searched for something to repair. “It was what you humans would call luck,” the AI said modestly. “I ran into the scarab on the bottom, and it was small enough to hold in my jaws, so I brought it along. End of story.”

  “Not quite,” Norr objected. “One-Two put the scarab into my wound—and I feel better as a result.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Rebo said, and knelt to lift her shirt. The runner was no expert, but the wound had been reclosed, and there was no sign of bleeding. “It looks good,” Rebo confirmed, “but take it easy. What you need is a rest. What can I get for you?”

  “More clothes would be nice,” the sensitive said sweetly, and gestured toward her pack.

  “Maybe I like you half-naked,” Rebo replied mischievously.

  And that was when the ground shook, a loud roaring sound was heard, and Rebo turned toward the structure that stood behind him. It was flat black, stood about twenty feet tall, and looked like a smokestack. There hadn’t been enough time to investigate whatever the thing was previous to that point, not with Norr to tend to. But now, what with the roaring sound, the runner felt the need to find out what it was. “You’d better take your guns,” the sensitive suggested, and lifted the harness partway off the ground.

  “You’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Norr said, as she pulled her pack in close. “Check on the noise, come back, and fix me a seven-course meal. I’m hungry.”

  Rebo grinned. If the sensitive was hungry, that was a very good sign indeed! He buckled the guns on over bare skin, climbed the sandy slope that led up to what he had already begun to think of as “the stack.” As he got closer, the runner realized that the structure was made out of metal. He circled the stack, discovered that a ladder had been bolted to the far side, and scrambled upward. Once on top, he peered down the tube into the poorly lit tunnel below. It was quite a drop, but thanks to the maintenance ladder that was attached to the inside surface of the stack, Rebo was able to descend without mishap.

  A pool of sunlight marked the bottom of the ladder, and Rebo could feel residual heat from the machine that had passed twenty minutes earlier. As the runner peered down from the service platform, he could see two metal tracks, both of which were shiny from continual use. That suggested that the underground trains ran fairly frequently. But where did the machines come from? Where were they going? And to whom did they belong? The last question was the most troubling, since there was no way to know what the owners were like or how they would respond to trespassers. It seemed as if the best thing to do was lie low, give Norr time to heal, and find a way off the island.

  But had Rebo been aware of the camera that followed each step of his progress as he made his way back up the ladder, he would have known that it was too late to escape notice. Because the people who owned the tunnel, as well as the train that ran through it, already knew exactly where to find him.

  Having worked hard all morning, Lord Arbuk rose from his desk, lumbered over to the side table where a carafe of steaming caf stood
waiting for him, and filled a ceramic mug. Not one of the silver vessels that populated the ornate tray at his elbow, but a lowly piece of pottery, which, though homely, would keep the liquid hot. A must insofar as the land-lord was concerned, since he viewed lukewarm caf with the same contempt reserved for phibs, which the nobleman looked on as little more than walking-talking angens.

  Mug in hand, Arbuk strolled out onto his private balcony. A sheer wall fell away to stone buildings that stair-stepped down to a rocky beach and the half-empty harbor beyond. The city of Esperance had intentionally been built next to the sea, where it could benefit from shipping. But that was back before the phibs took control of the planet’s oceans and thereby prevented land-lords such as himself from transporting raw materials, manufactured goods, or people across what the freaks liked to refer to as “their sacred waters.” But not forever, because Arbuk and his peers had a surprise in store for the phibs, one that would reestablish Esperance as a seaport!

  In spite of the sun’s warmth, the land-lord felt a sudden chill and turned to discover that his private secretary, a sensitivenamed Hitho Mal, was standing three feet behind him. Arbuk was a big man, and his jowls took on a purplish cast as blood rushed to his face. “Dammit, man! Announce yourself. . . . I hate people who skulk about.”

  Mal, who had long prided himself on his ability to skulk about, was unmoved. He had the long, narrow face typical of his kind, sunken cheeks, and thin lips. The upper one remained stationary as he spoke. “Yes, sire, sorry, sire. I know you’re busy, but there’s someone I would like you to meet. His name is Milo Vester, and assuming that he’s telling the truth, something very strange took place in the village of Kine.”

  Arbuk struggled to remember the place, was unable to do so, and concluded that Kine must be one of the many small villages that marked the outskirts of his holdings. He took another sip of caf. “ ‘Strange’? How so?”

  “If your lordship would indulge me,” Mal replied respectfully, “I prefer that you take the tale from Vester’s own lips. Especially since you are almost certain to ask questions that I would be unable to answer.”

  Knowing that Mal rarely requested anything not in his employer’s best interest, Arbuk was willing to comply. That didn’t mean it was necessary to do so gracefully however. Which meant there was a good deal of grumbling as the robed sensitive led his rotund employer down a twisting staircase—and into the rather primitive medical facility that occupied one corner of the building’s basement.

  But what waited within was sufficient to silence even the land-lord who, as a member of the ruling class, had not only witnessed his full share of brutality but been responsible for some of it himself. Vester, who had suffered greatly during the interminable wagon trip to Esperance, had been laid out on a bed. The crisp white sheets had the effect of accentuating the villager’s filthy body, smoke-blackened clothes, and badly charred feet. The patient’s eyes were closed, but fluttered as the sensitive touched his arm, and remained open thereafter. “Tell him,” Mal ordered gently. “Tell Lord Arbuk what happened to your village.”

  The villager’s voice was faint, so it was necessary to bend down in order to hear him, and Vester’s breath was so bad it caused Arbuk to gag. But the story was well worth listening to, especially the description of the blue killing machine, which sounded as if it might be a twin to the heavily damaged Raptor II that presently occupied a place of honor in Arbuk’s personal war museum. “Tell me,” the nobleman said, as he pinched his nostrils. “The people who accompanied the killing machine . . . were they norms? Or phibs?”

  “Most were norms,” Vester replied, “although some were machines that looked like humans.”

  Arbuk was surprised. “Machines . . . you’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, sire,” Vester maintained staunchly. “I’m sure.”

  “How very interesting,” Arbuk said to no one in particular, as he straightened up. “You were correct, Mal. . . . Sub-chieftain Vester is well worth listening to. I don’t know who these people are, but I want them found, and quickly, too.”

  The lord and his secretary turned, and were about to depart, when Vester produced a croaking sound. Arbuk turned back. “Yes?” the nobleman inquired, “is there something more?”

  “Kill me!” Vester begged pitifully. “Please kill me.”

  Arbuk glanced at Mal. “Do you have everything you need?”

  The sensitive had a clipboard. Vester’s recollections had been written down. “Yes, sire,” the variant answered. “I have every word.”

  “Good,” Arbuk replied, as he turned back to Vester. “Your request is approved.”

  The land-lord was halfway back to his office when the muffled thump of a gunshot was heard, and Vester was free to return to Kine, where the rest of his family had already been buried.

  lt had been dark for quite a while, and Rebo was asleep in the lean-to that he and Norr had constructed next to the ventilation stack, when the sensitive nudged his arm. “Jak! Wake up! Where’s the light coming from?”

  The runner was already reaching for a weapon when his eyes popped open, and he saw the rays of white light that were streaming down through the cracks in their steeply slanted roof. Pistol at the ready Rebo rolled out onto the brilliantly lit sand and looked upward. The illumination was more concentrated than moonlight—and appeared to originate from space. Norr had emerged by then, which meant Sogol was present as well. “Look!” the variant exclaimed. “I think it’s moving!”

  Rebo looked out across the brightly lit water and realized that Norr was correct. It appeared that they were standing in a pool of light that was gradually creeping toward the west. “Of course it’s moving,” Sogol put in matter-of-factly, as she slithered up onto the sensitive’s shoulder. “What you’re seeing is sunlight reflected from a mirror aimed at the planet’s surface.”

  “But where’s the mirror?” Rebo wanted to know. “And what’s the point?”

  “Socket is an artificial planetoid,” the AI explained patiently. “The engineers took many things into account when they constructed it. The creation of tides on a planet where none previously existed led to a variety of problems. Massive public works projects were required to cope with fluctuating water levels. That made some sectors of the population unhappy. But, back before Emperor Hios succumbed to his lust for power, he was a capable politician. By providing the citizens of Zeen with low-cost power generated by tide-driven turbines—he overcame their objections to Socket.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” Norr commented, as she continued to stare up into the sky. “But what does all that have to do with the light?”

  “There were lots of construction projects back in those days,” Sogol answered. “Many of them ran around the clock. So, in order to further ingratiate himself with the planet’s populace, Hios ordered that a steerable mirror be installed on Socket. A mirror that could bounce sunlight down onto the dark side of the planet—and thereby illuminate the project with the highest priority.”

  “So, what’s happening now?” Rebo inquired. “Why point the mirror at mostly empty ocean?”

  “Like so many other functions on Socket, the solar mirror is simply drifting out of control,” the AI replied sadly. “And, were I to take control of the reflector, Logos would know.”

  “It’s best to leave it alone then,” the runner said feelingly. “We have enough problems already.”

  Norr nodded her agreement and held hands with Rebo, as the massive blob of light continued its journey toward the west. Finally, once the darkness had been restored, they went back to bed.

  Omar Tepho and his force of humans and robots had traveled a quarter of the way to the city of Esperance when they stopped to spend the night in a fishing village called Wattl. A not-very-distinguished gathering of stone-and-wood buildings that was home to a population of norms who liked to refer to themselves as “fishermen” but actually made their livings as pirates. Something Lord Arbuk was willing to tolerate so long as the villagers
limited their predations to the phibs, who liked to trawl the coastal waters for slat fish, even though that made them vulnerable to the speedy eight-oared cutters crewed by the residents of villages like Wattl.

  So, when Tepho guided his raptor into town, closely followed by six metal men and a contingent of twenty-five heavily armed humans, the locals were torn between fear and greed. But there was scant opportunity for skullduggery as the strangers took control of the only inn, displaced the previous guests, and established a defensive perimeter through which none of the locals were permitted to pass.

  Meanwhile, as if drawn to Wattl by a conjunction of planetary influences, other forces were in motion as well. Because even as the red-orange sun descended toward the gently rolling sea, a water-slicked head surfaced out in the harbor, and a cross-shaped wing circled high above. Each served a different master, and, while neither was aware of the other, they soon would be.

  Except for one massive deluge, the weather had been mild up to that point, which was fortunate indeed. But each dawn was accompanied by the need to gather both food and water. Which was why Rebo began each day by stripping off his ragged clothes, strapping a sheath knife to his right calf, and carrying the homemade spear down to the edge of the water. It felt cold at first, too cold, but a combination of thirst and hunger urged him on. Based on a process of trial and error, the off-worlder knew that while the pancake-shaped “floppers” were relatively easy to spear, they were bony and didn’t taste very good. That was why the runner typically went looking for what he thought of as “zip fish” because of their ability to dart from place to place and the black streaks that ran the length of their silvery bodies. They made for good eating, but they were hard to hit, and it took at least two of them to make a decent meal.

  On that particular morning, the runner was fortunate, and managed to nail three of the speedy animals in a span of fifteen minutes. Having strung the fish together on a piece of cord, Rebo swam out to what he thought of as “the well,” where, in order to meet nutritional requirements of its own, one species of seaweed produced fist-sized bladders filled with desalinated seawater. Then, having harvested six containers of water, it was the runner’s habit to put his face down and swim straight in. Once ashore the fish would be roasted over the fire, while Norr attempted to squeeze one more mug of tea from an already exhausted bag, and Rebo watched from a few feet away. And later, once breakfast was over, it would be time to resume work on their partially built raft.