Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  As the commandos moved to obey, a bullet spun one of them around, causing him to fall into the gap between the two cars. Another projectile hit a noncom from behind, exited through his chest, and still packed enough velocity to kill the private who stood facing him. Meanwhile, geysers of dirt shot up into the air, beginning their inexorable march toward the flatcar, as a machine gun began to chatter.

  But even as some of the phibs fell, dozens poured across the gap, and climbed up onto the coal car, where they turned to fire on their tormentors. Machinery began to clank, enormous puffs of smoke issued from the locomotive’s black stack, and steam shot forth from both sides of the behemoth as it got under way.

  Rebo was beginning to wonder if the flatcar would ever be decoupled and was just about to go after it personally when he heard a phib yell, “She’s clear!” and felt the train jerk. Then came the mad scramble to jump the quickly widening gap, a moment of gut-wrenching fear as the runner felt himself begin to fall backward, and a profound feeling of relief as strong fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist.

  Then, having been pulled up onto the filthy coal car, Rebo heard someone shout and turned to see that a single phib had been left on the flatcar. It was the scout who had spoken with him back in the bay, and judging from the blood that was pouring down the soldier’s right leg, the youngster had been hit. Now, with slugs whistling all around him the commando lit one of the incendiary flares issued for use on the ironclads, raised his right hand by way of a salute, and let the fiery tube fall.

  The result was even more effective than what Rebo had originally hoped for. There was a flash of light, followed by a near-deafening boom, and a series of secondary explosions as ordnance already aboard the ironclads went off as well. Smoke boiled up to stain the early-morning sky, chunks of wood, iron, and flesh cartwheeled through the air, and the station’s telegraph began to chatter. News of the phib raid would arrive in Esperance within a matter of minutes, Arbuk’s wings would take to the air shortly thereafter, and troops would be sent to intercept the hijacked train.

  Rebo knew all of that, and knew he would eventually have to deal with it, but not for a few minutes yet. Because right then, as if burned onto his retinas by the force of the blast, he was still staring at the image of the scout, the flare, and the nameless boy’s final salute.

  The city of Shimmer

  The council of mayors had been reconvened, and at Norr’s request, was about to hear from a very distinguished guest. Ever since Norr brought a message through from Mayor Pontho’s disembodied aunt, the politician had been very deferential toward the sensitive. And now, as the other variant entered a trance, the phib looked on with an expression of awe as Norr’s chin touched her chest and a deeper voice was heard. “Greetings,” the disincarnate said, as the sensitive’s head came up. “My name is Lysander, Milos Lysander, but like the rest of you I have been known by other names as well. Once, during a lifetime as a man called Hios, I brought your people to Zeen, helped them establish their great underwater cities, and gave them the gift of tides.

  “Back in those days we worked together to create the planet’s infrastructure, which had it not been for my many errors, would probably be intact today. But I was foolish, very foolish, and hope to make things right. Thanks to you, and your support, that process is already under way. In fact my spirit allies tell me that your commandos were successful, the ironclads were destroyed, and even as I speak your warriors are battling their way back to safety. That will be difficult, however, since Lord Arbuk’s wings will attack them along the way, and ground troops will be sent against them as well.”

  There was muttering, as all of the mayors tried to speak at once, and Pontho called for silence. Norr’s head nodded jerkily. “Yes,” Lysander said, “I understand your concern. Fortunately, there is something we can do to help! But, by taking action, we will reveal the full extent of our powers and thereby elicit what is sure to be a desperate response.”

  The politicians listened intently as Lysander outlined his plan. And when asked, Sogol, who had been silent up until then, agreed that the scheme was theoretically possible. Although the AI went on to point out that not only would the timing would be iffy, but the results would be unpredictable and possibly dangerous to the very people they were trying to save.

  Then, having heard from a dead man and an artificial intelligence, the politicians did what they were best at, which was to talk, and talk, and talk some more. Until Pontho became frustrated, insisted on a vote, and finally got one. The plan was approved. But could the scheme be implemented quickly enough to save Rebo and his commandos? The clock was ticking.

  FOURTEEN

  Near the village of Prost, on the Planet Zeen

  Like the ripples generated when a pebble falls into a pond, a single historical event can send waves of change out to touch the far shores of human civilization, where the effects will be felt for many years to come.

  —Artificial Intelligence Borlon 4, A History of My Creators

  Once clear of Prost, the track followed the Otera river valley west. Thanks to the gun at the engineer’s head, plus the fireman’s frantic efforts to feed the hungry boiler, the locomotive was traveling at full speed by then. Thick black smoke poured out of the stack, the engine made a steady chugging sound, and the wheels clacked rhythmically as they passed over evenly spaced expansion joints. But Rebo took little pleasure in the train’s speed. He stood on the narrow walkway that ran along the side of the locomotive’s boiler and eyed the track ahead. Since Arbuk’s troops knew where the engine had to go, they would move to block it. The original plan, which involved a return trip down the Otero River, incorporated the same flaw—although the water route might have offered more protection from the wings. Had he been wrong to abandon the first plan? Would a real military officer have chosen a third course? Rebo feared the answer might be yes.

  Space was at a premium. Commandos clung to both sides of the locomotive, squatted on top of the cab just behind the stack, and were crammed into the coal car as well. Most of the smoke passed over their heads but not all of it. “There they are!” one of the phibs exclaimed, and pointed to the west. Rebo looked, saw the formation of dots, and knew they were wings. The runner faced two choices. He could order the engineer to stop the train, pull his troops together, and respond to the coming attack with massed fire. That technique would probably be effective against the winged variants but would give Arbuk plenty of time in which to bring ground troops against the stationary train. The other possibility was to keep going, accept some causalities, and hope to break through whatever obstructions lay ahead.

  Finally, for better or worse, the runner chose the second option. The commandos on the roof were attempting to engage the winged variants at extreme range by then but with little success. Rebo turned to one of the noncoms. “Put your best marksmen where they can fire on the wings—but tell them to hold off until the bastards come in closer. There’s going to be a hellacious battle within the next couple of hours, and we’re going to need every power pack we have. . . . Tell everyone else to safe their weapons and seek any cover they can find.”

  The phib said, “Yes, sir,” and began to work his way back to the cab. It wasn’t long before some of the commandos came down off the roof while those with a reputation for marksmanship went up to replace them. Then, just as the train passed through the point where the valley narrowed, the airborne warriors attacked. And, thanks to the fact that they had been practicing such maneuvers for years, some of their shots went home.

  One of the phibs who was hugging the side of the locomotive looked surprised, let go of the handrail, and fell away from the train. A marksman jerked as a bullet struck his chest. He released his weapon, and toppled back into the coal car, where a commando called for help. A medic stood, lost the top of his head, and collapsed in a heap.

  The commandos were quick to return fire, and a cheer went up as one of the wings spiraled out of the sky, but the phibs were going to take more casua
lties. Not only that, but Rebo was pretty sure that something worse lay ahead.

  Lord Arbuk was angry. Very angry. Which was why he didn’t want to simply stop the phib raiders, he wanted to crush them, even if that meant destroying a valuable locomotive in the process. That was why no less than six comet-firing artillery tubes and a thousand troops lay in wait as the train rolled down out of the low-lying foothills and was momentarily lost from sight as it passed through a dip in the terrain.

  A platform, complete with awning had been established on a likely-looking rise, and that was where Arbuk, Tepho, and two dozen government officials were waiting to view what promised to be a magnificent slaughter. In the meantime, there was music, refreshments, and an absolute orgy of posturing as the colorfully clad functionaries attempted to outdo one another.

  And it was during that period that Tepho slipped away to inspect the high-tech mortar tubes. Since a counterattack was unlikely if not impossible, very little effort had been made to protect the weapons, other than to place them in freshly dug pits. The comets, which had the appearance of inoffensive spheres until they were fired, were nestled in protective boxes.

  The technologist had numerous questions where the mortars were concerned, not the least of which was why Arbuk’s mostly steam-age culture possessed such advanced weapons, yet lagged in other areas? And it was while visiting with a voluble artillery officer that the technologist learned the answer. It seemed that five years earlier, while attempting to reopen an ancient mine, Arbuk’s engineers stumbled across a cache of weapons believed to be more than five hundred years old.

  It was interesting stuff, and Tepho was about to ask some follow-up questions, when Logos spoke from the vicinity of his collar. “Sorry to interrupt, but I suggest that you return to the raptor and clear the area as quickly as possible.”

  The artillery officer looked dumbfounded as a third voice came out of nowhere. But before he could ask the obvious question, a plume of dark smoke appeared in the distance, a bugle sounded, and it was time for the officer to return to his duties.

  Tepho, who was alone now, wished Logos was standing in front of him. “Leave? Why?”

  “Because Iteration 1.2 has temporary control of Socket, and if I’m not mistaken, intends to use the satellite’s solar mirror as a weapon.”

  Tepho looked up into the sky, realized how stupid that was, and began to waddle up out of the emplacement. There was a loud whump, as the nearest weapon fired, followed by a hearty cheer as the ball of highly concentrated energy arced across the sky. The human experienced a combination of fear, confusion, and anger. “Well, if you know about it, then stop it!”

  “I’m trying,” the AI responded calmly. “But Sogol has the upper hand at the moment. So rather than pepper me with questions, I suggest that you run.”

  Tepho couldn’t run. Not like most people. But he was able to manage a sort of rolling walk, which when he tried hard enough, took on the appearance of a poorly coordinated jog. The raptor, which he had been encouraged to bring so that Arbuk could show the machine off to his toadies, sat fifty feet away from the reviewing stand. Because his back was turned, the technologist didn’t see where the first comet landed, but having heard a second cheer, assumed the shot had been close to the target if not right on it.

  Then he was there, struggling to enter the control pod without assistance, and flipping switches like a madman once he had succeeded. “Hurry!” Logos insisted urgently. “Sogol is about to fire!”

  Tepho wondered who Sogol was but knew the question would have to wait as the raptor came up to speed. “Now!” Logos shouted. “It’s coming now!” And fire fell from the sky.

  As the locomotive topped the rise, Rebo saw the comet soar up into the sky, pause as if deciding where to fall, and plunge downward. For one split second he thought the munition was going to make a direct hit on the locomotive, but much to his relief the ball of pent-up energy landed off to the right. It exploded on contact, throwing tons of debris into the air and creating a crater large enough to drop the coal car into. The train swayed as the shock wave struck it, but managed to remain upright, as the descent began. Off in the distance, Rebo could see a rise topped by a gaily striped awning, some carefully prepared troop positions, and freshly turned earth where weapons emplacements had been dug. Not only that, but logs had been placed across the track in an attempt to block it. The engineer saw the obstacle, pulled back on the brake, and hung on to it as metal began to screech.

  Rebo realized there was nothing he could do but surrender, and was just about to give the necessary orders when a beam of bright light caressed a stand of stickle trees. They immediately burst into flames. Then, like a ray of sunshine through a magnifying glass, the orbital weapon drew a black line across the rocky landscape. There was a massive explosion as the energy beam slashed across a mortar emplacement, followed by a series of flares as an entire squad of troops was incinerated, and a series of high-pitched screams as the death ray began to close in on the reviewing stand.

  Arbuk was on his feet by then, screaming obscenities at the beam of light, but to no avail. Dignitaries, including Hitho Mal, jumped off the platform and ran, each intent on saving him- or herself from the devastating weapon. But Arbuk was slow, too slow to make his escape, and there was a loud pop as the norm’s bodily fluids burst through his skin and were incinerated a fraction of a second later. Then the rest of the platform disappeared as the ray of concentrated energy burned a hundred-foot-long trench into the rock and soil before suddenly ceasing to exist. A few moments later the entire area was empty of people as everyone who still could ran for cover. The rest lay where they had fallen. The locomotive was still a good fifteen feet from the log barrier when it finally screeched to a halt—and Rebo said what everyone else was thinking. “What the hell was that?”

  “I don’t know,” a phib answered pragmatically, “but we’re still a good five miles from the ocean. Let’s move those logs and get the train going again before the norms can regroup.” It was excellent advice, and Rebo took it. By easing the train forward they were able to nudge two timbers off the track—leaving the commandos to muscle the third out of the way.

  Five minutes later Arbuk’s soldiers began to emerge from hiding, but they were too disorganized to mount a coordinated attack, so could do little more than take potshots at the train as it pulled away from them. Meanwhile, having withdrawn to the top of a low-lying hill, Tepho eyed the scene via the raptor’s optics. He was angry—no furious— and his voice quavered as he spoke. “Are we safe here?”

  “We’re safe,” Logos allowed cautiously. “And now that I know Sogol is present, I can prevent her from taking control of Socket again. Unless she finds a way to get aboard before we do, that is—which would be extremely unfortunate.”

  “How very nice,” the technologist said sarcastically. “I want to know everything there is to know about Sogol— and I want to know it now.”

  The ensuing conversation was quite acrimonious, and still under way, when Tepho brought the raptor to a halt not far from all the carnage. Not to check on Lord Arbuk, as the nobleman might have hoped, but to secure the unexploded comets. Because even though the ironclads had been destroyed, and a second AI had appeared out of nowhere, Tepho was still in the race. And if Buru was the lock—then the comets were the key.

  The island of Buru

  During the hundreds of years since most of the star gates had been taken off-line, and humanity began the long, backward slide toward barbarity, the surrounding vegetation had closed in on what had been a two-lane highway until it was little more than a game trail. That meant Shaz, Phan, and the pirates they had engaged to accompany them were forced to whack at all manner of runners, vines, and branches as they fought their way up the path. All of them took turns, but it was exhausting work and left them soaked with sweat.

  However, the same holes in the canopy that allowed sunlight to reach the jungle floor provided the small party with frequent glimpses of the sky and the wings
that circled above. Sightings that would have been a lot more comforting had it not been for the lackadaisical commandant who welcomed the foursome ashore with what could only be described as unconcealed resentment. Because poor though the posting was, the wing was in charge and saw the mainlanders as a threat.

  But orders were orders, and once the commandant read the instructions issued by Lord Arbuk himself, there had been little choice but to provide what assistance he could. That, after some discussion, turned out to be a succession of airborne guides who were to make sure that the party remained on course and report back should they run into trouble. A virtual certainty from the local’s perspective, since the strangers had chosen to ignore his warnings regarding jungle sickness and enter the interior anyway. All of which had been documented, sealed into a pouch, and sent to the mainland. So that when Arbuk’s agents turned up dead, as they almost certainly would, the commandant would be in the clear. The variant took pleasure in the thought and went to lunch.

  The day after the raid on Prost dawned clear, and with only moderate winds, conditions were perfect for the relatively short trip to Buru. The norms didn’t have any large ships to speak of, since the phibs were almost certain to sink anything that attempted to cross one of “their” oceans, thereby placing severe limits on the shipbuilding business. But there were some sizeable coastal vessels, which were at the very heart of the so-called revenge fleet, still being assembled in Esperance Bay.

  The concept, as put forward by Tepho, and subsequently communicated to Arbuk’s functionaries by Hitho Mal, was to punish the enemy by attacking the phib stronghold of Buru. And, such was the anger at those who had come ashore to destroy the ironclads, and even gone so far as to unleash a secret weapon on Arbuk’s troops, that no one in a position of power chose to question the plan. Even though every one who was familiar with Buru knew that while the waters around the island were thick with phibs, none of them lived ashore.