“Logan!” Smiling broadly, Evans walked toward him. “We were just talking about you.”
The man with Evans was nervous, raw-looking, a DS trainee on the verge of Sandman status.
“This is Marak 9. I’ve been working with him, showing him a few things…learns fast…bright…you know, he’s really—”
As Evans rambled on, Logan barely heard the words; in his mind, he had the image of this man at Crazy Horse, at the Thinker’s Central Core, a Gun in his hand, smiling as Jonath died…Logan was using all his willpower to keep from smashing his fist into Evans’s face.
“…to meet you at last…heard so much about you…”
Marak was babbling uncertain praise. Logan glared at Evans, ignoring Marak, then suddenly pushed past them into the building.
Behind him, he heard Evans shout his name in startled anger. Then the heavy DS entrance door slid closed, cutting off the sound.
Just inside, Logan paused, drew a long breath telling himself, fiercely, that he must never react this way again, that he must rigorously keep the two worlds separate in his mind. He must never allow emotions relating to his world to dictate present behavior in this one. If you do, you’ll ruin it all, he warned himself, you’ll lose Godbirth, lose your chance to succeed in this mission, lose Jess and Jaq forever. Damn you, never again! Never!
And, breathing deeply, he moved toward the readyroom.
It was crowded with DS on shiftchange, suiting up for duty. Already uniformed, Logan had only to check out a Follower and an ammopac. As he did this, his name was called by the talkboard. Message for him.
“Logan 3,” he said, facing the board, “Message?”
“From Francis,” the board told him. “Waiting in the Huntarea. You are to join him there.”
“Acknowledged,” Logan said.
He faced a challenge. Logan was standing before the Gunwall at the end of the weapons corridor. If the skin-pattern alterations on his palm were less than perfect, an alarm would sound the moment he touched the wall—and before he could attempt an explanation he’d be Gunned to ash.
“Identity,” repeated the metallic voice. It had already challenged him once; Logan knew he must respond.
He pressed the palm of his left hand firmly into the wall’s identiplate. No alarm! Accepted. A panel gleamed back to reveal the Gun, nested in its black-velvet alcove.
But the challenge was not over. Now, another critical stage. The alteration on his palm had been properly matched to young Logan’s—but if the more complex pore configuration on his thumb and forgers was even microscopically incorrect, the Gun would detonate upon skin contact, since each DS weapon was pore-coded to the individual operative to whom it was issued.
Logan could feel the sweat beading his upper lip as he slowly reached in to curl his fingers around the cool pearl handle of the Gun.
Full contact. Perfect.
The corridor lights glinted along the dark blue barrel as Logan checked the weapon for full load: tangler, ripper, needler, nitro, vapor—and the deadly, body-tracking, nerve-destroying homer.
There was no denying the power of the Gun. Logan had fought his way to the Keys with such a weapon; he had used a Sandman’s Gun to win back Jessica from the Borgia Riders. Now he felt the power radiating through his fingers and arm, firing his flesh. Power and killing force.
To use as chosen—for good or for evil.
Logan had never liked simkill workouts in the Huntarea, but they were required for all DS, designed (as the manual phrased it) “to tune the reflexes and sharpen an operative’s reaction time to situations not normally encountered in the course of a standard outside hunt.”
Francis held the highest simkill score at Angeles. All his simulated kills were clean; he never wounded. He was deadly accurate at almost any range, no matter how difficult the situation or the terrain. Francis was exactly what his record indicated: the ideal DS operative—keen-minded, inventive, emotionless, precise. Francis did not make mistakes, and when a runner made one, he was there, a tireless force, to take advantage of it, of any weakness.
And eventually, Logan thought, I must kill him, just as the aliens said. He will have to be stopped.
But not today. No, today I’ll hunt with him, match my skill against his, giving him no reason to mistrust me.
Because, at this moment, to Logan, Francis was the most important man alive on this death-haunted planet.
Logan crossed the yard, a reserve area for DS trainees. A dozen of them, wearing opaque headshields, were engaged in Blind Combat, led by a flat faced instructor who displayed open disgust as he slammed one young trainee after another into the dirt.
“Concentrate!” he lashed at them. “Determine my approach angle from the sound of my boots. Runner at night won’t give you warning. Cut your throat from behind. Strangle on your own blood! No second chance then—so concentrate now!”
As he watched, Logan was suddenly aware of a faint scraping sound behind him, but before he could turn he was dumped into the yard, belly down.
A dry chuckle above him. “Concentrate, Logan, concentrate!”
“Damn you, Francis!”
Logan stood up, brushing sand from his tunic. He glared at the tall, thin man in black. The eyes were darker than midnight, mocking and steady in the narrow, lean-cheeked face. These eyes missed nothing. Unblinking, penetrating, they measured Logan with a glint of cold humor.
“You’re not going to score so well today if you don’t sharpen up,” said Francis as they began walking toward the Huntarea. “You might have figured I’d try for a bodythrow. You know me well enough.”
“Yes,” said Logan tightly, “I know you.” Then he forced a lighter tone into his voice. “You do enjoy your little games.”
“Not a game,” said the tall man. His dark eyes were serious. “If I’d been a runner you might be dead right now.”
“But I’m alive,” said Logan flatly. “And I can handle runners. I do it well.” “I do it better,” wolf-grinned Francis. “I always have.”
The smug projection of superiority from Francis steeled Logan, made him determined to excel in their area workout. He was supremely skilled with a Gun, was a master of body combat, and refused to be intimidated by his rival’s vaunted prowess.
Silently, each wholly intent on the trials to come, they traversed a long, brightly illumined slot tunnel and emerged into the main hunt arena.
Covering several square miles, the entire area had been constructed under a vast glasite dome in which every type and degree of weather could be expertly simulated; here, too, all combat conditions, however rigorous, could be duplicated.
The test ground was split into two branching sections. One route led right, twisting through spiked brushweed and snaretraps; the second route snaked left, across a man-made swamp. The terrain in both was equally treacherous, and the android runners were equally dangerous. No DS man had been killed in a workout, but injuries were common, some of them severe. Logan could not afford to be seriously injured; it might delay Godbirth—and there must be no delays. They stood at the crossway.
“Your choice,” said Francis. “Right or left.”
“Left,” said Logan.
“See you on the other side.” Francis grinned, moving swiftly for the high brush.
Logan felt confident as he set off along the left attack trail. The DS Huntarea in his world was very similar, yet familiarity was not a factor in this contest. There was no way to anticipate what lay ahead, since each route was regularly reprogrammed. You never knew when sudden fog might blind you, or when an artificial sun would dazzle blindingly from the domed sky, or when thick darkness might descend to throw you off balance, make you vulnerable.
The first attack came with shocking swiftness: a male android runner, dropping from a tree onto Logan’s back. He had a buzzblade, and if he could drive the blade into Logan’s body in a vital flesh area Logan’s “kill” would be reversed. No skin penetration, no blood, but the contact point would be registered. For Logan, a neg
ative encounter. Each negative encounter would cancel three simkills on the final score.
But Logan easily loop-rolled the runner over his shoulder and broke the robot’s neck with a single down-chopping blow. Simkill: score 1.
Four hours of this.
Miles of swamp and jungle, of quicksand and rockslides, of chilling rain gusts, blast-furnace heat, savage winds.And always the cleverly programmed robot runners attacking from ambush, armed and dangerous. You could never relax; you were never beyond assault. Absolute concentration was required.
Concentrate! Logan told himself when a female almost got him with a chokewire. He’d allowed her to come up behind him from a blind in the rocks, and the wire was around his neck before he managed a whip-spin that sent her sprawling. Francis was right: concentration was the key. Lose that cutting edge of alertness and the hunter becomes the victim. Four hours…and finally it was over.
Francis, looking cool and unwinded, boots glistening, his uniform dusted, was already at the final crossway when Logan arrived.
Logan’s uniform was torn in several places; his tunic was mud-splattered ripped at the shoulder. He came in limping, favoring his right foot.
“Sandtrap?” Francis asked casually. An amused smile played at his lips.
“Stunrod,” said Logan, sitting down wearily. “Didn’t know androids carried the things!”
The tall man shook his head. “Whatever a runner could have, or steal, the robots get. Is it bad?”
Logan slipped off his right boot; the lower leg was blue and swollen. “Bad enough.”
“Santini can fix it.”
Logan looked blank.
“New body tech at the gym. Let him work the leg. You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll try him,” said Logan, wincing as he tabbed the boot closed. He stood up, testing his weight. At least he could still hobble. The rod had caught him just below the knee and his leg had collapsed under him.
He’d managed to fire as he fell, gutting the robot with a nitro. But it had been close—and painful.
Logan looked at Francis. “Well…shall we?”
The tall man grinned. “Are you sure you want the bad news—a poor crip’ like you?”
“Score it,” snapped Logan.
Francis palmed the scorepanel. A crimson number blazed to life on the board: 22.
“Hey,” said Francis softly. “Two up from my last workout. That’s a sweet total.” He looked at Logan with amused eyes. “Your turn, friend.”
Logan palmed the wall and the simkill score flashed red: 24.
Francis stared at it, his grin fading. He let out a soft breath. “Well, well.”
“My right leg slowed me over the last mile,” said Logan. “But it’s not a bad total.”
Francis flipped aside the vitabar he’d been chewing and moved sullenly through the slipexit.
Logan followed. His leg felt better already.
For the first time that day, he was smiling.
* * *
THE LAST HUNT
Santini 14 had always been unique. In Nursery, long after midnight, while the other children were in their slotbeds, hypnotapes whispering to them as they slept, young Santini 14 was in the romproom, challenging the musclebelts, or working the jumpbars, or twisting through the intricate network of whipchutes—toughening himself, shaping his body as a sculptor shapes fireglass, gaining mastery over bone and muscle. On blue, clear of the nurseries, he used his freetime to visit all of the world’s prime bodybuild centers—and on red, just past fifteen, he had opened his own bodyshop. His enlistment with DS, at Angeles Complex, was inevitable.
Due to the odd irregularities of the twin Earths, Santini had never existed in Logan’s world. Therefore, his talent was truly unique.
Logan had expected the usual swirlnerve treatment, but Santini employed a personal method of vibromassage, producing immediate relief. The swelling vanished and the discoloration was replaced by healthy skin tone.
“Up!” ordered Santini, clapping his hands. “Jump, Sandman! Leap! Kick! You’re perfect.”
Logan eased off the table, tried some knee bends, placing full weight on his right leg. He was astonished. No pain. No muscle pull or discomfort.
“Perfect” Logan nodded. “Thanks!”
Santini smiled lazily and moved closer. “The body holds many secrets. Mysteries of the flesh. I track them down as you track down runners.” Closer to Logan, the smile softened. “I’d say we are very much the same, you and I. What would you say?”
And he stroked Logan’s upper arm with slow fingers.
Logan stepped away. “I’d say the treatment is over.”
Francis met him outside the gym, in a state of elation. His face was flushed and his dark eyes danced with energy.
“It’s here, Logan.” He closed the fingers of his left hand into a fist. “It’s ours!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Godbirth!”
Logan’s heart trip-hammered at the word; he felt a surge of pure triumph. Godbirth! The gate back to Jess and Jaq…
“Is it confirmed?”
“Will be by tonight,” said Francis, “That’s when we’ll be officially notified by the computer. I got advance word, straight off the report line.”
“What about our duty status?”
“We’re up for one last hunt,” said Francis. “Then it’s freetime to Godbirth—time to do whatever we want, anywhere.”
“For how long?”
“Ten days. Then we’ll be taken to the Place of Miracles.”
“I didn’t expect it this soon,” Logan admitted.
The gaunt man clapped Logan’s shoulder. “Means we reach Nirvana. No Sleep for us at twenty-one! We’re joining the Gods. We’ll live forever!”
Logan had a multitude of questions he dared not ask. What was Nirvana? Who were the Gods? Where was the Place of Miracles? Was Godbirth literal immortality? What did it involve?
Even more confusing: Why didn’t the aliens already have these answers? They seemed to know so much about details on this alternate Earth, but nothing of its central ritual.
Why?
Why?
The report room: an ultrasophisticated nerve center for DS, the tracking and dispatch area from which a tide of black-clad operatives flowed out into the arteries of the southwest.
Facing this coldly efficient meld of man and machine, designed to eliminate human life, the past was depressingly alive for Logan. Without Argos, with out Ballard, without a Sanctuary Line, it seemed impossible that any runner, however tenacious and resourceful, could escape this deadly electronic net. Indeed, on this world, the goal of outrunning the Gun was a dream turned nightmare. Hope without substance. On this Earth, Logan knew, he’d have had no chance.
Francis touched his arm. “I’ve got our man on the board,” he said, speaking above the hive-hum of activity.
Logan nodded.
“He blacked at 0800, took over a police paravane, but didn’t get far in it. Crashed near Indio. Right now he’s on the desert, somewhere between Palm Springs and Indian Wells.”
“Armed?” asked Logan, as they moved to the scanwall.
“Fuser,” said Francis. “Got it with the paravane. Hasn’t killed anybody with it yet, but he’s likely to if someone tries to stop him. Well have to be careful.” A thin smile. “Last hunt, old friend. Let’s do it right.”
Logan was realistic enough to know that this runner would have to die. Short of destroying Francis, there was no way for him to save the man’s life. And even if he did kill Francis to save him, another DS man would homer him. No, there was nothing he could do to help the doomed runner.
But at least, he vowed to himself, I won’t make the kill. The final score will go to Francis.
Behind Logan’s thoughts, Francis was filling in the runner’s history: “Escaped a state nursery in Kansas City when he was six. Arrested at ten for printing anti-Sleep material. Which cost him six months in a work compound. At sixteen, blocked a DS ma
n on a hunt. Nineteen to twenty—pairups with at least two known subversives.”
“Real misfit.” Logan nodded. “Guess he doesn’t like the system much.”
“We’ve been watching him,” said a board tech. “Stayed with his sister at a quad in the Beverly sector for a while. We figured he’d run on black. Took us by surprise, though, when he grabbed that paravane. This boy’s smart. Smart and dangerous.”
Francis grinned. “That’s how I like ‘em.” He looked at Logan. “This last one might be fun after all.”
“Maybe,” said Logan.
The board tech punched in the scan coordinates. Logan was stunned as the runner’s tri-dimensional image filled the scanboard: it was Doyle!
Jessica’s brother!
Data quick-flashed across the screen:
Runner…DOYLE 10—14302
Height…6-1
Weight…180
Hair…DARK BROWN
Eyes…SAME
Physical markings…SMALL SCAR ABOVE RIGHT EYE
DS status…CRYSTAL BLACKED 0800…ARCADE
Present location…DESERT AREA…PALM SPRINGS.
Scope reading…NEGATIVE
WARNING…WARNING…WARNING….
WARNING…WARNING
APPROACH WITH CAUTION…SUBJECT ARMED WITH
STOLEN X-9Z FUSE WEAPON
“Are you all right?” Francis was staring at him. Logan had unconsciously fisted both hands; his knuckles were white, his face taut with suppressed emotion. He nodded slowly.
“Something’s wrong.”
“It’s just that he—looks like a man I knew.”
“Friend?”
“No…just someone I knew once.”
“Well, we’d better move on this one. They’re holding a car for us.” Francis checked his Follower. “They tried for a scope reading. No go. But we can lock into him once we hit the desert.”
“Yes, we can do that,” said Logan. His tone was flat and mechanical. He was numbed by the realization that it was happening all over again; he was being forced to hunt down Jessica’s brother here on this Earth exactly as he had done in the past, on his own world.
Logan: A Trilogy Page 29