Logan: A Trilogy

by William F. Nolan

  “What about all the Sandmen who have been selected for Godbirth?”

  “They are nonexistent.”

  “The place of Miracles?”

  “Nonexistent.”

  “Nirvana?”

  “Nonexistent.”

  “The Gods!”

  “Nonexistent.”

  Logan sat in the padded Questionchair, staring at the featureless computerwall. A tiny, glowing voice-cylinder halfway between floor and ceiling was the only visual contact with the immense powerhouse of stored data behind the wall.

  He felt helpless, frustrated. And angry.

  “I received official comp-notification of acceptance for Godbirth,” Logan said, keeping his tone level. A display of temper would achieve nothing; displayed emotion brought no profit here.

  “That is correct. You received notification.”

  Logan leaned forward, boring in. Logic. The computer could not refute logic. “How can I receive notification of a ritual that does not exist? Please explain that.”

  “It is not possible to render explanations relating to nonexistent data,” said the calm computer-voice. “But the notification exists!”

  “The notification exists. That is correct. But the data relating to it is nonexistent.”

  “But if you admit sending me a—” Logan sighed, letting the sentence die. “Your question is unclear. Please clarify or I cannot offer you a reply.”

  “Never mind,” said Logan. “The question is canceled.”

  No wonder Francis didn’t say much to him about Godbirth. Logan had assumed that Francis knew a great deal about the ritual, but obviously that assumption was incorrect.

  He stood up to leave.

  “We hope you have gained wisdom and satisfaction from your visit with us,” said the computer-voice. “Our services are always available to you, and you are always free to ask whatever questions may—”

  It was still talking as Logan muttered an obscenity and left the chamber.

  He had gained nothing here but frustration.

  The dancer moved with hypnotic grace, weaving sinuous flame patterns through the crowd, creating a body-symphony in rippled yellow fire.

  Logan inhaled her sharply erotic fragrance, released as flames slowly consumed the potent skin cosmetic she wore.

  “Striking, isn’t she?” asked Jessica, sitting close to him in the fiery dark.

  “Yes, she’s that, all right,” agreed Logan, watching the dancer weave a flame ring around their table. Her smile dazzled through a halo of fire-blazed blue.

  “She seems to know you.”

  He nodded. “She’s Phedra 12. We’ve had sex.”

  “She must be a marvelous lover,” said Jessica. “Such exquisite body control.”

  Logan said nothing to this.

  They were in the Hastings firegallery, and the partygoers around them were having a fine time, proud of netting the famous Logan 3 for their group. Society status symbol. Instant celebrity prize.

  As Phedra danced away, deeper into the crowd, Jessica leaned close to Logan. Her eyes appraised him coolly. “You’re not enjoying yourself much, are you?”

  “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Tell me why. Don’t you like me?” She pressed her right leg against his. “I thought you liked me.”

  Logan failed to respond. Jessica’s blatant sexuality sickened him. He’d hunted down her brother and should be held responsible, in her eyes, for Doyle’s violent death. Yet here she was, in a daring fullslash partysuit, preening to him, soliciting his lust, totally cold to what had happened to her brother. In a perverse sense, his part in Doyle’s death seemed to make him more attractive to her.

  It was all wrong. Distorted.

  Coming here tonight had been painful for Logan. Moving through the pleasure-gorged crowds of Arcade, assaulted by the mad cacophony of lights and sounds and colors, he was struck anew by the horrible emptiness of it all. Pleasure now, and death waiting beyond the lights.

  For Logan, Arcade encapsulated the basic sickness of this society—just as it had in his own world prior to the final destruction of the Thinker. Pleasure without freedom. Pleasure without hope. A mockery. A lure to dull the mind, to lead the citizen into Sleep…

  “I’d better leave,” said Logan. “I’m not much good at parties.”

  Jessica stood up. “All right, I’ll go too. Will you take me back to my unit?”

  Suddenly, abruptly, they moved together and she was in his arms. The clean scent of her shining hair reached him, the subtle perfume of her skin.With soft fingers, she touched his face, leaned to kiss him, her lips fierce and hot on his.

  In Jessica’s lifeunit, totally lost in one another’s flesh, they made love into the dawn. Then, sated, they slept, skin to skin, as the morning sun tinted the sky over Angeles Complex in soft pastels.

  Logan woke first, slipped quietly from the flowbed, dressed, and exited the unit.

  On a pillow next to the sleeping woman he left a note:

  Jessica:

  I won’t see you again. Don’t

  try to contact me. This is over.

  L.

  And in the mazecar, heading back to his sector, he did not regret the harshness of the note. He knew that what he had done was perverted—making love to this woman while his own Jess, waiting with child, was lost to him across space on another world.

  He would end this madness here and now. He should never have given in to his initial compulsion, should never have gone to see this second Jessica. Their lovemaking, however passionate, was a distortion of his love for Jess, and he was disgusted with his self-weakness.

  Over. Done.

  Ended.

  When Logan walked into his lifeunit, three tall police officers were waiting for him, their bright lemon colored tunics contrasting with the dark solemnity of their faces.

  “I’m Bracker—Federal Branch,” said the tallest of them. His eyes were slate-colored, his thin lips unsmiling. “Are you Logan 3—1639?”

  “You know I am.” Logan met his measured gaze. “What do you want with me?”

  “We have reason to believe that you are in violation of a prime citystate law,” said the policeman.

  “What law?”

  “Possession and dissemination of a highly toxic and illegal substance.”

  “You’d better leave,” said Logan tightly. “I’m with DS. We have immunity against this sort of harassment.”

  “DS immunity does not apply in this case,” said Bracker.

  “Who sent you here?”

  “Never mind that. We’re here.”

  Logan expelled angry breath. “I’d like to know the nature of this ‘highly toxic’ substance.”

  Bracker raised a finger—and one of his men dipped a hand into the upper pocket of Logan’s zipjacket, extracting a small, wafer-thin white disc.

  “DD-15,” said Bracker, holding up the disc. “Unofficially known as Death Dust.”

  Logan was quite familiar with this drug. DD-15 was used exclusively in Medlab control work and was strictly forbidden to citizens, including DS operatives. It was potent and deadly.

  “That’s not mine,” said Logan calmly. “It does not belong to me, and I have absolutely no idea where it came from.”

  “Naturally,” said Bracker, smiling faintly. He nodded to the others. “Take him.”

  Logan did not resist. His hands were tapewired behind him, and he was led from the unit directly to a waiting police paravane outside the building.

  The ride to Federal Headquarters was swift and silent.

  The interrogation room smelled of fear. The air was hot and close. No vents or windows. The sour fearsweat of numberless accused citizens lingered here; it permeated the pores of the room, creating an oppressive atmosphere designed to inspire breakdown and confession.

  Logan, in a holdchair, faced Bracker and his men—just as he had faced the aliens in the giant mothership. And with the same sense of helplessness. How could he prove his innocence? Someone
had planted the Dust on him. Someone who wanted to hurt him, to place him in severe jeopardy. Someone.

  Phedra 12.

  She stood in the room’s open doorway, wearing a loose dun-brown monksrobe that obscured the extravagant curves of her body. Her face was scrubbed of makeup; she looked much younger, almost childlike. And there was mock sadness in her usually sensual eyes.

  “I hate doing this to you, Logan, really I do,” she said in a small, apologetic voice. “But I’m a good citizen. I’ve always been loyal to the system. I just couldn’t let you do it.”

  “And what did I do, Phedra?” Logan asked.

  “That stuff you were using…passing around…that awful stuff!” She shuddered.

  “This is the man you saw in Arcade?” asked Bracker.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Logan 3. He’s famous. Everyone knows him. Before he began using…the drug…I was happy to be there, proud to dance for him.”

  “She’s jealous,” Logan snapped to the others in the room. He swung his eyes to hers, glaring. “Because I was with another woman. That’s why you’re doing this. Tell them the truth. Admit it!”

  “No—I can’t lie for you, Logan. Don’t ask me to lie!” And she lowered her eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears.

  A class act, thought Logan. Fast class all the way.

  Bracker walked close to her. “The woman he was with,” prompted the tall officer. “Tell us her name.” He smiled thinly. “For the record.”

  “Jessica 6,” said Phedra softly.

  “Right.” Bracker nodded. His voice hardened: “Bring her in.”

  And Jessica was suddenly there in the room with Logan, looking stunned and shaken. Bracker led her to a holdchair and she sat down, a glazed expression on her face.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why am There?”

  “Tell her why, Logan.” Bracker smiled. “She shared the fun at Arcade. Now she’s sharing this. Tell her why she’s here.”

  “It’s Phedra,” said Logan bitterly. “She’s been lying, trying to — “

  “That’s the woman! That’s her!” said Phedra, overriding his words, pointing at Jessica. “She was there with him.”

  “And was she also using DD-15?”

  “Yes.” Phedra nodded. “She was taking it…passing it around to the others. The two of them they’re both guilty!”

  “You lie!” snapped Logan.

  “No use bluffing,” said the tall officer. “We not only have the disc we took from you but we ran a chemlab test on Jessica’s hands. Traces of DD-15 under the nails, in the skin pores. No doubt of it.”

  Logan tried to stand, but the chair held him. His face was pale with anger. “That’s not true! Your test is wrong!”

  Was Bracker himself in on this? Logan wondered. Was he lying, too? Logan looked at Jessica, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes; she stared ahead in shock.

  Bracker swung toward the wall, spoke to the voice-cylinder glowing there: “This case is conclusive. We found a disc on Logan 3, and we have lab confirmation on the woman. Plus eyewitness testimony. Verdict?”

  A moment of tense silence.

  Then the voice-cylinder said calmly: “Execute them.”

  * * *

  THE KILLING GROUND

  Once, long ago, the country surrounding and encompassing East Africa’s great Serengeti Plain swarmed with life. Here, in lazy heat, lion and leopard prowled; the hooves of roan antelope and reedbuck trail-marked the rolling grassland; massive elephants trumpeted the sky. Through which the gold-breasted starling and hawk eagle flew; kudu and zebra and gazelle galloped with wildebeest and giraffe; hippos ruled the rivers, while buffalo and bush pig shared the wide savannas; here, too, flourished the horned rhino, the swift impala, the hyena and wild dog.

  But now, in this time of Sandman and runner, it was no longer the heartland of life.

  The Serengeti was sterile. The great herds were gone; the rivers ran to thin trickles under the high African sun; the brute roar of the king lion was stilled forever.

  It was a place of death.

  Logan was not prepared for the sentence levied upon him by the computer—that he and Jessica be transported to the Serengeti and left there, on the wide, raw plain, to be hunted by Masai tribesmen and executed by them under official citystate statutes.

  On his Earth, condemned criminals were sent to Hell—that vast, deadly ice-shelf stretching between Baffin Bay and the Bering Sea—but here the killing ground was the Serengeti, an area equally as severe and from which escape was equally impossible.

  A sealed mazecar whisked them under the Indian Ocean to Mombasa. There they were put into a second car, which arrowed west, into Tanzania—to the platform at Ngorongoro. Another vehicle transfer, and they were flown north to be deposited, for death, on the hot yellow sprawl of the Serengeti.

  As they watched, the police paravane lifted free of the plain, angled south, whirred to a tiny glinting dot in the cloudless bowl of sky, then vanished completely.

  Leaving them alone.

  They had been given a meager ration of water, just enough to keep them alive until the hunters picked up their trail. They wore the basic garb of the condemned: heavy shoes, thin cotton trousers, a sleeved bodyshirt, and a long-billed cap to help fend off the murderous sun. The latter was a necessity, since many bare-headed prisoners had died of sunstroke in earlier days, cheating the Masai of their kill.

  There were no lions left to slay. Thus, the pride of a Masai depended on how swiftly and efficiently he could hunt down and execute a condemned man or woman.

  Logan and Jessica were, of course, weaponless.

  “What do they kill with?” asked Logan.

  “Spears,” said Jessica. “Tribal tradition. No honor for them in anything else.” “On foot?”

  “No, they ride some kind of animal.”

  “Couldn’t,” said Logan. “No animals left here.” He kicked idly at a bleached buffalo bone half-buried in scrub grass.

  “What difference does it make?” asked Jessica tensely. “They’re coming for us. That’s the only fact that matters.”

  Logan narrowed his eyes, peering through the heat haze toward a pale blue range of mountainous hills riding the plain’s edge.

  “If we can make it to those hills, we’ll have a better chance.get into the rocks and high grass.”

  “Chance?” She smiled wanly. “We’ve no chance, Logan. No matter where we go they’ll find us and they’ll kill us. That’s their job and they’re very good at it.”

  “Well, our job is to stay alive,” said Logan. “So let’s get moving.”

  Before sentence had been passed, Logan had attempted to reach Francis, but no outside contacts were allowed prime citystate violators. He had been stripped of his DS rating and, with it, his potential admission to Godbirth. Which meant he had failed totally in his mission. Once his time had run out here, the aliens would abandon him—whether he lived or died on the Serengeti.

  Logan refused to think about this. He had locked his mind on a single goal: survival. Somehow, he would outwit the hunters who stalked him. He and Jessica would survive.

  With canteens slung over their shoulders, they set out across the softly rolling grassland toward the range of northern hills.

  The African sun was fierce, an unwinking yellow-white eye of fire, brimming the noon sky, heat-blasting the land. To Logan and Jessica, laboring toward the dim blue hills, it was as if the door of an immense sky-furnace had been opened upon them.

  Within a single mile their clothing was sweat-soaked, their ears ringing from the heat.

  Logan stopped to look back, shading his eyes.

  Jessica stood, head down, gasping from the fiery assault.

  “They’re coming,” said Logan softly.

  She blinked tears of salt from her eyes. “How many?”

  “I make it…three.”

  Jess nodded. “They usually hunt in a trio.”

  “And you were right,” said Logan. “They are mounted. H
orses, I think. Probably flown in for them.”

  Logan estimated the distance left to the edge of the plain. “Cuts our time down, them having horses,” he said. “We’ll have to run. That’s the only way we’ll make it.”

  “In this heat?” She stared at him. “Under this sun?”

  He took a quick swallow from his canteen and capped it again. She followed his example.

  “It’s the only sun we’ve got,” he said.

  “I can’t see how you expect to—”

  “Don’t talk. Waste of energy.”

  And he broke into a jogging trot, Jessica beside him.

  On and on…across the great plain, moving around the heaped bones of elephant and oryx, using ancient trails trod by beasts a century dead, over patches of sandy loam, past solitary clumps of wind-shaped trees.

  On and on.

  The hills deepened in color. Closer. But the hunters were closer too—close enough now for Jessica to identify the creatures they rode.

  “Marabunta!” she said, standing loosely, looking back, dragging furnaced air into her lungs.

  Logan had also stopped. Now he twisted toward her, questioning the word.

  “Warrior ants,” she said. “That’s what they’re called by the Masai.”

  He squinted at them in disbelief. “But they—they’re the size of horses!”

  “Could be a mutation,” said Jess. “Insects can survive when animals can’t.”

  “Keep going,” Logan told her. “We can make it. We’re almost there.”

  They continued to run, throats hot, tongues swollen, their eyes stinging with salt—faint with heat exhaustion. And Logan thought, This is how it was for Doyle, in the desert. Hunters behind with death in their hands and no future ahead, the sun raw on his back, pain racking his legs.

  And then, in a final miraculous surge, they were into the blue hills.

  Shade. Coolness. Relief.

  But no time to rest.

  Now a boulder-filled streambed, carpeted in dry white pebbles, with interlacing brush and trees so thickly massed that a tunnel of green formed around them; the smell of wild growth was overpowering, in direct contrast to the arid, burned-ash smell of the plain.