Logan: A Trilogy

by William F. Nolan

  Where were the dragons?

  He saw several sharks; a manta rippled over him like a great shadowed blanket; a startled octopus unfurled like a dark flower from the lee of a sunken boulder; a fat trunkback turtle paddled by in lazy unconcern, ignoring this bizarre vehicle and the armored man who rode it.

  But nowhere did Logan encounter barracuda. Perhaps by now they were wary of hunters; perhaps they avoided these sharp-snouted Seacats with their nets and lights and weapons.

  But, eventually, Logan knew, he would find them.

  Or they would find him.

  Jessica hated being left behind at the clubhouse. She had asked to go with him, but Logan had refused. Too dangerous, he’d insisted. She had no undersea experience, which might prove disastrous in case of emergency. He must go alone. Wait. Just wait. He’d be back with Francis.

  She forced calmness upon herself; she tried to read one of the seahunt publications, but could not sit still. She ranged the hallways, glancing at the various trophies, at the mounted specimens of sea life, at weaponry new and old. She walked aimlessly into the equipment room, running her fingers along masks and fins and oiled tank fittings. The room sickened her: it smelled of brine and rubber and iodine.

  She left without speaking to the outfitter, who stared at her.

  What was wrong? More than her worries about Logan and the computer time running out and the rest of it, more than the tensions induced by their perilous situation. It was something else, something that threatened in a very personal way. She grew increasingly nervous and apprehensive.

  And then she had the answer. So simple—and so horrible. Her shocked mind rejected it. No, can’t be. Not yet. Not now.

  No!

  Standing alone in the club hallway, she slowly opened her right hand. In the center of her palm, the crystal timeflower was no longer a steady red. It pulsed like an angry heart: red-black…red-black… red-black.

  Jessica 6 was on Lastday.

  The silo was a relic, built in the turbulent twentieth century, when one nation attempted to impress another with destructive power, when nuclear submarines patrolled the dark waters and bomb-laden aircraft rode global skies.

  The submarines and the aircraft were gone, but the concrete-and-steel silos remained, deep-buried in land or under the seas, silent and long abandoned, their deadly missiles removed—stark reminders of a time when another kind of evil beyond Sandman and runner permeated the world, when war seemed ready to bloom into monstrous atomic life, engulfing the Earth in fire.

  The tall, tubular structure loomed ahead, pinned in Logan’s lightbeam. He circled it in a wide arc, and in jubilation found what he’d been searching for: a Seacat, moored to the silo’s lower section, swaying idly in the surge of undersea currents.

  I’ve found him! Francis has to be inside.

  Logan quickly looped a holdchain over a projecting lichen-covered ladder along the near side of the huge silo. His craft would be safe here. He removed a spare breatherpac from the cat and snap-linked it to his suit. Just to make certain he had ample oxygen in case of trouble inside the silo.

  He climbed the ladder to the massive overhead entry hatch. The hatch doors had jammed open, providing easy access.

  Logan carried a portable pinbeamer to light his way, and a laserspear was belted to his wrist. His wide visorshield afforded a full field of vision.

  He wore the armored suit comfortably, like a second skin, finding that it did not in any way hamper normal body movement. The suit contained an emergency mini-powerunit capable of limited independent acceleration in case its wearer was injured and could not propel himself through the water. Easily enough power to get him back to the cat.

  Logan kicked out with his lightweight, finned diving boots, gliding swiftly downward, guided by the pinbeam.

  His light flashed across the owlish eyes of a large blowfish, which instantly swelled into a defensive ball of prickly white spines. A speckled moray eel whipped past in the murky deep. As Logan angled down toward the floor of the silo he passed a series of phosphorescent depth markers, the numerals still glowing faintly in the thick green-black waters:

  30’

  60’

  90’

  120’

  Iron rung ladders spidered up the curved walls. He passed ruptured pipes and tubing choked with sea growth. A wire-cage elevator was frozen halfway between the upper hatch and the floor.

  He swam toward it. Ran the beam inside. Empty.

  Logan continued his descent, the suit equalizing body pressure, keeping the oxygen flow clear and steady. At last his boots touched the wide, debris-covered floor of the silo. Schools of curious suckerfish circled him as Logan swung the pinbeam toward a substantial, octagon-shaped structure in mid-floor.

  Probably missile control. Francis could be in there.

  Its door was open, and Logan swam through into a large instrumentation chamber. The room was a mass of dials, switches, control chairs, and computer decks, all heavily encrusted with sea life.

  No sign of Francis. Logan felt a surge of disappointment. Of frustration. Where the hell was he?

  He was about to leave the missile-control area when he noticed a second exit door to the far right. It had partially collapsed, and Logan barely managed to slip between the angled door edge and the floorbase.

  Inside, his pinbeam traveled over tumbled equipment bins, a spillage of tools and electronic parts. Storage area. Nothing here.

  But wait!

  Something was moving to his left. A dark shape—just beyond a section of fallen bins…

  Logan tensed, a hand on his speargun. If he surprised a manta down here, or a disgruntled octopus, he’d be in for a mean close-quarter attack. But the dark shape did not advance; it seemed unaffected by his presence.

  He swam toward it, still warty, ducking under a section of twisted steel shelving to discover: Francis!

  Logan beamed the Sandman’s visorshield: eyes closed, mouth slack. Was he dead?

  He studied the situation: Francis was wedged into a corner of the crowded storage area, his body jammed beneath a fallen portion of the ceiling. The moving shape Logan had seen from the doorway was the trapped Sandman’s right arm, moving languidly up and down in the current created by Logan’s passage.

  Oxygen! He’s probably out, Logan realized — quickly attaching the spare breatherpac, making the suit connection. He noted an immediate change in Francis: his eyelids fluttered open, his mouth gulping in the precious oxygen.

  Logan unreeled a suit-to-suit intercom from a contact cylinder at his waist and plugged it into the Sandman’s helmet.

  “Francis, can you, hear me?”

  A nod. “Logan.”

  “How badly hurt are you?’

  The answering voice was strained; the words formed slowly: “Can’t move…my legs. Other arm… think broken.”

  “What happened?”

  “Curious…came in here to…look around…ceiling gave way…got trapped…oxygen gone.”

  “All right, I understand. I’ll get you out.”

  “Can’t move this bin…too heavy…jammed.”

  “I’ll go back to the cat for a dicer. Cut you free. You’ve got enough oxygen now, so just hang on here till I get back.”

  Francis smiled faintly behind the visor. “I…won’t be…going anywhere.” Logan broke the suit connection and swam for the exit.

  The Seacat’s S-6x penetration beam handunit, of “slicer,” was extremely effective in lasering through the interlace of steel that held Francis pincered against the floor. Logan had almost succeeded in freeing the trapped Sandman when Francis suddenly jerked his right arm upward, directly into the path of the slicebeam. The laser cut deeply into his suit armor, slitting it from elbow to shoulder, before Francis was able to pull his arm away from the beam.

  “What are you doing?” Logan yelled into the intercom.

  “Muscle spasm,” Francis replied. “Couldn’t help it.” In shock, Francis watched his blood darkly clouding the
water.

  “It’s bad,” said Logan, checking the wound. “Went right through your suit.”

  “I know…blood in the water. They’ll come for us.”

  “Are you able to swim?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t see a propulsion unit on your suit.”

  “Left it off,” said Francis. “For lighter weight.”

  “We can both use mine,” said Logan, slicing through the final wedge of steel. The job was done—but they were a long way from safety.

  Logan’s suit unit propelled them steadily up toward the silo’s hatch in a froth of blood bubbles. Francis was barely conscious, a dragging bulk for Logan to maneuver; his arms and legs dangled, puppetlike, and through the intercom Logan could hear his labored breathing. The upper hatch loomed closer.

  “We’re almost there,” said Logan. “Once we reach the cat, I can get us away fast.”

  “Not…fast enough,” said Francis weakly. “No…chance.” And his eyes closed.

  “Hang on!”

  “No…use…can’t…” He lapsed into coma.

  At the hatch, Logan paused. Better check the area before taking him out there, Logan told himself. I’ll leave Francis here, linked to the inner ladder; the silo will protect him.

  As Logan cleared the open hatch he drew back his lips in a grimace of shock.

  The dragons were here.

  Barracuda.

  A pack of them. Two dozen at least, circling the tall silo in darting, nervous impatience, excited by the blood spoor.

  The sea was filled with swimming death.

  Logan choked back revulsion and fear. The laser-cannon would stop them. Get to a cat and use the cannon on them.

  But the killer fish, with their ugly reptilian snouts and brute eyes, were between him and the Seacats— both of which were moored at the lower end of the silo.

  Gripping a section of ladder outside the hatch, Logan attempted to clear his thoughts, pushing the fear away, mentally gearing himself for affirmative action. His mind raced:

  Maybe I could fight my way through to one of the cats—but I can’t leave Francis alone inside the silo. They’d go in after him, be on him before I could use the cannon; they’d tear him apart in seconds, and his damaged suit wouldn’t stop them.

  If I could just get one of them, then maybe.

  Logan had the laserspear up, spring trigger at firing position. He had no expertise with a sea spear, had never fired one at an underwater target—and the erratic, darting ‘cuda were extremely elusive.

  Yet he must try.

  He sighted on a huge, sheen-gray monster who seemed to be bolder than his fellows in that he swam much closer, in tighter circles, multirowed teeth shining whitely in his wide-hinged, killing jaw. Of all dangerous fish, the ‘cuda was supreme in speed and deadliness—capable of cutting through the water at fifty miles per hour. Even its tongue had small, cruel teeth!

  I’d rather face a school of shark than these devils, Logan thought, watching them glide closer. They don’t fear me. They don’t fear anything.

  He triggered the speargun—and with a soft popping explosion the spearhead flashed toward the big gray devilfish.

  And missed.

  The point passed behind the ‘cuda, lasering through a large sea boulder. Logan realized that he had failed to compensate for the angle of water-mass deflection. Aim ahead of the target, he told himself. Let the fish swim into the spearpoint.

  Logan had fumbled a reload from his belt and was inserting it in the speargun when he was hit by the big gray. The barracuda’s razored teeth raked furiously along the right side of his suit. The armor held —but he was thrown back against an upper edge of the silo, the speargun violently jolted from his grasp.

  In desperation, he lunged for it, closing his gloved fingers around the trigger haft just as a second ‘cuda struck at him, at his flippered left boot. The entire rubberized tip was sheared away, but the armor resisted penetration.

  Logan swung the speargun back into firing position, noting that the pack was much closer now. They were tightening the death circle!

  His second shot also missed, but by a much narrower margin. Logan had just one more reload for the weapon; the others were in the cat. If I miss this time.

  Another monster charged him—but Logan dipped back behind the silo ladder as the ‘cuda’s teeth rang on the steel rung next to his head, scoring the metal.

  Last shot. Must not miss. Look at them. Not afraid of me. Figure I can’t hurt them. Lucky so far. Suit won’t hold in mass attack. Closer to me. What’s wrong? Taking too long to load. Hands not working. Breathing difficult. Oxygen giving out. Can’t think. Weak. Coordination going…

  Logan was on the edge of blackout; his breatherpac was nearly empty. He felt dizzy, uncertain; the moving ‘cuda were gray-green blurs.. .wavering…

  Focus! Concentrate!

  The big gray was coming at him, obscene jaws gaped wide as Logan slowly brought up the speargun. He fired, head-on, at the swift slicing deathshape.

  The spearpoint flashed, imbedding itself in the barracuda’s underslung jaw lasering him neatly in half. A rush of spilled red flesh, an explosion of organs and entrails…

  The pack went mad.

  In a blood frenzy, they attacked their dying leader, totally ignoring Logan as he tossed aside the empty speargun. Fighting to breathe, he pulled Francis out through the open hatch doors, activating the suit propulsion unit.

  They arrowed down toward Logan’s moored Seacat.

  Around them, in erupting crimson, the maddened fish struck wildly at one another, ripping and tearing.

  Having reached the cat, Logan used his last breath to snap a fresh pac into his suit. The flowing rush of oxygen was incredibly sweet!

  At the controls, with Francis locked into the cockpit next to him, he engaged full power. The Seacat jetted forward in a bubbled rush, while behind them, in the red froth of sea, the dragons clashed.

  * * *

  TIME OF RITUAL

  “Gone?” Logan stared at the smiling man. “She can’t be gone.”

  “I tell you, mon, she go!” He spread his dark_ hands. “Look all afraid. Ve-ry unhappy.”

  “She must have left some kind of message!”

  The attendant frowned. “Message?” Then he smiled again, nodding with sudden vigor. Digging into his bushjacket, he withdrew a folded square of white paper. “Oh, sure, man! I forget she leave this.” His smile gleamed. “Fine message!”

  Logan hurriedly unfolded the note.

  Logan,

  Francis can’t help me now. No one can.

  I’m on Lastday. Please don’t try to find me.

  Seeing you again would bring only sadness.

  I hope you find your Jessica.

  There was a four-word postscript:

  I’m going to run.

  “Hey, mon, she tell you where she go?”

  “No,” said Logan quietly, “she didn’t tell me.”

  He walked from the room to the open patio. Edged between dark clouds, the moon was hammered gold. It cast a pale yellow glow on the night beach beyond the trees. A heavy odor of damp earth rose from the jungle.

  Logan walked through the trees toward the sea, holding the note in his hand. On the beach he read it once more…I hope you find your Jessica…then dropped the paper into the damp sand. The reflecting sea traced a faint wetness on his cheeks.

  He’d lost them both—the two Jessicas. Both of them. And he knew now, admitting it to himself for the first time, that he loved the Jessica of this Earth just as he continued to love the Jessica of his own world. One lost in time and space, the other fleeing a death she could never outrun.

  Logan felt a sudden chill. The moon was buried in a bulked mass of cloud. The jungle darkened.

  And the rain began.

  Francis took a day to heal. His right arm was badly wrenched but not broken, and his other injuries were minor. Within thirty-six hours he was in a mazecar with Logan, heading back to Cali
fornia.

  Logan was returning to Angeles Complex as a fugitive in the custody of Francis, who assured him that Phedra’s story would soon be discredited.

  “You saved my life at Dragon Bay,” said Francis. “Now I’ll save yours.”

  “Have I lost Godbirth?” Logan asked him as the mazecar bore them swiftly through deep-earth darkness.

  “No,” said Francis. “You’ll be eligible again once the computer clears you.” He placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, old friend, well make Godbirth together. I guarantee it!”

  And what of Jessica? Logan asked silently. What will happen to Jess when Lastday is over and the Sandmen go after her?

  Don’t think about her. You can’t do anything to help her now—so quit thinking about her. Shut down your mind to her. She’s gone. She never belonged to your world.

  But I love her!

  “You’re going to be asked about that sister of Doyle’s,” Francis was saying to him. “And I’m personally curious.Why did you get involved with her?”

  “I didn’t,” said Logan flatly. “Then how do you explain?”

  “I was checking her out as a possible subversive when Phedra became jealous of us and manufactured that drug story.” Logan spread his hands. “Then we were condemned to the Serengeti. When the Masai let us go, I was forced to take her along.”

  “Forced?”

  “What else could I do? I had no reason to believe she’d run.”

  “Have any idea where she might be?”

  “No,” said Logan. “Does it matter?”

  “Every runner matters.”

  “They aren’t our problem anymore,” said Logan. “Or have you forgotten?” Francis smiled thinly…”It’s hard to quit thinking like a Sandman.”