Runner

by William C. Dietz

  The words served to bring the world back into focus, and the pain came with it. Rebo frowned as the needle plunged into his back yet again. The monk’s head had been shaved, a simple red robe hung from his skinny shoulders, and he looked like he was thirty or so. The runner found that his throat was dry. “No offense, Brother Qwa, but I’m kind of busy at the moment. Could this wait?”

  The monk shook his head. “No, I’m afraid it can’t. A ship is due in four days. We hope to send a package out on it. So, assuming that the vessel actually shows up, we need to hire a runner.”

  Rebo understood the problem. Or part of it anyway. What little interstellar commerce there was took place via a fleet of spaceships that dated back to one of the last major technocivilization. Because they were fully automated, the ships continued to link the far-flung star systems together long after the culture that created them had been destroyed.

  Now, thousands of years later, the spaceships were dying because no one had the knowledge or the means to repair them. The result was that there were fewer ships with each passing year, it was no longer possible to reach some destinations directly, and entire solar systems had been left isolated. Just one of the reasons why people hired runners to carry their messages rather than handling the chore themselves.

  The pain was even more intense now, and tiny beads of perspiration had appeared on the runner’s forehead. “Look,” Rebo said, “I just finished a run and I’m tired. I suggest that your return to the guild and ask for another recommendation.”

  The monk looked unconvinced. “You are the best. That’s what your peers say. We will double your fee.”

  Rebo looked the monk in the eye. “Double? That’s a lot of money. This package must be important.”

  “It is,” Qwa confirmed. “Come to the monastery tonight. We will show you the package, and assuming that you agree to handle the consignment, pay half of what we owe you up front.”

  “And the other half?” the runner inquired.

  “You will receive that when you deliver the package to the city of CaCanth on Thara,” Qwa answered.

  The name startled Rebo, his body gave an involuntary jerk, and the needle went deep. Thara! The planet on which he had been born, left at the age of twelve, and never gone back to since. Was his mother still alive? It seemed unlikely, but without knowing it, the monk had hit on the one thing that would change the runner’s mind. Rebo’s mother had worked twelve hours a day to obtain enough money to buy his apprenticeship, and now, if he could buy her some comfort in her old age, the journey would be worth it. “All right,” the runner replied, “I’ll see you tonight.”

  The monk left, the artist dabbed at her bloody work, and the torture continued.

  The hall maintained by the actor’s guild was second only to the local amphitheater in terms of the number of people that it could hold, and Lanni Norr peered through dusty red velvet curtains as the citizens of Seros filed in. Many carried cushions to soften the unpadded seats, blankets to protect them from the evening chill, and baskets of food. And, judging from the steady stream of people, it appeared that her advertising campaign had been a success. The actor’s guild would get 10 percent of the gate, but assuming she could fill 80 percent of the seats, the sensitive figured she would take in enough money to defray her expenses for a year. She would come up with a disguise, fade into the countryside, and rent a cottage. Each day would be spent reading, painting, or simply doing nothing. That was Norr’s dream—and the only reason she was willing to expose herself to the dangers associated with the impending performance.

  Because while clairaudience was one thing, and the occasional demonstration of telekinesis was another, a full-blown trance was something else. Once the sensitive exited her body and allowed a discarnate soul to enter it, she would be helpless until the entity left. Yes, she had spent her last few gunars on a bodyguard, but what if the entire audience stormed the stage as had happened in the past? Norr had been present the night that an unruly crowd had accused her mentor of witchcraft and subsequently beaten the old woman to death. Norr had been forced to travel for more than a hundred miles before she finally located a cemetery that was willing to accept the sensitive’s remains.

  Someone touched Norr’s shoulder and she jumped. It was the heavy named Loro and he was huge. The variant stood a full seven feet tall, weighted close to 350, and looked as though his muscles had muscles. Like all his kind, the bodyguard was the result of the same sort of genetic tinkering that had produced Norr, except that his body was designed to cope with heavy-gravity environments, where massive bones and big muscles were required to survive. Over time some of the big brutes had been absorbed into the general population, where they often wound up as laborers, watchmen, and freelance bodyguards. Loro’s voice consisted of a deep rumble. “Where do you want me?”

  “Between me and everyone else,” Norr replied fervently. “Don’t let anyone up on the stage. Especially while I’m in trance. Do you understand?”

  The last was said as if the concept might be too complicated for a heavy to understand. Both norms and variants had a tendency to assume that heavies were stupid, but that was absurd since the scientists who designed the enormous humanoids had been trying to create intelligent workers. Loro was so used to the bias he didn’t even take offense anymore. “Of course,” the heavy replied. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you,” Norr replied gratefully. “Now, if you would be so kind as to take your place out on the stage, I think your very presence will help keep the rowdies under control.”

  Loro nodded, pulled one of the curtains aside, and stepped through the resulting gap. The sensitive saw that two-thirds of the seats were full, and sought the momentary solitude of her dressing room. It was her habit to meditate for a few minutes prior to a demonstration, and even that small amount of distance would help reduce the pressure from the multitudinous thought forms that pressed in around her.

  Meanwhile, out in the audience, there was a stir as a metal man entered the hall. He wasn’t real, of course, but a replica of a man, one of dozens that had appeared on the streets of Seros during the past couple of years. Nobody liked them. Partly because they were machines, and there was a segment of society that believed that machines were dangerous, but mostly because of their incessant preaching on behalf of a group called the Techno Society. In fact, hardly a day went by when one or more of the androids couldn’t be found near the public market droning on about the benefits of technology.

  And sometimes, for reasons known only to them, the metal men would appear at public events like this one. Only rather than preach they were content to sit and observe. Like the rest of his electromechanical brethren, the robot wore a hooded robe that revealed little more than the sculptured planes of his alloy face and hung all the way to the floor. The machine whirred as it brushed past people who had already taken their seats and plopped down between a teacher and a butcher. Neither was especially pleased, and both went to extremes to avoid contact with the creature.

  Each attendee had been given a blank square of paper on which they had been invited to write their name, make their mark, or jot down a message to a dead loved one. There was a stir as the ushers called for the audience to pass the billets to the center aisle.

  The metal man handed his note to the teacher, who took the moment required to read it, and was surprised to see some extremely neat printing. It read, “Milos Lysander.”

  Did that mean the machine was named Lysander? There was no way to know, and it was none of his business, so the teacher passed all the pieces of paper that had come his way down to the center aisle, where they were collected.

  The lights dimmed, and the curtains opened, to reveal a young woman sitting on a tall stool with a table at her side. Lamplights, cleverly directed her way through the use of lenses, lit a pretty face. She had long dark hair, large brown eyes, and extremely fair skin. But slender though she was, the sensitive projected an aura of strength, and her eyes flashed as she look
ed about the room. “Good evening. My name is Lanni Norr. I have good news for you . . . There is no such thing as death. Only a transition from one plane of existence to another. I am not a witch, nor a magician, but a member of a small group of people who refer to themselves as sensitives. Just as phibs were bred to swim, and wings were born to fly, we were created to facilitate communications between this world and the next.”

  Norr emphasized her words by seizing control of the energy in the room, shaping it to her purpose, and reaching out to seize a black skullcap. It belonged to a man seated in the very front row, which meant that everyone could watch the object rise into the air and hang suspended over the man’s head. Its owner looked up in astonishment, clapped a hand to his mostly bald pate, and said, “What the hell?”

  A twitter ran through the crowd. One of the people seated directly behind the bald man stood and swept an arm back and forth above the cap to see if it was suspended by a thread. There was no reaction from the hat other than to rise even higher, move sideways through the air, and settle itself onto the skeptic’s head. The audience member examined the cap, shook his head in amazement, and returned the object to its owner.

  The crowd loved the byplay, and Norr could feel the amount of positive energy in the room increase. “So,” she continued, “I hope that you will relax and open your minds to the possibility that there are forms of energy and planes of existence beyond the physical realm in which we currently dwell. Contact with those in the next world is never certain, but assuming that we are fortunate enough to construct a momentary bridge between the two planes, listen carefully to what I say. In many cases, though not all, friends and loved ones will attempt to communicate some fact or incident that only the two of you would be aware of as proof that they still exist and love you.

  “During this process one or more of them may take temporary control of my physical body in order to speak directly. Should that occur, please remember that I am the channel, not the spirit entity, and have no control over what he or she may say.

  “Please remain in your seats throughout the demonstration, and do not approach the stage, or my friend Loro will be forced to reseat you.”

  The heavy stepped out of the shadows at that point, crossed his arms over a massive chest, and eyed the audience. Everyone got the point.

  “Okay,” Norr said, “if someone will bring me the billets, we will begin. Please note the fact that I had no way to know who would come tonight—and the messages you submitted have been on display throughout the process.”

  A basket filled with scraps of paper was brought forward and placed on the table next to Norr’s stool. The sensitive reached in, ran her fingers through the billets, and stopped when her hand started to tingle. She pulled a piece of paper out of the pile without looking at it, crumpled the parchment into a ball, and held it in her fist. Then, blanking her mind, she let what she thought of as “the other side” take over. Words and images began to appear, and she passed them on. “Is there a Loki in the audience? Your mother is here . . . She says that you are correct about Del. He is a good man, and it would be a mistake to let this one get away.”

  The woman named Loki looked shocked, the audience chuckled, and there was a scattering of applause. More than a dozen messages followed. Most contained at least one or two items that were evidential, and everything was going well, until Norr dipped her hand into the basket and chose the next billet. What felt like electricity ran all the way up her arm, the sensitive felt cold air embrace her, and knew that a spirit being was about to take control of her body. It soon became apparent that the invading entity wasn’t used to a female form and didn’t especially like it. But what he did approve of however was the prospect of a captive audience. He took control of her voice box and spoke in a voice so low that it hurt. “Good evening. My name is Milos Lysander. Prior to my death I was a scientist, a philosopher, and the primary force behind the Techno Society.”

  Most of crowd sat motionless, not quite sure of what was happening, or why. But the metal man was electrified by the announcement. The robot came to his feet, activated all of its onboard recording devices, and ignored the complaints directed at him by those seated behind him. “The mission of the Techno Society,” Lysander continued, “is to literally reshape the future of mankind. More than that, to use technology as the means to reunite the pieces of a once-great empire and lift the scattered remnants of humanity back into the light of reason. How will we accomplish that? Well, I will tell you. First . . .”

  As the scientist continued to speak there was a mutter of disapproval, followed by a scattering of insults, and a heartfelt chorus of boos. Norr could feel the sentiment in the room start to shift and struggled to reassert control over her body as pieces of food started to fly. A well-aimed piece of overripe fruit hit Norr in the chest, caused Lysander to pause momentarily, and gave the sensitive the opportunity that she’d been looking for. She clamped down, forced the scientist out, and raised her hands in an attempt to calm the crowd. It didn’t work. The rowdier members of the audience liked throwing food at her, the rest were leaving, and the ushers had produced clubs, which they swung freely.

  Loro urged Norr to retreat backstage, which she did. A heavy was waiting there to collect the money she owed to writer’s guild and left the moment he was paid. Norr knew she should count the take to ensure that the actor’s guild hadn’t taken more money than they were entitled to but didn’t want to take the time. The crowd was chanting something ugly, the entity named Lysander frightened her, and negative emotions converged from every side. With her bodyguard in attendance the sensitive slipped out through the back door. The metal man was waiting in the shadows, and when the twosome left, the machine followed along behind.

  TWO

  The Planet Anafa

  In order to reestablish man’s dominion over the stars, and save humanity from barbarity, it may be necessary to carry out barbarous acts against those who resist our efforts. The essential irony of this is not lost upon the governing council, which regrets the necessity to use violence.

  —Techno Society Operations Manual,

  Section One: Guiding Principles

  The milky white light produced by the planet’s twin moons filtered down through a thin layer of clouds to bathe Seros in a ghostly glow. There were no streetlights, but as the coach followed the winding road that led to the top of monastery hill, Rebo could look out over the city and see thousands of buttery rectangles, each representing a window. It was easy to imagine the warm homey scenes within and the runner felt a momentary sense of envy as the vehicle’s steel-shod wheels bounced through a pothole, and a pack of feral dogs emerged from the thick roadside underbrush to run alongside. That made the angens nervous, and Rebo felt the carriage surge forward as the animals tried to escape their pursuers. The driver hollered, “Whoa!” and hauled back on the reins, but to no avail.

  But the runner had hired two apprentices to accompany him, and the youngsters knew what to do. Both were armed with smooth-bore weapons. Twin flashes strobed the darkness as the youngsters fired, dogs yelped pitifully as the buckshot tore into them, and those that could ran for cover. The angens settled down after that, and Rebo felt confident enough to remove his hand from the Crosser.

  It wasn’t long before the carriage swung through a final turn, half a dozen members of the Dib Wa emerged from the surrounding gloom, and orders were shouted up to the driver. The conveyance jerked to a halt, Rebo opened the door, and jumped to the ground. The runner held his hands away from his body as a warrior approached, located his weapons in record time, and removed both from their holsters.

  Then, satisfied that the visitor had been defanged, a second Dib Wa led Rebo to a man-sized gate that had been set into a larger gate. The runner stepped over the four-inch-high crosspiece at the bottom of the structure and followed the guard into the monastery’s shadowy interior. Rebo felt rather than saw a distinct change, since it was just as dark inside the walls as it was on the outside. But ther
e was no denying the profound sense of peace that pervaded the monastery, a feeling so strong it seemed to emanate from the structures around him the way accumulated heat radiates from a stone.

  Though born on Thara, the planet on which the Way was headquartered, the runner had never been especially religious. Perhaps that was due to the fact that the fisherfolk of Lorval put their faith in a complicated hierarchy of nature spirits rather than a single god, or maybe it was because the runner had left home at the age of twelve. Whatever the reason the result was the same. Though conscious of the Way, and its importance to millions of practitioners, Rebo had never developed an interest in it.

  Golden light spilled out through an open door to make a path across the gray flagstones. A man appeared and stood silhouetted in the opening. It wasn’t until the runner was only a few feet away that he recognized Suu Qwa. “Welcome,” the monk said, bowing deeply. “Please follow me.”

  In spite of the fact that he was an invited guest, the Dib Wa escort continued to tag along behind Rebo, and the runner wondered why an ostensibly peaceful monastery needed so much security. Perhaps the rumors were true—and the basement was packed floor to ceiling with gold ingots.

  Various parts of the temple were connected by a maze of passageways, and there were frequent turns, but if the monks hoped to confuse the runner, they failed. Not only did Rebo have a memory worthy of a tax collector, he had an excellent sense of direction, and knew he could find his way out of the complex on his own should that become necessary.

  Finally, after what he estimated to be a quarter-mile walk, the runner was ushered into a large room. One end was dominated by a twelve-foot-tall likeness of the ascended being Teon. He had eight arms, and eight hands, each of which held a symbol. The teacher sat as he always did, with his feet on top of his thighs, a feat the runner knew he wouldn’t be able to duplicate even with a gun to his head.