Runner

by William C. Dietz

  The runner opened his eyes, blinked until the sensitive swam into focus, and yawned. “Bo? I don’t know . . . Isn’t he here?”

  “No,” Norr answered definitively, as she pointed to the now-empty bed. “He isn’t. I think he’s in trouble.”

  Rebo swung his feet over onto the floor and fumbled for his boots. His mouth was dry and home to a foul taste. “Trouble? What makes you think so?”

  Though confident of her psychic abilities, they weren’t perfect, and Norr had a tendency to play them down. She shrugged apologetically. “I don’t have anything solid—just a feeling.”

  The runner nodded. He had come to believe in the sensitive’s occasional premonitions and other “feelings.” He continued to tie his boots. “Where’s Lee?”

  “Still asleep.”

  “Good. Lock him in. We’ll go out and take a look around.”

  Norr left and returned five minutes later. She had changed into street clothes, armed herself with her staff, and left a note for Lee. Given the heavy’s well-documented appetite, Rebo and Norr figured it would make sense to visit both of Higo’s restaurants, followed by the bars, since the variant could be thirsty.

  Visits to the eateries came up empty. Not only was Hoggles nowhere to be seen, none of the locals who worked in the restaurants would admit to having seen the heavy, although Rebo wasn’t sure how far he could trust them.

  The saloons came next, and while one bartender admitted to having seen a heavy enter, then leave, there was no way to know if the variant was Bo. Still, the odds were stacked against the likelihood of two heavies visiting Higo at the same time, which meant that Hoggles could be nearby. The next bar styled itself as the Higo Oasis, and judging from the number of customers inside, was one of the town’s more popular establishments. In spite of the relatively early hour, it was already half-full. A quick scan of the long, narrow room confirmed that most of the establishment’s clientele consisted of drifters on their way from somewhere to nowhere, unemployed nomads waiting for the next caravan to pass through, and others who, if not actual bandits, lived along society’s margins.

  Heads turned as the twosome entered the room, eyes stared, and the heretofore incessant buzz of conversation came to a halt. The blare of a hand-cranked phonograph continued for another revolution, came to a stop as the operator took the opportunity to give himself a break, and silence took over.

  Norr sensed what felt like a wall of hostility. She wanted to say as much to Rebo, but quickly realized that the runner already knew and was about to handle the situation his way. First, rather than attempt to reduce the tension as the sensitive might have, the runner seemed intent on running it up. His eyes swept the room, and he smiled broadly. “So,” Rebo said calmly, “look at what we have here. Somebody was thoughtful enough to pile all of the town’s manure in one place.”

  Norr felt her heart start to pound, and the sensitive twisted both halves of her staff in opposite directions so she could draw the blade more quickly. But the violence she expected failed to manifest. Perhaps it was because of the confidence that the runner projected, or the hand that already rested on the Crosser, or the fact that he hadn’t insulted any person in particular, but whatever the reason, none of the people in the room chose to move against him. “You!” Rebo said, drawing the Hogger so fast it was little more than a blur. “What’s the stuff on the floor?”

  That was when Norr realized that she hadn’t taken notice of the youth in the filthy apron, the long-handled mop, or the mess on the floor in front of him. Now, as he stared into the weapon’s massive bore, the adolescent entered something akin to a state of shock. “N-n-nothing, Excellency. Just some blood . . . That’s all.”

  A man stood at the rear of the room, raised a flintlock pistol, and was slammed into the wall behind him as the Crosser spoke. The dead man looked surprised, slid toward the floor, and left a trail of blood on the wall.

  The youngster with the mop had wet his pants by then, and Rebo waggled the Hogger back and forth as a way to recapture the local’s flagging attention. “Sorry about the interruption, son. You mentioned some blood . . . Whose blood?”

  “Th-th-the heavy’s,” the swamper stuttered eagerly. “A couple of bounty hunters hit him from behind. He went down hard.”

  “Did they kill him?” Norr demanded, her voice hard with anger.

  “N-n-no, I don’t think so,” the youngster added, realizing he didn’t know for sure.

  “Where did they take him?” Rebo asked levelly, his eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of movement.

  “I-I-I don’t know,” the swamper replied pitifully. “I didn’t have anything to do with it . . . Please don’t kill me!”

  Confident that he had all the information he was likely to get, and realizing that he had already pushed his luck to the max, the runner fired two rounds from the Crosser. A bottle of booze exploded, and the bartender’s fez flew off. The purpose of the shots was to freeze the customers in place and create an opportunity to withdraw. “Okay,” Rebo said, as he backed toward the door and motioned for Norr to do likewise. “Stay right where you are for the next five minutes. Or come out and catch a bullet between the eyes. The choice is yours.”

  Would the man with the guns actually wait outside? It didn’t seem likely, but except for the dead man’s friends, the customers didn’t have any reason to test the stranger’s assertion. Especially given the precision of his marksmanship.

  But the runner had no interest in lurking around outside the bar and wasted little time taking hold of Norr’s wrist, and pulling her down the street. But the sensitive balked and jerked free. “Wait . . . What about Bo?”

  “You heard the kid,” Rebo answered impatiently. “Some bounty hunters nailed him. It was obvious that he was hiding something—now we know what it was. The big guy has a price on his head.”

  “So we abandon him?” Norr demanded angrily. “Is that what you would do to me?”

  “That isn’t fair,” Rebo replied resentfully. “Did I abandon you back at Weather Station 46?”

  “No,” the variant answered, “and neither did Bo.”

  It was a good point, and the runner might have responded, if a couple of the dead customer’s friends hadn’t chosen that particular moment to silhouette themselves against the light that spilled out of the bar. A single shot fired from the Hogger was sufficient to send them scurrying for cover, but it also brought other people out into the street. The odds were getting worse. “Okay,” the runner agreed, “we’ll try to find him. Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?” The sensitive inquired, running to keep up.

  “The caravan park,” Rebo replied. “Chances are that the bounty hunters have at least one L-phant there. Assuming that Bo is worth a lot of money, they need to get him out of Higo quickly or risk losing him to the competition.”

  The plan made sense, and the variant fell into step next to the runner as they entered the ocean of darkness that lay beyond the edge of town. What little bit of light there was barely touched the caravan park’s walls before surrendering to the night. That was when a quick flurry of gunshots were heard, the L-phants started to trumpet, and Rebo realized that either the Abo brothers had opened fire on bounty hunters or vice versa. Which party had fired first didn’t make much difference to him, although the fact that the huge wooden gate hung ajar suggested that the heavily burdened man hunters had overwhelmed the guard and forced their way in, an act suggesting that they didn’t own an angen and were intent on stealing one instead.

  There was a considerable amount of confused shouting as the twosome entered the enclosure and the ground literally shook as gigantic feet thundered from one side of the park to the other. Rebo heard the L-phants coming, but turned too late as a mountain of leathery flesh brushed the runner’s shoulder and tossed him aside. The ground came up quickly, his skull made contact with a rock, and there was an explosion of light inside his head.

  Norr, who had been following a few steps behind, “saw” a
red blur as the badly frightened animal rushed past, and “felt” the resulting impact. She called Rebo’s name, but heard no reply, and suddenly found herself alone in the dark. Except that it wasn’t dark, not where her psychic abilities were concerned, meaning that while the sensitive couldn’t make out inanimate objects, she could track living things, and that included bounty hunters. The variant took comfort from the fact that while Rebo was down, she could “see” the light that shimmered all around him, and drew the three-foot-long sliver of steel from its wooden scabbard. The sensitive heard a reassuring hum as she thumbed the power switch, and the vibro blade came to mechanical life.

  Then, holding the weapon in both hands, and running on the balls of her feet, the variant cut across the open space in front of her to close the distance with the blobs of energy that were milling about a hundred feet away. An angen objected loudly as one of the bounty hunters beat it with a ponga rod in an attempt to bring the animal down onto its knees. His partner fired a rifle, gave a cry of exultation as a member of the Abo clan fell, and hurried to work a fresh cartridge into the chamber of his bolt-action rifle. Hoggles, who was bound hand and foot, lay at his feet. The variant was conscious and trying to free himself, but to no avail.

  That was when Norr came up behind the bounty hunter and took a cut at his aura. She felt the vibro blade hesitate momentarily as it passed through flesh and bone. Though not immediately fatal, the blow removed one of the man’s arms and left the bounty hunter screaming as he clutched at the stump. He fainted a few moments later—and collapsed in a heap.

  The remaining bounty hunter turned, heard a boot scrape on gravel, and caught a whiff of perfume as cold steel cut through the warm night air. He felt something tug at his throat and brought his hands up to investigate, only to have them drenched with his own blood. Then he was outside of his body, looking down on it, still trying to understand.

  Norr “saw” the man’s life essence drain away and experienced an immediate sense of regret. The emotion faded, however, as the wounded clansman cried out in pain, and she bent to cut Hoggles free. After a quick check to ensure that the heavy was okay, and shouted explanations to the quickly gathering Abo family, the sensitive went looking for Rebo.

  There was a sudden commotion as a mob comprised of townspeople, transients, and assorted ruffians surged into the caravan park. Some of them were equipped with lanterns, which they held high. That was when some of the customers from the Oasis spotted Rebo and pointed him out. The crowd uttered what sounded like a hungry growl, and Norr had just started to run toward their intended victim, when geysers of dirt shot up into the air and the quick crack! crack! crack! of a semiautomatic weapon was heard. The citizens of Higo saw the bullets hit, heard the gunshots echo between the enclosure’s mud walls, and suddenly lost their enthusiasm.

  That was when the sensitive saw that Lee was crouched over the runner. He held the Crosser in the two-handed grip that Rebo had taught him, one eye closed, ready to fire again. And the would-be assailants saw the boy as well, and even though the mob possessed more than enough firepower to kill him, there was something about the tableau that served to freeze the many-headed beast in place.

  But what they didn’t know was that while Lee was willing to pretend, an activity that could be characterized as skillful thinking, he was no longer willing to kill. Not for himself, Rebo, or even Norr.

  The result of the standoff was an opportunity, a potentially fleeting moment when exactly the right words could turn the tide and send the townspeople home. The problem was that Norr didn’t have any words, not for that situation, and struggled to come up with something to say even as she interposed her body between the crowd and her friends.

  Though armed with a sword, the woman looked frail, and a friend of the man who had been killed in the bar was about to urge his companions forward when the sensitive spoke in a deep baritone. “You!” Lysander boomed. “The man with the eye patch . . . I see three spirits standing behind you! You murdered them in their sleep, and others, too, all for a few gold trinkets.

  “And you, the man with the crutch, your ex-partner is here . . . He’s pointing at the knife sticking out of his chest, and asking ‘why?’ ”

  The discarnate was about to continue, but his first two victims had turned pale by that time and started to back away. Seeing their example, and having no wish to be reunited with their victims, the rest of the crowd withdrew as well.

  Then, having accomplished his purpose, Lysander let go. Norr’s body gave an involuntary jerk as the spirit departed and left her to deal with the aftermath of the abduction and rescue. Fifteen minutes later both Hoggles and Rebo were back on their feet, the Abo family was busy calming the L-phants, and the bounty hunters still lay where they had fallen. Lee returned the Crosser to Rebo, who released the nearly empty magazine and inserted a fresh clip in its place. The runner frowned. “Nice job, son. Thanks . . . Now, with that out of the way, what the hell were you doing out running around by yourself?”

  Lee shrugged. “I heard shooting, found Lanni’s note, and figured there was trouble. The door was locked, so I went out the window and circled around front. You ran past, I followed, and that’s the end of the story.”

  “No,” Rebo said, as he slipped a fresh cartridge into the Hogger. “It isn’t. But we’ll discuss that later. After we deal with Citizen Hoggles here.”

  Hoggles, shoulders slumped, stood with his chin resting on his collarbone.

  “So,” the runner continued grimly, “I think we deserve some sort of explanation. Why did those bounty hunters come after you? And what else did you leave out?”

  The explanation came in fits and starts at first, but soon turned into a flood of words, as his inhibitions fell away, and the heavy warmed to his story. While it was true that he had been born and raised in Cresus, Hoggles had previously neglected to mention the fact that he had been something of a political firebrand during his youth, even going so far as to call for the overthrow of the all-powerful Caliph, something that not only attracted the ruler’s attention, but that of his eldest son, who was in charge of the city’s police force. Months of hide-and-seek followed, during which Hoggles was able to elude the authorities. Finally, having spotted the rebel, government agents followed the variant to the run-down tenement where he lived and summoned their patron.

  The Caliph’s son was a weight lifter whose real name was Peeno Zynthias, but was commonly referred to as “the brute” behind his back, a nickname he had done nothing to discourage. And, though not quite as large as a heavy, it was said he believed he could best one. Perhaps that was why Zynthias insisted on leading the assault team personally, and once inside the mazelike building, came face-to-face with the man who had challenged his father’s rule. By breaking the upstart’s bones with his own hands, the heir apparent not only intended to further his reputation, but to end the resistance movement once and for all.

  Hoggles chose not to go into detail where the ensuing fight was concerned, but Rebo had the impression of a hard-fought battle the heavy ultimately won, but not by much. “I killed him,” the variant admitted regretfully, “but the price was high. A few weeks later, while I was hiding in the countryside, I learned that my entire family had been executed.” With a price on his head, there was nothing the fugitive could do but run. He fled north to Zand, boarded a spaceship, and stayed. Now, after years of lonely introspection, the variant was determined to return home.

  Once the story was over, Norr felt a great deal of sympathy for the heavy, but Rebo shook his head in disgust. “Perfect. Just what we needed. A high-visibility three-hundred-pound fugitive with a price on his head.”

  “It could be worse,” Lee allowed philosophically. “After all, it’s not like Bo is being pursued by religious fanatics or homicidal robots.”

  There was a brief pause while the others considered the boy’s words, followed by mutual laughter. “Come on,” Rebo said, touching the spot where his head had connected with the rock. “Let’s bandage
our wounds and get some rest. We have a long way to go.”

  TWELVE

  The Planet Ning

  The nice thing about rivers is that you know where you’ll end up.

  —River Captain Vog Duther

  Unlike ancient cities like Seros, and Gos, Cresus was only a few hundred years old. That was because the city on the land north of the point where the Juno and Esper Rivers came together had been leveled during the last techno war, and rather than rebuild atop the ruins, the survivors founded a new community along the south shore instead. And, like most towns built on trade, Cresus was more the result of happenstance than a singular vision. So, while the original city had been laid out around the badly cratered spaceport, New Town, as it was sometimes referred to, was oriented to the river, and for good reason. Because as the high-tech transportation systems faded away, the planet’s rivers carried an increasing amount of commerce and were vital to trade.

  In fact both the Juno and Esper Rivers conveyed a steady flow of log rafts and heavily laden barges down to the point where the waterborne traffic was forced to pass between the three carefully sited gun batteries that the Caliph’s grandmother had commissioned many years before. Not to defend Cresus against invaders, but to ensure that all who passed paid a hefty fee, a tradition that remained in force. The money the tax generated was sufficient to provide the Caliph and his extended family with the lavish lifestyles to which they were accustomed and pay the police force that kept them in power.

  All of this was interesting, but of no particular importance to Kane, who had no intention of staying in Cresus one moment longer than was absolutely necessary. There were numerous reasons for his dislike of the city, including the poorly constructed timber buildings that seemed to lean in over the claustrophobic streets, the pervasive odor of urine that rose to envelop Cresus once the sun rose high enough to look down into the capillary-like passageways and footpaths that crisscrossed the city, as well as the sullen, eternally suspicious manner in which the citizens interacted with strangers.