Runner

by William C. Dietz

  Norr was forced to wait while the norm unlocked the door to the male barracks so that Hoggles could enter. Then, once the door had been secured, it was the sensitive’s turn as the woman clumped from one side of the reception area to the other. The handmade key rattled as it was inserted into its hole, there was a loud click-clack as the lock turned, and the squeal of unoiled metal as the door swung open.

  As Norr shuffled into the long narrow room she saw that rows of heavy-duty beds lined two of the four walls. A much-abused table ran down the center of the room. It was flanked by a dozen mismatched chairs, four of which were occupied by female sensitives. A couple of heavies sat beyond, their hands locked together, as they struggled to determine who was strongest. Both females had biceps the size of Norr’s thighs—and neither broke eye contact with the other as the newcomer entered.

  The door swung closed with a decisive thud, the key rattled in the lock, and Norr was on her own. “So,” a voice said at the sensitive’s elbow, “what have we here?”

  Norr was about to answer when the hood was jerked up off her head and the fifth sensitive made her presence known. “Hello, my name is Riba,” the variant said cheerfully. Though a good deal older than Norr, the woman had the same big eyes, high cheekbones, and narrow face.

  “Hmmm,” Riba said, as she circled Norr. “I sense something strange here.”

  That seemed to serve as an invitation for the others to examine the young woman as well. And not just examine, but probe, as only sensitives can. It had been a long time since the variant had been in the same room with another sensitive, much less five of them, and she had nearly forgotten what such an experience was like. The heavies were oblivious to the way in which auras flared, energy seethed, and unusual things began to happen. A cut on Norr’s left arm was miraculously healed, her pack seemed to float off her shoulders, and strains of ethereal music could be heard floating through the air.

  Norr was a very self-contained person, but she also missed her own kind, so the unexpected “conversation” if that was what it could be called, both frightened and thrilled her. “You are correct,” the oldest sensitive observed. “She has something to hide all right.”

  “Yes!” another put in excitedly. “He’s tall, a bit dangerous, and uh-oh! He’s a norm!”

  “That’s bad,” a third agreed somberly. “But there’s more . . . The lass has another man in her life as well. He lives in the spirit planes and was her father once. He’s here and wants to speak.”

  “Oh, goody! Bring him through!” the fourth sensitive insisted. “We could use some entertainment.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea” Riba said doubtfully. “You know the rules . . . What if the heavies turn us in? The norms would burn us alive.”

  The arm-wrestling contest had ended by then and the heavies were listening. “You have nothing to fear from us,” the female to Norr’s left said stolidly. “Freaks side with freaks . . . that’s what I say.”

  “Fair enough,” Riba replied. “So how ’bout it, honey? The man wants to talk to you . . . Are you willing to listen?”

  Lysander had been trying to break through for days by then, but it was dangerous to enter a trance on Etu, and Norr had been too tired by the time dinner was over. Now, surrounded by her own kind, she felt tempted. “Okay,” she said tentatively, “but I’d like to sit down.”

  Riba said, “Of course, dearie,” and led her to the table. “This is Pru, Kama, Tris, and Nina.” Norr said hello to each, took a chair, and waited to see what would happen. It turned out that Tris was the one who had been elected to bring the spirit through. Not simply for Norr’s benefit, but because Tris was known to have a very special talent, one that the others were eager to witness.

  The woman named Riba eyed the heavies. “Would one of you be willing to guard the door? Thank you. Stall if someone attempts to open it.”

  Silence descended over the room as the sensitives came together under Riba’s direction to gather the energy that a full materialization was going to require. Now, seated directly across from Tris, Norr saw that the other woman’s eyes had been removed leaving her sockets horribly empty. It was a precaution that some of the more superstitious slave owners took to protect themselves from the evil eye, an imaginary threat that many believed to be real.

  Even the heavies could feel the change that followed as something caused the hairs on the back of their arms to stand straight up, all of the available light was sucked into the center of the room, and the air above the table started to glow.

  Then, as if attracted to an unseen form by means of spiritual magnetism, the light began to coalesce. The man’s head, like the rest of his body, was slightly transparent. It turned from side to side, as if the spirit was unsure of his surroundings. And this time, rather than communicate through human vocal cords as he had in the past, Lysander spoke via an ectoplasmic voice box. “Who are these people?” the discarnate demanded hoarsely. “And what do they want of me?”

  “They’re friends of mine,” Norr responded, “and they don’t want anything of you.”

  “Tell them to leave,” Lysander said arrogantly. “My words are for your ears only.”

  “Sorry,” the sensitive replied, “but we’re locked in . . . So, say your piece or leave me alone.”

  Lysander struggled to bring the physical plane into focus, but much to his frustration, the luminescent green blobs remained just as they were. Norr’s words seemed to come from a long ways off. The scientist didn’t like the situation but was determined to get his message through. “Logos is on Etu. Seek him among those who flock to Mount Pama. That’s all I can say.”

  The sensitive was about to ask where Mount Pama was—when the heavy who had agreed to guard the door put her ear to the barrier. “Someone’s coming!” she whispered urgently. Then, having raised her voice, she yelled, “Hey! Can anyone hear me? I feel sick.”

  The general effect was to cause the person outside to pause and consider what had been said before slipping the big handmade key into the lock. That gave Tris just enough time to break contact with the spirit world and exit her trance. As she did Lysander’s image wavered, turned to what looked like smoke, and disappeared.

  The door swung open, and the guard appeared. He held a shotgun in his hands and was clearly ready for trouble. But, with no evidence of malfeasance to be seen there was nothing he could do except frown at them. “Which one of you answers to the name Kama? You do? Then come on out . . . Your mistress is ready to leave. Now, which one of you is sick?”

  The heavy who had been guarding the door raised her hand. “Go lie down,” the guard instructed. “Once the vet is finished with the angens he’ll take a look at you.”

  Attachments were discouraged, and slaves weren’t allowed to display their emotions lest they intentionally or unintentionally generate sympathy for themselves, so there were no good-byes as Kama pulled the black hood down over her head and stepped out of the room. “So,” Riba demanded, once the door had closed, “what did you make of your message? Who is Logos? And why would a slave make the pilgrimage to Mount Pama?”

  Norr shrugged. “I have no idea . . . Let me know if you figure it out.”

  Riba didn’t believe the newcomer, but she had some secrets of her own and couldn’t blame Norr for keeping the information to herself. Etu was a dangerous place, especially for those with paranormal talents, and silence was the only defense that the slaves had.

  Pala’s lungs felt as though they were fire, and the wounds on her hips were bleeding from the most recent application of the norm’s spurs, as the heavy trotted up the heavily rutted road and entered the village of Kaya. A trio of mangy dogs darted out and nipped at her heels until one of the men seated in front of the feed store whistled them back. Kane said, “Whoa!” and jerked on the reins. Pala felt the leather bit hit the corners of her mouth and came to a stop. She stood chest heaving as the off-worlder placed his boots against her lower back, pushed the sling-saddle away from her body, and
dropped to the ground. He had purchased her in the slave market in Epano and ridden her hard. Pala had come to hate the man called Kane and, if given the chance, planned to kill him.

  The operative, who was under no illusions regarding the way that his mount felt about him, took the time required to shackle the variant’s feet together prior to climbing the wooden stairs that led up to the general store. The heavy could run if she chose to, but not very far, and only if she wanted a beating. His spurs jingled as Kane entered the one-story building and peered into the cluttered gloom. Like any general store this one carried a wide variety of items including food, hardware, and clothing. A single ray of sunshine slanted in through the front window. Dust motes orbited around his head as the off-worlder stepped in to claim it. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

  “There’s no need to shout,” an irritated voice responded. “I’m right here.”

  Kane gave an involuntary start as a man in a long gray apron materialized in front of him. It seemed that the local had been there from the start, hidden among the things he hoped to sell. The operative forced a smile. “Sorry about that. I’m looking for a friend of mine . . . A man with dark hair, a little boy, and a couple of slaves. They would have passed through within the last few days. Have you seen them?”

  The storekeeper had two days’ worth of stubble on his pointy chin. It made a rasping sound as he ran his spatulate fingers across it. “Maybe, and maybe not.”

  Kane recognized the response for what it was and withdrew a coin from his vest pocket. It found an open palm. “Here, perhaps this will aid your memory.”

  The merchant weighed the coin in his hand, and ran a grimy thumbnail over the shiny metal, before finally tucking it away. “Yes,” the local allowed phlegmatically, “there was such a group. They bought some food from me. That was two days ago.”

  “Tell me about the slaves,” Kane demanded, “or return my money.”

  The storekeeper didn’t like the implication and frowned resentfully. “There was a female sensitive and a male heavy.”

  “Good,” the operative said approvingly. “Now, which way did they go?”

  “Toward Mount Pama,” the local answered. “Like all the pilgrims do.”

  Kane nodded. “Thank you. I need bread, meat, and tea. Enough to last me and my heavy for a day. Please hurry.”

  The merchant bustled about, gave the stranger what he had requested, and charged him the extra 10 percent that he levied on all strangers. Having followed the norm out into the street, where a tired-looking slave waited, the shopkeeper watched the blond man mount up and ride off. An obscene gesture sent the pilgrim on his way. The men sitting in front of the feed store laughed, their dogs lolled in the sun, and shopkeeper went back inside. A squadron of buzz bugs followed behind. The day wore on.

  The sun had been up for little more than an hour, and a layer of early-morning mist still floated just above the ground, as the foursome topped a rise and paused to look at Mount Pama. Though too tall to be properly classified as a hill, the softly rounded elevation didn’t make much of a mountain, not to Rebo’s thinking at least. No, what made the geological feature remarkable was the manner in which it appeared to have been plopped down at the center of an otherwise barren plain. That, and the ribbon of people that already snaked their way up around the mountain’s flanks, inching their way toward the summit.

  “Look at that!” Hoggles exclaimed. “There must be hundreds of them! How will we find Logos in the crowd?”

  “He’s an it, and we don’t even know what it looks like,” Rebo commented sourly.

  Thanks to a pair of really hideous glasses, and the skillful application of the makeup Rebo had purchased during their stay in Citro, the sensitive had been transformed into a homely norm. She no longer had to wear shackles as a result, but Hoggles did, and they rattled as he moved. “That’s true,” Norr agreed thoughtfully, “but I have a feeling that we’ll know him when we see him.”

  “No offense,” Rebo replied, “but I don’t find much comfort in that. And remember, the real goal is to reach Overa, and the spaceship. One day, that’s all we can afford to spend on this nonsense, so use it wisely.”

  Subsequent to Lysander’s appearance in the female slave quarters back in Citro, the adults had spent a good deal of time discussing whether to go along with the discarnate’s request or ignore it. The runner saw no reason to humor the cantankerous spirit, but Norr and Hoggles believed that the group should find Logos, for use as leverage if nothing else. Finally, having been filibustered, Rebo gave in. But Lee didn’t care about the right or wrong of it. He couldn’t wait to find out why thousands of people would travel for weeks to visit the top of a mountain. “Come on!” the ten-year-old urged. “Let’s get going!”

  The better part of an hour had passed before the foursome arrived at the bottom of the mountain and the settlement there. Hundreds of tents had been pitched in the surrounding area, which when combined with all manner of pilgrims, slaves, vendors, and hundreds of angens made for a colorful but chaotic mix.

  By that time Rebo had noticed that most of the people making their way toward the foot of the trail were young couples. And it wasn’t long before a man dressed in a spotless white robe moved to block their way. “That will be ten gunars,” he said. “Payable in advance.”

  Rebo, who had started to run low on expense money by then, grumbled as he opened his purse. “Is that ten for each person? Or does that cover the four of us?”

  “The oracle’s readings are intended for couples,” the attendant said condescendingly. “The admission charge covers both of you. The boy and the slave must remain here.”

  Though mystified by the process, and reluctant to part company with Lee, the runner had no choice but to acquiesce. He paid the fee and received two small tiles in return. The ceramic squares had been inscribed with mysterious symbols and dangled from leather thongs. Rebo passed one over the sensitive’s head and let if fall against her chest. Each tile was clearly intended to function as both a receipt and a memento. The question was why?

  In the meantime Lee had succumbed to attachment and therefore resentment. He wanted to visit the top of the mountain in the worst possible way, and try as he might, had thus far been unable to accept the fact that he wouldn’t be allowed to accompany the adults. He was still sulking, and feeling guilty about it, when the twosome began the uphill climb. Hoggles made a show out of sniffing the air. “Come on, son . . . I smell food. We’ll eat while they climb! What do you say?”

  Lee was almost always hungry, and the smell of grilled food, plus the opportunity to eat without being required to build a fire, fetch water, or wash up afterward proved to be irresistible. He nodded, took hold of the leash that was attached to the heavy’s harness, and led the variant toward the collection of huts that had been established to provide the pilgrims with food, necessaries, and useless trinkets.

  Meanwhile Rebo and Norr followed the line upward—even as other couples continued to make their way down. Most were happy, their features alight with pleasure, but some were devastated. Tears trickled down their cheeks as they clung to each other for support and stumbled down the mountainside.

  The line moved steadily for the most part, but it came to a stop every once in a while, and Norr took advantage of one such a moment to initiate a conversation with the couple directly behind them. Both had dark hair, light brown skin, and shiny eyes. Especially when they looked at each other—which was often. The sensitive didn’t need to see the colors that swirled around them to know that the youngsters were in love. “So,” Norr said encouragingly, “where are you from?”

  Rebo watched in admiration as his companion led the pair through a series of seemingly innocuous questions. It seemed that the Oracle of Mount Pama had the power to foretell whether the children produced by a particular union would be healthy and free of birth defects. No small matter within a society where good medical care was a thing of the past. So, while some would-be couples chose to ignore the oracle
, fearing what he might tell them, most sought his blessing. Those who received good news were thrilled, and came down off the mountain ready to marry, while those who had been warned not to procreate were not only devastated but faced with difficult choices. They could marry, and pray that the oracle would be wrong, marry and remain childless, or seek different mates.

  “That’s fascinating,” Norr responded sincerely. “We come from a long ways off—so we hadn’t heard about the oracle until very recently. How accurate are his predictions?”

  “Very accurate,” the young man replied. “So much so that when a couple who has been warned about their prospects produces a completely healthy child it is customary to assume that another man was involved.”

  All four of them laughed, the line jerked ahead, and the conversation ended. Rebo looked at Norr just as a clearly distraught couple passed them. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  The sensitive’s eyebrows rose. “That Logos and the Oracle of Pama are one and the same?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Yes, I am. He wasn’t designed for this purpose, but judging from our experiences with Hewhotravels and our friend Fil, old machines can learn new tricks.”

  “So what do we do?” the runner wanted to know. “If we grab the old geezer, and haul him down the mountain, that isn’t going to be very popular with the people in the robes. Not to mention the paying customers.”

  “No,” Norr agreed thoughtfully, “it wouldn’t. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  More than three hours had passed, and the sun had sunk into the western sky by the time the twosome finally neared the summit. Each had purchased sweet cakes by then—plus ladles of water to wash the sticky stuff down. Now, as they made their way up onto the flat area atop the mountain, more vendors lay in wait.

  Rebo waved them off so as to focus his attention on the small structure around which the important activity was centered. The domed roof had been white once but was currently in need of paint. The dome was supported by six fluted columns and hung with vines that served to screen the interior. And that, judging from appearances, was the location from which the oracle plied his mysterious trade.