Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  Having reharnessed the uninjured angens, and attached the wounded animal to the back of the coach by means of a long lead, the carriage got under way fifteen minutes later. Rebo sat next to the driver with the fully recharged blunderbuss across his knees, while Hoggles remained in the coach, war hammer at the ready.

  Norr tried to separate the natural apprehension she felt from the external stimuli available to her highly specialized senses but that was hard to do. So, with no assurance that they wouldn’t be attacked again, all the variant could do was to keep her eyes peeled and look forward to the moment when they put the forest behind them.

  Eventually, after two hours of suspense, that moment came, as the trees began to thin, and gently rolling grass-lands appeared. The sun was little more than a red-orange smear by then, and Rebo wondered how many more sunsets he would witness before he and his companions left Thara and continued the uncertain journey begun so many months before. The coach slowed slightly as it encountered a rise, the driver snapped his whip, and the angens pulled harder. The undercarriage rattled, darkness gathered, and the stars lay like white dust on the blue velvet sky.

  The city of Seros, on the Planet Anafa

  The sun was little more than a dimly seen presence beyond the layers of charcoal-generated haze that hung over the city. Much had changed during the ten millennia since the first colony ship touched down on Anafa. A primitive settlement had evolved into a town and then a city. Or multiple cities, because Seros had been through many incarnations, with the latest sitting atop all the rest.

  None of which held any interest for the hooded metal man as he paused to examine a building, matched the image to the one stored in his electronic memory, and made his way up the front steps. The long, filthy robe hung loosely over his skeletal body, servos whirred as the machine climbed the stairs, and the locals hurried to get out of his way. The mysterious androids could communicate with one another, everyone knew that, and would hurry to one another’s aid if threatened. That meant it was a good idea to leave the robots alone in spite of their propensity to ignore common courtesies, preach on street corners, and generally skulk about.

  Like the structures around it, the rooming house had seen better days. The landlord claimed that it had been an office building once, back before the techno wars, but the history of the six-story tenement hardly mattered to the hundreds of people who lived there, or to the metal man as he climbed five flights of stairs, pulled a graffiti-decorated door open, and entered the maze of cubicles beyond. Space was let by the square foot, which meant that the squats were of various sizes, depending on what a particular tenant could afford. Paths wound snakelike between the constantly morphing hovels they served. Some of the cubicles had walls made out of brick, others had been constructed with salvaged wood, but most consisted of large pieces of colored cloth draped over a confusing network of crisscrossed ropes. That meant life in the tenement was a largely public affair, in which every aspect of a resident’s life was known to those in the surrounding area, and gossip had been elevated to an art form.

  So it wasn’t surprising that dozens of inquisitive eyes tracked the android as it followed a serpentine path deep into the squats, paused at one of the many intersections, and took a judicious right. And since the automaton’s progress was heralded by a buzz of excited conversation, Arn Dyson would have known about the visitor well in advance, had his consciousness been resident within his physical body.

  But it wasn’t, which meant that when the robot arrived in front of the sensitive’s squat and whipped the badly faded curtain out of the way, the man sitting at the center of the simple reed mat made no response. The sensitive was middle-aged. His long hair was fanned out across his shoulders, and his eyes were closed. What few possessions he had were stacked along a wall made of interwoven sticks. A grubby little girl sat with arms wrapped around her knees. She regarded the machine with serious eyes. “Are you here to see Citizen Dyson?”

  “Yes,” the metal man grated. “I am. Wake him.”

  The little girl seemed to consider the order. If she was afraid of the machine, there was no visible sign of it. “Citizen Dyson has gone to visit the spirit planes. If you wish to speak with him, you must wait for him to return.”

  “I will wake him,” the robot said, and took a step forward.

  “No!” the little girl objected. “Not while he’s in trance. That could kill him.”

  “Is there a problem?” The deep basso voice came from behind the automaton, and the machine was forced to give way as a heavy entered the tiny squat. The giant’s head had been shaved, he wore a gold ring in his nose, and he was naked from the waist up. Muscles rippled as the variant moved, and the robot knew that the biological could best him in a fight. “My master will pay Citizen Dyson two cronos for two hours of his time,” the android said flatly.

  The heavy looked suitably impressed. He knew that the assassin’s guild would be happy to kill someone for half that amount. “Why didn’t you say so?” he demanded. “Go ahead and bring him back, Myra. . . . The worthless spook owes me thirty gunnars—and I thought the money was gone for good.”

  The waif looked from the heavy to the robot and back again. Then she nodded, scraped the wax off the tip of a wooden match, and lit a slender cinnamon stick. The moment a tendril of smoke appeared, the girl blew some of it into the sensitive’s nostrils. The distinctive odor served to stimulate Dyson’s physical body—which sought to bring the rest of him back. The sensitive shivered, blinked his eyes, and frowned. “Myra? Hobar? What’s going on?”

  “You will come,” the metal man said tactlessly. “Omar Tepho has need of your services.”

  “I don’t know who this Tepho character is,” Hobar put in, “but he’s willing to pay two cronos.”

  Dyson looked up at the robot. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” the automaton replied gravely. “It is.”

  “Okay,” the sensitive agreed reluctantly. “I wasn’t able to satisfy Tepho’s needs last time. Let’s hope this session is different.”

  It took the better part of an hour for the robot and the sensitive to make their way through the laser-straight streets, past the weatherworn pylons that marked the path of a once-glorious transportation system, and up to the seemingly decrepit building from which Omar Tepho ran the Techno Society. The unlikely twosome followed a narrow passageway back to the point where an iron gate blocked further progress. There was an audible click as the automaton inserted a metal finger into the receptacle located next to a print-sensitive identification pad.

  The variant had been through the process before, so he wasn’t surprised when the gate swung open, and the robot led him to a metal door. There was a momentary pause while a guard inspected the pair through a peephole followed by a nudge, as the door swung inward. Council member Ron Olvos was there to greet Dyson. He was a small man, but a hard worker and a skilled politician. Those qualities, plus the care with which he always put Tepho’s interests ahead of his own, accounted for his presence on the board. Olvos ignored the machine but extended a hand to the sensitive. “Welcome! Thank you for coming.”

  Though not altogether certain that his presence was entirely voluntary, the variant smiled agreeably and wondered if he should demand three cronos rather than two. But he couldn’t muster the necessary courage, the moment passed, and Dyson found himself in a spotless corridor. “The council was in session all morning,” Olvos explained. “The chairman raised the possibility of bringing you back—and will be extremely pleased to learn that we were able to do so.”

  “Really?” Dyson inquired doubtfully. “I didn’t meet with much success last time.”

  “Ah, but that wasn’t your fault,” the smaller man replied soothingly. “This session will go more smoothly. . . . Do you remember Jevan Kane?”

  The sensitive nodded. Kane was the operative who sought him out the first time. He was a cold man with blond hair, blue eyes, and white skin. All in an age when more than 90 percent of the population
had black hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. “Yes, of course,” Dyson replied politely. “How is he?”

  “Dead,” Olvos replied emotionlessly. “Which is where you come in. It’s our hope that, unlike the founder, Kane continues to support the Techno Society’s goals and will provide us with some much-needed assistance from the other side. If so, we could have an ongoing need for your services, and that could be quite profitable for you.”

  Dyson was desperately poor, but there are worse things than poverty, and the process of being co-opted by the highly secretive and possibly sinister Techno Society filled the sensitive with misgivings. But there was no opportunity to consider the long-range implications of the day’s activity as servos whined and double doors opened into what had once been a vat. Those days were gone however, and the onetime tank had been transformed into a circular conference room. Electric light flooded the tank, a holo projector was suspended above the round conference table, and streams of incoming data cascaded down wall-mounted screens. All of which were wonders that Dyson had sworn he wouldn’t disclose. A promise he had kept.

  Six of the seven seats that surrounded the table were occupied, but the sensitive’s eyes were immediately drawn to Omar Tepho—partly because of the way the man looked, which was undeniably different, but mostly as a result of the thought forms that hovered around him. They were dark things for the most part, only half-seen within the electrical-storm-like shimmer generated by a brilliant intellect. Others were present in the room, but as Tepho’s coal black eyes swiveled around to look at him, the variant knew that his was the only opinion that really mattered. He had a deep resonant voice, and it filled the space with sound as he spoke. “Welcome,” Tepho intoned, as Dyson entered the keyhole-shaped space at the table’s center. “Thank you for coming. It is our intention to communicate with Jevan Kane.”

  By some accident of birth Tepho had been born with multiple defects. His skull was lumpy rather than smooth, one eye socket was higher than the other, and his ears looked like handles on an earthenware jug. Still worse was the fact that the technologist had a congenital spinal deformity that made it difficult for him to walk or run. None of which would have been of interest to Dyson had it not been for the manner in which the vessel had imparted its shape to the contents. The variant bowed humbly and took his seat. “You’re welcome. . . . I hope I can be of service.”

  “As do we,” Tepho replied gravely. “Please proceed.”

  Dyson requested that the lights be dimmed, suggested that the council visualize Jevan Kane’s face, and began the series of much-practiced steps that would allow the sensitive to partially exit his body. Meanwhile, on the plane closest to the physical, the disincarnate entity who had once been known as Jevan Kane waited to come through. He had experienced many incarnations—some more pleasant than others. And, although the transition from the physical to the spirit realm had a transformational effect on some spirits, Kane remained unchanged. So much so that he was intent on preparing the physical plane for his next incarnation. A life in which he would control the star-spanning civilization that Tepho sought to establish.

  So, no sooner had Dyson half exited his body, than Kane entered it. And not tentatively, but with considerable force, as the operative sought to reintegrate himself with the physical. Everything seemed to slow as the disincarnate entity entered what felt like quicksand—and was forced to cope with a body made of lead. But there were pleasures, too, starting with the sharp tang of vinegar that still clung to the inside surface of the tank and the sudden awareness of the sex organs that dangled between the channel’s legs. Slowly, bit by bit, what had been like a heavy mist vanished, and the conference room appeared.

  Tepho was there, as was the shadowy combat variant who stood half-seen behind the chairman, but rather than the fear previously felt when ushered into their combined presence, Kane felt something akin to contempt. Because even as Tepho attempted to manipulate him, he would use the technologist and thereby achieve his ends. “Greetings,” Kane said through what felt like numb lips. “This is Jevan Kane.”

  What followed was a long and mostly predictable series of questions focused on the circumstances of Kane’s most recent death, the status of the people he’d been sent to intercept, and the present disposition of the AI called Logos.

  Kane answered by providing the council with a slightly glorified description of his own death, but when it came to the other matters, was forced to remind those present that just as it was difficult for them to access the spirit planes, the reverse was true as well. So, in spite of concerted efforts to obtain such information, the best he could give the council was the assurance that the runner and his companions were still on Thara and probably in possession of the computer. “It has no spirit,” the disincarnate explained, “which makes it almost impossible to see. . . . But judging from the founder’s continued interest in the threesome, it’s my guess that they still have it.”

  Though hungry for more detail, Tepho was excited to learn that the device he sought was still on Thara and slammed his fist down on the table in front of him. A stylus jumped and rolled off the table onto the floor. “Excellent! Now we’re getting somewhere! Shaz . . . I want you to assemble a team and make the jump to Thara. You’ll need guidance from Kane, so take Dyson with you and stay in touch. I know you two have had your differences in the past, but it’s time to put old grudges aside and work for the common good. Kane? Shaz? Can you do that?”

  Tepho’s words ignored the fact that he was the one who originally set the two men against each other—but that was to be expected. “You can count on me,” Kane lied. “What’s past is past.”

  The air behind Tepho shimmered as the combat variant made his presence manifest. Originally designed to function as warriors by engineers long dead, and slaughtered by the millions back during the techno wars, there weren’t many of the highly specialized creatures left. Shaz had a doglike aspect that stemmed from a long, dark muzzle, a pair of close-set eyes, and oversized ears. He wore black clothing, a leather harness, and carried a small arsenal of weapons. His smile revealed two rows of razor-sharp teeth. “Of course,” Shaz prevaricated smoothly. “It’s the future that counts.”

  The city of Tryst, on the Planet Thara

  Like many of the cities on Thara, the city of Tryst had been attacked more than once over the last few thousand years, which was why it not only occupied the top of a huge granite outcropping, but was surrounded by a twenty-foot-high stone wall. And, while no one had attempted to scale the barrier in the recent past, it was common knowledge that 11,214 red hat warriors had been prematurely forced into the spirit planes while trying to wrest the city away from the black hats during the War of the Glorious Scepter 112 years earlier.

  However, thanks to Rebo and his companions, the correct person now sat on the throne of CaCanth. That ensured that both halves of the Way, as the overarching religion was known, would remain at peace with each other for at least fifty years.

  But, as with any city, the citizens of Tryst not only wanted to know who came and went, but to charge them for the privilege. That’s why the coach was forced to a pause behind a line of farm wagons about halfway up the road that led to the top.

  Progress was steady, however, and no more than half an hour had passed before the coach drew level with the customs shed, and a portly-looking norm came forward to collect their paj (entry fee). Meanwhile, waiting in the background should the customs agent have need of them, were half a dozen cudgel-wielding Dib Wa (religious) warriors. The tax collector was armed with a well-worn abacus, which he was just about to employ, when Rebo emerged from the back. The runner smiled engagingly as he held a bronze medallion up for the official to see. “Good afternoon,” the runner said. “My name is . . .” But Rebo never got the opportunity to introduce himself as the customs agent took one look at the symbol, bowed deeply, and said something in Tilisi (the language spoken by those who follow the Way). Having heard his words the Dib Wa did likewise.

 
Rebo bowed in return, straightened, and produced his purse. “How much do we owe?”

  “Nothing,” the tax collector replied, his eyes on his feet. “You and your companions are guests of the Inwa (leader of leaders). Please go in peace.”

  The runner bowed once more, reentered the coach, and took his seat. “Well,” Norr said, as the vehicle jerked into motion. “That was a better reception than we usually get. . . . It looks like the royal sigil packs some weight.”

  “I guess it does,” Rebo replied. “It’s a good thing I didn’t let Bo trade his for a couple of beers and a meat pie two days ago.”

  The metal-shod wheels clattered over cobblestones as the conveyance carried the travelers into what many locals referred to as “the city of stone.” And for good reason, since the early colonists made use of high-tech cutting tools to carve what they needed from solid stone, thereby creating a vast maze of halls, galleries, and rooms, all of which were connected by tunnels, passageways, and corridors so complex that many youngsters found employment as guides.

  However, what made the city habitable was the extremely deep well that had been sunk down through the very center of the rock into an aquifer below. The original colonists were gone now, as were most of the technologies used to create Tryst, but thanks to the quality of the pumps located more than a thousand feet below, and the huge petal-shaped solar panels that deployed themselves just after sunrise each morning, those who lived within the city of stone had plenty of water.

  What the citizens lacked was the additional electricity required to power the thousands of lights that the ancients had installed to illuminate their labyrinth. This became quite apparent as the coach left the customs plaza, rolled up onto a ramp-shaped tongue, and passed through an eternally opened mouth. There were windows, and occasional skylights, but those were rare. That meant it fell to the wall-mounted torches to light the way, or attempt to, although the flickering yellow flames weren’t sufficient to stave off the gloom.