Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  But neither Rebo nor Hoggles was expecting such an order and, when they turned to look at the corner in question, saw nothing more than a vague shimmer.

  That brief moment of hesitation was all the combat variant needed. He crossed the room, opened the door, and was already in the hall by the time Rebo went to probe the empty corner. The runner turned as the door slammed. Hoggles moved as if to follow, but Lysander shook Norr’s head. “Don’t bother,” the dead man said disgustedly. “You blew the only chance you’re likely to get.”

  “Lysander?” Rebo inquired irritably. “Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me!” the disincarnate replied testily. “Who else would it be?”

  “Wonderful,” Logos said sarcastically. “The megalomaniac returns.”

  “Look who’s talking,” the dead scientist responded resentfully. “I don’t remember you speaking up for the huddled masses back when you were in control of the star gates.”

  “Stop it,” Rebo ordered tersely. “We don’t have time for this crap. Someone was in the room . . . So who is he? And what was he after?”

  “His name is Shaz,” Lysander answered. “Back before Kane got killed, he functioned as Tepho’s bodyguard and enforcer. Then, when Kane passed over, the chairman promoted him.”

  Hoggles frowned. “Why couldn’t we see him?”

  “Because he’s a combat variant,” the dead scientist explained.

  “Perfect,” Rebo commented sourly. “Not only did the Techno Society manage to locate us—they sent an operative who can make himself invisible.”

  “It gets worse,” the spirit entity said wearily, as he dropped Norr’s body into a chair. “My onetime son, which is to say the man you knew as Kane, continues to work for the Society. And, while none of us can see into the physical plane with much clarity, it was he who directed Shaz to Thara.”

  “But how?” Hoggles wanted to know.

  “They have a sensitive, a man named Dyson, who can bring Kane through,” Lysander explained.

  “So what are they waiting for?” Rebo wondered. “They know where we are, and they know we have Logos, so what’s holding them back?”

  “They want Socket,” Logos put in grimly. “Then, assuming they can force me to do their bidding, they’ll have everything they need to reestablish the network.”

  “And could they?” Hoggles inquired curiously. “Get you to do their bidding that is?”

  “Of course not!” the AI lied hotly. “What do you take me for?”

  “A somewhat self-centered computer program,” Lysander commented cynically. “But you’re all we have.”

  “So what would you suggest?” Rebo inquired pragmatically. “Kane could follow us anywhere.”

  “Yes,” the disincarnate agreed. “But the task remains. . . . Once you reach Socket, and Logos takes control, it will be too late for them to interfere. Socket has defenses that will keep them at bay.”

  “Or had,” Logos put in cynically. “They might be in need of maintenance by now.”

  “I don’t know,” the runner said doubtfully. “It sounds pretty iffy to me.”

  “And me,” Hoggles added. “So where did this Shaz person go? Maybe we could track him down.”

  But Norr’s body gave a convulsive jerk at that point, her eyelids fluttered, and she looked confused. “What happened?”

  “Lysander paid you a visit,” Rebo said disgustedly. “And guess what? The Techno Society knows where we are.”

  The sensitive was still in the process of absorbing that piece of unwelcome information when Logos spoke to her. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” the AI said reassuringly. “Because even though they know where we are, they don’t know where we’re going. There’s only one person who knows that: me.”

  While many of the billions of disincarnate spirits who populated the spirit planes preferred life in the ethereal realms to that on the physical plane, Kane was not one of them, and therefore welcomed the summons when it came. The sensation was barely felt, as when a child tugs on a pant leg, but very persistent. And that was a sure sign that rather than merely being remembered by one of the many people Kane had known during his most recent incarnation, one or more individuals were determined to make contact with him.

  So, eager to revisit the material world, no matter how briefly, Kane directed his energy toward those who were focused on him. And, having already agreed to continue his relationship with the Techno Society, the ex-operative was far from surprised to discover that Shaz and Dyson were waiting for him. A female was present as well, and even though Kane didn’t recognize her vibration, he felt a natural affinity for the dark energy that seethed around her.

  It was easier to enter Dyson’s body the second time, pleasantly so, and Kane felt something akin to an orgasm as all of his physical senses were magically restored. His vision, which was to say Dyson’s vision, blurred, then cleared. Both Shaz and a beautiful woman sat opposite him. With the exception of some ring bolts and the darkish stains around them, the wall behind the pair was featureless. Darkness gathered where the lamplight couldn’t reach. “Not that it matters,” Kane croaked, “but where am I?”

  “We’re sitting in the basement of the Techno Society’s headquarters on Thara,” the combat variant replied evenly.

  “Ah,” Kane responded gravely. “So you followed my counsel.”

  “Yes,” Shaz confirmed. “And they have Logos. I heard it speak.”

  In spite of the fact that Kane generally preferred life on the physical plane to his present existence, there were advantages to being dead. Chief among them was the fact that it was impossible for enemies to murder him. Not Shaz, not anyone. So, rather than fear the combat variant as he once had, the disincarnate was free to needle him. “You heard the AI speak? But left the device where it was? I suspect Chairman Tepho will wonder why.”

  “He knows why,” Shaz replied defensively. “We need Socket . . . which is why you were summoned. Since they don’t have access to the local star gate, the sensitive and her companions will be forced to board the next ship.”

  “Assuming it comes,” Du Phan put in emotionlessly.

  “Yes,” the variant acknowledged. “Assuming it comes, the ship will carry them to Derius. Watch over them to the extent that you can. We’ll be waiting when they arrive.”

  A frown wrinkled Dyson’s brow. “You want me to protect them?” Kane inquired incredulously.

  “For the moment, yes,” Shaz replied sternly. “The trip is risky in and of itself . . . But what if something were to happen to them in transit? So your task is to provide whatever assistance you can.”

  “Why not board the ship yourself?” the dead man wanted to know.

  “Because they’re on the lookout for a combat variant now,” Shaz responded. “Your onetime father saw to that. . . . And the woman might sense a hostile presence.”

  “I can try,” Kane allowed. “But it won’t be easy. Locating something on the physical plane is like feeling your way through a thick fog. And once their ship enters hyperspace, the task will become that much more difficult.”

  “Do what you can,” Shaz insisted, “and we will speak to you on Derius.”

  Kane eyed the woman and forced Dyson to smile. “I don’t believe we have met.”

  Phan knew the look and allowed a smile to touch her lips. “No, I don’t believe we have. My name is Du Phan.”

  “Du Phan . . .” the disincarnate said experimentally. “Well, Du Phan, until next time then.”

  As the assassin ran the tip of a pink tongue over her already glossy lips, Kane felt Dyson’s body respond. And so, for that matter, did the being to which it belonged. Because while slightly out of phase with his physical form, the sensitive was conscious of everything that took place and didn’t like the way in which Kane was making free with his body. He struggled to push the invading spirit out, eventually managed to do so, and found himself soaked with sweat. Somehow, Dyson had been thrust to the forefront of a war he didn’t understan
d and wanted no part of.

  “Good work,” Shaz said emotionlessly. “Come on . . . We have things to do.”

  The spaceship Shewhoswimsthevoid

  Like a silvery fish in a large black pond Shewhoswimsthevoid slipped past a gravelly asteroid belt, swung round a planet-sized orange-red boulder, and began to decelerate. Because up ahead, only ship hours away, lay her next port of call, the planet that the biobeings riding deep within her ancient hull knew as Thara. It was a planet that she had orbited many times before. For such was her purpose, and what she experienced as pleasure, even though the doing of it would eventually lead to her dissolution.

  But, like the natural laws that governed what the great vessel could do in space, the urges inherent in her programming limited what Shewhoswims could desire, and thereby ensured that so long as the ship could carry people from one planet to another, she would. Regardless of the cost to her. The question wasn’t if she would die, but when, and even though it lay within her power to carry out the necessary calculations. Shewhoswims chose not to do so. Because for the moment she had purpose, and that made her happy. Cool nothingness caressed the ship’s hull, galaxies wheeled in the unimaginable distance, and a thousand suns lit the way.

  The city of Tryst, on the Planet Thara

  The public market occupied the topmost level of Tryst, where golden sunlight shone through the glass panels set into the domed roof, and goods were hoisted from the ground below by means of wooden cranes. Each massive swing arm was named after the family to which it belonged and was served by a team of sturdy angens. They made squalling sounds as they walked endless circles around brightly painted capstans.

  Just to the rear of the cranes was an extremely busy thoroughfare that the cart men used to transport newly arrived goods, even as hundreds of people swirled around them. There were red hats, black hats, bakers, soldiers, scribes, metalsmiths, townspeople, tailors, heavies, herbalists, and gangs of schoolchildren all weaving a transitory tapestry of thought, language, and color. It made for a heady atmosphere and one which Norr, who rarely got a chance to spend time with Rebo, enjoyed. Because right then, as the couple strolled hand in hand, they could interact in a way that just wasn’t possible when others were around.

  Having entered the market proper, Rebo and Norr found themselves following one of two dozen aisles that converged on the center of the pie-shaped floor plan. That was where all of the food vendors were forced to gather so that their smoke could be channeled up through a single hole at the center of the domed roof. The odors of freshly baked bread, roasted meat, and brewed caf combined to make Rebo’s stomach growl. But it was too early for lunch—and there was work to do. “The first thing we need is a gunsmith,” the runner mused, as they paused at an intersection. “It will take them time to crank out five hundred rounds—so the sooner they get going the better.”

  “That makes sense,” Norr agreed. “Then we’ll shop for fuel, dried food, and personal items.”

  And so it was agreed. It took half an hour to find a gun-smith who could perform the work to Rebo’s specifications plus an hour to gather up the other items they needed. And it was then, while Norr was waiting for the runner to return from a consultation with a Ju-Ju master, that Norr ran into the old crone. She was a sensitive by the look of her, albeit an ancient one, who told fortunes for a living. Her booth consisted of little more than panels of blue cloth stretched over a wood frame. She had straggly white hair and, judging from the wrinkled skin that hung around her face, had once been heavier than she was now. Cataracts clouded her eyes, but her second sight remained clear, and she could sense the young woman’s presence. “Come over here, dear. I won’t hurt you,” the old woman said reassuringly. “Even though there are others who would!”

  Norr felt sorry for the seer and found the last statement to be intriguing. “Here,” the sensitive said, as she pressed a coin into the oldster’s palm. “Tell me more.”

  The contact caused the old crone to cock her head to one side and frown. “What is this?” she demanded. “Some sort of trick? You have the gift . . . Tell your own fortune.”

  “No,” Norr replied gently as she took her place on the low stool that fronted the oldster’s well-worn chair. “You know what they say . . . The seer who looks to his own future is blind.”

  “What you say is true,” the older sensitive replied, as she revealed some badly decayed teeth. “And I know what it is to be blind! Give me your hand.”

  Norr reached out to take the fortune-teller’s hand. It was extremely warm. “Ah,” the old woman said knowingly. “You are but halfway through a long journey . . . and the greatest dangers lie ahead.”

  “What sort of dangers?”

  “Beware of the thief,” the seer cautioned importantly. “Lest you lose that which is most precious.”

  Norr nodded. “Go on.”

  “There will be a battle,” the other woman predicted. “And when it comes you must seek that which you already have.”

  While the first message seemed like an obvious reference to Logos, the second didn’t make any sense at all, but Norr was polite nonetheless. “Thank you,” the younger sensitive replied. “I will keep that in mind.”

  “And there’s something more,” the fortune-teller added, her eyes seemingly focused on something Norr couldn’t see.

  “Yes?”

  “An angel is watching over you. A dark angel but an angel nonetheless. There is a momentary alignment between you. It cannot last but could be helpful in the short run. Does that make sense?”

  “No,” Norr replied. “It doesn’t . . . Not right now. But perhaps later it will.”

  The reading came to an end shortly after that, Norr went to lunch with Rebo, and a metal man followed the couple back to the guildhall.

  The spaceport, or what had been the spaceport, had been transformed into a huge crater some 4,216 years earlier, when an ark ship crashed there. Most of the ship’s hull had been salvaged and converted into tools, implements, and construction materials that were still being recycled and used. But a few pieces of riblike metal continued to curve up toward the sky and harkened back to days only dimly remembered. A sobering reminder of what could happen to those who traveled among the stars. But that didn’t stop thousands of runners, merchants, thieves, holy men, assassins, romantics, con artists, scholars, and lunatics of every possible description from gambling their lives each year. A fact made apparent by the long column of heavily burdened people who wound their way down out of the elevated city of Tryst to follow a narrow footpath out toward the crater.

  Of course, some of the people were spectators, children in tow, who would return to their homes by nightfall. But those who wore packs, or carried bundles between them, were intent on boarding the shuttle if it landed. Those who were veteran travelers, individuals like Rebo, Norr, and Hoggles, carried just what they needed, while neophytes had a tendency to neglect essentials like fuel, food, and medicine in favor of frivolous items like folding furniture, elaborate shelters, and fancy clothing—much of which would either be stolen by their fellow passengers, converted into fuel to ward off the cold, or abandoned as impractical.

  For his part Rebo felt pretty good about the provisions the three of them carried, especially the locally made fuel tablets, packets of dried food, and the hand-loaded ammunition acquired the day before. And, adding to the runner’s sense of well-being was the powerful talisman that he had purchased to supplement the much-stressed amulet that had seen him through the last few months. Norr believed such things were silly, not to mention superstitious, but Rebo knew better. He was alive, wasn’t he? Even though plenty of people wanted him dead. That spoke for itself.

  The runner’s thoughts were interrupted by a sound similar to rolling thunder as a wedge-shaped shuttle broke the sound barrier and circled high above. There was a shout of jubilation as spectators and travelers alike paused to celebrate the ship’s return. They couldn’t see Shewhoswims, of course, since the vessel was far too large to neg
otiate a planetary atmosphere, but the sight of the shuttle was wondrous enough, especially for those who had never seen a flying machine before. And there were at least a thousand pilgrims, many of whom had walked hundreds of miles in hopes of bearing witness to a landing and thereby confirming what some people said. Out beyond the darkness lay other planets, populated by humans just like them, all having a common ancestry. The visitors were understandably excited as the fantastic apparition lost altitude and prepared to land.

  Horns sounded, drums rattled, and bells tolled as the long, colorful procession followed the seldom-used path down into the crater and the mound of hard-packed earth that dominated the center of it. For it was there, on what amounted to a huge pedestal, that the space black shuttle would put down.

  Even though her central processing unit remained in orbit, Shewhoswims could “see” via the shuttle’s sensors and felt a deep sense of regret as she looked down on what amounted to a grave. Not for one of her brother-sister ships, because the wreckage predated them, but for a lesser vessel that had succumbed to mechanical failure, human error, or entropy.

  “So,” Norr said, as the shuttle settled onto its skids, “do you think he’ll board the ship with us?”

  There was no need for the runner to ask who the sensitive was referring to, since the unseen combat variant had been on all of their minds since the break-in and Lysander’s visitation. In fact, though he wouldn’t have been willing to admit it, Rebo had spent a good deal of time looking over his shoulder during the last couple of days. “It beats me,” the runner replied. “But I doubt it. . . . Logos claims that the local star gate is buried deep underground. But there must be a way to access it, or this Shaz character would be on the incoming shuttle. That would suggest that he’s on Derius by now . . . waiting for us to complete the trip the hard way.”