Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  The ship’s Security Control Center had once been home to a force of fifty—men, women, and androids—charged with everything from crime prevention to crowd control. As such, the interconnected compartments included an office for the watch commander, a ready room complete with six bunks, a lounge that boasted its own auto chef, a well-stocked armory, and a high-tech surveillance facility where the video provided from more than five hundred cameras was constantly monitored.

  But those days were long gone by the time the brothers Mog, Ruk, and Tas moved into the facility and took up residence. More than two standard years had passed since the day when Mog experimentally entered his birth date into the keypad outside the Security Center and watched in openmouthed amazement as the much-abused hatch cycled open. A more philosophical person might have marveled at his good fortune, or wondered how many thousand such attempts had failed prior to his, or pondered why that particular sequence of numbers had been chosen to protect the facility.

  But Mog wasn’t much of a thinker—nor were his half brothers Ruk and Tas. What they were was criminals, who— having botched a robbery—were on the run from the law when they happened upon the crowd that had gathered to watch a shuttle lift from the Planet Derius, and impulsively dashed up the ramp. But, not having prepared themselves for the trip, the siblings soon discovered that they had exchanged one life-threatening situation for another.

  Still, the ship carried a plentiful supply of the one thing criminals can’t get along without, and that was victims. Because, while many of the merchants, religious pilgrims, and other travelers were armed against the possibility of petty theft, they weren’t prepared to deal with ruthless predators like Mog, Ruk, and Tas.

  However, vulnerable though they were, the other passengers outnumbered the brothers, which was why Mog thought it best to locate a defendable hideout prior to initiating what he thought of as “the harvest.” But when the hatch to the Security Control Center magically opened before him, the criminal realized that he had something of greater value than a simple refuge. Here was a compartment to sleep in, an alcove full of neatly racked weapons, and a roomful of magical windows. Strange but wonderful devices that allowed the criminal and his two siblings to monitor their prey before venturing out to attack them.

  The benefits of Mog’s discovery, and the rather crafty manner in which he employed them, produced what could only be described as a rich harvest. Armed with high-tech weapons and an ability to watch their fellow passengers from a remote location, it took the brothers less than three weeks to slaughter all of their fellow passengers and confiscate their valuables.

  In fact the trip was so profitable, that when it came time to leave the ship, the brothers elected to stay aboard. Now, after more than two years of living in the Security Control Center, Mog and his brothers had accumulated so much loot that it occupied most of what had once been the lounge. There were pots full of gold cronos, sacks of gunnars, boxes filled with jewelry, canisters of rare spices, bottles of exquisite perfumes, and bolts of silk. “We’ll be rich when we land.” That’s what Mog liked to say, but neither he nor his siblings had any real desire to put down on their native planet and confront the authorities there. Not yet at any rate.

  Now, as Mog and Ruk sat in front of the two dozen surveillance screens that still functioned, they were evaluating the latest flock. Because each brother had been fathered by a different man, they had very few features in common. Mog was a big hulking brute with a bushy beard. And while slim when compared to his brother, Ruk had developed a bit of a paunch of late and was eternally in need of a bath. He eyed the screen as he scratched a hairy armpit. “So, brother Mog, what do you think?”

  “I think we’re looking at slim pickings,” the older man said cynically. “The group in the back corner doesn’t have more than two gunnars to rub together. And, while the merchants will no doubt yield a crono or two, I daresay the rest are likely to disappoint.”

  “But not the women,” Ruk growled.

  “No,” Mog said agreeably. “Even the homely ones are good for a little fun.”

  “I want that one,” Ruk said eagerly, as he pointed a grimy figure at Norr.

  “You can have her when I’m done,” Mog said airily.

  “That isn’t fair! You always take the pretty ones!”

  “That’s right,” Mog answered contemptuously, “and I always will. . . . Unless you would like to challenge my authority.”

  Ruk did want to challenge his brother’s authority, but was afraid to do so, which left him with no choice but to back off.

  “So,” Tas said, as he entered the room. “When do we hit them?”

  “Most will go to sleep in about three hours,” Mog predicted. “Eight hours later they will get up and start to explore. That’s when the harvest will begin.”

  “Good,” Tas replied as he eyed the scene in the hold. “I’m hungry.”

  Thirty miles south of Seros, on the Planet Anafa

  Though large by most people’s standards, Chairman Tepho’s estate was modest when compared to those owned by the planet’s moneyed aristocracy, but that would eventually change. In the meantime, the two hundred acres of land more than met the reclusive leader’s rather eccentric needs—none of which had much if anything to do with farming. That was evident in the way once-productive fields now lay fallow, previously sturdy fences went unmended, and the extensive angen pens stood empty. But there were guards, plenty of them, all made of metal. The androids stood alone, or in small groups of two or three, each holding a spear taller than it was. Most had been splashed with bright-colored paint. None of the neighbors knew why—or dared to ask.

  All of which seemed strange to Shaz, who had been summoned to the estate upon his return from Thara and was presently ensconced in the back of a Techno Society coach. The conveyance rattled alarmingly as it topped a rise and started down the far side. Then, as the dusty road curved to the left, the variant caught a glimpse of the once-proud villa that capped a low hill. He knew the house intimately, having once been Tepho’s chief bodyguard, and was surprised to see that the building had suffered what appeared to be fire damage during the months of his absence. Had the lower levels been affected, Shaz wondered. Because that was where the reclusive Tepho spent most of his time. Not with groups of people, who might look askance at his twisted body, but with a few trusted attendants and a coterie of nonjudgmental machines.

  The coach followed a curving drive up to the front of the villa and stopped beneath a smoke-stained portico. The variant opened the door, and his boots had barely touched the ground, when a whip cracked and the conveyance jerked into motion.

  That was the moment when the combat variant began to feel uneasy, allowed his camouflage to kick in, and stood ready to draw both of his semiautomatic pistols. He was already backing away from the front of the villa when he heard the muffled whine of servos, a half ton of masonry exploded outward, and a large machine emerged from hiding. It stood about twelve feet tall and consisted of an egg-shaped control pod mounted between two retrograde legs. The weapons mounted on both sides of the control pod burped blue light as Shaz drew his pistols. But the energy bolts flew over the variant’s head, and when the visitor turned to look over his shoulder, he saw the smoking remains of a storage shed fall lazily out of the sky.

  More servos whirred as the canopy opened and Tepho released the three-point harness. Then, without a word having been spoken, the machine performed a deep knee bend that allowed its owner to reach the ground. It was a maneuver that normally required help from one or more of the technologist’s assistants, but something Tepho was determined to accomplish on his own given the fact that Shaz was there. The technologist grinned mischievously as the combat variant returned both weapons to their cross-draw holsters. “Had you going there—didn’t I? There were thousands of raptors at one time. . . . Most were destroyed, but some enterprising tomb raiders found this unit buried with a Faro on Torus, and subsequently sold it to me. Our techs had to tear the whole
thing apart and bring the pieces through the gates one or two at a time. But here’s the part that you’ll be interested in,” the scientist continued. “Based on my research, it looks like the ancients created raptors to kill combat variants! That would suggest some sort of revolt. . . . Interesting, isn’t it?”

  It was interesting, but for more than academic reasons. Having been born into a violent universe, and having a vulnerable body, Tepho was understandably concerned for his personal safety. And now, having promoted his onetime bodyguard to a higher position, the chairman had every reason to be afraid of him. Not just a little, but enough to justify the acquisition of a very expensive machine that was not only more powerful than the combat variant but couldn’t be bribed, tricked, or otherwise suborned. And that, Shaz realized, was why he had been summoned to Tepho’s country estate. To learn about the machine, its capabilities, and the chairman’s newfound strength.

  “Yes,” Shaz said tactfully. “That is interesting.” So was the fact that most of the original machines had been destroyed, suggesting that his ancestors had discovered a way to defeat them. But the variant knew better than to say as much. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Yes,” the technologist replied. “I’m looking forward to your report. The medicos claim that I need more exercise— so you can benefit from my frailties as well. Let’s walk.”

  The sun emerged from behind a cloud, and had there been someone present to observe it, they might have thought the scene somewhat strange as the norm who wasn’t normal limped along the road, while his companion shimmered like a mirage, and the raptor followed a few steps behind. The machine walked with birdlike precision, each pod-step raising a puff of dust as its sensors scanned the surrounding area for signs of danger.

  Meanwhile, Tepho listened as his subordinate described the team’s arrival on Thara, the successful break-in, and the discoveries that followed. “So, Logos can be worn!” the scientist mused. “Imagine! Computers that you wear like a coat! And we’re going to bring those days back, Shaz. . . . And soon, too! Where is this marvel? I want to speak with it.”

  A lump formed in the combat variant’s throat, but the operative managed to swallow it. With Tepho at his side, the decision that appeared to be so logical before seemed questionable now. Still, Shaz knew that it was important to be assertive, and his voice was forceful as he told the chairman what he’d done, and why.

  To the technologist’s credit he allowed the underling to finish the report before making his reply. But there was no mistaking the tightness in his voice, the way his right index finger stabbed the air, or the fact that he was limping faster now. “Dammit, Shaz . . . I’d like to say that I agree with your decision to let the sensitive and her companions take Logos aboard that vessel, but I don’t! Travel aboard the starships is just too damned risky these days. . . . What if the old tub can’t find its way out of hyperspace? But what’s done is done. . . . Don’t let it happen again however.”

  Tepho was capable of towering rages, and knowing that, the variant discovered that he’d been holding his breath. He let some of the air escape along with the words. “Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  The scientist glanced sideways as if to gauge the sincerity of the response and nodded. “I believe you, Shaz. . . . Make the jump to Derius and wait to see what happens. Hopefully, they will arrive right on time. If it looks like they want to use the local gate—then allow them to force their way in. Just keep Logos safe! Eventually, assuming you wait long enough, he’ll lead you to Socket. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Good,” the scientist replied firmly. “Now, watch this . . .” So saying, Tepho removed a pistol-shaped device from the brand-new shoulder holster that hung under his left arm. It was shiny, like highly polished silver, and apparently seamless. Tepho aimed the artifact at a high-flying bird, pressed a red button, and brought his other hand up to shade his eyes. There was no report, as one would expect from a handgun, but the raptor fired one of its energy cannons, and the broadwing exploded. Shaz watched a cloud of feathers drift toward the ground, wondered how his ancestors had countered such machines, and hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to do so again.

  Aboard the spaceship Shewhoswimsthevoid

  Though relatively safe, the corner of the hold that the circus performers had claimed for themselves was poorly lit, which was just as well insofar as the beast master was concerned. The humiliation suffered in the arena had been bad enough, but having been faced down immediately after boarding the ship, the animal handler’s standing among his peers was at an all-time low. And, since their questionable esteem was the only thing the norm possessed, the situation was deeply disturbing.

  So, while the others slept, copulated, and gambled around him, the beast master plotted his revenge. A murder that could be carried out from a distance—and without the least bit of risk to himself. But there was work to do first. The fact that the circus hopped from planet to planet every five years or so meant that new animals had to be acquired soon after landing, trained to do tricks, and sold just prior to liftoff.

  But, while the beast master couldn’t bring an L-phant aboard, smaller animals were okay so long as he fed them, and none of the other performers were inconvenienced. There had been a long sequence of such pets over the years, but the sturdiest and most enduring was the Poda pod he had acquired on Baas. Being from a desert environment, the pod didn’t require much water, and so long as it received three drops of liquid fertilizer every fifteen days, would reportedly live for more than a hundred years. Not that the pod was a pet. . . . No, the real pet was the six-inch-long Slith snake that lived inside the pod and took most of its sustenance from the plant—a relationship the beast master didn’t fully understand, and didn’t need to, so long as he took the symbiotic coupling into account.

  Now, as the norm held the pod up in front of his face, he made use of both spatulate thumbs to rub what he thought of as the pod’s throat. A full ten seconds passed before the tiny serpent made its appearance. It had a single beady eye, a long black tongue, and an orange stripe that ran down its spine. “Greetings my sweet,” the beast master whispered lovingly. “And how are you today? Hungry? I’m not surprised.”

  Then, having made use of his right hand to reach for a pair of tweezers, the circus performer selected a likely looking insect from a half-full jar, and held the still-wriggling prize up for inspection. “So, sweetums, what do you think? Is this little beauty worthy of your stomach?”

  The serpent opened its mouth and thereby revealed a respectable set of fangs. Its head snapped forward, and the insect disappeared. And that, to the beast master’s way of thinking, was something of a mystery. He had observed animals all of his life, and while never the recipient of a formal education, knew how a food chain worked. Which raised the obvious question: Why would an animal that ate insects require fangs? To defend both itself and the pod? That seemed likely—but there was no way to be sure.

  What made the little snakes valuable was the fact that they could be trained to follow a particular scent to its source and kill the organism associated with it. So long as the target was vulnerable to Slith venom, that is, which, according to the assassin from whom the serpent had been purchased, included just about everyone. It was an assertion the beast master had tested twice before. First, as the means to eliminate an acrobat foolish enough to sleep with his woman, then as a way to punish the bitch herself.

  The key, and a very important one, was to provide the tiny killer with an item from which it could extract the necessary scent. In this case a tiny scrap of cloth that one of the troupe’s little people had snipped from the sensitive’s cloak after she boarded the shuttle. “Here, sweetums,” the circus performer whispered, as he held the tiny piece of fabric out for inspection. “Get a good sniff of this.”

  The long, narrow tongue seemed to caress the scrap of cloth before being withdrawn. The animal was visibly agitated now, its head jerking from side to side, as the beast mast
er extended his right index finger. It was an act of faith, because a single strike from the Slith snake’s fangs would lead to an agonizing death, but such was the serpent’s training that it had no interest in harming anyone other than the being associated with the newly assimilated odor. Then, once it returned from its deadly mission, the tiny assassin knew that a special feast would be waiting.

  Conscious of how dangerous a trip across the cluttered deck could be for his pet, and hopeful that it would choose to travel via the overhead girders instead, the beast master stood and held his finger up to a diagonal support structure. He felt rather than saw the serpent unwind itself from his finger, wished his pet well, and watched death slither into the darkness.

  A good deal of time and effort had gone into the effort to construct the shack next to the hold’s single water faucet. And while not especially attractive to look upon, or bulletproof, as Rebo had originally hoped, the shelter did provide the threesome with a welcome sense of privacy, and if not actual safety, then the illusion of it, which contributed to their peace of mind. And that’s where the runner was, sitting within the embrace of four rickety walls cleaning the Hogger by the light of an oil-fed lamp, when Norr entered the hut. The entryway was large enough to accommodate Hoggles, but just barely, and the sensitive had to duck before straightening again.

  Rebo looked up from his work as the variant took the seat opposite him. The runner never tired of looking at Norr’s face and wondered what that meant. There had been women before her, quite a few of them, but none so compelling. That was why he had agreed to a run that was not only unlikely to pay off but could strand him on an inhospitable planet, or get him killed. So, why was he there? Was he in love with Lonni? Or the idea of someone like her? She was in love with him . . . Rebo thought so anyway. Then what was he waiting for? He could tell her, no ask her, and the deal would be done. However, because such contemplations caused the runner’s head to hurt, he put it aside in favor of a joke. “How’s the weather?”