Eventually, after the better part of a week had passed, the travelers came across the first of what would eventually turn out to be a series of recently used campsites. Not the single fire pit that a family or an itinerant tradesman might have huddled next to, but a large area of well-trampled snow, and the remains of no less than three fires. All of which suggested a party that consisted of fifteen or twenty people. But what kind of people? Nice people? Or bad people?
It was an unsettling development, and one that became even more worrisome later the next day when, having passed through some small villages, the group came upon a much larger campsite. An area large enough to accommodate up to a hundred people, who, if not under a single leader, had been on friendly terms with one another, judging from the remains of a communal kitchen and two sets of latrines.
“So,” Phan said, as she looked down from her mount. “What do you think?”
Having slid down off his mount, Rebo went over to the remains of the communal kitchen, knelt next to the fire pit, and blew into the gray ashes. Embers started to glow red, and a tiny wisp of smoke appeared. “I think we’re closing with a group of people,” Rebo said as he came to his feet. “One that continues to grow.”
Norr had been silent thus far, and her angen tossed its equine head as the variant opened her eyes. “A man was murdered here,” the sensitive intoned bleakly.
Phan was getting tired of the spook’s endless pronouncements and made a face. “What makes you think so?”
“He’s buried there,” Norr replied, and pointed to a mound of snow that was about fifteen feet away.
Phan was skeptical, and rather than simply take the variant’s word for what had occurred, got down off her mount. Her boots made a squeaking sound as Phan made her way over to the pile of snow, fell to her knees, and scraped at the snow. The assassin felt her left hand make contact with something solid, so she scooped more of the white stuff out of the way and was startled by what she saw. A man had been buried there. That bothered Phan. If Norr could “see” things like that—then what else could the spook perceive?
But the question went unanswered as Norr felt Lysander invade her body, tried to fend the spirit entity off, and failed. The voice that came out of her mouth was deep and hoarse. “You have only to look at the man’s lips,” the technologist intoned, “to see the price paid for heresy.”
Rebo had heard the unnatural voice and seen the same wide-eyed expression on Norr’s face before. He shook his head disgustedly. “It’s Lysander . . . Here we go again.”
Though not familiar with Lysander, Phan had seen Dyson channel Kane and understood the nature of what was taking place. She peered at the dead man’s face.
“What do you see?” Rebo wanted to know, and fumbled for his glasses.
“Somebody sewed his lips together,” Phan replied, as she eyed the puckered flesh.
“And that,” Lysander continued, “was the price he paid for speaking on behalf of technology. You must be careful, because the antitechnics would lay waste to entire villages to destroy that which you bear toward its home.”
There it was, confirmation that the people Phan had been assigned to escort actually had the device that Shaz lusted after, something the assassin had been forced to accept on faith up until that point. But Phan wasn’t supposed to be aware of Logos, so she forced a frown and came to her feet. “What is he, she, or it talking about anyway?”
Rebo swore silently. That was just one of the problems associated with working for a dead client. The bastard not only had a big mouth—but a talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. “You’ve seen Lonni’s vibro blade— the antitechnics would pitch a fit if they caught wind of it.”
It was a partial explanation at best, since it didn’t cover the stuff about bearing something to its “home,” but Phan nodded as if satisfied. Rebo heaved a sigh of relief even as Lysander left Norr’s body, and the sensitive blinked her eyes. She could still see the dead man’s spirit however— standing beside his vertical grave.
The travelers returned to the road after that, which had been churned into a muddy mess, and disappeared over the top of a low-lying hill. Hours passed as the sun’s dimly seen presence arced across the sky, and the group crossed and re-crossed the frozen river that meandered down the center of a U-shaped valley and entered a medium-sized village. It was late afternoon by then, and having been forced to camp out for three nights in a row, the off-worlders were thrilled to see a sturdy inn. It had a thatched roof, thick walls, and stood a full two stories tall. A stable was located next to it.
Once the angens had been seen to, and the cart had been secured, the travelers went upstairs to their rooms. Then, having drawn the shortest straw, Rebo was the first to bathe in a tub of water that cost the group twenty gunnars.
The inn’s only bathroom was located on the first floor, one wall away from the kitchen, in a large wood-paneled room. The copper tub was so large that even Hoggles would be able to use it—and was filled with water heated from below. But, given the fact that all four of the travelers would have to use the same bathwater, common courtesy required that the runner take a sponge bath prior to entering the big tub.
The runner stripped down, hung his clothes on some conveniently placed pegs, and made energetic use of a washcloth and a bucket of water. It had been days since his last bath, and Rebo was amazed by the rivulets of gray liquid that ran down his legs and into a floor drain.
Having tested the water in the tub and found it to his liking, Rebo put one foot in, and followed with the other, before beginning the gradual process of lowering himself into the hot liquid. After days spent out in the cold, nothing could surpass the sensation of warmth that rose to engulf the runner’s tired body, or the feeling of tranquility that followed.
Steam rose, and an almost overwhelming sense of lethargy had overtaken the runner by the time a hinge squeaked, and the door opened inward. Because Phan had drawn the second shortest straw, Rebo wasn’t entirely surprised to see her, although he was pretty sure the runner was early. He wanted to say something, knew he should have said something, but couldn’t summon the necessary energy.
Conscious of the fact that Rebo was watching her, Phan began to disrobe. Having attempted to ingratiate herself with the threesome yet failed to gain their complete trust, it was time to use her backup plan. Slowly, and with occasional sidelong glances at Rebo, Phan ran a wet washcloth over her trim torso. Then, having cupped each breast in turn, she ran a hand down between her legs. Rebo, who had forgotten his own bath by that time, felt himself respond in a predictable manner.
Having completed her sponge bath, and with patches of suds still clinging to her tattooed skin, Phan made her way over to the raised platform, where she lifted a shapely leg up over the side of the tub. “May I join you?”
Rebo knew he should say no, given the nature of his relationship with Norr, but Phan was in the tub by that time, and was busy settling herself onto his fully erect penis. Though still beautiful to look at, Phan’s body was covered with what looked like a road map of healed cuts and puncture wounds. More than the runner had, which was saying something. Rebo closed his eyes as the young woman took him in. She fit him like a glove, a hot glove, and the pleasure was intense.
Then, determined to see as well as feel, Rebo opened his eyes. Phan was kissing his neck at that point, and because of the difference in heights, the runner could look down on the upper portion of his lover’s back. He was shocked by what he saw . . . The tattoos Rebo had first seen back in New Wimmura, the tattoos that marked Phan as a runner, were so faded as to be nearly invisible! And, if the tattoos were fake, then it seemed logical to suppose that the rest of her story was fake as well!
Rebo’s once rock-hard erection had already started to wilt by that time, and Phan was just about to ask what was wrong, when the door opened and Norr entered. Judging from the mischievous smile on her face, and the bottle of wine clutched in her right hand, it looked as though the sensitive had plans
to share Rebo’s bath as well.
But when Norr saw that Phan was present, the light went out of her eyes, and the color drained from her cheeks. Then, speaking with a dull, somewhat mechanical voice, the sensitive said, “Here, I thought you might enjoy this,” and bent to place the bottle of wine on the floor. The hinge squeaked as she left, the door swung closed, and the sensitive was gone.
Rebo felt sick to his stomach. Having grabbed the sides of the metal tub he heaved himself up out of the water, stepped out onto the cold tiles, and from there to the floor. The runner’s skin continued to steam as he made his way over to where his clothes waited. “Wait!” Phan demanded. “What’s the hurry? So she’s mad. . . . Are you a man or a boy?”
The runner made no answer as he donned enough clothes to navigate the inn’s drafty halls, bundled the rest under his right arm, and left. Phan watched the door close for the second time and shrugged. In spite of the fact that her plan hadn’t played out as intended, the effect would be the same. A wedge had been driven into the relationship between Rebo and Norr—and that was a good thing.
The problem was that the brief interlude with the runner had left the assassin unsatisfied. Still, the water was delightfully hot, and there to be enjoyed. Slowly, so as to prolong the sensation, Phan allowed the water to close over the top of her head.
Rebo arrived at the room that Norr shared with Phan only to discover that the sensitive was busy moving out of it and into a small cubicle at the far end of the hall. “Here,” the runner said, as he reached out to take her pack. “Let me carry that.” But the sensitive refused to let go.
“No,” Norr said emphatically, “you won’t. Leave me alone.” The variant’s heels made an angry clicking sound as she strode down the hall.
Rebo hurried to keep up. “It wasn’t the way it looked.”
Norr stopped and turned to confront him. Her eyes were filled with anger. “How stupid do you think I am? You were naked, in the tub with her, and the thought forms were clear to see. . . . Oh, and one other thing,” the sensitive added. “You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me,” Rebo objected. “I work for Lysander.”
“You detest Lysander.”
“So? I gave my word.”
“But you never gave your word to me,” Norr replied. “Is that what makes having sex with Phan acceptable?”
“It wasn’t acceptable,” the runner replied contritely. “Allowing her to get in the tub was a mistake. Please accept my most sincere apology.”
“No,” the sensitive said intractably. “I won’t.” And with that, Norr entered her room and slammed the door behind her.
Rebo wanted to tell Norr about the tattoos, and the sick feeling in his stomach, but it was too late for that. The bath’s warmth had been dissipated by then, the runner’s skin had cooled, and his breath was visible as he walked down the dimly lit hall. Night had fallen—and it promised to be both long and dark.
Like all of the youngsters raised within the steely embrace of the assassin’s guild, Du Phan had been taught how to set her mental alarm clock and wake up whenever she needed to. Which was why her eyes popped open three seconds before the ancient clock in the lobby began to chime. And, thanks to the fact that she no longer shared the room with Norr, there was no need to be quiet as the assassin got dressed and tiptoed down the stairs. A brutish watchman sat next to the front door. He was wrapped in an old blanket, and a double-barreled shotgun rested across his knees. His head lay back against the grimy wall, and judging from the volume of his snores, the security guard was sound asleep.
Phan circled the man, opened the front door, and slid into the night. It was breathtakingly cold, but the assassin forced herself to pause for a moment and listen. She had a story ready for the telling, but preferred not to use it and felt relieved to hear nothing more than the sound of her own breathing.
Careful to maintain the near-perfect silence, Phan made her way around to the stable. A dog rushed out to confront the assassin as she approached the front entrance. It was a large beast, made all the more threatening by the fact that its vocal cords had been cut, leaving the animal to cough hoarsely rather than bark. The dog bared its fangs, lowered its head, and was about to attack when a throwing spike penetrated the top of its skull. The animal went down as if poleaxed.
Phan paused to jerk the weapon free from the watchdog’s skull, discovered that the huge padlock that was supposed to protect the stable from thieves had already been picked, and pushed her way in. An angen snorted nervously as the assassin passed by, and another bumped the side of its stall as she made her way back toward the spot where an oil-fed lantern threw a circle of yellow light down onto the frozen muck. A whirring noise caused Phan to whirl and confront the source. “Fear not,” the metal man said softly. “Master Shaz sent me.”
Had the cowled metal man been able to evade the dog because he was a machine? And therefore lacked a human scent? Yes, that seemed likely. Phan was disappointed. After many days of what she considered to be isolation, the assassin had been hoping for a visit with the combat variant himself. But hope is little more than solace for the weak. Or so the guild’s oldsters liked to say. Phan was brisk. “What have you got for me?”
Rather than reply himself—the android activated one of many capabilities built into his body. Beams of white light shot out of his “eyes,” converged on a spot in front of Phan, and combined to produce a three-dimensional likeness of Shaz. It had been nighttime when the message was recorded, and judging from the way the light played across his distinctly canine features, the off-world operative was seated in front of a campfire. “We’re about one day’s march behind you,” the combat variant said hollowly. “Remember, stay close to the sensitive, because she’s wearing the computer. Or was back on Thara. Take care—and I’ll see you soon.”
The picture vanished, the beams of light disappeared, and Phan was left to wonder why it had been necessary to get out of bed for what amounted to a pep talk. There was one take-away, however, and that was the admonition to “. . . stay close to the sensitive.” That particular responsibility was something of a problem at the moment, but things would almost certainly come right out on the trail, where Norr would be forced to interact with other members of the group. A servo whined. “Do you have a message for Master Shaz?”
“No,” Phan replied, unaware that everything she said was being recorded. “But do me a favor . . . Steal one of the angens on the way out.”
The robot was incapable of facial expressions—but was quick to ask the same question that any human would. “Why?”
“Because I had to kill a guard dog on the way in,” Phan explained economically, and left before the machine could reply.
The next morning dawned clear and bright. As Hoggles peered out over the angens’ backs he could see for miles as the big wooden wheels crunched through the half-frozen slush. Meanwhile, for reasons not entirely clear, Phan was riding well ahead of the wagon while Rebo lagged behind it, and Norr sat wrapped in a blanket at his side. There had clearly been a falling-out of some kind, and, judging from the way the others were behaving, Hoggles figured that the problem had something to do with sex.
There were a number of reasons why the heavy had elected to remain with Rebo and Norr after arriving on Thara. The first was that the variant had nothing better to do. But there was another reason as well, one that Hoggles was hesitant to admit to himself, much less anyone else. His feelings for Norr were hopeless, the giant knew that, but heartfelt nonetheless. Which was why the heavy planned to return home once Logos had been transported to Socket and the sensitive was safe. Until then Hoggles was resolved to remain at Norr’s side, protecting her to whatever extent he could, while enjoying the sound of her voice, smiles earned by virtue of small favors, and the occasional whiff of her perfume.
As the sensitive sat staring out over the searingly white landscape, Hoggles felt sympathy for Norr—and a combination of anger and resentment where the others were concerned. But non
e of it was his affair—so the variant was hesitant to get involved. But finally, after the group had been on the road for an hour, the heavy found the courage to speak. He began by clearing his throat. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry.”
Norr turned to look at him. Her expression was bleak, but she forced a smile. “Don’t be, Bo. . . . Life brings us all sorts of lessons. And, while some are painful, it’s usually for the best.”
The cart slowed as the angens were forced to tackle a hill, and the variant whistled at them before turning to look at his passenger. She was beautiful, even when she was sad, and Hoggles wanted to comfort her. Even if that meant pushing her toward another man. “The truth is that he loves you,” the heavy commented. “Even if he’s been slow to say so.”
Norr was surprised to hear something like that from Hoggles. She looked at him—then “looked” again. That was when the sensitive “saw” what had been there for a long time and realized the true nature of what the heavy felt for her, evidence of which could be seen in the fact that he was busy trying to heal the rift between her and another man. It was a delicate moment—and one that Norr was determined to handle correctly. “Really? What makes you think so?”
“That’s simple,” Hoggles replied confidently. “He’s here, isn’t he? Even though he’s losing money rather than making it.”
Suddenly Norr knew that the man sitting next to her was present for much the same reason and felt a deep pang of regret, not to mention guilt, and a sort of sisterly affection. “And there’s one more thing,” Hoggles added. “I don’t know what transpired between the two of you—but it’s my guess that Phan was part of it. I don’t trust her Lonni—and you shouldn’t, either.”
Norr remembered Rebo’s apology, followed by her harsh words, and the bang as the door slammed closed. The runner wasn’t entirely innocent, she knew that, but he wasn’t entirely guilty either. Not according to Hoggles—and not according to the voice inside her. The one she should have been listening to all along. “You are a good friend, Bo. . . . A very good friend, and I’m fortunate.”
Logos Run Page 13
