Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  SEVEN

  The Planet Derius

  Although the antitechnic rabble continue to sweep through the province—we have them under observation, and I remain confident that our strategy will be successful.

  —Provincial Facilitator, Kas Okanda, in a report to his superiors in New Wimmura

  The snow fell from the sky like a lacy curtain and the two dozen riders seemed to materialize out of the hazy whiteness like ghosts from some long-forgotten battle. But Facilitator Kas Okanda and his well-mounted dragoons were quite real, as were the sleek semiautomatic rifles the troopers carried and the wraithlike hunting dogs that ranged ahead.

  Okanda was a relatively small man, but he exuded an aura of authority as he eyed the area, alert to the possibility of an ambush. But there was nothing for him to see beyond a maze of tracks, the usual detritus left behind by a large group of campers, and the row of X-shaped crosses that sat atop a low rise. Four people had been crucified, and judging from appearances, all of them were dead. But the administrator prided himself on the veracity of the reports that he sent to New Wimmura every eight days, so a scout was dispatched to examine the bodies, and ordered to report back.

  “Make a note,” Okanda instructed, as the youngster next to him prepared to write on a clipboard. “Having patrolled the area north of the citadel, the company came across four individuals all of whom had been crucified. Since this sort of execution is typical of the antitechnic fanatics, it seems safe to assume that they were responsible for the atrocity.” The facilitator’s secretary scribbled furiously in a desperate attempt to capture each word exactly as it had been spoken.

  The scout returned just as the government official finished his paragraph. “Excuse me, sire,” the dragoon said respectfully, “but the people on the crosses are still alive.”

  Okanda had bushy eyebrows. They shot upward in surprise. “What?” he demanded. “Alive you say. . . . Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sire,” the scout replied expressionlessly. “Would you like us to cut them down?”

  “Of course!” Okanda responded affirmatively. “But not until Hobarth here has an opportunity to examine the victims and take notes.”

  The scout said, “Yes, sire,” and led the younger man over to where the snow-encrusted crosses stood. Now that he was closer Hobarth could see the wisps of vapor that issued from between blue-tinged lips. The better part of ten minutes elapsed while the secretary took elaborate notes on everything from the manner in which metal spikes had been driven through one woman’s hands, to the clothes that the people wore, and the fact that a lightning bolt had been tattooed onto the inner surface of one man’s left forearm.

  Once the process was complete, the men and women were taken down and loaded into a pair of sturdy field ambulances. The heavy went into one, while the sensitive, and the norms were placed in the other. Once inside the wagons, the patients were propped up against straw-filled pillows and covered with wool blankets.

  And that’s where Rebo was when the dream ended, his eyes opened, and a man with a handlebar mustache said, “Here . . . This’ll fix what ails ya!” and poured a half ounce of fiery liquid into his mouth. The whiskey went down the wrong way, and the runner began to choke.

  Norr raised a hand in protest. “Don’t give him spirits. . . . What we need is some warm tea. . . . Or some caf.”

  The medics were more than happy to dispense lukewarm tea from the insulated bottles filled earlier that day and consume the medicinal whiskey themselves while the wagons rattled through a village and began the long arduous climb to the citadel. Having passed through a well-guarded entrance, the wagons ground to a halt in front of a one-story infirmary, and the patients were carried inside. Within a matter of minutes they were stripped of clothing and immersed in warm baths. Phan, Hoggles, and, to a lesser extent, Rebo were treated for their various wounds before being brought back together for some hot soup.

  Then, after a good deal of fussing over by some very efficient female nurses, the travelers were packed off to bed. Norr wanted to sleep more than anything—but refused to cooperate until the staff returned her clothes. Then, clutching a ratty-looking coat to her chest, the sensitive allowed sleep to overtake her. The nurses shrugged, sent the rest of her filthy apparel out to be burned, and left the room.

  Once the nurses were gone, and the door was closed, Logos spoke. “Lonni? Can you hear me?” But there was no answer other than a cough, followed by some nonsensical words, and the sound of the sensitive’s breathing. “I know I don’t say this sort of thing very often,” the AI whispered. “But thank you.”

  The sun had set three hours earlier, which meant that most travelers had been forced to camp out or seek the hospitality of a country inn. But Shaz and his party were the exceptions to that rule. Not only could the forward-ranging metal men “sense” obstacles, they could “see” whatever fell under the blobs of white light that projected from their “eyes” and break trail for the angens. Travel remained difficult, however, especially since the humans and their mounts had been on the road for twelve hours and were close to exhaustion.

  But it had been two days since the combat variant had spotted one of the red ribbons that Phan typically left adjacent to the road or picked up a written message from the assassin. And that was why the operative insisted that the party continue to push ahead. Of course there are limits to how far one can ride in a day, and the angens had begun to stumble by the time the robots followed a multitude of tracks up to the rise where four X-shaped crosses stood, and paused to look around. A quick reconnaissance revealed an area of heavily churned snow—but it was impossible to know who had been there or why. “We’ll camp here,” Shaz announced to the androids. “Build a couple of fires, pitch the tent, and feed the angens.”

  The androids were extremely efficient, so it wasn’t long before the two humans were sitting on small folding stools and warming their hands over a crackling fire. Meanwhile, an oil-fed stove had been established not far away, and a hearty stew would soon be burbling in a pot. Confident that the routine matters were under control, Shaz eyed the sensitive seated across from him. Even allowing for the fact that the campfire lit Dyson’s face from below, the other variant looked older than he was. His skin had taken on a sallow appearance, and his hands shook all the time. Some of that could be blamed on the rigors of the journey and the stress associated with it, but Kane was responsible for the rest.

  The situation was difficult for Shaz to assess, not being a sensitive himself, but having been acquainted with Kane prior to his death, it was easy to understand how unpleasant the task of bringing him through could be. But there was no getting around the need to communicate with the dead operative from time to time. Even if that was painful for Dyson, who sat with shoulders slumped, his eyes on the fire.

  “Your tea is ready,” a robot announced, and waited for the humans to extend their mugs before starting to pour. Then, having given Dyson an opportunity to sip the hot liquid, Shaz broke the silence. “I know you’re tired, but we haven’t heard from Phan in quite a while, and I need to speak with Kane.”

  There was a moment of silence as the sensitive blew the steam off the surface of his tea and took another sip. Finally, his eyes peering out from cavelike sockets, Dyson looked up. It took a great deal of effort to keep his voice steady. “I would like to quit. There’s no need to pay me. . . . I’ll take my bedroll and walk away.”

  “Don’t be silly,” the combat variant replied dismissively. “I know Kane can be unpleasant, but I’ll keep the session short, and the whole thing will be over in a matter of minutes. Then, after a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  The other variant was determined to have his way, the sensitive could see that, so there was no point in stalling. Dyson closed his eyes, sought the inner peace that lay deep within, and partially withdrew from his body. Kane, who had already been drawn to the physical plane by the combat variant’s thoughts, was ready and waiting. His beingness flooded
into the newly created vacuum, where he hurried to seize control. The first thing the spirit entity noticed was the wonderful tang of woodsmoke, followed by the aftertaste of unsweetened tea and the innate heaviness of the channel’s physical body. A vehicle that was both tired from a long day in the saddle—and hungry for the food that was being prepared nearby.

  Shaz became aware of Kane’s presence when Dyson’s body jerked convulsively, some of his tea spilled into the flames, and the fire hissed in protest. Then, once the steam had cleared, the combat variant looked into a pair of dead eyes. “So,” Kane croaked, “we meet again.”

  “Yes,” Shaz responded cautiously. “Thank you for coming. I could use your help.”

  “You have but to ask,” Kane answered generously, as he held his left hand out toward the fire. The warmth was wonderful—and he reveled in it. Dyson tried to reassert control but couldn’t. Gradually, bit by bit, Kane had become so skilled at controlling the sensitive’s body that the sensitive was powerless to displace him. Dyson uttered a long silent scream, but there was no one to hear, and the conversation continued.

  “Good,” the combat variant continued. “We lost contact with Phan—which means we lost contact with the others. Can you tell me what happened to them?”

  “Probably,” Kane answered confidently. “Give me a moment.” After pausing to swirl a mouthful of tea around the inside of Dyson’s mouth, the spirit entity directed his attention outward. Other disincarnates could be seen within the thick glutinous material that overlaid the physical plane. One such individual was quite upset regarding his unexpected death. Others sought to comfort the dead man and escort him to a higher vibration. Kane hurried to project his consciousness into the mix. He listened for a while, asked a series of questions, and received most of the answers he needed before the entity’s spirit guides pulled him away.

  Shaz had started to wonder if something had gone wrong when Dyson, which was to say Kane, suddenly spoke. “I’m back.”

  The combat variant lifted an eyebrow. “And?”

  “And Phan is alive, as are the others,” the disincarnate reported. “Although they had a close brush with death prior to being spirited away by a group of people that my contact wasn’t familiar with.”

  Shaz felt a sense of relief. His greatest fear had been that some sort of calamity had befallen not only Phan, but the AI, resulting in the machine’s loss. It should be a relatively simple matter to find out where the group had been taken and free them should that be necessary. “Thank you, that is very helpful.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kane said politely. “Something smells good. . . . What’s for dinner?”

  Shaz, who expected the spirit entity to withdraw at that point, felt the first stirrings of concern. “Stew. . . . Why do you ask?”

  “Well,” Kane replied, as Dyson struggled to eject him. “It’s been quite a while since I ate real food. I think I’ll stay and have dinner with you.”

  The combat variant felt the short bristly hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He struggled to keep his voice level. “You can do that?”

  “Why, yes,” Kane answered coolly. “I believe that I can.”

  “And Dyson?” Shaz wanted to know. “How does he feel about your plan?”

  “Oh, he’s against it,” the disincarnate admitted carelessly. “But, I have the poor bastard right where I want him, so it doesn’t really matter. Does it?”

  The challenge was obvious, and the air around the combat variant began to seethe as his body prepared for combat. Fortunately, Dyson had consistently refused to carry a weapon, which meant it would have been easy to shoot the sensitive’s body, thereby preventing the disincarnate from controlling it. But what if Shaz needed more information? Sensitives were hard to come by—and it wouldn’t be a good idea to offend Kane.

  The creature sitting opposite Shaz nodded understandingly. “Oops!” the spirit entity said lightly. “I guess this puts you between a rock and a hard place doesn’t it? But, hey, not to worry. . . . We’re after the same thing. And later, after we install Logos on Socket, I plan to reincarnate. You’ll be an old fart by the time I make my presence known. As for Tepho, well, he’s your problem. Slick, huh?”

  That wasn’t the way the combat variant would have described it, but he was a realist and nodded in agreement. “Welcome back. . . . I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

  Meanwhile, in a place where no one could help him, Dyson continued to scream.

  Rebo awoke to the sound of bells. His eyes felt as if they had been glued shut but eventually opened to reveal a room so narrow there was no more than two feet of space on either side of his bed. Sunlight poured in through the paned window over his head and threw an asymmetric pattern onto the door across from him. Then, just as the bells stopped ringing, the runner felt the unmistakable pressure on his bladder and knew it was time to get up.

  The first attempt to throw the covers aside and swing his legs out over the edge of the bed resulted in an explosion of pain. That caused Rebo to fall back against the pillow and probe the circumference of his skull. It quickly became apparent that there were three different dressings on his head. Fortunately, none of his companions had been killed as a result of his mental lapse. Still conscious of his full bladder, the runner gritted his teeth, battled to swing both feet over onto the cold floor, and stood. By placing one hand on the wall, he was able to remain upright even as a tidal wave of dizziness attempted to pull him under. He felt for his amulet in hopes that the charm would steady him and discovered it was gone. Lost during the battle with the Army of God, Rebo supposed.

  He still had the religious medallion, however, which was something of a miracle given the fact that the antitechnics had stolen everything else, so maybe it would protect him. Finally, having kept his feet, the runner went in search of his clothes. That was when he discovered that while his old road-ravaged outfit had disappeared, brand-new clothing was waiting in the tiny closet, a gift for which he was grateful. Getting the fresh garments on was something of a challenge however, and Rebo might have abandoned the project if it hadn’t been for the urgent need to pee. Fortunately, a nurse appeared about halfway through the process and helped the runner get his shirt on.

  After a trip to the men’s bathroom, which was equipped with flush toilets, Rebo went looking for Norr, only to discover that she was looking for him. Together they took refuge in a sun-splashed solarium. “I’m sorry,” the runner said contritely. “Putting those glasses on was a stupid thing to do.”

  Norr shrugged philosophically. “Don’t worry about it. . . . If not the glasses, then something else would have given us away.”

  “Thanks,” the runner replied humbly. “But I am worried. The antitechnics took off with all of our money, supplies, and weapons.”

  “They took most of our stuff,” the sensitive agreed soberly, “but not everything.” At that point Norr tapped her chest and winked. The message was clear. Logos was lurking somewhere beneath her brand-new outfit. The runner had mixed emotions where the AI was concerned but forced a smile. “That’s good news. . . . So, how are the others doing?”

  During the subsequent report, Rebo learned that while Hoggles’s right index finger had been amputated after the battle with the antitechnics, the heavy was on the mend. “That’s good,” the runner said gratefully. “I need to apologize to him as well. How ’bout Phan?”

  “Fortunately, none of the spikes that they drove through her hands struck bone,” Norr replied. “She’ll be good as new within a few weeks.”

  “And how good is that?” Rebo inquired cynically. “She isn’t who she says she is, we know that, so what to do?”

  “Get rid of her,” Norr replied honestly. “As soon as we can.”

  Rebo nodded. “Works for me . . . In the meantime, where the heck are we? And who’s running this place?”

  “We’re in some sort of government-run complex,” Norr replied. “What was once a university if I understand correctly. More than that I cou
ldn’t really say. But, since Facilitator Okanda invited us to dinner, maybe we’ll be able to learn more from him.”

  “Yeah,” the runner said reflectively. “Maybe we will . . . In the meantime here’s hoping that the runner’s guild has a presence in Feda. . . . I should be able to withdraw some money from my account if it does.”

  “You’re working for Lysander,” the sensitive responded. “Maybe he can help.”

  “That kind of help I can do without,” the runner objected, as he came to his feet. “Come on . . . Let’s find Bo. I owe him a body part.”

  By the time evening fell, and the youngster named Hobarth led Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and Phan into the citadel’s Grand Hall, the off-worlders were feeling better. The room was huge, and would have been almost impossible to light had it not been for the ancient Class IV fusion generator located two levels below. The fact that it continued to broadcast electricity was due to a generous supply of spare parts, knowledge handed down for hundreds of years, and no small amount of good luck.

  Kas Okanda was waiting to greet his guests when they arrived at the far end of the long, formally set dining table. He was dressed in a heavily embroidered gold coat, black trousers, and gold slippers. His neatly trimmed mustache and pointed beard served to reinforce the aura of material well-being that surrounded him. The facilitator never tired of seeing the expressions of amazement that the brightly lit hall produced on most of his guests. “Welcome!” the government official said warmly. “Please, take your seats, and I’ll call for some wine.”

  Okanda was an amiable host, and the next hour passed quickly, as the facilitator plied his guests with good wine, food, and conversation. Finally, having offered the official a carefully edited version of the journey from Thara, Rebo asked his host what the government planned to do about the Army of God.