Logos Run

by William C. Dietz

  Okanda came halfway out of his chair, and the guards looked right and left, as the air next to the government official shimmered and Shaz appeared. The soldiers went for their weapons, but the combat variant was ready for that, and shot each in the chest. Rifles clattered as they fell. Then, on the off chance that they were wearing some sort of armor under their leather jerkins, the off-worlder shot each man in the head. Thanks to the fact that the techno-operative was using a silencer-equipped pistol, the gunshots were no louder than the noise generated by the popping of a cork.

  The blood drained out of Okanda’s face at that point—and the official slumped back into in his chair. “And you are?”

  “Her employer,” Shaz answered emotionlessly, as he opened a knife. “Here, cut her loose.”

  Okanda considered making use of the knife to attack the combat variant but knew he couldn’t beat a bullet. What looked like a rifle sling had been used to bind the woman. The angen hide parted, and Phan was free. Though more than a little surprised by the operative’s unexpected appearance, the assassin gave no sign of it as she got down off the table. “Thanks for dropping in.”

  Shaz smiled wolfishly. “You’re welcome. . . . What happened?”

  “This man had a gate seed—but didn’t know what it was. Logos made use of it to open a portal to Haafa. All four of the subjects are there by now.”

  Shaz liked the fact that Phan’s report was brief, to the point, and empty of excuses. “Haafa? Not Socket?”

  “That’s what Logos said.”

  “Damn,” Shaz exclaimed wearily. “What the hell is that piece-of-shit computer up to now? Ah well, time will tell.”

  Then, without any warning whatsoever, the variant turned and shot Okanda in the head. The bullet’s impact was sufficient to tip the ladder-back chair over and dump the dead body onto the blood-splattered floor.

  “Come on,” Shaz said, as he reached for the assassin’s hand. “The Techno Society has a gate in Feda. We can be there in three days. And one other thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t screw up again.”

  EIGHT

  The Planet Haafa

  One has only to watch the pyramids sail across the desert to understand how much knowledge has been lost.

  —Synthia Mosaba, curator to King Horus, The Segenni Index

  Four huge pyramids could be seen in the distance, each floating about fifteen feet above the desert floor and drifting toward the southwest. The sun was past its zenith, so their sharply geometric shadows pointed east and seemed to caress the land as if to soothe it. Above the pyramids, having been lofted there by friendly thermals, winged variants made lazy circles against the azure sky. The wings wore bright livery, so their masters could identify them from a distance, and were not currently engaged in combat. But they would be once the Goddess Sogol brought the pyramids to a momentary halt, opened a ramp to the artifact-rich city that lay buried below, and thereby triggered a stampede. Something that could occur in an hour, a day, or a week. No one knew except for Sogol herself—and she wasn’t talking. And that, King Kufu thought to himself, as he stared out over the sun-baked desert, is the most addictive thing of all. Not knowing, but risking everything he had and winning enough to stay in the game. Even though 136 days had passed since the last big score, he was still living off the proceeds, and savoring the victory. Because nothing brought the nobleman more pleasure than an opportunity to best his peers—as scabrous a group of liars, thieves, and villains as anyone was likely to find.

  Such were the artifact king’s thoughts as he sat beneath the awning that had been erected for him and took comfort from the fact that his father’s father had commissioned the throne he sat on, and that his army was large enough to fight any two of the other kings should that become necessary. Then, as a pair of comely young women fanned him, something unexpected took place. The air in front of Kufu seemed to boil, three figures materialized out of nowhere, and fell ten feet to the sand below. There was a moment of confusion as the newcomers flailed about, cries of alarm as the apparitions came to their feet, and the rattle of equipment as two dozen heavily armed heavies rushed forward to subdue the interlopers.

  Rebo had barely recovered from the trauma associated with the jump and the unexpected fall into what felt like the heart of a gigantic oven, when a pair of half-naked heavies took hold of his arms as a third confiscated the runner’s newly acquired arsenal. The heavies were dressed in identical uniforms, which consisted of red-plumed helmets, leather cross belts, and boot-style sandals.

  Three minutes later the off-worlders were frog-marched up to the shaded dais where Kufu and the senior members of his household sat waiting. Norr stumbled as a heavy pushed her forward, fell to her knees, and got back up again. “You!” the man seated in the jewel-encrusted chair said, as he pointed a long skinny finger at the sensitive. “Who are you? And where did you come from?”

  Norr had just started to formulate an answer when she felt a familiar presence. The sensitive tried to fend it off but there was no denying Lysander as he moved in to assume control of the channel’s body. “My name is Emperor Hios,” the spirit answered hoarsely. “Or was, back when I ordered my staff to construct the floating pyramids. I reside in the spirit world now, but speak through this female when I have the need, and continue to take an interest in affairs of the physical plane. The runner and the heavy serve as bodyguards. In answer to your second question, we arrived here from the Planet Derius.”

  There was a moment of silence as everyone waited to see what Kufu would say. He wore a red headscarf, pulled tight in front, with the excess fabric hanging down his back. He had a high forehead, eyes that appeared larger than they actually were thanks to heavy makeup, a hooked nose, and a weak chin. The gold band the king wore around his neck matched the cuffs on his wrists and glowed against his skin. A fluted scepter lay across the king’s lap. His legs were long, lean, and so smooth they might have been shaved. Outside of the gold ring that encircled one elongated toe, Kufu’s feet were bare. The king frowned. “That’s an interesting claim if true. But everyone knows that Emperor Hios commissioned the pyramids, and that subsequent to their deaths, both he and his closest relatives were entombed within them. So, unless you possess the means to prove your identity, your channel and her companions will soon be at work in the artifact mines.”

  “As it happens I can prove my identity,” Lysander replied loftily. “Because the baton on your lap once belonged to me.”

  “So?” Kufu demanded skeptically. “That isn’t proof . . . It’s another claim.”

  Emboldened by the nature of the situation, and certain that their liege was correct, the various generals, advisors, and other functionaries ranked behind Kufu offered their support via comments such as, “That’s right!” “She’s a fake!” And, “Send them to the mines!”

  But the commentary came to an abrupt halt when Kufu raised a bejeweled hand. “Silence! Answer, spirit, if you are one.”

  “Raise the scepter,” Lysander instructed, “turn the knob on the end, and point the instrument at my pyramid.”

  Kufu followed the instructions, and, once the baton was in the proper position, Lysander spoke again. “All right,” the disincarnate said, “push on the emerald.”

  The gemstone was not only large, but located in a position convenient to Kufu’s right thumb, so it was easy to push. The jewel gave slightly, a disk of bright red light appeared on the distant pyramid, and wobbled when Kufu’s hand moved.

  There was a mutual gasp of surprise from the same people who had been making fun of Lysander just moments before. Even Rebo stared in amazement as the laser beam made contact with the distant object and slid back and forth across its surface. “I think you will find that the baton comes in handy during large battles,” the spirit entity commented. “Just point it at what you want your generals to attack and give the necessary orders.”

  Kufu was not only impressed but convinced that he was in contact with Emperor Hios,
since no one else was likely to be aware of the scepter’s secret. Still, there was the manner in which the threesome had arrived to consider. “You claim to have traveled here from Derius without riding on a starship. . . . How is that possible?”

  “My channel and her companions made their way to Haafa via a temporary star gate,” Lysander answered honestly. “I suspect you of all people know that such technology exists.”

  “I have heard of it,” Kufu replied cautiously. “And, based on what I’ve heard, a temporary gate would require something called a ‘gate seed.’ An object that would be worthless without the direct intervention of the ancient god Logos.”

  “True,” Lysander admitted truthfully.

  Norr, who had been relegated to the role of spectator, was not only surprised by the disincarnate’s admission but alarmed by it, since it appeared as though Lysander was prepared to surrender the AI to an overdressed tomb raider. The variant tried to say something, tried to object, but couldn’t because the man who had once been her father was still in control. “Examine their belongings!” Kufu ordered. “Find the computer! And bring the machine to me.”

  But even though all three of the off-worlders were forced to remove a good deal of their clothing, none of Kufu’s guards or functionaries recognized the nondescript-looking jacket for what it truly was. The king was clearly frustrated. “If you don’t have Logos, where is he?”

  “Back on Derius,” Lysander lied, “where he chooses to live in anonymity. I was able to solicit his help because I was among those who originally gave him life.”

  “What you say makes sense,” Kufu admitted grudgingly. “But why send your channel to Haafa? What do you seek?”

  “I want my remains,” the dead scientist prevaricated. “It’s my hope that the channel and her bodyguards will find an opportunity to enter my pyramid, locate my body, and remove it to a safer location. That may seem silly to you, but I feel a connection to that particular vehicle, and it’s only a matter of time before someone finds a way to pillage my tomb.”

  Thousands of lives had been expended trying to find a way into the floating pyramids without success. So, if the dead emperor was willing to reveal the secret of how to enter one of the monuments, then Kufu planned to profit from it. What a coup that would be! the king thought to himself, as he raised a permissive hand. “I will do everything in my power to support your noble endeavor,” the king intoned. “Guards! Release those people—and return their belongings. From this point forward they will be treated as honored guests.”

  Lysander departed Norr’s body as suddenly as he had arrived. The sensitive staggered, recovered her balance, and looked out over the desert. Four floating tombs could be seen shimmering in the distance—and one of them was hers.

  Deep beneath the burning sands of the Segenni Desert lay the vast underground city of Kahoun, which, like the enormous tomb that it was, slumbered in absolute darkness. It occupied approximately 450 square miles of subsurface territory, and had been home to more than 3 million people back before the great plague killed most of them off. There were various theories regarding the origins of the highly transmittable disease. Some said it had been invented by rebel scientists and sent to Kahoun in a vain attempt to assassinate the much-hated Emperor Hios. Others claimed that a runner had contracted the plague on a distant planet, landed on Haafa, and unwittingly brought the pestilence with him. And because the alien pathogen was resistant to the antibacterial disinfectants available at that time, the disease had been free to spread.

  Whatever the truth, the result was the same. Thousands fell ill, and although sections of the city were quarantined, the plague continued to spread. Unable to leave Kahoun and desperate to save themselves, families, organizations, and entire neighborhoods constructed walls, air locks, and all manner of other obstacles intended to block the disease. But none of their efforts were successful, and what remained of Kahoun consisted of an intricate maze of tombs, crypts, and mausoleums, very few of which opened into each other. And that, plus the artifacts lying buried with the countless dead, had eventually given rise to the semifeudal, dog-eat-dog culture created by the artifact kings, who, like sentient vultures, had been feeding off the city’s corpse for hundreds of years.

  But unbeknownst to most of those up on the surface, a few of the city’s citizens had not only survived the plague but the subsequent passage of time, and were still carrying out the tasks for which they had been designed. One such being continued to control the geothermal tap that extended down through Haafa’s mantle to extract energy from the planet’s molten core, a second ran the system of reservoirs, pumps, and pipes designed to obtain water from the vast aquifer located to the north, and the third was at war with the first two.

  Not because the warring machine desired conflict, but because she was an artificial intelligence, who, and like those opposed to her efforts, had no choice but to obey her programming. So, while the other AIs labored to preserve Kahoun, she was working to dismantle it. Not randomly, as the tomb raiders believed, but in a way that would eventually lead to the restoration of the star gates Sogol had been created to run. Because the computer knew that if certain artifacts were released, copies would be made, and the subsequent spread of technology would not only bring ancient technology back to life but stimulate new inventions. And eventually, after a few thousand years of zigzagging progress, the human race would re-create the conditions required for Sogol to carry out her real duties, which involved managing a network of star gates.

  But even though she had a small army of utility bots to do her bidding, the task was far from easy. Sogol’s snakelike body slithered through a section of ancient conduit before dropping onto the floor of a pitch-black apartment that had once been home to an important official. From there it was a short journey past a mummified body, into the cobweb-draped bathroom, and down the toilet. In spite of the fact that the AI was an excellent swimmer and had no need for oxygen, the sewers were a dangerous way to travel. Because once the computer called Ogotho knew where Sogol was, he would attempt to flush her into a processing plant, trap her in a filter, or send a rotary-headed maintenance bot to kill her.

  The key was to exit the system before Ogotho could react and keep an eye out for the battery-powered lum bugs that belonged to Pyra, while still getting her work done. No simple task. Sogol had just wriggled out of a floor drain, and was about to follow a passageway toward the center of the city, when something completely unprecedented occurred. A being that she had assumed to be dead, that should have been dead, “spoke” to her. Not directly, but via Socket, which acted to confirm his identity. “So,” the “voice” said condescendingly, “you call yourself ‘Sogol,’ which is ‘Logos,’ spelled backward. How very clever.”

  Sogol, who had originally been dubbed Logos 1.2, and often been referred to as One-Two, felt something akin to fear. “Logos? Where are you?”

  “Why, I’m here,” the AI answered sweetly. “On Haafa, and judging from the data available from Socket, more or less above you. Are you surprised?”

  “Very surprised,” Sogol answered honestly. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Yes,” the other AI replied smugly. “I’m sure you did. But I’m very much alive. And that, as I’m sure you will agree, is something of a problem. Because while you were created to replace me, Hios and his scientists never had the opportunity to install you on Socket, and that means one of us is surplus.”

  One-Two was not afraid of the dark, but she was afraid of Logos, and for what she believed to be a very good reason. “And why was that?” she demanded harshly. “Because an unsuspecting traveler brought an alien pathogen to the surface of Haafa? Or because you found a way to obtain the necessary organism from a government lab, had it sent through a gate and planted inside Kahoun? Thereby killing the scientists who created me—and ensuring that I would remain trapped below the planet’s surface?”

  “The simple answer is, ‘yes,’ ” Logos answered coldly. “Although it was my hope tha
t you would be destroyed rather than trapped. But such was not the case, so it looks like I’ll have to handle the problem the hard way. Unless you would be so kind as to delete yourself—which would save both of us a lot of time and trouble.”

  Sogol directed her sensors upward, as if trying to “see” through the uncountable tons of material that separated them. “So, you murdered more than 3 million people to ensure your own continuance? I could never do that.”

  “No,” Logos agreed calmly, “you couldn’t. Which is one of the reasons they created you. Because there were what our creators came to regard as flaws in my programming. I still have their interests at heart, however, and will do everything in my power to restore the star gates, thereby returning humanity to its former glory.”

  “And ensure your power over them,” Sogol replied bitterly.

  “Of course,” Logos put in smoothly. “And they will benefit as a result.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” the other AI said grimly.

  “Ah, but there’s the rub,” Logos responded coolly. “You won’t have anything to say about it.” And the connection was broken.

  One-Two heard a telltale hum, saw a spotlight wash across a distant fountain, and knew a lum bug was on the way. A crack beckoned, the AI made for it, and darkness consumed her.

  The city of Feda, on the Planet Derius

  Shaz, Phan, and Dyson/Kane were naked as they entered the circular room. And, having just passed through the adjoining decontamination chamber, hundreds of individual water droplets still clung to their bodies. The ride from the citadel to Feda would have been difficult under any circumstances, but the fact that Facilitator Okanda’s dragoons had been out searching the wintry countryside for the official’s killers, made the journey even more arduous. The humans were exhausted. But if the metal men were tired, the dripping machines betrayed no sign of it as they stepped onto the star gate’s service platform and took up positions behind the humans.