William F. Nolan - Logan's Run Trilogy (v4.1)

by Unknown

  The Re-Live parlors were built on this principle. In their metal wombs it had been possible to reexperience, at choice, any hour, or day, or moment of one's past.

  That was the key word: choice. The Re-Live drawers gave you selective control, provided you wished to exercise it. And there were built-in shutoffs if the emotional surge threatened body-health. A ReLive drawer was safe.

  Not so with R-11. At maximum dosage, there was, no control; it prowled the vaults of memory at will, and all choice was removed. However, short of maximum, Logan was not certain he could reach his full experiences with Jaq and Jessica. Under a light dosage he might never find them again.

  R-11 had one basic advantage over any other mind-drug. It gave back truth, not fantasy; experiences, not hallucinations. It did not distort as Lysergic Foam did. What Logan re-lived would be real events from his past.

  And, buried in that past, his wife and son waited for him.

  Logan sat down on the mat which gave softly under his weight.

  Now.

  Pearl into mouth. On the tongue. Dissolving…

  Logan was fighting for balance. The wind whipped at his tunic, fisting him with short, savage gusts. He wasn't sure he could maintain his footing—and a fall was death. He was sixteen, and new to DS. A raw Sandman, just out of Deep Sleep Training, hunting his first female, nervous, and over-anxious to prove himself.

  Logan's runner, Brandith 2, had glass-danced the Arcades before her flower blacked; she was extremely agile, with an incredible sense of body-control. She had lured her nervous pursuer onto a narrow outside repair-ramp, dipping and weaving her way along the thin ridge of metal ahead of him. Luring him forward.

  You should have fired the homer, the homer would have finished her!

  In his excitement, Logan had set the Gun at ripper, and to be effective a ripper must be fired at fairly close range. He could re-set for homer, but to do so would require taking both hands off the ledgerail, and that was impossible. He'd lose his balance for sure.

  "What's the matter, Sandman?" her voice mocked him. "Can't you catch me?"

  She had passed an angle-beam, and was no longer in direct sight. Logan moved faster along the ramp, reached the beam. She was waiting for him.

  "You're dead, Sandman!" And, braced on the beam, Brandith 2 delivered a smashing blow to his chest with her left foot. Logan swayed, pitched forward to his knees. The Gun slipped from his clawing fingers. He twisted, hooking his right arm into a strut-support, and slashed up with the heel of his left hand.

  The surprise blow took Brandith 2 at throat level, and crushed her windpipe. She clutched at her neck, gasped blood, and fell over the edge in a long, screaming death drop.

  Logan felt relief, and instant shame. He'd failed to homer her, and worse yet—much worse—he'd lost the Gun. A Sandman must never relinquish his weapon: the first rule of DS. And now he had allowed a female runner to disarm him, and almost kill him.

  On the ramp, alone in the crying wind, Logan could not move. He was locked into his misery.

  "Failure!" he said aloud. "Failure!"

  Would he ever deserve to wear the uniform of a Sandman?

  Egypt was a bore.

  Logan was eight, and had taken a robocamel to the Pyramids with his best friend, Evans 9. They'd been to Japan earlier that morning, and found Kyoto dull with its restored temples and fat, bronze deities. But, in Tokyo, a sumo wrestler had taught them how to immobilize an opponent by a theatrical display of aggression, without actual body contact. Fascinating.

  But Egypt was all heat and endless sand and ugly-snouted robot camels. The Pyramids were a disappointment—smaller than Logan expected, and badly in need of repair. The surface was pitted and crumbling, with many large stones near the top missing entirely.

  "They ought to fix them," said Logan. "Smooth them out."

  "No, tear them down," said Evans. "Put up new ones, better ones. Old things aren't worth saving."

  "Old things are ugly," said Logan.

  And that night they took a mazecar to Uganda.

  "I can leave here, go with you," she told him.

  "No, that's not possible."

  "Why isn't it?"

  "Because it isn't."

  "But you find me exciting? You enjoy my body?"

  "Yes."

  "Then we'll pair-bond. Until it goes bad. When it goes bad, I'll leave. What's wrong with that?"

  file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/William%20F.%20Nolan%20-"A lot," he said. "I live alone."

  "Why?"

  "Because of what I am."

  This silenced her.

  The lovelights of the glasshouse played over their bodies. Gold…

  Silver…

  Red…

  Yellow…

  Blue

  And still she did not speak.

  When Logan left the glasshouse he was angry. Why couldn't he form an alliance? Why must he live alone, finding sexual satisfaction on this fragmented, impulse basis?

  Because of what I am.

  A DS man cannot function effectively if he is pair-bonded. All emotional ties must be severed.

  Commitments must not be made. Nothing must interfere with duty.

  Duty.

  Duty.

  "Show me your hand, Logan," said the psyc doctor. Logan obeyed.

  "Do you know why you have this?" he said, tapping the palmflower with an index finger.

  "To tell my age," Logan said.

  "And how old are you?"

  "I'm six."

  "And what happens when you're seven?

  Logan looked down at his palm. "It goes to blue. And I…leave Nursery."

  The doctor nodded. He had kind eyes. "And you are afraid?"

  "Yes," said Logan.

  "Why? Why are you afraid, Logan?"

  The words spilled out in a rush: "Because I love my talk puppet and because I don't want to leave Nursery and because…"

  "Go on, tell me."

  "Because the world is so big and I'm so little."

  "But every boy and girl feels that way, and they're not afraid."

  "I'll bet some of them are," said Logan. "Or they wouldn't use a machine like you."

  "I deal with many problems at Nursery," said the doctor. He whirred to a medcab, took out a packet of Candees.

  "I don't want a Candee," said Logan.

  "But they taste good and they make you feel good," said the doctor.

  "They make me sleepy."

  "Take a Candee, Logan."

  "No."

  "Do as I say! Take one."

  "No."

  Logan backed away, but the square machine whirred after him. The doctor's kind eyes were no longer kind. They glittered with determination.

  "I'll report this to Autogoverness," he threatened. "You'll be punished."

  "I don't care," said Logan defiantly.

  "Very well," said the doctor. And he pushed a button on his desk. An Autogoverness rolled into the office.

  "Logan 3 is to be punished. After punishment, he will be given a Candee."

  "Yes, doctor," said the round, many-armed robot. She took Logan's hand in one of hers.

  "You see, Logan," said the doctor as the boy was being led out. "You can't win."

  "How long has he been under?" asked Lacy.

  "Two days, six hours," said Stile.

  "Convulsions?"

  "Minor so far."

  "Heartbeat?"

  "Erratic, but holding."

  "Skincount?"

  "One over fifteen. The chemical balance is distorted, but not critical. Of course, he's going in deeper. It

  could get worse. No way of telling."

  "If he dies, notify me immediately."

  "Of course," said Stile.

  The blow caught Logan at the upper part of the shoulder, a deltoid chop, delivered with force and precision. He felt his left arm go numb, angled his body sharply to keep Francis in direct line of attack. He lashed out with a reverse savate kick, catching Francis at rib-level, causing hi
m to lurch back, gasping for breath.

  "You're good, Logan," said the tall, mantis-thin man, slowly circling his opponent.

  "You're better, damn you!" Logan said. "But I'm learning."

  "More each day," agreed Francis. "Shall we end this?"

  Logan nodded, rubbing his shoulder. "I've had enough."

  They hit the needleshower, standing together silently in the cutting spray. Francis had paid for his reputation; his body, in contrast to Logan's unmarked one, bore the scars of a hundred near-death encounters with fanatic runners, cubs, gypsies…Of the crack DS men at Angeles Complex, Francis was the fastest, the most dangerous, the best. Logan was still his pupil, but soon he might be his equal — with natural talent, good fortune, supreme dedication.

  Francis had all these.

  They walked back into the combat room, got into fresh grays.

  "There's a lift-party tonight at Stanhope's," said Logan. "Why not unbend, take it in?"

  Francis smiled thinly. The smile was bloodless. "I don't party," he said.

  "But we're off-duty until—"

  "A Sandman's never off-duty," said Francis coldly. "We could be called in for backup."

  "That's never happened to me yet," declared Logan.

  "It might," said Francis.

  Logan looked at him. "What do you do with your free time?"

  "Use it properly. I don't waste it on witless females and lift parties."

  "I give up," sighed Logan. He grinned. "You know, Francis, I wouldn't be surprised to find little wires and cogs and springs under your skin…You're not quite human."

  "I get my job done," said Francis stiffly.

  "Sure. Sure you do," said Logan. "Forget what I said."

  But, as he watched Francis walk out, Logan wondered: what the hell does he do with his free time?

  "This one's dangerous," said Evans. "He's stolen a paravane and he's got a Fuser with him. I think we need backup."

  Logan agreed. "Get on it, while I see if I can run him down."

  "With a stick? Can you handle one?"

  "I've ridden them before," said Logan. "They're much faster than a paravane. "

  "Take care," said Evans, sprinting for a callbox.

  Logan checked his ammopac. Full load. He could use a nitro on the runner's ship if he had to. He kicked the hoverstick into life, soaring up at a dizzy angle. Too much thrust. He throttled down a bit, gained full control, gradually increasing his airspeed.

  The runner's paravane had been tracked at dead center on the Kansas/Missouri line—which meant if he cut through Greater KC Logan should intercept near the Jefferson Complex. The Missouri River rolled below him, brown and sluggish. A few speedtugs, a private sailjet or two, otherwise the river was undisturbed. It didn't worry about runners or callboxes or backups or devilsticks or Sleep. Old Man River…just keeps rolling along. Logan had been correct in his calculations. He spotted the stolen paravane just past Jefferson. Moving at full bladepower.

  The runner saw Logan bearing in, swung his ship to face the new threat.

  He's bringing up the Fuser! Time to show him what you can do with a stick.

  The runner fired.

  And missed.

  And fired again.

  Logan was a sun-dazzled dragonfly—darting, dipping, swooping erratically. An impossible target.

  He unholstered the Gun.

  The paravane rushed at him.

  Logan had the charge set at nitro. Now!

  The runner and his ship erupted into gouting, blue-white flame. The stricken craft tipped over and down, diving into Missouri earth with a roar.

  Logan brought the stick in, dismounted, checked the runner. Nothing left of him but his right arm and hand, jutting grotesquely out of the flame-charred control pod.

  Centered in his palm: a black flower.

  "Any change?" asked Lacy.

  "He's worse," said Stile. "Into severe muscle convulsions. Skincount's up. And his heart is taking a beating."

  "He can't go on, then?"

  "He's a hard man," Stile said. "He might surprise you."

  They were waiting at Darkside, where their rocket was being readied for the jump to Argos— and Logan held Jessica close, telling her how much he loved her, telling her he'd never known that it was possible to experience such intense emotion, such care-bonding.

  "We're free now," she told him. "We can live without fear, build a life together, raise children, be thirty, forty, fifty…"

  He smiled, touched at her hair. God, but she was lovely!

  "I want a son," he told her.

  "We'll have him," she said, squeezing Logan's hand.

  "And he'll have children of his own…and we'll be…what did they call them?"

  "Grandparents," she said. "Grandma and Grandpa,"

  Logan chuckled, shaking his head. "That's hard to believe, to accept. No dreams. No fantasies. A real life ahead of us on Argos."

  "Ballard said it wouldn't be easy there," she reminded him. Her eyes clouded "I wish—"

  "What?"

  "—that Ballard could have come with us. We need a man like that on Argos."

  "He's needed more on Earth," said Logan. "To handle the Sanctuary Line. To help more runners."

  "I know," she nodded. "We owe him our lives."

  "Everybody here owes him the same debt," said Logan.

  And, touching, they stared out beyond the port, at the chalked, lifeless horizon of the Moon. When Jaq was five Logan and Jess gave him a special party. Only the spaceborn were invited—those who had been conceived on Argos and who, like Jaq, had never known their mother planet.

  Logan told the children about Earthgames he'd played in Nursery, about vibroballs and teeter-swings and talk puppets. It seemed they could never hear enough about Earth.

  "Were there really Sandmen who chased you?" asked a girl of six.

  Logan nodded.

  "And were the Sandmen really bad?" asked the little girl.

  "Yes," said Logan. "But they were taught to be. Some of them changed…They didn't all stay bad."

  "You were one, weren't you?" asked a ten-year-old, eyes alight.

  "I was one," admitted Logan.

  "And were you bad?"

  "For awhile."

  "No!" screamed little Jaq, running across the chamber to his father, hugging him fiercely. "Logan was never bad!"

  The boy was sobbing. Jessica came to them, held them both. She kissed Logan's cheek. In the sudden, strained silence a six-year-old tugged at Logan's wrist.

  "Can we play now? Can we?"

  "He's calmer," said Stile. "Relaxed. Almost tranquil. His mind seems to have found what it was looking for. He's in very deep."

  Lacy looked pensive. "What do you think a Sandman's Gun would bring on the Market?"

  "A great deal. But it would have to be de-fused, the pore-pattern detonation device neutralized."

  "Can that be done?"

  "It can be. It's a very delicate procedure."

  She paced the room, thinking.

  "He'll never trade or sell the Gun," said Stile.

  "I know," she said. "It won't be possible to negotiate with him." She stopped, looked directly at Stile.

  "We'll have to kill him."

  OUT

  Sprawled face-down across the mat, deep in his mental dreamworld with Jessica and Jaq, Logan was not aware that the room had changed, that something was being added to the atmosphere. From a small opening under the door a colorless substance was being piped into the chamber.

  Tetrahyde. Toxic and totally effective on human body tissue. Once absorbed into the lungs, it destroyed them with deadly efficiency.

  Logan breathed in…breathed out…breathed in…

  He had exactly ten more minutes of life.

  Logan, Logan, do you hear me?

  I…hear you.

  You are in great danger. You must come out!

  No. Here with Jessica…with Jaq.

  Listen to me, Logan. It's Dia.

  How? How di
d you find me?

  Jonath. When you didn't return to the camp he sent word to me. He knew no one else could reach you. Where are you now?

  Close to you. Close to the Giant. I knew they'd never let me see you—so I'm sending my mind to you, my thoughts…You must come out to me!

  No. Won't come out.

  They're killing you, Logan.

  Not true. They help me, give me water…

  All that's over. The woman, Lacy, she has made up her mind to take the Gun. I know her thoughts… she wills you dead. Poison is in the air. You must come out, now! I'll help you…our two minds, together…Only minutes remain!

  Logan willed his body to fight the drug—and Dia linked her mind to his; the images inside Logan's head began to mix, break up…

  …and Jessica was…

  the Loveroom, and "Mother loves you," said Ballard…

  who was Francis, who was…Jaq, only five,

  but already he…

  kissed her deeply, knowing they were never going to…

  Harder! Try harder, Logan!

  Trying. Can't. No use.

  Fight! Break free!

  …because Box was…in the cave…falling…

  and love was…falling…

  everything was falling…No. Too deep…too far in…

  But you're doing it…we're doing it together…you're almost…

  …out!

  Logan blinked stupidly; his head pounded—as if a thousand hot needles had been driven into his skull. Only a few seconds left! Use the Gun, Logan! Use it!

  Logan fumbled dizzily at his belt holster, his nostrils filled with the acid odor of Tetrahyde…The gas was upon him. He held his breath, pulled the Gun free…

  Fired. The nitro charge exploded the door from its hinge-locks, flooding the liftroom with fresh air. Logan staggered to his feet, plowed across the mat toward the gaping exit.

  Where are you, Dia?

  Outside. On the street just below the Giant. You'll see me.