Runner

by William C. Dietz

  The center of the space was dominated by a circle, representing the eternal cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. Seated within its embrace was an elderly man and a young boy. Both wore nearly identical outfits that consisted of red pillbox-style hats, matching robes, and leather sandals. Rebo noticed that Qwa bowed to the youngster first. “Greetings, Excellencies,” Qwa said respectfully. “Please allow me to introduce Jak Rebo.”

  Being unsure of the correct etiquette, the runner delivered a short jerky bow, said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” and eyed the rather thin pillow that awaited him. Once on the floor Rebo sat with his legs crossed in a poor imitation of the Teon-like posture the monks adopted.

  “My name is Dak Babukas,” the elder monk announced, “and the young man to my left is presently referred to as Tra Lee, although we believe that he has lived many previous lives, including his recent incarnation as a teacher called Nom Maa. Now, after years of preparation, the time has come for Tra to make the journey to the city of CaCanth on the planet Thara. Once there he will undergo certain tests, and assuming that he passes them, will take his rightful place as Inwa, or leader of leaders. Your task is to get him there alive.”

  Rebo frowned. Though interested in a trip to Thara, there was a considerable difference between delivering a package and a person. Of course such runs were not unknown. In fact, he had handled two such assignments during his career. And, because both individuals had been difficult to get along with, the runner had sworn that he would never accept such a commission again. More than that, Rebo sensed something fishy about the proposal and looked the older monk in the eye. “You have more security than the governor does. So, why hire me? Why not send a squad of your warriors along as escorts?”

  The boy remained silent as the adult monks exchanged glances and Qwa spoke. “Our religion consists of two sects, generally referred to as the red hats and the black hats, although the real differences are based on theology rather than fashion. Twelve years ago the sixteenth Nom Maa passed into spirit without naming a successor. That led to a power vacuum, which resulted in competition between the two sects and what amounts to an administrative stalemate. However, now that Tra Lee has completed his training, he is ready to take the throne.”

  “Yes,” Babukas agreed, “except that the black hats claim that one of their boys is the real Nom Maa, and based on that assertion, believe that he should ascend the throne.”

  “That’s correct,” Qwa put in, “and there’s more. The black hats may seek to prevent the Divine Wind from reaching Thara.”

  “May?” Rebo inquired pointedly. “Or will?”

  “There is no way to know for sure,” Qwa replied carefully, “but the odds favor some sort of assassination attempt.”

  “Which brings us back to where we started,” the runner said. “Why me?”

  “Because an escort of Dib Wa would attract a lot of attention,” Babukas answered honestly. “There are thieves to consider . . . and the black hats can muster as many warriors as we can. But a father and son? No one is likely to notice such a pair.”

  “If I had a son, which I don’t,” the runner remarked, “he wouldn’t be bald.”

  “A wig has been prepared,” Qwa replied smoothly, “and appropriate clothes would be provided as well.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, which was broken when Tra Lee spoke for the first time. “I don’t believe that Citizen Rebo is being entirely frank with us. He was willing to accept the assignment until he learned the true nature of the package involved. Now he has doubts. So, Citizen Rebo, what can I do or say to convince you that I will be a minimum amount of trouble?”

  The runner looked into Tra Lee’s eyes and saw unexpected depths there. The little boy sounded more like an adult than a nine- or ten-year-old. Were the monks correct? Did Tra Lee’s body house the reincarnated body of a great teacher? Or did the little boy seem wise beyond his years solely because he had been raised to come across that way? It was impossible to tell, but something about the youngster’s seemingly sincere demeanor caused the runner to soften slightly. Besides, Rebo did want to visit Thara, and the pay was extremely good. He cleared his throat and addressed his questions to Lee. “Would you follow my orders? And do so quickly? Without question?”

  The boy gazed unblinkingly into Rebo’s eyes. “So long as your instructions are consistent with moral law, I will obey.”

  The qualification bothered the runner, but he couldn’t imagine asking the lad to do something immoral, so he nodded. “All right then, I’ll take the commission. One thing though . . . See if you can find a boy who looks a lot like our young friend here. Dress him for the part, parade him about, and treat him like he’s the real deal. Maybe, if we’re lucky, the black hats will believe that he’s still in Seros long after our ship breaks orbit.”

  “It shall be as you say,” Babukas replied. “When should his majesty join you?”

  “Tomorrow,” Rebo replied. “Figure out a low-key way to deliver him to my guild. I’ll take it from there.”

  “Excellent,” Qwa replied. “Would you care for some tea? No? I will escort you out then. The first half of your pay is waiting in your carriage.”

  Rebo rose, hoped the monks couldn’t tell how stiff he was, and said good-bye to both Babukas and Lee. Later that night the runner would return to Thara in his dreams, none of which were good.

  It was dark along the street, very dark, which was one of the reasons why the locals retreated inside their homes and locked their doors within minutes of sunset. The Market Street Inn was no different. Lights glowed behind thick panes of glass, but the front door was securely closed, and presumably barred from within. A problem, but not an insurmountable one, assuming that this was the correct location.

  Jevan Kane used a series of quick hand gestures to position his operatives, taking special care to post lookouts and ensure that the back entrance was covered. Finally, satisfied that no would be able to escape the structure without being intercepted, Kane turned to the metal man who stood at his elbow. “This is the place . . . You’re sure?”

  Robots didn’t possess emotions, so the machine took no offense. “Yes, sir. The sensitive handed something to the heavy. He left, and she went inside.”

  Kane pulled a hood down over his face and pulled a semiautomatic pistol out of his waistband. The eyes that stared out through the precut holes were like chips of blue ice. “Good. Depart the area immediately. I don’t want you and your kind associated with this kind of activity.”

  The machine backed into the darkness and was gone moments later. Kane gave a low whistle. A pair of hooded heavies appeared. They held a metal battering ram between them. On a signal from Kane they approached the front door, swung the ram back, and heaved it forward. There was a loud crash, followed by the splintering of wood, and shouts from within. The battering ram struck again, the beam that barred the door broke in two, and what remained of the barrier flew open. A man appeared in the opening. He was armed with a double-barreled scattergun, which he fired into the night. One of the heavies cried out in pain and brass arced away from Kane’s weapon as it bucked in his hand. The reports were still dying away as the innkeeper fell over backward.

  Three operatives pushed through the doorway after that and Kane heard more gunfire. The operative entered the tiny lobby to find the innkeeper’s wife huddled in a bloody corner, while a guest who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time lay a few feet away. That left a sobbing maid. Tears ran down her acne-pitted face, and her body shook with fear, as a heavy held her in his grasp. “I’m looking for a sensitive,” Kane told her. “A young female. Which room is she in?”

  “R-r-room three,” the maid stuttered.

  “Thanks,” Kane said, and shot her in the chest. Blood sprayed the heavy, who swore, and let go of her arm. The body made a soft thump as it hit the floor.

  “Room three must be upstairs,” one of the operatives said, having just returned from a quick exploration of the
ground floor.

  Boots thundered on worn treads as the invaders raced up the stairs to the second floor, where they examined the numbers on each door. “Here it is!” someone shouted, and Kane turned in that direction. “Open it,” he said tersely, “but don’t shoot. We need her alive.”

  The operative knew that, but nodded obediently, as a heavy shoulder hit the door. It flew open and Kane followed his team inside. But outside of a single bed, a dilapidated dresser, and a single chair the room was empty. Kane kicked the chair and sent it crashing into a wall. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

  Although the metal man had seen Norr enter, the android had been forced to leave long enough to make his report. It appeared that during that relatively short interval the sensitive had slipped away. The question was why? Did the young woman know that the Techno Society was looking for her? She was a psychic after all. Or was she simply prudent? The sensitive had every reason to be concerned about thieves—and might have left for that reason alone.

  “We need to leave,” one of the operatives said urgently. “The guard will arrive shortly.”

  Kane followed his men down into the street, heard the distant sound of a police bugle, and the entire group melted into the night. There was a clatter of hooves and loose equipment as the guard arrived, but the street was empty, and the shadows were mute.

  The sun had been up for three hours, and the streets of Seros were already bustling with activity as the old angen plodded along its daily route. The flatbed wagon creaked and groaned as its steel-shod wooden wheels bumped through a seemingly endless series of potholes, the casks that contained the morning’s milk rattled accordingly, and Tra Lee took his first unescorted ride through the city. Now, having looked down on Seros for so long, he was finally amongst its buildings.

  The prospect filled the youngster with both excitement and fear. Because even though everyone assured Tra Lee that he was actually an adult named Nom Maa, he felt like a little boy, and a lonely one at that. Saying good-bye to Master Babukas, Master Qwa, and all the others had been extremely painful because they were the equivalent of family. Even so the chance to escape the endless drudgery of his lessons and explore what he thought of as the real world held a great deal of allure.

  Lee’s thoughts were interrupted as the wagon jolted to a stop, and the driver looked back over his shoulder. Though unaware of the youngster’s identity, he believed in the Saa (Way), and had agreed to deliver the boy as a favor to a monk named Suu Qwa. “This is where you get off, son . . . That’s the runner’s guild on the far side of the street. Watch out for traffic as you cross the street.”

  Lee said, “Thank you,” and jumped off the tailgate. A member of the Dib Wa, disguised to look like a street sweeper, watched the boy cross the street and start up the broad marble stairs. Once the Divine Wind entered the building the warrior’s mission would be complete, and he would leave.

  As Lee made his way upward he took note of the fluted columns, and above them, an entablature into which the words DEPARTMENT OF COMMUNICATIONS had been chiseled more than a thousand years before. Had the runner’s guild been born there? Created by displaced civil servants? Or was the fact that the guild was headquartered in that particular building a matter of coincidence? Such were the questions that Master Qwa might well have asked him. Not with an eye to actually solving the mystery, but to encourage his student to question everything around him and try to make sense of the universe.

  Lee switched his attention to the teenage guards who stood to either side of the large double doors. Beggars were a continual problem, and one of the apprentices was already moving to intercept the lad, when Lee spoke. “My name is Dor, and I’m here to see my father, Jak Rebo.”

  The apprentice had been warned to expect such a visitor and ran a critical eye over the boy. He had black hair that didn’t look quite right somehow, the kind of clothes that the offspring of a rich merchant might wear, and didn’t bear much of a resemblance to his father. But who knew? Perhaps the lad took after his mother. “All right,” the guard said gruffly. “Follow me.”

  Lee followed the older boy into a huge lobby. The center area was filled with an eclectic collection of worn chairs, couches, and tables. About half were occupied by journeymen and masters. Most were awake, sipping their morning caf and chatting with each other, but some were asleep. Or unconscious. The entire area was strewn with empty bottles, dirty plates, and stray pieces of clothing. Youngsters no older than himself had been put to work collecting trash and mopping the floor.

  The guard led Lee over to a desk and mumbled something to a man seated behind the tall marble-faced counter. The clerk peered down over the edge. He had narrow-set eyes, a nose that looked as if it had been permanently flattened by someone’s fist, and cheeks that bore a two-day supply of black stubble. “Stay right there, boy . . . I’ll send for your father.”

  Lee nodded mutely, eyed the faded mural on the wall opposite him, and wondered if the scenes depicted there were historically accurate or the product of some artist’s imagination. There was what appeared to be a star map, hundreds of fine silver lines that ran back and forth between solar systems, and the motto: “We bind the empire together.”

  Rebo rounded a corner, saw Lee standing in front of the reception counter, and was struck by how small he was. He forced a smile. “Dor! It’s good to see you, boy! How’s your mother?”

  It took Lee a fraction of a second to react to the new name. He turned, scampered toward Rebo the way he’d seen other boys do, and was swept off his feet. “Good job,” the runner said in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. “Just stay by my side. We have some errands to run.”

  Lee felt his feet hit the floor and hurried to keep up as the runner escorted him back outside. It was a five-block walk to the public market, and all of the youngster’s senses were engaged as he absorbed the many sights, sounds, and smells that the city had to offer. Rebo led Lee past countless tables loaded with all manner of fascinating objects, and stopped in front of a booth that specialized in children’s clothing. The runner spoke to the proprietress, and it wasn’t long before Lee found himself outfitted with three sets of used but extremely serviceable clothing. Rebo used his garments, those that Qwa had chosen for him, as trade-ins. That annoyed Lee and the moment he left the curtained off changing area he hurried to make his displeasure known. “Citizen Rebo . . .”

  “Father, Dad, or sir, is acceptable,” Rebo put in. “Citizen Rebo is not. Start over.”

  “Father,” Lee said imperiously, “these clothes are used.”

  “Yes, they are,” Rebo agreed mildly. “Which will help you blend in. Follow me. You’ll need some personal items plus a pack to carry them in.”

  An hour later Lee found himself in possession of a nearly full pack. In addition to some new underwear, he was now the proud owner of a comb he didn’t really need as yet, a new toothbrush, a washcloth, a towel, two bars of soap, a metal mirror, four candles, six boxes of waterproofed matches, a knife, fork, and spoon plus a metal mug, and two brand-new blankets. They were double-thick and gray in color.

  “Why did you buy new blankets?” Lee inquired, as Rebo helped him strap them to the bottom of the pack frame. “There were plenty of used ones.”

  “True,” the runner agreed, “but they were thin, not to mention filthy, and blankets are extremely important. Later, when we have time, we’ll sew them together to make a sleeping bag.” So saying, Rebo turned away, leaving a surprised Lee to heft his own pack and carry it down the aisle. It weighed a good twenty-five pounds, and while the youngster wanted to complain, he was determined not to.

  The next stop was the booth located directly below a large papier-mâché globe that had been painted to look like a free-floating eyeball complete with a black pupil and lots of squiggly red veins. The oculist was a friendly sort who helped Rebo sort through three baskets of handmade spectacles until the runner found some glasses that met his needs. The last pair had been broken in a fistfight, and while Rebo could r
ead without them, objects more than a hundred feet away were blurry.

  With that out of the way the runner sought out a booth hung with all manner of charms, amulets, and magical paraphernalia. All of which were useless pieces of junk insofar as Brother Qwa and the rest of the brethren were concerned, but which Tra Lee found to be fascinating, even though the boy knew that true strength came from within.

  Rebo might have agreed with that, but liked to cover his bets, and always felt better when he had an edge. Having completed a lengthy discussion with the proprietor, the runner purchased an all-purpose amulet—which if properly cared for—was guaranteed to protect its owner from the skin pox, wild eye, stab wounds, night sweats, bad dreams, poor digestion, and a host of other maladies. Money changed hands, the runner secured the object around his neck, and the errands continued.

  The next stop on their morning rounds was an armorer’s shop. It occupied a long narrow storefront. Racks of weapons lined both walls and led to a counter in the back. There were three other customers, all examining firearms under the watchful gaze of a salesman, who was heavily armed himself. A wise precaution in Seros.

  Rebo nodded to the grizzled old man who emerged from a back room to greet him and laid both of his weapons on the counter. “I need ammo for these . . . Say five hundred rounds for the Crosser, and fifty for the Hogger.”

  The armorer took the ten millimeter, released the fifteen-round magazine, and thumbed a cartridge onto the palm of his hand. Then, bringing a small lens to bear, he eyed the hand-loaded round. “Nice work, but mine is better. When do you need them?”

  “By tonight,” Rebo replied.

  “Are you sure?” the shopkeeper inquired skeptically. “I’d have to charge you an extra 10 percent for such a short turnaround.”

  Rebo nodded. “I’m sure. How ’bout the Hogger?”

  The armorer traded weapons, broke the single-shot weapon open, and withdrew a long cartridge that had a blunt nose. “A .30-30,” the old man mused. “I don’t see a whole lot of these. Sure, I can handle them. Come back about six o’clock.”