Runner

by William C. Dietz

  Rebo was about to reply when he heard a swish, followed by a solid thunk, as steel struck wood. Both men turned in time to see Lee remove a second knife from the countertop and throw it at the circular target that hung against the opposite wall. It penetrated the bull’s-eye one inch from the first blade and continued to vibrate. The old man raised an eyebrow. “Your son is pretty good with a knife.”

  “Yes,” Rebo said mildly, “he is. The little devil has been practicing. I’ll take both of those knives. Let’s have a belt sheath for one—and a forearm sheath for the other.”

  Fifteen minutes later Rebo and the newly armed boy stepped out into the sunlight. Lee knew that other boys his age carried weapons, but had never been allowed to do so himself, and was very conscious of the blades that the runner had purchased for him. He hooked his thumbs under the pack’s straps and looked up at Rebo. “Thank you for the knives, Father.”

  The runner nodded. “You’re welcome. Use the belt knife for eating, cutting rope, and other chores. Keep the other blade hidden. Where did you learn to throw a knife like that anyway?”

  “I took martial arts classes one hour a day, three days a week,” Lee replied. “It was fun.”

  Odds were that the boy had never suffered so much as a bloody nose and had no idea what it was like to participate in a real fight, but Rebo kept such thoughts to himself. “Good. It’s nice to know that you can handle yourself. Come on, let’s take that pack back to the guild and go find some lunch. I don’t know about you—but I’m hungry.”

  As the two of them set off, a customer emerged from the store behind them and squinted into the sun. Though dressed in everyday attire, there was something about the precision of his movements that suggested a military background. He waited for his quarry to establish a sufficient lead, stepped off the curb, and followed the pair west. The word on the street was that the black hat sect would pay five gunars for information leading to the apprehension of a boy similar to the one up ahead. But was this the correct child? Only time would tell.

  Jevan Kane paused in front of a store, pretended to peer in through the window, and took the opportunity to make sure that no one had followed him. Because, while the Techno Society maintained a run-down office near the public market, the location of the organization’s actual headquarters was a well-maintained secret, a secret intended not only to conceal the extent of the society’s resources, but to keep the government in the dark and prevent thievery. Thanks to Milos Lysander and his followers, the group had recovered thousands of high-tech artifacts over the years, and they were valuable.

  Satisfied that no one had followed him, Kane turned into a narrow passageway and paused in front of a nine-foot-tall barrier. It was made out of ornamental iron and could withstand the impact of a battering ram if necessary. There was a distinct click as the operative pressed his thumb against a print-sensitive pad, and the gate swung open. Kane stepped through, heard a clanging sound as it closed behind him, and continued on his way.

  A security camera mounted over Kane’s head whirred gently as it followed the operative down the passageway to the point where a heavy metal door barred further progress. There was a pause as a guard eyed the operative through a peephole, followed by a momentary spill of artificial light as the door opened and Kane was admitted. A small man with nervous hands waited to greet him. He was dressed in a nondescript gray tunic and matching trousers. “You’re late,” Ron Olvos said accusingly. “The rest of the council is waiting.”

  “It couldn’t be helped,” Kane replied, as the two men made their way through a brightly lit corridor. “We tossed the second inn, but the sensitive wasn’t there. Either she’s very good at what she does, or very lucky, not that it makes much difference.”

  “Why her of all people?” Olvos wondered out loud. “There are thousands of spooks, many of whom are quite amenable. Why couldn’t the founder channel himself through one of them?”

  “I don’t know,” Kane answered honestly, “except to say that Lysander was often difficult to communicate with on this plane of existence, so why would he be any different on the next? Anyway, given the fact that the better part of a year has gone by since his death, and this is the first time the founder has seen fit to come through, it seems safe to assume that there’s something about this particular sensitive that he likes. And we need to talk to him! The old bastard knows where the artificial intelligence named Logos is hiding, Logos knows how to reactivate the star gates, and the portals are the centerpiece of our plan. Like it or not, Norr is the key.”

  Olvos winced at the use of the word “bastard,” wondered if Lysander could listen in from beyond the grave, and hoped that he couldn’t. Servos whined and double doors swung open to allow the men to enter what had been a huge vat but now served as a circular conference room. In spite of the slightly astringent tang of vinegar that still hung in the air, the rest of the enclosure was focused on the future and equipped accordingly. Soft white light flooded the tank, a holo projector hung above the round table, at which six of the seven council members were seated, data scrolled across the curvilinear computer screens that lined the walls, and video supplied by a reactivated satellite showed that a storm was brewing off to the east.

  Olvos took his seat while Kane stepped into the keyhole-shaped slot that had been cut into the table. Despite the fact that countless generations of interbreeding had erased most of the physical characteristics that once served to divide the human race into ethnic groupings, there were occasional throwbacks, and Kane was one of them. Whereas everyone else in the room had black hair, brown eyes, and olive-colored skin, the operative had longish blond hair, blue eyes, and white skin. They were looks that had turned him into something of an outcast as a child, but were later transformed into a blessing when they brought him to Lysander’s attention. Because unlike the society around him, which placed a high value on conformity, the scientist had a preference for that which was unusual.

  “Please excuse my tardiness,” Kane said evenly, “but the last twenty-six hours have been rather hectic to say the least. As all of you know by now the founder has returned, and judging from the comments he made to the crowd gathered in the actor’s hall, he continues to have a keen interest in our affairs.”

  “There is no excuse for tardiness, or any other form of failure,” Omar Tepho said disparagingly as he turned to face the operative. Like Kane’s, the chairman’s body fell well outside the bounds of what could be considered normal. His skull was lumpy rather than smooth, one eye was higher than the other, and his ears stuck out from the sides of his head. And, as if that weren’t enough, Tepho had been born with a spinal deformity. All of which explained why he had literally moved into the city’s only library at the age of ten, taught himself to read, and eventually become so knowledgeable that Milos Lysander had taken the young man in. It also explained Tepho’s burning desire to reestablish science, especially medical science, which had once been capable of preventing conditions such as his. And because of his passion, plus the lingering effects of an extremely cruel childhood, Tepho was absolutely pitiless where subordinates were concerned.

  That alone was sufficient to send something cold trickling into Kane’s veins, but when the wall behind the chairman appeared to shimmer, the operative knew there was something more to fear as well. No one knew how the bond between the rare combat variant and the malformed intellectual had been established—only that it had. Which meant that anyone who wanted to kill Tepho, would have to kill the being named Shaz first, something no one had been able to do. Partly because the variant could blend with whatever background he stood in front of, partly because of his superfast reflexes, and partly because he was very well armed. All of which made Tepho even more intimidating—something that Kane struggled to ignore. “I understand that.”

  “Good,” Tepho said coldly. “You may proceed.”

  Kane swallowed. “After a long period of relative inactivity it now appears that we have a unique opportunity to reestablish co
mmunications with the founder, and have benefit of his counsel. No one that I know of fully understands how sensitives do what they do, or why some discarnate beings choose one channel over another, but such is the case. And, as I was saying to Council Member Olvos moments ago, I believe that every effort must be made to locate and secure the sensitive called Lanni Norr.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” council member three demanded. “It’s a big planet, and while significant, our resources are limited.”

  “The first thing to do is watch the spaceport,” Kane answered confidently. “Norr knows someone is chasing her, and a ship is due, so she could attempt to leave the planet.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” council member five inquired mildly. “What then?”

  “Then she’ll be trapped,” Kane replied, “and we’ll have time to track her down.”

  “Good,” Tepho put in smoothly. “I’m sure I speak for the entire council when I say that we have complete confidence in you.”

  Kane knew the statement amounted to both an endorsement and the first step in placing the blame squarely on his shoulders should something go wrong. The operative nodded humbly. “Thank you. Your faith gives me strength. I will do everything in my power to find the sensitive and bring her in.”

  The operative felt a hand caress his shoulder, turned to see the air shimmer, and heard Tepho laugh.

  The once-vast spaceport had shrunk over the years as newly constructed warehouses crept in to claim increasingly large sections of its blast-scarred surface, and the elements continued to eat away at what remained. At least one square mile of surface remained, however, most of which was currently hidden beneath rows of brightly colored tents, open-air booths, and a swirling crowd. They were present to celebrate Ship Down, a biannual holiday with religious, cultural, and commercial significance.

  The cessationists were there, praying that the shuttle wouldn’t appear, thereby cutting Anafa off from external sources of cultural contamination, as were the metal men, who worked to convince the crowd that technology was good.

  Of course most people were there to buy the goods that had been brought in from distant provinces, to eat the food available from countless booths, and to bear witness to whatever did or didn’t happen. Would the shuttle appear? As it had for countless generations? Or would this be the year when Anafa was finally cut off for good? That day was coming, everyone knew it, but no one seemed to care enough to do anything about it. Not the elderly woman who ruled the planet, not the provincial governor, and not the people themselves. So the shuttle, or the possibility of it, drew a crowd plus the pickpockets, con men, and fortune-tellers who had come to depend on it.

  One such woman, an elderly crone with gray-streaked hair, a backpack, and a walking stick, limped through the crowd hawking her services. “See into the future! Cast spells on your enemies! Speak with dead! Five minutes for one thin gunar.”

  But there were plenty of such services available, most of which were fake, so the heavily disguised Lanni Norr didn’t find many takers. Not that she required them since the gold coins strapped around her middle were more than sufficient to her immediate needs. No, the disguise was intended to fool whoever had invaded the Market Street Inn, and if rumors could be believed, not only murdered four people but broken into her room. Or what would have been her room had the sensitive not checked into another hostelry an hour before.

  Now she was killing time, waiting for the shuttle to arrive, with every intention of being aboard the ship when it lifted off. She still planned to find a refuge in the country, but on some other planet, a long ways from Anafa. Norr gave an involuntary jerk as someone touched her arm—and whirled to confront a liveried footman rather than the assassin she had imagined. His distaste for her was apparent in both the frown he wore and an air of stiff formality. “My mistress would like to engage your services. Please follow me.”

  Norr swore silently, but knew she should accept the commission, if only to protect her disguise. She reached out to take possession of the footman’s arm. “Why, thank you, deary,” the sensitive cackled suggestively. “I’d be happy to follow a strapping young man such as yourself!”

  The footman shuddered as the crone’s grubby fingers made contact with his immaculate sleeve, allowed the fortune teller to transfer some of her weight to his arm, and escorted Norr through the crowd. It was a relatively short journey to the point where a fabric-draped litter rested on fold-down legs. Incense wafted out of small braziers mounted at either end of the conveyance, thereby making the air fit to smell for the individual closeted within. Four litter bearers, each armed with identical wooden cudgels, kept onlookers at a distance. Norr couldn’t see through the gauzy material that guarded the occupant’s privacy, but there was no denying the femininity of the voice that came from inside. It was light, musical, and a little girlish. “Good afternoon . . . Thank you for coming.”

  Norr felt a moment of envy, a fleeting desire to live the girl’s life rather than her own, but that was quickly superseded by a sense of deep sorrow. “You are welcome, deary,” the sensitive replied soothingly. “Why do I feel such a deep sense of sadness around you? Like an emptiness that cannot be filled. A lover’s spat perhaps?”

  There was a pause followed by the sudden rustle of fabric as curtains parted. The face that appeared in the gap between them was perfectly symmetrical, but too pale to be entirely healthy and framed by a fall of luxuriant black hair. Norr found herself looking into two almond-shaped eyes, both of which were protected by long lashes, and shiny with pent-up tears. “No,” the young woman replied emphatically. “There is no lover. Nor is there likely to be, not since the accident.” So saying the girl pulled a coverlet aside to reveal that most of her right leg was missing. The stump was neatly bandaged and wrapped with a lavender ribbon. “Can one such as myself ever find happiness?” the woman inquired desperately. “Or should I forsake all hope?”

  Norr felt that the answer was, “Yes,” that there was very little possibility of the sort of idealized romance the girl had long dreamed of, but “saw” another possibility for her client. One that could generate even greater happiness in the long run. “There is a young man, who though not as comely as some, loves you deeply. He’s not the stuff of dreams, deary, but your disability has in no way reduced his ardor, and he needs that which you would bring into his life. For while you are comfortable with people, he is not, and while the arts are second nature to you, he struggles to master them.”

  The girl frowned, registered a look of utter surprise, and said, “Lars? Do you mean Lars?”

  “I know not his name,” Norr answered, “but only that which lies in his heart.”

  “Thank you!” the girl whispered gratefully. “Thank you very much,” and pressed five gunars into the sensitive’s hand. The curtain closed, orders were given, and the litter was hoisted off the ground. Norr was left to watch as the brightly clad footman forced a hole in the crowd, and her client was borne away.

  The sensitive had just pocketed her fee, and was about to move on, when an all-too-familiar feeling descended upon her. Not at her behest, but because an extremely powerful entity wanted to manifest through her and was determined to do so. Normally such an invasion was impossible unless Norr opened herself to it, but the process of giving the young woman a reading had opened the door, and someone was determined to force his way through.

  The sensitive said, “No!” out loud, but discovered that it was too late, as Milos Lysander brushed her identity aside and took control of her body. In fact there was nothing Norr could do other than go along for the ride as her disembodied guest guided her physical body over to a platform established by a mime, shoved the unfortunate performer off his perch, and mounted the riser. Words started to flow from his, no her mouth, and the deep booming voice soon drew a crowd.

  The mime attempted to reclaim his platform, received a backhanded blow for his trouble, and fell onto his back. That elicited laughter from the still-growing crowd. Inspired by the a
ttention denied him in the past, the mime decided to incorporate the old crone into his act by imitating her, striking all sorts of silly postures, and generally making a fool of himself. Lysander was apparently oblivious to the performer’s antics and continued to speak as if to a convention of his peers.

  “And so,” the scientist continued, “while the spaceships that continue to link the remnants of the old empires together do us a service, their very presence serves to sap our leaders of ambition. Soon that will end, however, as the last of the great vessels die, and mankind is trapped on a thousand islands. It doesn’t have to be that way however. Rather than mourn the starships we should strive to replace them! Not with new hulls, but with the very technology that rendered them obsolete once before. Will such an effort require sacrifice? Of course it will . . . But nothing worth having comes without effort. The first step is rise up against your do-nothing government and overthrow it! Then, once the regressionists have been deposed, it will be possible to . . .”

  The crowd never got to hear what it would be possible to do, because while passive in many respects, the empress took an active interest where her power was concerned. That’s why her so-called monitors attended every event of any size and took steps to intervene when would-be dissidents stepped out of line. Ten of her operatives had pushed their way into the crowd and were intent on reaching the platform, when they were intercepted by three heavily robed metal men. Wood clanged on metal as the government agents brought their nightsticks into play, and both contingents were attacked by the rowdier members of the crowd.

  Seeing an opportunity not only to wreak revenge, but to reclaim his personal property, the mime jumped Lysander from behind. The unexpected attack was sufficient to loosen the invading spirit’s grip on Norr’s body, thereby giving the sensitive the opportunity she’d been hoping for. Norr pushed Lysander out of her body, slammed the door behind him, and fell onto the mime. The impact knocked the breath out of the unfortunate performer. Norr took advantage of the opportunity to regain her feet, gather her belongings, and fade into the crowd. Had anyone sought to follow they would have come across a wig, a gob of wax that had been shaped into a bulbous nose, and a dusty black robe. Search as they might, the crone had ceased to exist.