Runner

by William C. Dietz

  The aspirant had no idea what Marth was talking about, but didn’t need to know, and slipped out into the night. It was just past one in the morning, the lights remained on, and the boy was easy to spot. The rest was easy.

  When Kane came to he was flat on his back looking up at a blurry sky. It wobbled, along with the makeshift stretcher that supported him, and someone snapped an order. “Watch where you’re going, damn you!”

  The operative brought a hand up to the side of his head, winced as his fingertips made contact with a large lump, and remembered the way the shuttle had attacked both him and his metal men. Such an action was unprecedented in so far as he knew, and would have been worthy of analysis, except that his head hurt so badly he couldn’t think straight. A wave of dizziness rolled in from somewhere unknown, took control of Kane’s consciousness, and carried it away.

  A good deal of time was spent in the land of darkness, and when the light finally returned, Kane found that he was reluctant to acknowledge it. But there were voices that called his name, and beyond that a vague sense of urgency, as if something important had been left undone.

  Like a bubble floating to the top of a primeval pond, Kane rose, popped open, and found himself looking up at a ceiling. Water had leaked down onto it at some point in the past and created what looked a world map after it dried. Yellow lakes, brown-rimmed continents, and white oceans all waited to be explored. But, before the operative could do so, a face interspersed itself between the ceiling and him. It belonged to Ron Olvos, the moon-faced council member who owned the impressive sounding title of “Operations Coordinator,” but was actually little more than Chairman Tepho’s all-purpose gofer. “Kane? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the operative croaked. “And what’s worse is that I can see you.”

  Olvos shook his head reprovingly. “Well, I can see that the blow to the head did nothing to improve your native charm.”

  The face disappeared as Kane pushed himself up off the bed, groaned as a dull, throbbing headache kicked in, and swung his feet out over the side of the bed. “Where the hell am I? On Anafa?”

  “No,” Olvos replied primly. “You’re still on Ning. They were afraid to move you. The chairman sent me to check on you.”

  Kane cradled his head with his hands. “Don’t bullshit me, Olvos. Tepho sent you to retrieve the gate seed . . . He couldn’t care less about me.”

  “Well, that isn’t entirely true,” the council member said, as he pulled a chair up next to the bed. “Although I’d be lying if I said that the chairman was pleased to discover that, having recovered a gate seed, you chose to keep it on your person, rather than send it back to Anafa where the tech types could go to work on it.”

  “That was a mistake,” Kane admitted, “and one I plan to rectify.”

  “The chairman will be gratified to hear that,” Olvos observed mildly. “And in the meantime I have some good news for you. While you were on vacation in dreamland I put all of the local staff to work looking for Norr and the group of weirdos that she hangs out with. That included reviewing footage from every metal man in Zand. And, while we didn’t get any hits where the sensitive was concerned, I’m happy to announce that the little boy walked through a shot in a neighborhood called Levels. The little shit’s image wasn’t clear enough to trigger the robot’s spot and report programming, but we found it during the review. Once we applied some magnification, presto, there he was!”

  Kane felt a surge of hope and looked up. “You located them?”

  The functionary shook his head. “No, we were lucky, but not that lucky. The metal men are out canvassing the area where the boy was spotted, so it should be just a matter of time before we find their hidey-hole.”

  Kane threw his weight forward and managed to stand. The pain was intense. “Are you out of your mind? Norr and her companions will spot the robots and run! Then where will we be?”

  “No worse off than we were after you allowed them to take the gate seed,” Olvos replied pointedly. “Please, feel free to go out and set things right.”

  “That I will,” Kane replied grimly. “Hand me my pants.”

  The hotel’s kitchen was small, hot, and steamy. And, because the restaurant it served was an important source of revenue, various members of the proprietress’s family were bustling about preparing for lunch. The power wouldn’t come on for many hours yet, so charcoal had been used to fuel the ancient cast-iron stove that dominated one greasy wall. Rebo, still furious with Lee for sneaking out the night before, was halfway down the center aisle when the hostelry’s owner turned to block the way. She was a large woman, and given the bloodstained meat cleaver clutched in her right hand, would make a formidable opponent. Her hair hung down around her face in greasy ringlets, tiny beads of perspiration dotted her broad forehead, and her enormous bosom strained against the front of the filthy apron that hung down to her ankles. “Citizen Horko . . . Assuming that’s your actual name. You’re just the man I wanted to see.”

  Rebo, who had hoped to exit out the back unobserved, forced a smile. “Yes, Mrs. Pella . . . What can I do for you?”

  “People are looking for you,” she said accusingly. “A man came by early this morning, and another left just a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” the runner replied. “Please tell your staff how much I appreciate their discretion.”

  “He offered us money,” Pella replied artlessly. “A crono for information related to your whereabouts. And he knows what all four of you look like.”

  Rebo sighed. A counteroffer was clearly in order and would clearly have to be more than a crono, even though the actual reward was probably less. Another reason why he and his companions needed to escape the city. Negotiations ensued, and by the time they were over, Rebo’s purse was two cronos lighter. But, if that was what it would take to keep the Techno Society operatives at bay for another planetary rotation, then the runner had no choice but to pay it.

  Mrs. Pella made the coins disappear and stepped out of the way. Her smile revealed two rows of green teeth. “Have a nice day, Citizen Horko . . . I will see you later.”

  Rebo slipped out the back door and took the time required to survey his surroundings. Then, satisfied that it was safe to do so, the runner made his way down the alley, turned into a busy street, and set off for the eastern border of the city. Because it was there, along both banks of the Xee River, that the great caravans paused to rest before setting off again. One of them was bound to be headed south, or so Rebo assumed as he made his way through a succession of neighborhoods and paused half a block short of the city’s eastern gate. The wall, which had been raised to defend the city from some forgotten threat, stood a good twenty feet tall and was every bit of six feet thick. The off-worlder was tired by then and felt as though he had been walking for days rather than hours.

  Brightly uniformed guards stood to either side of the street, but the runner assumed that their role was largely ceremonial, since none of the soldiers attempted to interact with the hundreds of people who flowed back and forth through the ancient portal. That meant the only impediment to further progress was the trio of black-hatted clerics who stood with begging bowls extended and dispensed blessings to those who made donations.

  Rebo knew that the monks might be there for no other reason than to collect alms, but he couldn’t afford to take the risk, especially after Lee’s clandestine activities the night before. With that in mind the runner took a quick look around and spotted an angen-drawn wagon that had approached from behind. The boxy conveyance had an enclosed cargo compartment, a raised driver’s seat, and rode on four metal-rimmed wheels. The mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread traveled with the conveyance, and the runner figured that the contents were intended for the men, women, and children who were camped along the Xee River.

  It was a simple matter to slip through the crowd, jump up onto the wagon, and claim a seat right next to the surprised driver. The old man held the reins with work-thickened fi
ngers and looked as if a thousand storms had been etched into his skin. “Here, father,” Rebo said, before the driver could object, and offered him a handful of coppers. “My sore feet would like to pay for the privilege of riding next to you, my stomach would like to purchase a bite of bread, and my ears would like to buy a portion of your wisdom.”

  Passengers weren’t allowed, but the combination of humor, flattery, and the bribe were sufficient to overcome any doubts the oldster might have otherwise had. He produced a mostly toothless grin. “I can take care of your feet, and your stomach, but I fear for your ears.”

  Rebo laughed, and the two of them continued to chat as the wagon neared the gate. Then, just as the black hats started to turn their heads toward the movement, Rebo stuck his head into the cargo compartment as if checking on the load of crusty bread. The odor was overwhelming. The runner waited long enough for the conveyance to roll through the gate and had a loaf of bread clutched in his hand when he turned forward again. The runner tore off a chunk and bit into it. The monks were nowhere to be seen.

  The wagon lurched as two of the big wooden wheels were forced to roll over a dead dog, and the angen pulled the wagon down the right-hand side of the thoroughfare everyone referred to as “the street of thieves.” The name stuck because the bars, saloons, and whorehouses that lined both sides of the filthy boulevard were natural habitats for outlaws of every stripe, and because the shopkeepers who made their livings selling food, equipment, and weapons to the nomads were said to have the highest profit margins on the planet. A promising neighborhood for anyone who was interested in certain forms of entertainment, but Rebo’s attention was focused on other things, such as the caravans and the routes they followed.

  As Rebo questioned the old man, it soon became apparent that while Omar had very little formal education, he was a keen observer of everything that took place around him. And that included the nomads to whom he had been selling bread for more than forty years.

  One of the first things the runner learned was that most of the caravans operated on a seasonal basis. During the winter they typically headed south, but it was summer at present, which meant most were traveling north. That meant travelers who wanted to go south, but lacked the knowledge required to make their own way, would be forced to sign on with one of the few caravans headed in that direction. Such pack trains were made up of hardy types who were willing to brave the southern heat to reap the high prices that luxury goods would fetch in cities that hadn’t been visited by outsiders in months. So, secure in the knowledge that the bread wagon was slated to visit both southbound caravans, the runner was content to sit back and soak up the atmosphere while the old man made his rounds.

  For obvious reasons the most popular camping spots were those located along both banks of the Xee River. But there were only a limited number of slots, which meant that some of the nomads were forced to pitch tents in the areas off to either side of the river and bring their thirsty angens down to drink in the evening, an activity that not only involved a lot of work, but put a serious dent in the amount of time available for equipment maintenance and the nightly carousing of which the nomads were fond.

  However, regardless of location, all the encampments had certain features in common. Chief among them were the domed tents that sat clustered together, the moody beasts of burden that were penned up inside their makeshift corrals, and the stench of angen feces, human waste, and rotting garbage that hovered over each encampment.

  The bread wagon made half a dozen brief stops before arriving at the first of the two southbound caravans Omar had mentioned earlier. The conveyance was greeted by the usual pack of yapping mongrels, a flood of grubby children, and a squad of burly women. While Omar sold his bread, Rebo went off in search of the headman, and soon found himself talking to a woman instead. She had short-cropped black hair, a heavily lined face, and solid-looking body. A hardy sort who radiated self-confidence and appeared to be exactly what the runner had been hoping for.

  But, having listened to Rebo’s business proposal, it soon became apparent that the nomad had no interest in escorting four off-worlders south through the badlands to the city beyond. Even the runner’s offer of additional money fell on deaf ears. The chieftain had a perishable cargo to transport, which meant she intended to travel at night and cover at least twenty miles per day. A pace nonnomads would never be able to maintain.

  That left Rebo with no choice but to seek out the second southbound caravan in hopes that the person in charge of that pack train would prove to be more accommodating. It was early afternoon by the time the nearly empty bread wagon pulled up in front of one of the most distant and undesirable camping spots. A single scroungy-looking mutt came out to meet them, and it was lame. And, rather than the rush of children the runner had come to expect, only six of them actually materialized. They stood in a small somber-looking group that remained right where it was until Omar offered the youngsters some free hard rolls. That brought them forward, but hesitantly, as if fearful that doing so might land them in trouble.

  In the meantime, half a dozen heavily armed men had emerged from the scattering of dingy, ragged-looking tents. In spite of the fact that the bread wagon couldn’t possibly be interpreted as a threat, the nomads continued to watch in baleful silence as a handful of scrawny women ventured out to make their purchases. In all truth the encampment was so lackluster that Rebo would have skipped the group entirely had there been another choice. So, feet dragging, the runner approached a sun-darkened warrior and asked if he could speak with the chief. The nomad had dark eyes, a single eyebrow, and a scar that ran diagonally across his face. He extended a hand palm up. “Pay me.”

  The runner looked the villain in the eye. “Take me to the chief, or I’ll find him on my own, and tell him that you identified yourself as the headman.”

  Most of the blood drained out of the warrior’s face. A sure sign that whatever his other attributes, the chief was jealous of his authority and completely unforgiving where would-be usurpers were concerned. “But that would be a lie!” the nomad objected.

  Rebo produced what he hoped was a predatory grin. “Yes, but that won’t make much difference will it? Not if you’re dead . . . Now, take me to your chief, or get the hell out of the way.”

  Scarface started to bring his long-barreled rifle up, saw the newcomer’s hand go to the enormous pistol that he wore crosswise across his belly, and knew he would lose the ensuing race. Well aware of the fact that his peers were watching, and mindful of his reputation, the warrior turned away. Rebo followed Scarface over to the largest tent, where the villainous nomad shouted something in a dialect the runner hadn’t heard before, and pretended to examine one of his filthy fingernails.

  A full minute passed before the leather curtain that protected the entrance was pushed aside and a man emerged. He squinted into the sun, belched loudly, and scratched a small but prominent belly. With the exception of a dirty loincloth and the black pelt that covered his bony chest, the headman was naked. “Yes?” the apparition said. “Who calls on Valpoon? And what the hell do you want?”

  “My name is Taka,” Rebo lied, “and my companions and I wish to travel to Cresus. I heard that you and your caravan plan to go there. Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement.”

  There was a momentary paused as the chieftain processed the runner’s words, followed by a generous display of yellowed teeth. “Of course!” the nomad said enthusiastically. “Nothing would give my family and I more pleasure than the opportunity to speed you and your companions to Cresus. Where are these noble beings? Please summon them forth that I might greet each of them personally.”

  “They’re in the city,” the runner answered vaguely, “so the introductions will have to wait. In the meantime, perhaps you would be so good as to tell me when you plan to depart, what sort of supplies we would be expected to bring along, and how much such a journey would cost?”

  Valpoon, who was fully aware of the fact that only two caravans were
slated to head south during the next month, set his price accordingly. “We plan to leave in two days’ time, my men would be happy to purchase your supplies for you, and the price is five cronos each.”

  Rebo frowned. If allowed to purchase the supplies, Valpoon and his men would no doubt charge a healthy commission, thereby fattening their purses even further. “The departure date is fine, but we will buy our supplies, and four cronos per person is considerably higher than the going rate. However, I will pay you a bonus of one crono per person, if you get us to Cresus within sixty days.”

  Valpoon was impressed by both the stranger’s forceful manner and his knowledge of seasonal pricing. Not only that, but by ultimately agreeing to a total price of five cronos per person, his reputation as a tough negotiator remained intact. He gave a bow. It should have been ludicrous, especially given his lack of clothing, but such dignity had been invested in the gesture that it came off rather well. “How can an uneducated wretch such as myself even begin to bargain with a man such as yourself? It shall be as you say . . . Be careful when buying your angens, however. Thieves abound, and your lives will depend on which animals you chose.”

  That, at least, was good advice, and Rebo accepted it as such. The runner bowed in return. “Thank you. We will be very careful indeed.”

  Omar had sold his last loaf of bread by then and was waiting when Rebo climbed up onto the wagon. The old man’s expression was grim. “You didn’t give that scoundrel any money did you?”

  “No,” the runner answered. “Not yet.”

  “Good,” Omar replied, as he made use of the reins to slap the angen’s glistening back. “Because I don’t like the look of this bunch. Not one little bit.”

  Rebo felt the same way—but there was no point in saying so. The wagon lurched over a loose rock as the sun continued its march across the sky, and night waited to reclaim the land.