Runner

by William C. Dietz

  None of it was pleasant, and having just returned from the shattered spaceport on the north side of the Juno River, the operative was looking forward to a shower as he mounted a flight of creaky stairs, made his way down a dingy hallway, and inserted the handmade brass key into its lock. That was when Kane noticed that the thread he had spit-glued across the doorjamb had disappeared and started to back away.

  But it was too late by then, far too late, and as the door swung inward, the variant named Shaz stepped out into the hall. The enforcer was so fast that Kane barely had time to wrap his fingers around the gun butt before a bony fist hit the side of his head. It hurt, but by the time the pain registered on his brain, even more blows had landed. The operative was down on his knees by the time the variant kicked him in the head.

  Later, when the technologist came to, he had a throbbing headache. He attempted to move but quickly discovered that he couldn’t. Not while seated with his wrists secured behind him and his ankles tied to the legs of a chair.

  “Ah,” Shaz said. “The prince awakens. You were a prince once . . . Did you know that? No, I suppose you didn’t. But I did some research. You might want to try it sometime. It could improve your thus-far-abysmal performance.”

  Kane continued to blink his eyes until the room eventually swam into focus. As if determined to illuminate the room, the sun continued to push its way in through the louvered shutters. Bars of horizontal light slashed the floor and the opposite wall. They rippled as Shaz passed through them. The variant circled the operative and leaned in to sniff him in the same way that a dog would. “You stink of fear . . . But that is as it should be. Those who fail Chairman Tepho have every reason to be afraid. And yours is the most significant failure of all.”

  Kane cleared his throat and opened his mouth to object. His head snapped to the left as a backhanded blow struck the side of his face. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to speak,” the enforcer said coldly. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Your many failures. You let the sensitive slip through your fingers on Anafa, again on Pooz, and now on Ning. Then, in a misguided attempt to rectify your many errors, you entered into an unauthorized alliance with the black hat sect. And, as a result of that decision, the warriors you transported to Cresus know about the star gates.”

  It was risky, but the pause could be interpreted as permission to speak, and Kane was determined to defend himself. “I need the manpower . . . The resident staff isn’t large enough! The black hats are at the spaceport waiting for the sensitive to show up.”

  Kane felt Shaz grab a fistful of blond hair and jerk his head back. The variant’s long, muzzlelike nose, close-set eyes, and oversized ears gave the enforcer a canine aspect. His lips curled back to expose a double row of extremely sharp teeth. “I know that,” Shaz said contemptuously. “They’re hard to miss. Fortunately, they haven’t had either the time or opportunity to communicate with their superiors. Once you kill them our security will be intact.”

  “Kill them?” the operative asked incredulously. “How?”

  The air seemed to blur slightly as Shaz released his grip on Kane’s hair. “I don’t know—and I don’t care. That’s your problem. That and the sensitive. Chairman Tepho is tired of your incompetence. Finish the matter, and finish it here, or join your friend Lysander in the spirit world. The choice is yours.”

  The variant seemed to float toward the door. Kane struggled against his bonds. “Aren’t you going to untie me?”

  “No,” Shaz replied evenly. “You, like the rest of humanity, must free yourself.” And with that the enforcer was gone.

  Because the transition took place gradually it would have been impossible for Rebo to identify the exact moment when he and his companions put the badlands behind them. But once green vegetation reappeared, and the seemingly endless maze of tortured ravines gave way to a gently rolling plain, it seemed safe to assume that the worst was over. That impression was reinforced when they had to circle around stands of virgin timber, the headwaters of the Juno River appeared, and the travelers began to pass isolated cabins. Later, as the L-phants carried them into the town of Iz, the runner knew that particular leg of the journey was over. But the clock was ticking, and with only ten days left until the shuttle was scheduled to depart from Cresus, there was no time in which to relax.

  With the possible exception of Rebo, the rest of the party had come to like the L-phants, who, obnoxious though they were, had faithfully carried them all the way from Zand. But the river offered a much faster means to reach Cresus, and local loggers were willing to pay good money for angens that could be used to drag newly fallen timber down out of the surrounding hills. So, having made a profit on the animals, Norr, Lee, and Hoggles said their final good-byes to the L-phants while the runner and a bemused timber merchant looked on.

  Finally, having been promised that the angens would be well cared for, the sensitive, red hat, and heavy allowed themselves to be led through the bustling town of Iz down to the banks of the river, where all manner of jetties poked their wooden fingers out into the free-flowing current. Farther out, rafts that consisted of more than a hundred logs each tugged at their anchors while nimble river folk used long pikes to push, shove, and otherwise coax the unwieldy lengths of timber into floats that would make the trip downstream.

  Based on input from Hoggles, which had been reinforced by information gleaned while selling the angens, Rebo knew that a fast float could reach Cresus in just six days. If so, that would leave the group with a comfortable pad in which to rest prior to boarding the shuttle, and the spaceship. But only if the float hung together through three sets of rapids. If it didn’t, and the raft came apart, they could drown. Or, if they managed to survive, find themselves stranded a long way from Cresus. That was why it was important to purchase passage with a captain who had the necessary experience, a first-class crew, and enough to money to construct a strong float. Because those who lacked sufficient funds, or attempted to improve their profit margin by minimizing the amount of cordage and chains used to bind their raft together, could pay with their lives.

  But, by all accounts Captain Vog Duther was exactly the kind of man they were looking for, and a heavy to boot, one of the many variants who had left the repressive atmosphere in Cresus to find work in the timber industry up north. That’s why Rebo preceded the rest of the group down a swaybacked gangplank and onto a flatboat, where he ordered the waterman to head for Captain Duther’s float.

  The boatman’s teenaged son used a pole to free the scow from the mud, pushed the blunt bow upriver, and took control of the port sweep. Then, with a surety born of long practice, father and son muscled their craft upstream, knowing that the current would push them down to their destination.

  There was a good four inches of water sloshing around the bottom of the flatboat, not to mention some live bait, and Norr elected to stand on one of the seats. From that vantage point she had a good view of the town, which judging from all the raw wood that was visible, had grown of late. Two- and three-story buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, columns of black smoke wound around each other as they rose into the sky, and geysers of white water soared high into the air as logs plunged into a pool of slack water. Once in place, they bobbed gently as a gang of tree walkers herded the timbers into a float.

  Rebo said, “Hold on,” and grabbed Norr’s arm in order to steady her as the flatboat nudged a log. Like most of the more promising rafts, the one that Captain Duther had assembled was built around a temporary building commonly referred to as the shack, which rested on the float, and housed the all-important galley as well as bunks for the tree walkers and a single cabin for passengers. All of which was fine, except for the fact that it would be necessary to cross twenty or thirty free-floating logs in order to access the shack.

  But the floatboat’s arrival had not gone unnoticed, which meant that half a dozen river folk were there to greet the party and help them cross the water-slicked logs. Fortunately, most of the so-called sticks were not onl
y large, but supported by the logs to either side, which made the crossing easier. Rebo was resentful of the hand under his arm at first, but soon changed his mind when he noticed that the tree walkers wore spiked boots and realized that if he were to fall through a gap, the float would close over his head and make it impossible to reach the surface.

  Once the visitors had been safely deposited on the spike-ripped planking that surrounded the shack, the tree walkers went back to work as Captain Duther emerged to greet them. He was even larger than Hoggles, and although his head was clean-shaven, he boasted a beard that more than made up for the loss up top. His eyes, which looked like chips of black stone, were set deep in their sockets. The river man’s gaze swept past Rebo and hesitated on Norr before coming to rest on Hoggles. Duther frowned. “Have we met before?”

  The second variant shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  One of the reasons why Rebo had insisted on booking passage quickly was the fear that someone in Iz would recognize the fugitive and try to collect the bounty on his head. Now it appeared that the river captain knew who his perspective passenger was. The runner was wondering if a single slug from the Hogger would be sufficient to put Duther down when the float captain smiled knowingly. “Whatever you say, friend. It looks like you’re headed in the wrong direction—but I suppose you know that. Come on, let’s retire to the shack where we can drink some tea and dicker over the cost of your passage. It will most likely be a lot higher than you’d like, but I’ll do my best to make you feel good about it.”

  Careful to keep the lens away from the sun and any possibility of reflection, Kane lay on a hot duracrete roof and surveyed the scene before him. A full day had passed since the beating Shaz had administered, and he still felt sore. Unlike spaceports on other planets, the cratered pavement and the remains of the blast-blackened buildings that looked out over it had not been converted to new uses and gave mute testimony to the power of ancient weapons. And, with the exception of some hardy weeds, and a pack of Ning dogs, the once-bustling port appeared to be deserted.

  But Kane, who had escorted the black hat warriors to the facility himself, knew that appearances were deceiving. The religious warriors had gone to ground, just as he had instructed them to, and were waiting for Norr and her party to arrive. That was the one thing that the operative had on his side, the certain knowledge as to where his quarry would have to go, hence the opportunity to ambush them.

  But not anymore . . . Tepho and the council were angry. So angry that they had sent Shaz to discipline him. Kane sighed, inched the carefully wrapped rifle forward, and deployed the built-in bipod. The operative felt a persistent itch between his shoulder blades, as if someone was watching him, but resisted the temptation to scan his surroundings. The roof from which he had chosen to fire was higher than all of the surrounding structures with the single exception of the decapitated control tower, which made it unlikely that anyone was looking down on him.

  Still, the feeling that he was under surveillance persisted as Kane swung the powerful telescopic sight onto a gaping window and waited for the warrior hidden inside to reveal himself. Strangely, from the operative’s perspective at least, his thoughts turned to Lysander as the seconds continued to tick by. Ever since the moment when they had first met, and for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, the operative had experienced an inordinate desire to please the cantankerous bastard. And now, even though the scientist had switched sides, Kane was still trying to earn his mentor’s approval. Not the namby-pamby Lysander, but the original version, who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it.

  There was a flicker of movement as the black hat stepped into the scope’s crosshairs, blinked as he sought to accommodate the bright sunlight, and turned his head to the right. That exposed his temple and Kane felt the trigger break, let his shoulder absorb the resulting recoil, and was already swinging his weapon toward the next target by the time the body fell.

  Having heard the shot, and unaware of the fact that they were being stalked, the technologist felt sure the other Dib Wa would pop up for a look around. And, because he knew where to look for them, would make themselves vulnerable. The second target stepped halfway out of a doorway, was blown off his feet, and was still falling as the third slug slammed into a man foolish enough to fire at a target he couldn’t see.

  That was when silence fell over the spaceport, Kane elbowed his way back into the cool embrace of a shadow, and the last black hat went to ground. Or that’s what the warrior intended to do, except that Shaz was standing directly behind the monk and promptly slit his throat. Then, having dragged the body out to a point where Kane would find it, the variant vanished. Not as a means to prove how elusive he could be, but because Kane was an excellent shot, and the variant had no desire to take a bullet in the back.

  The Ning dogs moved in on the corpse shortly thereafter, but scattered when Kane arrived and were content to flop down in some shade and wait while the two-legged predator examined the body. Though pleased that his final target had been eliminated, the operative felt a chill run down his spine and whirled to see if Shaz was standing directly behind him. But the room was empty . . . and Kane was alone. Or was he? A sense of uneasiness followed the operative out into the sun and persisted even after the Ning dogs had begun their meal.

  The Juno River sparkled with reflected sunlight as it turned toward the south and carried the float along at a steady six miles per hour. The men on the sweeps had to push hard to prevent the log raft from grounding in the shallows, while the tree walkers dashed hither and yon, shouted friendly insults at each other, and used iron-tipped poles to stab at the sometimes recalcitrant logs.

  Rebo, who was seated on the bench that ran along the front side of the shack, never tired of watching the walkers dance from one bobbing, twisting, rolling log to the next. And that was what he was doing when Duther rounded the corner and paused in front of him. The heavy nodded politely. “Good morning . . . Please inform your companions that we will be passing through the Devil’s Chute in thirty minutes or so. We shouldn’t have any trouble—but it’s best to be prepared. I suggest that you make sure that everyone is ready for a swim—and assemble your group forward of the sweeps. If the float begins to separate, and you hear me give the order, be sure to go off the trailing edge of the raft. That way you’ll be upstream of the logs—and a lot less likely to be crushed.

  “Tell your people not to fight the river,” the river captain continued, “but to ease their way out of the current, wait for an eddy, and swim into it. Oh, and one other thing . . . If you wind up ashore, watch out for wreckers. They live downstream of the chute and live off the sticks that escape from floats and the people who wash up along the riverbanks. Not only will they steal whatever you have—they’ll probably hold you for ransom. Any questions?”

  Rebo frowned as he came to his feet. “No, I don’t think so. Why didn’t you mention all of this earlier?”

  Duther shrugged philosophically. “There wasn’t anything you could do about it except sit around and worry . . . Besides, odds are that we’ll make it through without difficulty. I’ll see you at lunch.” So saying, the river captain stepped off the platform and onto a glistening log. It dipped under his considerable weight, and water sloshed over the top of it as the variant started his morning rounds.

  Rebo watched the heavy for a moment, shook his head in consternation, and went in search of his companions. The clock was ticking, and given the fact that there was no way to get off the float, the passengers had no choice but to prepare themselves for what lay ahead.

  Meanwhile, a few miles downstream, a man named Horg Zikko settled into the carefully padded position that he had prepared for himself earlier that morning. The long-barreled .50-caliber rifle had been specially designed for him, which meant that the stock fit his shoulder perfectly, and the trigger was an exact match for the curve of his right index finger. That, plus the fac
t that he had spent the last two days shooting at floating targets, made the marksman confident that he could fulfill the terms of his contract. The float, which had been tracked since its departure from Iz, had three sweeps, therefore three sweep operators. One would be worth two gold cephors, two would be worth four cephors, and three would be worth eight cephors. A princely sum that would make the journey upriver from Cresus worth the effort.

  Three wreckers, all members of the local council, watched Zikko make his final preparations and exchanged congratulations. Although various members of the wrecker community had attempted to kill sweeper operators before, none had succeeded. It was extremely difficult to hit a target that was not only drifting downriver but bobbing up and down and jerking from side to side at the same time.

  But Zikko not only could, but had made many such shots over the last couple of days, a fact that caused the locals to feel very optimistic indeed. So much so that the rest of the villagers were waiting downstream, where they stood ready to pounce on whatever goodies emerged from the chute. Assuming that things went well, and there was no reason to believe they wouldn’t, the next few hours would be profitable indeed.

  Having successfully made their way back to the platform on which the sweep operators stood, the foursome could do little more than wait and try to stay out of the way. Like the others, Norr wore light clothing plus a small pack, which in addition to her necessaries, contained the gate seed that Lysander had stolen from Kane. Was the artifact waterproof? She believed that it was, but had no means to test her theory, and she hoped to keep the device dry.