Runner

by William C. Dietz

  The river had narrowed during the last half hour or so, which caused the current to run faster. So fast that the gradually rising banks seemed to zip past as the leading edge of the float bucked its way through a series of standing waves. Sheets of spray flew into the air and were transformed into a windblown mist. Most of the water fell on the first rows of logs, but some of it floated to the rear, where it wet Norr’s face. The sensitive used a sleeve to wipe the water away and felt a momentary sense of exhilaration.

  Then the float rocked from side to side, a sweep operator yelled, “Here we go!” and the raft entered the chute. Rocky walls rose to either side of river, the float began to undulate as it passed through a series of dips, and the deck shook as the raft’s right flank scraped a boulder topped with a cap of green moss.

  That was when the sensitive heard a loud crack! and saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Rebo had seen it too. The centermost sweep operator had disappeared. “Someone shot him!” the runner yelled. “Bo! Grab that sweep! Lanni, get down!”

  Norr threw her arms around Lee, and had just pulled the boy down onto the water-slicked deck, when a second shot rang out. The starboard operator looked surprised, clutched his chest, and fell.

  Rebo had his glasses on by then, and stood with legs spread, as he used both hands to aim the long-barreled handgun up at the embankment ahead. He spotted a group of three tightly clustered stick figures, fired the single-shot pistol, and returned the weapon to its holster. Then, having grabbed hold of a loose sweep, the runner pulled with all his strength. The float, which had been sliding toward the right up until that point steadied, and passed within a foot of a huge, gray-speckled rock.

  Zikko saw his second bullet strike home, and was preparing to place his third, when one of the tiny figures below produced a long-barreled pistol and fired. It was a nearly impossible shot, but such was the pistoleer’s skill or luck that the slug hit one of the wreckers and killed him instantly. The body fell on Zikko, which made it impossible to fire, and the third sweep operator was spared as a result.

  The surviving council members were distraught to say the least, although it was difficult to say what bothered them more, their collaborator’s death or the prospect of having to pay Zikko even though the float had passed through the chute intact. But it hardly mattered. The marksman demanded his pay, tucked it into his purse, and was soon on his way. Though not entirely successful, the trip had been worthwhile, and his family would eat.

  Much to the disappointment of the wreckers who lined both sides of the river, the float was still intact as it surged out of the chute, and followed the main channel downstream. There was a fusillade of shots as the locals fired off their mostly muzzle-loading weapons; but none of the balls found flesh, and it wasn’t long before even the trailing edge of the raft was out of range.

  Rebo heaved a sigh of relief as the last shots sent geysers of water up behind his sweep—and felt even better when a tree walker came back to relieve him. Then, with the float under control, the passengers were free to return to their cabin. It felt good to get in out of the wind, but the bullet holes that let light through the walls served to remind the group of how fragile their shelter was and served to erode any sense of well-being they might have otherwise felt.

  The river, which ran only inches under the decking, chuckled heartlessly. The only things it cared about were the raindrops that occasionally fell from the sky, the streams that contributed to its strength, and the sea that waited somewhere over the horizon. Those were everything—and nothing else mattered.

  Dinner was over, and, while it was dark outside the cabin, soft buttery light flooded the interior. The wall that divided the passenger quarters from the galley and bunkroom was only one plank thick, which meant that the foursome could hear the clatter of pots and pans interspersed with muffled conversation as off-duty members of the crew mourned their dead crewmates and discussed the events of the day.

  Bo was snoring in the bunk beneath him, and Lee was supposed to be asleep as well. By just barely opening his eyelids, the youngster could see Rebo sitting at the table, with the Crosser disassembled in front of him. Norr sat across from the runner with her chin resting on her hands. She looked beautiful in the soft lamplight, or that’s what Lee thought, and he suspected that Rebo would have agreed. They hadn’t had much opportunity to be alone of late, and there was tension at times. There was no sign of that, however, as the runner peered through the newly swabbed gun barrel. “I don’t know, Lanni,” he said doubtfully. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  Norr shrugged. “You know Lysander . . . If I say no, he’s likely to come through anyway. We might as well get it over with.”

  Rebo lowered the gun barrel and made a face. “Yeah, and there’s no telling when he’ll decide to do it. Okay, so long as you’re up for it, let him through.”

  Lee, his interest fully piqued, lay perfectly still. If a dead person was about to speak, then he wanted to listen.

  Norr nodded and closed her eyes. Lysander was present, she could feel it, already trying to push his way in. The sensitive knew he couldn’t take over her body permanently, not so far as she knew anyway, but feared that he would if he could. Not to hurt her, but without regard for her desires, consistent with the relationship that existed between them hundreds of years before. He had been ruthless then, and he was ruthless now, the only difference being that the discarnate had switched sides. Now he was ruthlessly good if such a thing was possible. That was the last thought the sensitive had before Lysander pushed in and took control.

  Rebo saw Norr jerk as her onetime father stepped in and was ready when the dead man spoke. His voice was pitched a good deal lower than the sensitive’s and sounded hoarse. “Oh,” Lysander said as he stared across the table, “it’s you.”

  The Crosser’s barrel made a positive click as it mated with the weapon’s receiver. “Yeah,” the runner replied emotionlessly, “it’s me. Who were you expecting? The Caliph?”

  “No, you’ll do,” the dead scientist allowed. “Now listen carefully . . . A man named Kane and his operatives are watching the spaceport in Cresus. They don’t care about you, the boy, or the heavy, but they want my daughter. More than that, they want the gate seed. You care about her, I can see that, so keep her safe.”

  Rebo frowned. “Thanks for the warning—but how am I supposed to accomplish what you ask? We need to get off this planet, and the shuttle is going to land at the spaceport.”

  “Go to Techno Society headquarters,” the spirit instructed, “and use the star gate. They won’t expect that.”

  “No,” the runner agreed soberly, “they won’t. But the office will be guarded. What about that?”

  “That’s your problem,” Lysander said unsympathetically. “Now remember, it’s absolutely imperative that you find Logos before they do, or those who control the Techno Society will make the same mistakes that I did. That has priority over everything else.”

  “Not for me it doesn’t,” Rebo replied, but the connection had been broken by then, and Norr was back in her body. The sensitive blinked and shook her head as if to clear it. “What did he say?”

  Rebo slid the magazine into the butt of his gun and felt it lock into place. “He says they’re waiting for us at the spaceport in Cresus.”

  “And?”

  “And he says we can escape Ning by making use of the star gate located inside Techno Society headquarters.”

  Norr uttered a low whistle. “So, what do you think? Could we pull it off?”

  Rebo thought about his responsibility to Lee and the fact that if the two of them were to divorce themselves from the sensitive, they would be a whole lot better off. The problem was that what he should do to take care of Lee was in direct conflict with what he wanted to do for Norr. A second had passed, and the runner was still struggling with the problem, when Lee sat up. His eyes were bright and determined. “The answer is, ‘yes.’ We can pull it off.”

  Norr laughed and looked
from the boy to Rebo. He smiled. “You heard the boss . . . We’ll find a way.”

  The Techno Society’s offices were pleasant compared to the rooming house where Kane slept. So, when the operative wasn’t out at the spaceport, he preferred to spend most of his time in the station chief’s office. It had a large window that opened onto a narrow side street that was lined with stalls. The noise generated by squalling angens, merchants endlessly pitching their wares, and the steady bang, bang, bang of the local tinsmith had bothered the off-worlder at first, but now, after more than a week at his borrowed desk, he barely noticed the racket. He toyed with a double-edged letter opener and stared out the window.

  There was a commotion out in the hall, followed by a loud thump, and a heartfelt swear word. Kane turned to see the station chief standing in the doorway. Her name was Ilia Posa. She was middle-aged, thick-waisted, and typically wore loose robelike garments that were intended to conceal her figure. She didn’t like Kane, the task that had been assigned to her, or the fact that the operative had commandeered her office. Her voice was cold as ice. “Your visitor is here.”

  “Bring her in,” Kane ordered, and stood while a blanket-draped stretcher was maneuvered into the room. The person who lay on it was so skeletal that the covers lay nearly flat. But the seer was there, and, though said to be near death, continued to occupy her body. Once the stretcher had been laid across the surface of the desk, and the generator-powered light had been extinguished in order to protect her eyes, Posa pulled the blankets down to reveal a skull-like face. Most of the old woman’s hair had fallen out, her skin looked like gray parchment, and her lips had a bluish tinge. But when her eyes locked with Kane’s, the operative could feel the power still residing in her body. Her voice was little more than a croak. “What do you want? Let me die in peace.”

  “My name is Kane,” the operative replied. “They tell me that you have the ability to communicate with the dead.”

  The crone blinked. “I’m a sensitive. Everyone knows that.”

  “Yes,” Kane agreed lamely. “Well, tell me this . . . Can you put me in contact with a spirit named Lysander?”

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I? And what will you do if I don’t? Kill me?”

  The joke was followed by wild cackling that Kane took to be laughter. He looked up at Posa. The station chief held a six-year-old girl by the hand. She let go and pushed the child forward. “No,” Kane replied calmly. “I’ll kill her. And I’ll do it slowly . . . While you watch.”

  The little girl said, “Grandma!” and ran to the old woman’s side.

  The sensitive tried to rise but lacked the strength and fell back onto the stretcher. “You bastard.”

  Kane nodded as if in agreement. “Put me in contact with Lysander, and both of you will go free.”

  The seer closed her eyes. There was a long pause, and the operative was ready to conclude that his prisoner had either fallen asleep or passed into the next world, when her eyes suddenly popped open. “Lysander refuses to speak with you—but there’s another spirit who will.”

  Kane’s felt a sense of frustration mixed with curiosity. “Really? Who?”

  “His name is Cayo,” the sensitive said hoarsely. “He claims that you left him to die in the catacombs beneath the city of Zand.”

  The operative remembered the desperate flight up out of the depths, the sound of shotgun blasts echoing back and forth between the ancient walls, and the pitiful way in which Cayo had called his name. “Kane! Help me!”

  But he hadn’t helped, and now, rather than the spirit he wanted to communicate with, Cayo was attempting to come through. The reality of that sent a chill down Kane’s spine but he still managed to keep his voice level. “Tell him that I’m sorry—but there was no way to save him. I hope his next life will end more peacefully.”

  “He doesn’t believe you,” the old woman replied, “but he has information regarding the woman you’re looking for and the object you brought up out of the catacombs.”

  “Information?” Kane inquired cautiously. “Why would Cayo provide me with information?”

  “In return for money,” the sensitive croaked. “Take a hundred cephors to Zand and deliver them to his wife. Once she has the money, Cayo will tell you what the woman plans to do.”

  “I know what she plans to do,” Kane replied. “She and her friends intend to board the shuttle and leave the planet.”

  “Cayo says you’re wrong,” the seer responded, “and he seems sincere.”

  There was a long pause as Kane considered the proposition. It seemed like a long shot, but it wasn’t that much money, not by the society’s standards, and thanks to the local star gate, he could travel to Zand in a matter of minutes. “All right,” he said finally, “tell Cayo that I will do what he asks. Except that his wife will receive half the money up front—and the other half once he delivers on his promise. In the meantime both you and your granddaughter will remain here.”

  “You’d better hurry,” the old woman cautioned, “or you’re going to need a sensitive in order to communicate with me.”

  Speed. That was the most important factor in Rebo’s opinion , and the others were in complete agreement. The longer it took to reach Cresus and implement their plan, the more time their enemies would have to prepare a trap for them. And that could be important, because even though the group intended to stay clear of the spaceport, they might ultimately be forced to use it. Just because Lysander said that a star gate was available didn’t mean it was so, and if it turned out that the discarnate was wrong, the travelers would have little choice but to try for the shuttle.

  So, no sooner had the float successfully made its way through the last set of rapids and entered the stretch of calm water that river folk called the flat, than the foursome left the slow-moving raft in favor of a long, narrow mail boat. It was powered by two heavies pulling four oars. Captain Duther and his crew waved as sweeps flashed in the sunlight, water dripped off bright red blades, and their former passengers were borne downstream.

  The river was flowing along at about two miles per hour. That, combined with the strength of the burly oarsmen, was sufficient to propel their craft at a steady six to seven miles per hour. Thanks to the fact that the boat was on an express run, carrying correspondence for the Caliph himself, there was no need for it to stop at each jetty along the way.

  As time passed, and the distance to Cresus continued to dwindle, villages appeared with increasing regularity, as did river traffic, until the young woman who served as the coxswain was forced to steer a zigzag course between heavily laden barges, rafts of slow-moving logs, and a variety of boats. Most were drab affairs, dedicated to fishing or carrying small cargoes, but a few boasted striped awnings, bright metalwork, and uniformed crew people. Lee never failed to wave as the mail packet swept past them—but none of the wealthy boaters chose to return the gesture.

  That was to be expected, from Hoggles’s perspective at least, but what troubled the heavy was the other items that the current carried with it. There was trash of every description, ugly-looking white foam that poured into the Juno from what had once been freshwater streams, and the occasional corpse. Flood victims perhaps? Boatmen murdered by pirates? Casualties of the latest plague? There was no way to tell.

  The half-submerged bodies caused the heavy to think, however, about the city and his reasons for returning there. Not to see his family, all of whom had been murdered, but to rediscover himself. Was he the firebrand of his youth? The hermit who lived aboard a spaceship? Or someone else entirely? And what about his friends? Was he ready to part company with them? And make a life for himself in Cresus? And how realistic was the idea given that there was a price on his head?

  The flood of questions was interrupted as the mail boat rounded a bend, slid under a high-arched bridge, and passed between the whitewashed pylons that marked the city limits. Most watercraft were required to pull over to the riverbanks at that point and line up to go through customs
, but the mail boat belonged to the Caliph and was exempt from his taxes. It sailed past the official barges, pennant fluttering gaily in the breeze, as water boiled at its stern.

  Though not supposed to carry passengers, the mail boat frequently did, which was how the three-person crew were able to get by on their parsimonious salaries. This fact was not lost on the customs agents, who expected a gratuity at the end of the month in return for remaining silent, and who lived in large houses deep in one of the safer parts of the city.

  Rebo, who had absolutely no interest in the extent to which the city’s officials had been corrupted, was simply grateful for the fact that he and his companions had been allowed to enter Cresus without undergoing any scrutiny. It was a piece of good fortune he had never dared dream of.

  While somewhat open about carrying passengers, there were limits as to how brazen the boat crew could be without eliciting the ire of their superiors, which is why they sought to discharge their illicit cargo prior to pulling up alongside the government dock. It was already host to one of the new steamboats that plied the river, and Lee thought the vapor-belching side-wheeler was fascinating.

  Having paid the coxswain, the foursome climbed a much-abused ladder to the jetty above. From there it was necessary to thread their way between food vendors, fishermen, and pickpockets before emerging onto the busy thoroughfare that ran parallel to the river and terminated some five miles to the west.

  Even though he had grown up in Cresus, Hoggles didn’t know where the Techno Society’s headquarters were. He pulled a hood up over his head. “Come on,” the heavy said as he made a hole in the crowd, “let’s find a wordsmith.”

  The others followed, and it wasn’t long before Hoggles led them through a passageway and into the thriving market that lay beyond the row of stores and warehouses fronting the waterway. The odor of urine mixed with what the sewers routinely disgorged into the river produced a combination so malodorous that the runner was hesitant to breathe.