Runner

by William C. Dietz

  Kane hadn’t had the opportunity to hatch such a plot as yet, but knew he would have and was forced to raise his estimate of the station chief’s intelligence. “That’s absurd,” the operative lied, and held his arms straight out to emphasize his nudity. “I’m unarmed, not to mention a bit chilly, so how ’bout we continue this discussion in your office?”

  “Give him his clothes,” Posa said gruffly, “and let him get dressed. Once that’s accomplished bring him to me. Everyone in this organization is accountable—even Mr. high-and-mighty Kane.”

  The man in question hoped it wasn’t true, but feared that it was, and had little choice but to cooperate. Even though Shaz was back on Anafa, the variant was still only minutes away, and the knowledge made Kane’s knees feel weak. The clothes hit him in the chest—and he hurried to put them on.

  The Planet Etu

  It was difficult to tell what the city of Epano had been like before the quake, because most of the buildings constructed during the last hundred years lay in ruins; but as the foursome picked their way through rubble-littered streets, Rebo got the impression of wide boulevards, which had been laid out grid fashion, ornate public buildings, some of which remained intact, and lush greenery, all of which was coated with dust.

  Smartly uniformed troops could be seen, lots of them, and seemed to have the situation well in hand. People were out and about, but there were no casualties to be seen, which suggested that they had been removed to hospitals. Further evidence of how organized the local government was could be seen in the gangs of workers already toiling to remove debris from the streets so that repairs could get under way.

  In marked contrast to the other cities they’d been in recently, Rebo noticed that none of the civilians were armed. That caused him to remove the gun belt from around his waist and place the Hogger in his pack. His jacket hid the Crosser, so he left that weapon where it was.

  The enormous war hammer was impossible to hide, but Hoggles managed to disguise the weapon by wrapping the business end with rags, which he tied into place with twine. Norr’s vibro blade was concealed within her staff so there was no need to alter its appearance. Her appearance, however, as well as the heavy’s, was a definite problem, which quickly became apparent as the travelers rounded a corner and happened onto a checkpoint.

  They saw the group of soldiers up ahead and were about to angle away from them, when a sharp-eyed file leader spotted them. He frowned as if he had just bitten into something he didn’t like the taste of. He wore leather body armor, a knee-length kilt, and sandal-style boots. He spoke standard but with the lilt typical of the local population. “Come on . . . Don’t be shy . . . Let’s have a look at you.”

  Rebo didn’t like the situation, not one little bit, but had to comply. He stepped forward and the others followed. The file leader had thick brows, a hooked nose, and thin lips. “So,” he said, addressing himself to Rebo, “who are you? Who do the freaks belong to? And where are their chains?”

  Having suddenly been confronted with a series of questions that he wasn’t prepared to answer, the runner struggled to come up with answers, and do so quickly enough to seem credible. It seemed safe to assume that the term “freaks” referred to the variants, both of whom looked like what they were, but what to make of the rest? Rebo decided to start with the obvious stuff and elaborate from there. “My name is Rebo, Jak Rebo, and this is my son Lee. As for the freaks, they belong to me.”

  The officer nodded. “Well, Citizen Rebo, these are difficult times, but you know the rules. Variants must wear restraints . . . And hoods, too. What if the big fellow were to turn on you? Or the witch were to channel an evil spirit? The laws were written for your protection.”

  Rebo thought about Lysander and could understand the concern. Strangely, while the variants had attracted negative attention, it seemed as if they had served to establish Rebo’s status as a lawful citizen, too, since there had been no effort to confirm his identity.

  Meanwhile, having been referred to as freaks, and discussed them as if they were little more than livestock, both Hoggles and Norr were understandably outraged. The heavy wrapped and rewrapped his fingers around the war hammer’s handle while the sensitive bit her lower lip.

  “Yes, I know that,” Rebo said humbly. “Unfortunately my wife and I lost nearly everything in the quake. The house collapsed, and we were lucky to escape with our lives.”

  “Well, we don’t have any hoods,” the file leader responded sympathetically, “but we do have some spare leg irons.” So saying the officer called for one of his noncoms and gave the necessary orders. Metal rattled as two sets of leg irons were removed from a wooden hand cart and the variants had little choice but to remain motionless as the heavy restraints were locked around their ankles.

  “There you go,” the file leader said as he handed the keys to Rebo, “get some hoods on them as soon as you can. I hear the slave market will reopen soon . . . The heavy would fetch a good price. Especially given all the rebuilding that needs to be done. Perhaps the proceeds could go toward rebuilding your home.”

  “That’s a good idea,” the runner agreed politely. “Thank you for all of your help.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” the soldier replied pompously, and gave Rebo a slip of parchment. “Here, show this to any unit that stops you, and good luck.”

  Rebo accepted the pass and tucked it away. Then, having taken Lee by the hand, the off-worlder assumed what he hoped was the appropriate demeanor. “All right, you two—that’s enough standing around. We have work to do.”

  The chains that connected the ankle bracelets together weren’t very long, which forced Norr and Hoggles to adopt a quick shuffle in order to keep up. It was awkward, humiliating, and ultimately painful.

  The runner took the first turn that he could, gave thanks for the fact that there weren’t any troops in sight, and gave the keys to the variants. “Here, hang on to these, but leave the shackles in place. We’ll get stopped if you don’t.”

  Norr made a face. “Okay, but walk more slowly, and let’s put some padding in these things.”

  “All right,” Rebo agreed lightly. “But try to look a little more subservient. I think I could get used to it.”

  “In your dreams,” the sensitive replied. “In your dreams.”

  The Planet Ning

  Someone pushed Kane from behind. He stumbled, and nearly fell, but managed to keep his balance. The seer had been laid out across the top of the station chief’s desk the last time the operative had been in her office, but the old woman had disappeared, as had the little girl. There was a patch of what might have been blood on the floor, which suggested that Posa had put the two of them to death, not that it made any difference to Kane. He had problems of his own, not the least of which was figuring out how to escape before the station chief shipped him to Anafa, or summoned Shaz to Ning, either of which would almost certainly be fatal.

  “Have a seat,” Posa said, as she gestured toward the single guest chair. “You and I are going to have a nice little chat about the sensitive and the item she took from you. Who knows? Maybe I can recover it. If I do, perhaps that will be sufficient to get me out of this hellhole.”

  The very thought of Posa’s recovering the gate seed and using it to gain the approval denied him was enough to make the blood pound in Kane’s head. The operative looked down at his hands. They had been bound, but in front of him, in order to facilitate his trip to the men’s room. That was a mistake and one he planned to take advantage of.

  Kane stepped up to the desk as if preparing to sit down, raised both hands over his head, and brought them down as fast as he could. Clenched fists connected with the station chief’s skull. The blow stunned Posa, who fell forward, and threw her hands down in order to brace herself. The operative took advantage of the opportunity to head butt her, saw his opponent fall backward, and knew she was out of it.

  There was a guard, but he held his fire out of fear that a bullet might strike his boss,
and rushed to grapple with the prisoner. When Kane turned it was with Posa’s double-edged letter opener clutched in his right hand. The guard came to a stop, or attempted to, but the effort came too late. The knifelike instrument went deep into his chest; he gave a little sigh, and collapsed in a heap.

  Fortunately for Kane none of the battle had generated much in the way of sound, which meant that the rest of the staff weren’t aware of what had just taken place, or the danger they were in. That was about to change, however, as Kane took the guard’s weapon, plus Posa’s, and all the ammo he could find.

  Then, his pockets heavy with the gold coins that he had looted from the station chief’s safe, the operative took the time necessary to garrote Posa with her own belt, prior to going room to room with a pistol in each hand. The unsuspecting staff members fell like targets on a combat range. Once the shuttle had come and gone, the people posted at the spaceport would return to find a nasty surprise waiting for them.

  Satisfied that all of those who could testify against him were dead, and confident that he could blame the slaughter on Norr, Kane entered the decontamination chamber. The sensitive had gone to Etu, so he would too. Once on the planet he would find the bitch, kill her, and recover the gate seed. Then, with the device in hand, the operative could return to Anafa. Yes, there would be questions, but nothing speaks louder than success. Water soaked his clothes, and his stomach felt queasy, but Kane didn’t care. He was alive, and even though his quarry remained a few steps ahead of him, he would soon catch up with her.

  The Planet Etu

  It was hot inside the flour-sack hood, not to mention claustrophobic and humiliating. Norr’s vision was restricted to what two small slits allowed her to see. That, combined with the dust that found its way up under the hood, and the endless jerk-jerk-jerk of the leg shackles threatened to drive the sensitive insane.

  The obvious solution was to hire or buy some sort of angen-drawn cart, so the entire group could ride, but the countryside was alive with displaced city folk, so transportation was in short supply. So, if the travelers wanted to reach the spaceport at Overa in time to board the next ship, they would have to walk.

  Rebo thought conditions would improve once they put the city of Epano behind them, but Norr wasn’t so sure. Variants were just another category of personal property on Etu, and since rural areas tend to be more conservative than urban centers, the sensitive figured that things weren’t likely to get any better out in the country. And that raised some frightening possibilities. What if someone saw through their charade and turned all four of them in to the authorities? Or, what if something happened to Rebo? Or, the shuttle never arrived? Doubts plagued the sensitive, and time seemed to slow as she shuffled through each weary mile.

  By that time the boulevard they had followed out of Epano had degenerated into a two-lane highway, which morphed into a single set of deep ruts served by occasional pull-outs. Occasional stretches of ancient duracrete and some sturdy bridges hinted at glories past, but such artifacts were rare. For the most part the road simply followed the path of least resistance as it wound its way between softly rounded hills, crossed rivers at the point where the water was shallowest, and meandered between small farms and vast estates.

  It was easy going really, or would have been, had it not been for the misery that the variants were subjected to. Rebo was worried about them, very worried, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Not considering that it wasn’t unusual to pass a pair of matched slaves laboring between the traces of a cart loaded with angen manure, or to see a variant pulling a plow in a nearby field, or to be passed by a norm mounted high on a heavy’s back.

  And sensitives were no better off. Most were used as household help, but the hooded figures could be seen escorting children to school and working in the fields as well. Chances were that their other talents were being put to use, but privately, and for the exclusive benefit of their owners. The fact that the variants had clearly been enslaved for a long time, yet continued to have distinguishing traits, suggested an enforced breeding program—a horrible thought and one that caused Rebo to shudder.

  Unpleasant though the society around them was, the weather had been relatively mild, with only the occasional rain shower to interrupt long, mostly sunny days. The foursome made good time as a result, covering about fifteen miles per day, as the dirt road led them through a series of rural villages.

  The routine was pretty much the same from day to day. Get up early, fix a light breakfast, and hit the road. Food for lunch and dinner, as well as the next breakfast, was purchased at the first village they came to. Lunch was consumed by a stream if possible, far enough off the road that passersby wouldn’t be able to see that the variants had been allowed to remove their shackles and hoods, or the fact that their supposed owner was breaking bread with them.

  Later, after the sun had dissolved into a red-orange smear on the western horizon, the foursome sought a safe spot to camp. But such places were sometimes hard to find, and there were nights when it wasn’t safe to have a fire, forcing them to eat cold food. Lee made use of the discomfort an opportunity to exert mindful control over his physical body, but it made the rest miserable, especially Norr, who missed her hot tea.

  But the days passed, and as they did, things started to change. There was more traffic on the road, the villages were closer together, and files of brightly uniformed angen-mounted cavalry passed from time to time. These were all signs that a city lay ahead, which according to Rebo’s scribe-drawn map, was called Citro. And, judging from the speed at which they were walking, it was clear that it would be necessary to stay the night. A none-too-pleasant prospect, especially where the variants were concerned, since it didn’t take a genius to realize that they wouldn’t be allowed to occupy the same quarters that Rebo and Lee would.

  There was nothing Norr could do about the situation, however, so the sensitive did the best she could to put the matter out of her mind as the foursome made their way across a wooden bridge, past a group of bored-looking soldiers, and entered the city of Citro. It showed no signs of earthquake damage—and was clearly less prosperous than Epano had been prior to the temblor. Raw sewage ran along both sides of the unpaved streets. No structures stood more than two stories tall, and with the exception of old ground cars that had been converted into farm wagons, there were no signs of ancient technology. Laundry flapped from lines strung between buildings, children carried buckets of water home from public wells, and piles of rotting garbage marked major intersections.

  Rebo sought directions from a street vendor, gave the woman a copper by way of thanks, and led the group to a hostelry that claimed to be the finest hotel in Citro. The runner might have been more impressed had it not been for the pile of angen manure out front, the trail of mud that led up the wooden stairs to the entrance, or the somewhat threadbare doorman who waited to greet them. But, shabby or not, the employee wore an invisible cloak of superiority, which could be seen in the way he looked down his nose at the road-weary travelers. “Yes? How can I help you?”

  “We wish to stay the night,” Rebo replied evenly, trying his best to sound like the merchant that he was pretending to be. Not rich, but successful, even if the rigors of the road had left him and his party looking a bit disheveled.

  “I see,” the doorman said, as if doing Rebo a favor. “You and the boy may proceed to the front desk. I’ll have one of the stable hands take the slaves around back.”

  “I want them fed and given a chance to bathe,” Rebo insisted. “They’re starting to smell.”

  “As are you,” the doorman thought to himself, but nodded and blew a tin whistle. A ratty-looking twelve-year-old appeared a few moments later. He was armed with a whip, and judging from the look on his thin little face, was eternally on the lookout for an opportunity to use it. The runner had collected the keys for the shackles earlier that morning. He frowned as he handed them to the boy. “If I find whip marks on my property, you’re the one who will wear the next
set of stripes.”

  That, as it turned out, was exactly the sort of motivation that the youngster understood. He nodded sullenly and ordered the variants down into the street. Norr paused long enough to shrug her pack off, remove the cloth-wrapped object inside, and hand it to Rebo. “Here, master . . . This will be safer with you.”

  The runner knew what was in the package and nodded as he accepted the spherical gate seed. He wanted to take Norr in his arms but couldn’t. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “I want to get an early start tomorrow—so make sure that you’re ready.”

  Norr said, “Yes, master,” and was led away. Hoggles, chains rattling, followed behind. The sensitive, her vision restricted by the hood, followed the boy through a narrow passageway and into a muddy courtyard where a cluster of children were busy washing a droopy-eared angen. Beyond them a low one-story building could be seen. It boasted two openings. The first, which was located at the south end of the structure, was large enough to accommodate animals. The second, which gave access to the north end of the building, was smaller and clearly intended for people. And it was through that entrance that the variants were led.

  Light filtered into the reception area via four panes of thick glass. There was a counter, some rusty ring bolts that had been set into the mud-smeared floor, and the air was thick with the rank odor of the angens stabled next door. An armed guard sat on a tall stool in one corner, a potbellied stove squatted in another, and the woman in charge was protected by a crudely constructed counter. She wore a kerchief on her head, a long baggy dress, and a pair of wooden clogs. They made a rapping sound as she moved out into the center of the room. “The showers will open in two hours, dinner will be served an hour after than, and the lights go out at nine,” she said curtly. “Behave yourselves, and everything will be fine. Cause trouble and you’ll be sorry. Any questions? No? Good. It’s been my experience that it’s the troublemakers who like to ask questions. Males go in there,” the norm said as she pointed at a sturdy door, “and females go in there.”