Logos Run E-Book

William C. Dietz

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Runner
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 532

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

After interstellar courier Jak Rebo agrees to deliver a powerful artificial intelligence named Logos to a distant planet, he quickly comes to realize that it's no ordinary assignment. Logos has the power to not only reactivate the ancient stargates, but to restore interstellar travel, and bring the far flung remnants of humanity back together again. Some, like the members of the ruthless Techno Society, want to harness Logos and control it. Others, including those who fear technology, seek to destroy it. Together with Lonni Norr, the beautiful clairvoyant who can channel spirits from the afterlife, and the bodyguard Hoggles, Rebo will have to outrun his many enemies, and prevent Logos from falling into the wrong hands if he is to prevent humanity from falling into oblivion. With electrifying action, unstoppable heroes and gripping adventure, Logos Run is the thrilling conclusion to Runner by acclaimed military science fiction author William C. Dietz.

Leseprobe

LOGOS RUN

Copyright © 2006 by William C. Dietz.

Published as an eBook in 2016 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

Originally published as an Ace Book.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Tiger Bright Studios, Inc.

ISBN 978-1-625671-68-4

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Also by William C. Dietz

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

This book is dedicated to my dearest Marjorie.Thank you for glorious days past,life in the ever-present now,and whatever may lie ahead.The adventure continues!

ONE

The Planet Thara

From this day forward the stars shall be ours…

—Emperor Hios, on the day that the first public star gate went into service, and he stepped onto the surface of the Planet Zeen

The attack came without warning. The angen-drawn coach had been under way for hours by then, having followed the well-established ruts south through villages of neatly thatched roofs, past prayer ribbons that flew with the wind, and miles of flooded paddies. The genetically engineered draft animals strained at their harnesses as the road began to rise, the driver’s long, supple whip cracked over their vaguely equine heads, and they were forced to assume the four-wheeled vehicle’s entire weight. The angens expressed their unhappiness via snorts, grunts, and occasional bursts of flatulence as the low-lying paddies fell away and they pulled the coach up through a long series of switchbacks. But the driver was accustomed to such displays, and his passengers were largely unaware of how the animals felt, since two of the three were asleep within the boxy cab.

The single exception was Lonni Norr, who sat facing the front of the coach with Jak Rebo’s head resting on her lap. The variant’s right leg had gone to sleep ten minutes earlier, but she couldn’t bring herself to wake the runner and thereby break the spell. Because after months of danger and turmoil Norr was temporarily at peace. And had been ever since their departure from the holy city of CaCanth.

But Norr’s ancestors had been bred to sense things that norms could not. So even as the heavy who was curled up on the seat across from her continued to snore, and Rebo jerked as if in response to a dream, the young woman knew that conflict lay ahead. Partly because the threesome possessed something others wanted—and partly because it was somehow meant to be.

The windows were open, which meant Norr caught a brief glimpse of the terrain ahead as the coach lurched up over a pass and began its rattling descent. In contrast to the carefully cultivated paddies the coach had passed earlier in the day, a dense forest awaited them below. The interlocking foliage stretched for as far as the eye could see, and, judging from the occasional glint of reflected sunlight, was watered by a serpentine river.

Rebo mumbled something in his sleep, and Norr smiled tenderly as she ran her fingers through the runner’s thick black hair. His features were even, but a bit too rugged to be described as classically handsome, in spite of the fact that women generally found him to be attractive. The relationship with Rebo had been part of the long journey that had begun on the Planet Anafa, and subsequently taken them to Pooz, Ning, Etu, and Thara. What began as a momentary alliance had gradually evolved into a wary friendship, an on-again, off-again romance, and a decision to remain together. For a month? A year? A lifetime? Not even a person with her gifts could tell.

Such were Norr’s thoughts as the coach found level ground, bounced its way into a set of deep ruts, and was soon embraced by an army of leafy trees. Their trunks were four to five feet in circumference, and their massive branches came together to form a dense canopy overhead. The thick biomass cut the amount of sunlight that could reach the forest floor by half and caused a drop in temperature.

But the chill that Norr felt was not entirely physical. Other senses had come into play, too, senses that norms possess, but rarely take full advantage of. What one of them might have experienced as a vague uneasiness, Norr saw as a roiling blackness, and knew the sensation for what it was: negative energy being broadcast by a group of hostile minds. The sensitive put her hand on Rebo’s arm. “Jak… Wake up… Something is wrong.”

But the warning came too late. One of the angens uttered a bloodcurdling scream as an arrow sank into its haunch, and a pair of hobnailed boots made a thumping sound as a bandit landed on the roof. That noise was followed by a loud boom as the driver triggered his blunderbuss and sent a dozen. US-caliber lead balls into the undergrowth where the archer was concealed. But that did nothing to protect the coachman from the garrote that dropped over his head, or the noose that began to tighten around his throat. He had little choice but to release both his weapon and the reins in a desperate effort to restore his air supply.

“On the roof—” Norr exclaimed, as her companions awoke. “Bandits—”

Like all his kind, Bo Hoggles had a body that had been designed for life on heavy-gravity worlds. That meant he was strong, so strong that he could smash a massive fist up through the thin roof, and grab the bandit’s ankle. That was sufficient to scare the would-be thief, who was forced to let go of the garrote, while he attempted to pry the heavy’s sausagelike fingers off his ankle. And that’s what he was doing when Rebo drew the semiautomatic Crosser, pointed the weapon up toward the ceiling, and fired two ten-millimeter rounds through the roof. One bullet missed, but the other struck the brigand in the back and severed his spinal cord. The coach rocked sickeningly as Hoggles let go; the body bounced into the air and fell past Norr’s window.

The driver had control of the reins by then, but no amount of swearing could make the wounded angen run faster, and that slowed the rest. All of which was part of the time-tested process that the bandits traditionally relied upon to bring their prey to a standstill. So, while the loss of Brother Becko was regrettable, the brigands had every expectation of success as the coach slowed and finally came to a stop. What they didn’t expect were the people who emerged from the carriage. A heavy, armed with a war hammer, a norm with a gun in each fist, and a sensitive with a metal-tipped wooden staff. But in spite of the fact that the passengers were clearly more formidable than the bejeweled merchants the bandit leader had been hoping for, he had little choice but to hurl himself forward as a volley of arrows arched overhead.

Rather than exert more control over her body, Norr let go instead. That allowed her full array of senses to unfold. The staff made patterns in the air as the variant whirled. There was a series of clacking sounds as half a dozen arrows were intercepted, broken in half, and left to fall like wooden rain.

Hoggles was not so graceful, or so fortunate, since he made an excellent target. Two arrows thumped into his chest, but neither possessed the force required to penetrate the mesh-lined leather armor the variant had purchased in CaCanth. And, having fully recovered from the injuries suffered at the Ree Ree River, the hard-charging giant was among the bandits in a matter of moments. Blood flew as the enormous war hammer struck this way and that, while his basso war cry dominated the field of battle.

Nor was that the worst of it, because even as the berserker met the main body of the onrushing brigands in hammer-to-head combat, Rebo was busy shooting at the rest. It was aimed fire, which meant that nearly every bullet found its mark, and that added to the slaughter.

And so it was that having lost fully half his band in a matter of minutes, and with a bullet lodged in his left thigh, the group’s leader issued a shrill whistle. Strong hands grabbed the chieftain under the armpits, and his feet were lifted clear off the ground as members of the bandit’s extended family hustled him into the safety of the woods. All the brigands were gone within seconds, leaving the battle-dazed travelers in sole possession of the body-strewn battlefield.

“Well, that was an unpleasant surprise,” Rebo said calmly as he slipped the unfired Hogger back into the cross-draw holster at his waist. “Let’s get out of here before they regroup.”

“I agree,” a male voice said emphatically. “And I would very much appreciate it if you would be so kind as to wear a more suitable garment during future battles…. I could have been damaged—or taken off-line.”

The sound seemed to originate from Norr, but had actually emanated from the coat she wore, which, in spite of its nondescript appearance, was a computer. A wearable computer that was more than a thousand years old and had once been at the center of a star-spanning system of star gates. Months before, the threesome had agreed to reunite the artificial intelligence kAIE with a control center called Socket on behalf of a dead scientist.

But the AI could be imperious, not to mention downright annoying, which was why Norr responded as she did. “If you would be so kind as to let us know when we’re about to be attacked—we’ll put you away well in advance. Come to think of it, maybe we should do that anyway…. I could use some peace and quiet.”

Logos didn’t like being packed away and therefore chose to remain silent. Rebo grinned. “Good…. I’m glad that’s settled. Come on, let’s give the driver a hand.”

Having reharnessed the uninjured angens, and attached the wounded animal to the back of the coach by means of a long lead, the carriage got under way fifteen minutes later. Rebo sat next to the driver with the fully recharged blunderbuss across his knees, while Hoggles remained in the coach, war hammer at the ready.

Norr tried to separate the natural apprehension she felt from the external stimuli available to her highly specialized senses but that was hard to do. So, with no assurance that they wouldn’t be attacked again, all the variant could do was to keep her eyes peeled and look forward to the moment when they put the forest behind them.

Eventually, after two hours of suspense, that moment came, as the trees began to thin, and gently rolling grasslands appeared. The sun was little more than a red-orange smear by then, and Rebo wondered how many more sunsets he would witness before he and his companions left Thara and continued the uncertain journey begun so many months before. The coach slowed slightly as it encountered a rise, the driver snapped his whip, and the angens pulled harder. The undercarriage rattled, darkness gathered, and the stars lay like white dust on the blue velvet sky.

The city of Seros, on the Planet Anafa

The sun was little more than a dimly seen presence beyond the layers of charcoal-generated haze that hung over the city. Much had changed during the ten millennia since the first colony ship touched down on Anafa. A primitive settlement had evolved into a town and then a city. Or multiple cities, because Seros had been through many incarnations, with the latest sitting atop all the rest.

None of which held any interest for the hooded metal man as he paused to examine a building, matched the image to the one stored in his electronic memory, and made his way up the front steps. The long, filthy robe hung loosely over his skeletal body, servos whirred as the machine climbed the stairs, and the locals hurried to get out of his way. The mysterious androids could communicate with one another, everyone knew that, and would hurry to one another’s aid if threatened. That meant it was a good idea to leave the robots alone in spite of their propensity to ignore common courtesies, preach on street corners, and generally skulk about.

Like the structures around it, the rooming house had seen better days. The landlord claimed that it had been an office building once, back before the techno wars, but the history of the six-story tenement hardly mattered to the hundreds of people who lived there, or to the metal man as he climbed five flights of stairs, pulled a graffiti-decorated door open, and entered the maze of cubicles beyond. Space was let by the square foot, which meant that the squats were of various sizes, depending on what a particular tenant could afford. Paths wound snakelike between the constantly morphing hovels they served. Some of the cubicles had walls made out of brick, others had been constructed with salvaged wood, but most consisted of large pieces of colored cloth draped over a confusing network of crisscrossed ropes. That meant life in the tenement was a largely public affair, in which every aspect of a resident’s life was known to those in the surrounding area, and gossip had been elevated to an art form.

So it wasn’t surprising that dozens of inquisitive eyes tracked the android as it followed a serpentine path deep into the squats, paused at one of the many intersections, and took a judicious right. And since the automaton’s progress was heralded by a buzz of excited conversation, Arn Dyson would have known about the visitor well in advance, had his consciousness been resident within his physical body.

But it wasn’t, which meant that when the robot arrived in front of the sensitive’s squat and whipped the badly faded curtain out of the way, the man sitting at the center of the simple reed mat made no response. The sensitive was middle-aged. His long hair was fanned out across his shoulders, and his eyes were closed. What few possessions he had were stacked along a wall made of interwoven sticks. A grubby little girl sat with arms wrapped around her knees. She regarded the machine with serious eyes. “Are you here to see Citizen Dyson?”

“Yes,” the metal man grated. “I am. Wake him.”

The little girl seemed to consider the order. If she was afraid of the machine, there was no visible sign of it. “Citizen Dyson has gone to visit the spirit planes. If you wish to speak with him, you must wait for him to return.”

“I will wake him,” the robot said, and took a step forward.

“No—” the little girl objected. “Not while he’s in trance. That could kill him.”

“Is there a problem?” The deep basso voice came from behind the automaton, and the machine was forced to give way as a heavy entered the tiny squat. The giant’s head had been shaved, he wore a gold ring in his nose, and he was naked from the waist up. Muscles rippled as the variant moved, and the robot knew that the biological could best him in a fight. “My master will pay Citizen Dyson two cronos for two hours of his time,” the android said flatly.

The heavy looked suitably impressed. He knew that the assassin’s guild would be happy to kill someone for half that amount. “Why didn’t you say so?” he demanded. “Go ahead and bring him back, Myra…. The worthless spook owes me thirty gunnars—and I thought the money was gone for good.”

The waif looked from the heavy to the robot and back again. Then she nodded, scraped the wax off the tip of a wooden match, and lit a slender cinnamon stick. The moment a tendril of smoke appeared, the girl blew some of it into the sensitive’s nostrils. The distinctive odor served to stimulate Dyson’s physical body—which sought to bring the rest of him back. The sensitive shivered, blinked his eyes, and frowned. “Myra? Hobar? What’s going on?”

“You will come,” the metal man said tactlessly. “Omar Tepho has need of your services.”

“I don’t know who this Tepho character is,” Hobar put in, “but he’s willing to pay two cronos.”

Dyson looked up at the robot. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” the automaton replied gravely. “It is.”

“Okay,” the sensitive agreed reluctantly. “I wasn’t able to satisfy Tepho’s needs last time. Let’s hope this session is different.”

It took the better part of an hour for the robot and the sensitive to make their way through the laser-straight streets, past the weatherworn pylons that marked the path of a once-glorious transportation system, and up to the seemingly decrepit building from which Omar Tepho ran the Techno Society. The unlikely twosome followed a narrow passageway back to the point where an iron gate blocked further progress. There was an audible click as the automaton inserted a metal finger into the receptacle located next to a print-sensitive identification pad.

The variant had been through the process before, so he wasn’t surprised when the gate swung open, and the robot led him to a metal door. There was a momentary pause while a guard inspected the pair through a peephole followed by a nudge, as the door swung inward. Council member Ron Olvos was there to greet Dyson. He was a small man, but a hard worker and a skilled politician. Those qualities, plus the care with which he always put Tepho’s interests ahead of his own, accounted for his presence on the board. Olvos ignored the machine but extended a hand to the sensitive. “Welcome—Thank you for coming.”

Though not altogether certain that his presence was entirely voluntary, the variant smiled agreeably and wondered if he should demand three cronos rather than two. But he couldn’t muster the necessary courage, the moment passed, and Dyson found himself in a spotless corridor. “The council was in session all morning,” Olvos explained. “The chairman raised the possibility of bringing you back—and will be extremely pleased to learn that we were able to do so.”

“Really?” Dyson inquired doubtfully. “I didn’t meet with much success last time.”

“Ah, but that wasn’t your fault,” the smaller man replied soothingly. “This session will go more smoothly…. Do you remember Jevan Kane?”

The sensitive nodded. Kane was the operative who sought him out the first time. He was a cold man with blond hair, blue eyes, and white skin. All in an age when more than RS percent of the population had black hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. “Yes, of course,” Dyson replied politely. “How is he?”

“Dead,” Olvos replied emotionlessly. “Which is where you come in. It’s our hope that, unlike the founder, Kane continues to support the Techno Society’s goals and will provide us with some much-needed assistance from the other side. If so, we could have an ongoing need for your services, and that could be quite profitable for you.”

Dyson was desperately poor, but there are worse things than poverty, and the process of being co-opted by the highly secretive and possibly sinister Techno Society filled the sensitive with misgivings. But there was no opportunity to consider the long-range implications of the day’s activity as servos whined and double doors opened into what had once been a vat. Those days were gone however, and the onetime tank had been transformed into a circular conference room. Electric light flooded the tank, a holo projector was suspended above the round conference table, and streams of incoming data cascaded down wall-mounted screens. All of which were wonders that Dyson had sworn he wouldn’t disclose. A promise he had kept.

Six of the seven seats that surrounded the table were occupied, but the sensitive’s eyes were immediately drawn to Omar Tepho—partly because of the way the man looked, which was undeniably different, but mostly as a result of the thought forms that hovered around him. They were dark things for the most part, only half-seen within the electrical-storm-like shimmer generated by a brilliant intellect. Others were present in the room, but as Tepho’s coal black eyes swiveled around to look at him, the variant knew that his was the only opinion that really mattered. He had a deep resonant voice, and it filled the space with sound as he spoke. “Welcome,” Tepho intoned, as Dyson entered the keyhole-shaped space at the table’s center. “Thank you for coming. It is our intention to communicate with Jevan Kane.”

By some accident of birth Tepho had been born with multiple defects. His skull was lumpy rather than smooth, one eye socket was higher than the other, and his ears looked like handles on an earthenware jug. Still worse was the fact that the technologist had a congenital spinal deformity that made it difficult for him to walk or run. None of which would have been of interest to Dyson had it not been for the manner in which the vessel had imparted its shape to the contents. The variant bowed humbly and took his seat. “You’re welcome…. I hope I can be of service.”

“As do we,” Tepho replied gravely. “Please proceed.”

Dyson requested that the lights be dimmed, suggested that the council visualize Jevan Kane’s face, and began the series of much-practiced steps that would allow the sensitive to partially exit his body. Meanwhile, on the plane closest to the physical, the disincarnate entity who had once been known as Jevan Kane waited to come through. He had experienced many incarnations—some more pleasant than others. And, although the transition from the physical to the spirit realm had a transformational effect on some spirits, Kane remained unchanged. So much so that he was intent on preparing the physical plane for his next incarnation. A life in which he would control the star-spanning civilization that Tepho sought to establish.

So, no sooner had Dyson half exited his body, than Kane entered it. And not tentatively, but with considerable force, as the operative sought to reintegrate himself with the physical. Everything seemed to slow as the disincarnate entity entered what felt like quicksand—and was forced to cope with a body made of lead. But there were pleasures, too, starting with the sharp tang of vinegar that still clung to the inside surface of the tank and the sudden awareness of the sex organs that dangled between the channel’s legs. Slowly, bit by bit, what had been like a heavy mist vanished, and the conference room appeared.

Tepho was there, as was the shadowy combat variant who stood half-seen behind the chairman, but rather than the fear previously felt when ushered into their combined presence, Kane felt something akin to contempt. Because even as Tepho attempted to manipulate him, he would use the technologist and thereby achieve his ends. “Greetings,” Kane said through what felt like numb lips. “This is Jevan Kane.”

What followed was a long and mostly predictable series of questions focused on the circumstances of Kane’s most recent death, the status of the people he’d been sent to intercept, and the present disposition of the AI called Logos.

Kane answered by providing the council with a slightly glorified description of his own death, but when it came to the other matters, was forced to remind those present that just as it was difficult for them to access the spirit planes, the reverse was true as well. So, in spite of concerted efforts to obtain such information, the best he could give the council was the assurance that the runner and his companions were still on Thara and probably in possession of the computer. “It has no spirit,” the disincarnate explained, “which makes it almost impossible to see…. But judging from the founder’s continued interest in the threesome, it’s my guess that they still have it.”

Though hungry for more detail, Tepho was excited to learn that the device he sought was still on Thara and slammed his fist down on the table in front of him. A stylus jumped and rolled off the table onto the floor. “Excellent—Now we’re getting somewhere—Shaz… I want you to assemble a team and make the jump to Thara. You’ll need guidance from Kane, so take Dyson with you and stay in touch. I know you two have had your differences in the past, but it’s time to put old grudges aside and work for the common good. Kane? Shaz? Can you do that?”

Tepho’s words ignored the fact that he was the one who originally set the two men against each other—but that was to be expected. “You can count on me,” Kane lied. “What’s past is past.”

The air behind Tepho shimmered as the combat variant made his presence manifest. Originally designed to function as warriors by engineers long dead, and slaughtered by the millions back during the techno wars, there weren’t many of the highly specialized creatures left. Shaz had a doglike aspect that stemmed from a long, dark muzzle, a pair of close-set eyes, and oversized ears. He wore black clothing, a leather harness, and carried a small arsenal of weapons. His smile revealed two rows of razor-sharp teeth. “Of course,” Shaz prevaricated smoothly. “It’s the future that counts.”

The city of Tryst, on the Planet Thara

Like many of the cities on Thara, the city of Tryst had been attacked more than once over the last few thousand years, which was why it not only occupied the top of a huge granite outcropping, but was surrounded by a twenty-foot-high stone wall. And, while no one had attempted to scale the barrier in the recent past, it was common knowledge that 11,214 red hat warriors had been prematurely forced into the spirit planes while trying to wrest the city away from the black hats during the War of the Glorious Scepter 112 years earlier.

However, thanks to Rebo and his companions, the correct person now sat on the throne of CaCanth. That ensured that both halves of the Way, as the overarching religion was known, would remain at peace with each other for at least fifty years.

But, as with any city, the citizens of Tryst not only wanted to know who came and went, but to charge them for the privilege. That’s why the coach was forced to a pause behind a line of farm wagons about halfway up the road that led to the top.

Progress was steady, however, and no more than half an hour had passed before the coach drew level with the customs shed, and a portly-looking norm came forward to collect their paid entry fee. Meanwhile, waiting in the background should the customs agent have need of them, were half a dozen cudgel-wielding Dib Wa religious warriors. The tax collector was armed with a well-worn abacus, which he was just about to employ, when Rebo emerged from the back. The runner smiled engagingly as he held a bronze medallion up for the official to see. “Good afternoon,” the runner said. “My name is…” But Rebo never got the opportunity to introduce himself as the customs agent took one look at the symbol, bowed deeply, and said something in Tilisi the language spoken by those who follow the Way. Having heard his words the Dib Wa did likewise.

Rebo bowed in return, straightened, and produced his purse. “How much do we owe?”

“Nothing,” the tax collector replied, his eyes on his feet. “You and your companions are guests of the Inwa leader of leaders. Please go in peace.”

The runner bowed once more, reentered the coach, and took his seat. “Well,” Norr said, as the vehicle jerked into motion. “That was a better reception than we usually get…. It looks like the royal sigil packs some weight.”

“I guess it does,” Rebo replied. “It’s a good thing I didn’t let Bo trade his for a couple of beers and a meat pie two days ago.”

The metal-shod wheels clattered over cobblestones as the conveyance carried the travelers into what many locals referred to as “the city of stone.” And for good reason, since the early colonists made use of high-tech cutting tools to carve what they needed from solid stone, thereby creating a vast maze of halls, galleries, and rooms, all of which were connected by tunnels, passageways, and corridors so complex that many youngsters found employment as guides.

However, what made the city habitable was the extremely deep well that had been sunk down through the very center of the rock into an aquifer below. The original colonists were gone now, as were most of the technologies used to create Tryst, but thanks to the quality of the pumps located more than a thousand feet below, and the huge petal-shaped solar panels that deployed themselves just after sunrise each morning, those who lived within the city of stone had plenty of water.

What the citizens lacked was the additional electricity required to power the thousands of lights that the ancients had installed to illuminate their labyrinth. This became quite apparent as the coach left the customs plaza, rolled up onto a ramp-shaped tongue, and passed through an eternally opened mouth. There were windows, and occasional skylights, but those were rare. That meant it fell to the wall-mounted torches to light the way, or attempt to, although the flickering yellow flames weren’t sufficient to stave off the gloom.

There was a sudden clatter and the momentary glare of an oil lantern as a freight wagon passed in the opposite direction, followed by a shout from the driver, as he guided his angens into a turnout. Rebo peered out through the window as an apprentice rushed out to open the door. The torchlit sign over the door was plain to see. It read, RUNNER’S GUILD, and was picked out with gold paint.

The travelers didn’t have much in the way of luggage, and being used to carrying it themselves, didn’t expect any help. That left Rebo to pay the driver, who grinned when he saw the size of his tip and quickly tucked the money away. “Bless you, sir…. And may the great Teon watch over you.”

“And you,” Rebo replied solemnly, before turning to retrieve his pack. Like all of the other structures in Tryst, the guildhall had been carved out of solid rock and originally had been created for some other purpose. But now, after who knew how many previous incarnations, the three-story structure was the center from which local runners were sent to locations all over the globe, and a home-away-from-home for members who had arrived by spaceship, or were waiting to leave on one.

Double doors opened onto a large lobby. It featured high ceilings, sturdy granite columns, and glossy stone floors. There were dozens of chairs and side tables, and candelabras ablaze with light. Some of the seats were occupied, but most were empty, which made sense during the middle of the afternoon. A huge wood-burning fireplace dominated the far wall, but, large though the blaze was, it couldn’t begin to warm the cavernous room.

The reception desk was off to the right, and since the man who stood behind the polished-granite barrier knew every runner on Thara, and off-worlders were rare, he was prepared to send the norm, the sensitive, and the heavy packing once they arrived at the counter. But that was before the dark-haired man nodded politely—and rolled up a sleeve to display the lightning bolt tattooed onto the inner surface of his left forearm.

Of course guild marks could be faked, but there was a procedure by which the man’s identity could be verified, and the receptionist nodded politely. A fringe of black hair circled his otherwise bald head, thick brows rode beady eyes, and he was in need of a shave. “Greetings, brother… I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No,” Rebo said agreeably. “I don’t think we have. Rebo’s the name… Jak Rebo.”

The bushy brows rose incrementally. “I’ve heard of you… More than once… But never met the man who went with the stories. Please wait here.”

Both Norr and Hoggles had stayed in similar facilities before, but not having been present at check-in, the process was new to them. As the receptionist departed, Norr turned to Rebo. “What’s going on?”

“My name is on file,” the runner explained. “Or should be… Along with a code phrase. If it is, and if I know it, we’re in.”

Norr frowned. “How did the information get here?”

“Each time a runner comes to Thara on behalf of a client they bring a guild bag with them,” Rebo answered. “The locals compare the contents against their records and make whatever changes are necessary. There’s some lag time—but it works.”

“So, where’s your guild bag?” Hoggles wanted to know.

“Back on Ning,” the runner answered ruefully. “Valpoon and his people took it.”

The heavy was about to reply when the receptionist returned. He looked from Norr to Hoggles. “Would you excuse us?”

The receptionist waited for the variants to drift away—before squinting at a scrap of paper. “Please recite your favorite poem.”

Rebo nodded.

When the last of my luck has been spent,

And the sun hangs low in some alien sky,

There shall I lay my head,

Happy to end my run.

The receptionist nodded affirmatively. “Thomas Crowley wrote that poem in this very room.”

The runner nodded. “I was his apprentice during the last few years of his life.”

The receptionist smiled. “Welcome to Thara’s guildhall, Master Rebo… It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. What can I do for you?”

Half an hour later the threesome was settling into a suite of three interconnecting rooms on the third floor. “So, what did you learn?” Norr inquired, as she joined her companions in the small but well-furnished sitting room. “When is the ship due?” The sensitive had dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a face that was a little too narrow to be classically beautiful. Not that Rebo cared. “What we heard back in CaCanth was true,” the runner replied. “Assuming the vessel is still in service, it should arrive three days from now.”

The others knew what he meant. In the aftermath of the revolution that destroyed most of the star gates, a fleet of sentient starships had been constructed and put into service to replace the then-controversial portals. But now, after thousands of years without proper maintenance, the vessels had begun to die. There were fewer of them with each passing year, and, given the fact that the surviving ships were living on borrowed time, it was extremely dangerous to board one.

Still, there was no choice other than the star gates, and the Techno Society controlled most of them. That hadn’t prevented the threesome from making use of the portals in the past, however, so it was Hoggles who voiced the obvious question. “What about our mechanical friend? Why take our chances aboard a ship? If he could point us toward a star gate?”

Rebo grinned as Norr opened her pack, removed the ratty-looking coat, and draped it over her shoulders. The response was immediate. “If you insist on attempting to classify my corporeal being, please refer to it as electromechanical,” the AI said waspishly. “I am not a winepress—And, as for the presence of a star gate, I can assure you that one exists.”

“That’s wonderful,” Norr put in enthusiastically. “They’re scary—but so are the ships.”

“Not so fast,” Logos interjected primly. “I indicated that a gate exists, but given the fact that the equipment is located approximately five hundred feet below this room, I doubt that you could access it.”

“We’ll check on that,” Rebo said thoughtfully. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. A lot of ancient cities sit atop their own ruins.”

The furniture wasn’t large enough for Hoggles, who was seated on the floor. “That’s too bad,” the heavy commented. “It sounds like we’d better lay in some supplies. There won’t be any on the ship.”

“Yeah,” Rebo agreed, and fingered his purse. He’d been paid in CaCanth and given more than half of that money to the receptionist, in exchange for a token that could be redeemed at any guildhall throughout known space. That, plus the funds saved up over the years, made the runner a moderately wealthy man. “We’ll need food, some sort of fuel to cook with, and new bedrolls. Not only that… but I’m low on ammo.”

“Then tomorrow we shop—” Norr said enthusiastically. “I need some things as well.”

“What about tonight?” the heavy wanted to know. “I’m hungry—and it’s too early for bed.”

“First we’ll go looking for a good dinner,” Rebo announced. “Then it’s off to the circus—I have three tickets—compliments of the guild.”

“But what about me?” Logos inquired. “It’s boring in Lonni’s pack.”

“That’s easy,” the sensitive replied. “Make yourself a little more presentable, and I’ll wear you.”

The coat had been laid across a chair. Suddenly it began to squirm, started to expand, and morphed into a beautiful evening gown. It was a pale blue, slightly diaphanous, and covered with sparkly things. “Nope,” Norr commented as she held the garment up for inspection. “That’s too fancy… Have you seen the sort of men that I hang out with? Bring it down a notch.”

The evening dress shimmered and morphed into a plain but well-cut knee-length dress. “That’s more like it,” the sensitive proclaimed, started toward her room, and paused to look back. “As for you two, it wouldn’t hurt to take a bath and put on some clean clothes.” Rebo ran a hand over his beard, Hoggles grumbled, and the matter was settled.

The city of Seros, on the Planet Anafa

Though of considerable importance now, the star gate that Shaz and his newly formed team were about to employ had been no more than a little-used maintenance portal, back when the system was new. The real network, meaning the one that the public had access to, ran parallel to the so-called B-Grid, and had been more complex. Just one of the reasons why RJ percent of the A-Grid was off-line while segments of the support system continued to function.

Metal rang on metal as four heavily burdened robots descended the spiral staircase. Arn Dyson followed them, and a female norm followed him. Her name was Du Phan, and she was an assassin. She had shiny black hair, wide-set brown eyes, and full, rather sensuous lips. Phan’s movements were graceful, like those of a finely trained dancer, and her perfectly sculpted body was festooned with weapons. Her black slippers made little more than a whisper as she flowed down the stairs, and Shaz could feel her pull. The air shimmered as a combination of highly specialized skin cells and hormones interacted to help the combat variant blend with the duracrete walls as he brought up the rear.

It was a small team, but that was a matter of choice rather than necessity, since Shaz could have hired a dozen assassins had he wanted to. But the mission called for the variant to capture Logos and learn where the control center called Socket was located, because one wasn’t much good without the other. That was a serious problem, because even if he and his team managed to capture the AI, there was no guarantee that Logos would cooperate with them. And while a bio bod could be tortured if necessary, it would be unwise to use such methods on a construct because one mistake could destroy the very knowledge they hoped to gain. All of which argued in favor of a small but lethal team. Which, with the possible exception of Dyson, it was.

The stairs twisted down through a pool of light and turned yet again. The radiation produced by the adjacent power core made Shaz feel queasy. Nobody knew what the long-term impact of such exposure might be—but the variant felt sure that it wouldn’t be good. If the other biologicals were experiencing similar sensations, they gave no sign of it as they left the stairs and followed the metal men into the decontamination lock. In spite of the fact that a tremendous amount of scientific knowledge had been lost over the millennia, the Techno Society’s scientists were well aware of what could happen if organisms from one planetary biosphere were allowed to colonize another, which was why Shaz ordered Phan and Dyson to strip off their clothes.

The sensitive was clearly nonplussed, and sought cover among the androids, but nakedness, or the possibility of nakedness, was a fact of life for any member of the assassin’s guild, and Phan was anything but a prude. Nor was the assassin a fool, which was why she placed one hand on her hip and smiled. “Sure… You first.”

Two rows of extremely white teeth appeared when the variant grinned. Then, rather than render himself partially invisible as he might have, Shaz did just the opposite. The truth was that he wanted the female to get a good look at his well-muscled physique. A desire that was apparent to Dyson, who took cover behind the blank-eyed robots as he began to remove his clothing.

Impressed by what she saw, and not to be outdone, Phan performed her own strip tease. But first she had to remove the combat harness and her weapons. With that out of the way, she pulled the top half of the two-piece bodysuit up over her head. Having given Shaz a moment to appreciate her firm breasts, the assassin skimmed the bottom half of her bodysuit down onto her lower legs and sat on the bench that ran along the wall. Then, with her eyes on the variant, Phan lifted her feet off the floor. “So,” she said provocatively. “Would you like to help?”

Shaz not only wanted to help, he wanted to take the norm right there, and would have except for the queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. So he said, “Yes,” pulled the garment free, and turned to slap a saucer-sized button. There was a hiss followed by a roar as jets of hot water combined with a powerful antibacterial agent struck the entire party from every possible direction. The shower continued for three minutes and was followed by blasts of warm air.

Shaz was impressed by the fact that Phan hadn’t tried to conceal her body. Now, as the blowers turned themselves off, the assassin stood facing him. In addition to a pair of nicely shaped breasts, she had a flat stomach, and a tattoo that led down into the valley between her legs. The norm smiled knowingly and looked directly into his eyes. “Can we get dressed now?”

“No,” Shaz replied, as he shifted his gaze from her to a bedraggled Dyson. “Why bother? We’ll have to go through the same process all over again as we exit on Thara.”

Both the humans and the machines left a trail of wet footprints behind as they hauled their disinfectant-soaked luggage into the room beyond. The curvilinear walls were covered with hundreds of video tiles. Each square bore a picture with a name printed below. About half of them were lit, meaning it was still possible to travel there, and the rest were dark. The tile labeled THARA showed a butte, with hills in the distance, and blue sky beyond. “That’s where we’re going,” Shaz explained, as he pointed to the square. “Put the equipment at the center of the platform and step aboard.”

Phan did as instructed, and Dyson did likewise, leaving the robots to imitate them. Once the team was in place, Shaz touched the butte, felt it give, and hurried to join the rest on the well-worn platform. The room lights flashed on and off as a woman long dead spoke through the overhead speakers. “The transfer sequence is about to begin. Please take your place on the service platform. Once in place, check to ensure that no portion of your anatomy extends beyond the yellow line. Failure to do so will cause serious injury and could result in death.”

The steel disk was extremely crowded, and Phan had to edge inward in order to clear the yellow line. Her thigh came into contact with one of the androids, and his alloy skin felt cold. Dyson wished that he was somewhere else and closed his eyes. Life after death was a fact—so it was the process of dying that he feared.

Shaz knew that the public platforms had not only been a good deal larger but equipped with attendants, and chairs for those who chose to use them. Now, as he prepared to make the nearly instantaneous jump from one solar system to another, the operative wondered if the ancients experienced fear as they waited to cross the void, or were so confident of the technologies they employed that the outcome was taken for granted.

Before Shaz could complete his musings, there was a brilliant flash of light. One by one his atoms were disassembled and sent through hyperspace before being systematically reassembled within the receiving gate on Thara. The variant felt the usual bout of disorientation, followed by vertigo, and a moment of nausea. “Okay,” the operative said briskly. “Grab your gear and enter the decontamination lock. Once the shower is over, you can get dressed.”

It took the better part of twenty minutes for the team to clear the decontamination chamber, get dressed, and rearm themselves. Then Shaz led his subordinates into what had once been a standard passageway but had long since been transformed into a lateral tunnel, as the lower levels of Tryst were condemned and the citizenry migrated upward.

Though far from fancy, the interior of the access way was reasonably clean and showed signs of recent use. Shaz took this for granted since there were other Techno Society operatives, some of whom had reason to visit Tryst.

The tunnel terminated in front of a circular hatch. It consisted of a two-inch-thick slab of steel, was locked against unauthorized intruders, and controlled by a numeric keypad. Shaz tapped six digits into the controller and was rewarded by a loud whine as the barrier unscrewed itself from the wall. The combat variant looked back over his shoulder. “Okay, here comes the hard part…. The hatch opens into a vertical shaft. Turn to the right as you exit, grab on to the maintenance ladder, and climb. The exit is five hundred feet above us, so take your time and rest if you need to. I’ll lead the way…. Number Four will secure the hatch and bring up the rear.”

“And then?” Phan wanted to know.

“And then we head for the runner’s guild…. That’s where the runner, the sensitive, and the heavy are most likely to be. If not, we’ll check all of the hotels until we find them. Once that’s accomplished, the first objective is to confirm that they have Logos.”

Dyson “felt” a low-grade buzz as the thoughts generated by thousands of minds merged into something akin to static and drifted down through solid rock.

Phan hooked a thumb in her combat harness. “Works for me.”

“Good,” the operative replied, and turned to swing the hatch out of the way. Most of the shaft was filled by the huge pipes that carried water up to the surface, and a ladder claimed the rest. One careless move, one slip, and anyone attempting to reach the top would plummet to the bottom. With that sobering thought in mind, Shaz stepped up to the edge, forced himself to ignore the drop, and turned his eyes upward. The top of the well was open to the sky, and thanks to the fact that it was daytime, the variant could see a tiny pinhead-sized circle of light. A single stomach-turning step was sufficient to put the operative on the rusty ladder. The metal was cold beneath his fingers as Shaz began to climb. Somewhere, if only in his imagination, the ancients started to laugh.

TWO

The city of Tryst, on the Planet Thara

Would you trade your hammer for a rock? Of course not. Yet you listen when the priests call upon you to cast out technology. They fear science because it can dispel ignorance. And ignorance is the primary thing upon which they feed.

—Excerpt from street lecture 52.1 as written by Milos Lysander, founder of the Techno Society, and delivered by thousands of metal men each day

There was something sad about the Circus Solara. Most of the performers were clearly middle-aged, their costumes were ragged, and the first fifteen minutes of the “most exciting show in the galaxy” were extremely boring. However, there was a significant shortage of things to do in the city of Tryst, which meant that the seats surrounding the circular arena were packed with people, some of whom had started to doze by the time two fancifully dressed clowns secured the local prefect to a brightly painted disk. But Rebo sat up and began to pay attention as the formally attired ringmaster strutted out to the center of the arena and stood next to the turntable to which the official was being secured. He spoke through a handheld megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen—Behold the wheel of death—In a matter of moments this diabolical device will be set into motion… Then, once the disk becomes little more than a blur, Madam Pantha will throw her hatchets. Yes—That’s correct—You could have a new prefect by tomorrow morning—”

The joke stimulated laughter, catcalls, and a round of applause. Madam Pantha wore a yellow turban, sported a curly black beard, and was dressed in a loose blouse and pantaloons. Her clothes might have been white once, but had long since turned gray and were patched in places. She waved a hatchet at the audience, tossed the weapon high into the air, and waited for it to fall. Then, having positioned herself just so, Pantha missed the catch. The hatchet generated a puff of dust as it hit the ground—followed by more laughter as the crowd entered into the spirit of the thing.

The prefect was an extremely good sport, or that’s what Rebo concluded, as a pair of mimes put the platform on which both the wheel of death and the bearded lady stood into motion. Now everyone could see as the platform began to rotate, and a couple of acrobats began to spin the wheel of death. It took the better part of thirty seconds to get the disk turning at top speed. A drumroll began as Madam Pantha accepted a hatchet from a sad-faced clown, brought the implement back over her right shoulder, and let fly. Even the runner stared as the wheel rotated, the hatchet turned end for end, and the somewhat corpulent official continued to rotate. Then came the solid thwack of metal biting into wood, followed by a gasp of indrawn air as the crowd realized that a second weapon was on the way, quickly followed by a third. Fortunately, the second and third hatchets flew true, both sinking into wood only inches from the politico’s body, even as both the platform and the wheel continued to turn.

The audience roared its approval as the clowns brought the much-hyped “wheel of death” to a stop and freed the prefect from his restraints. Though somewhat disheveled, and a bit dizzy, the official seemed otherwise none the worse for wear. He waved in response to a standing ovation and was escorted back to his seat.

The formally quiescent crowd was engaged, the ringmaster could feel it, and hurried to take advantage. “Thank you… I’m pleased to announce that this is the 3,672,416th performance of the famed Circus Solara. Some claim it originated on Sameron, more than ten thousand years ago, while others say it was founded on Cepa II some twelve thousand years ago. But enough of that—” the ringmaster proclaimed loudly. “The show continues…. Bring forth the beasts—”

There was a blare of horns and something of a stir as a man wearing a leather hood, vest, and pants led a column of pathetic-looking animals out into the arena. A white angen led the way. It had what Rebo assumed to be a fake horn secured to its forehead and was harnessed to a cage on wheels. An old dire cat could be seen lying inside the bars, tongue lolling, either too old or too sick to stand.

A hairy tusker had been secured to the back of the cage and followed head down, its tail drooping. A dog rode on top of the mammoth and continually turned somersaults, as if trying to bite its own tail. The children loved that, but their parents were becoming restive, and a piece of overripe fruit sailed through the air. It hit the cage, exploded into fragments, and sprayed the dire cat with orange pulp. It snarled, and that generated scattered applause.

“This is absurd,” Rebo said disgustedly, as he whispered into Norr’s ear. “Let’s leave.”

The sensitive was about to agree when the animal that was supposed to be the main attraction followed the tusker out into the arena. Like all its kind, the L-phant had been bioengineered to perform a variety of tasks. Hauling mostly, which was why the ancient engineers had chosen to eliminate what had once been huge heads and thereby create more cargo space above their immensely strong spines. Of course it was important for the L-phants to see the road in front of them, so their eyes had been moved down under their prehensile trunks, forward of their chest-centered brains.

But after more than ninety years of hard labor in Thara’s southern jungles, this six-ton beast was no longer useful. Everything from the slowness of his gait, to the way his tail drooped, suggested the same thing. The angen was sick, tired, and depressed. Something that Norr experienced as a vast heaviness. The sensitive was familiar with the breed, having ridden them on Ning, and had come to admire them. So now, as the L-phant plodded out into the center of the arena, she shook her head in response to Rebo’s suggestion. “In a minute…. I want to see what happens next.”

Rebo was about to reply, but a blare of trumpets overrode the runner as the beast master went to free the L-phant from his tether. “Look at this mighty beast,” the ringmaster commanded, “and imagine his power—”

That was the cue for a clown to carry a huge melon to the beast master, who ceremoniously placed the object on the ground next to one of the beast’s enormous pillarlike feet. It was clear to everyone present that the angen was supposed to raise its foot and bring it down on the object, thereby demonstrating its strength, but nothing happened. The beast master reacted to what he saw as a betrayal by prodding the L-phant with a six-inch-long steel needle. The poor beast produced what sounded like a human scream, and Norr came to her feet. “Stop that—”

But either the beast master didn’t hear the sensitive, or didn’t care, because, when the L-phant failed to lift his foot for a second time, the goad went in again.

Rebo had already started to stand, and was in the process of reaching for Norr’s arm, when the sensitive stepped up onto the knee-high wall and jumped down into the arena. Puffs of dust exploded away from the variant’s feet as she landed. Logos yelled, “Stop—” from the vicinity of her neckline, and the audience produced a reedy cheer. Some of the onlookers felt sorry for the L-phant, while others were simply bored and eager for some sort of conflict. None had any reason to support the beast master.

But the members of the troupe did, and they came out to defend one of their own, as the angry young woman crossed the arena. Some were armed with cudgels, others carried wooden staffs, and some wore ancient brass knuckles. A sure sign that they were not only ready for a dustup—but had been in plenty of them before.

The Crosser hung butt down under Rebo’s left arm as he followed Norr into the ring, but the runner didn’t plan to use it unless forced to do so since it would be best to resolve the dispute without bloodshed if that was possible. And, since war hammers weren’t welcome at public events, Hoggles was unarmed. That didn’t stop the heavy from uttering his characteristic war cry, however, as he landed in the arena and hurried to catch up.

Meanwhile, Norr felt a wave of resentment and anger roll over her as the distance between her and the self-styled beast master began to close. But, while she could block some of the incoming thought forms, there was no way to make Logos shut up. “This is insane—” the AI declared angrily. “What if that brute attacks you? I could be injured—I insist that you return to your seat at once—”

But Logos could have been talking to a brick wall for all the good that his imprecations did him—and was still in midrant when Norr came face-to-face with the enraged beast master. “Leave the L-phant alone—” the sensitive demanded. “You’re hurting him—”

“So?” the circus performer replied insolently. “The animal belongs to me…. That means I can discipline it in any way that I choose.”

Rebo arrived just as the rest of the circus troupe began to gather behind the beast master. “He has a point,” the runner said hopefully. “The L-phant is his after all.”

“No,” Norr replied through gritted teeth, “no one has a right to hurt angens. Give me the goad,” she demanded, and extended her hand.

“Or? “the beast master wanted to know.

“Or I will take it from you,” Hoggles replied grimly, as he took up a position at Norr’s side.

“Can’t we discuss this?” Rebo inquired reasonably. “Surely there must be some way to…”

But the runner never got the opportunity to finish his sentence as the beast master launched a sucker punch at Norr, was surprised to discover that the sensitive had already stepped back out of the way, and was therefore perfectly positioned to kick him in the balls. The man in the hood uttered a grunt of pain as the variant’s foot came into contact with his private parts and made a grab for the much-abused organs as he fell to his knees. That left his leather-encased skull vulnerable to attack, which Hoggles took immediate advantage of as he locked his fists together and brought them down on top of the performer’s skull. That put the beast master out of his pain and the fight.

But rather than terminate the conflict as the heavy hoped that it would, the massive blow had the opposite effect. Angered by what they had seen and determined to have their revenge, a mixed force of clowns, acrobats, and musicians rushed to attack the threesome. Rebo positioned himself to Norr’s left. “Now look at what you’ve done,” the runner said, as he intercepted a blow, and returned it with interest. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” the variant replied defensively, as she eyed the oncoming strongman. “What was I supposed to do? Let him hurt the L-phant?”

“Yes,”