Runner E-Book

William C. Dietz

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

Seitenzahl: 643

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

On a lonely planet in the distant future, Earth is a fading memory and technology is falling into ruin. As a "runner," Jak Rebo delivers valuable packages from planet-to-planet. When he takes an assignment to deliver a young boy believed to be a reincarnated religious leader to another planet, Jak finds himself at the center of a violent religious conflict, dodging assassins around every corner. The risk doubles after he teams p with Lani Norr, a beautiful "sensitive" with a secret ability so powerful, some will stop at nothing to find and control her. Together they must battle their way through the far reaches of the galaxy to protect the boy and save their own lives. From New York Times bestselling science fiction author William C. Dietz comes this thrilling, action-packed book, which is the first in a two-volume series.

Leseprobe

RUNNER

Copyright © 2005 by William C. Dietz.

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

Originally published by Ace Books

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 978-1-625671-67-7

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

Chapter 16

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

For Marjorie with all my love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special thanks to Allison E. Dietz for her advice and counsel.

1

The Planet Anafa

Once accepted, a contract to deliver a message, package, or person will be honored regardless of cost.

—The Runner’s Oath

The sun filtered through the charcoal-generated haze that hung over Seros, warmed the city’s ancient bones, and hinted at the coming of summer. A great deal had changed during the more than ten thousand years since the first colony ship had landed on Anafa. A raw settlement had grown into a village, a town, and eventually a city. Not one city, but multiple cities, all stacked on top of each other like layers of ancient sediment.

As Jak Rebo made his way through the streets he could see the remains of the last technocivilization in the straight gridlike streets and the weatherworn pylons that marched down the middle of the main arterials. Each column was topped by a hoop of gleaming steel through which bullet-shaped vehicles had once flown, or so it appeared based on the huge floor mosaic in what presently served as the city’s public market.

Some of the structures that rose to the left and right dated back to that same time. An era when power was plentiful, lift tubes carried people to the top of high-rise buildings that stood as thick as trees in a forest. But the skyscrapers were little more than empty cadavers now, hulks from which everything of value had been stripped, leaving rusty skeletons to point impotently at the sky.

Most of the structures that lined the streets were no more than five stories tall because that represented how many flights of stairs the average person was willing to climb. As buildings burned, or were torn down, new ones were built according to the tastes of those who could afford to do so. That activity, carried out over thousands of years, had resulted in a diversity of architecture. Some buildings had been hung with balconies, topped with domes, or provided with columns that they didn’t need.

The older structures all had one thing in common, however, and that was the rectangular boxes from which street numbers had been removed in order to create a need for the hand-drawn maps that the writer’s guild sold to people like Rebo. Many of the frames had been painted, or filled with tiles, but some remained as they had been: wounds over which no scab had been allowed to form.

Though understandable to some extent, the runner was annoyed by what he and his guild considered to be a desecration of the city’s past and the destruction of a system by which written messages had once been delivered on a daily basis. An unheard-of luxury since the great purge 128 years before, when thousands of technocrats had been rounded up and slaughtered in the main square.

Rebo took a look around before stepping into the shadow cast by an ancient arch to examine his hand-drawn schematic without attracting unwanted attention. Though useful, maps could be dangerous, since strangers were the only ones who used them.

Unlike some members of his guild, who dressed like dandies in hopes of attracting wealthy clients, the runner preferred to wear everyday clothes. A bandanna covered his jet-black hair, a gold earring dangled from one ear, and he hadn’t shaved in two days. The Crosser ten-millimeter semiauto pistol hung butt down under his left arm, hidden by the runner’s red leather jacket, but the single-shot Hogger with the fourteen-inch barrel was intentionally visible. It rode in a cross-draw holster along the front of his belly and was powerful enough to stop a three-hundred-pound heavy.

Rebo’s trousers were black, baggy, and gathered around a pair of worn lace-up boots. All in all the sort of outfit that thousands of the planet’s middle-class citizens sported every day. Because of that, and the fact that there was nothing inherently threatening about the man who stood by the arch, the locals ignored the runner as they set out for the local bakery, hawked their wares, or made their way into one of the local taverns.

Satisfied that no one was following him, or otherwise monitoring his movements, Rebo consulted the map. He was looking for Merchant Marly Telvas, a wealthy businessman, who was said to live in the reservoir district. Now, having passed the man-made lake from which the area took its name, the runner was on the lookout for landmarks that would help him identify the correct dwelling. He spotted the top of a small spire, figured it was the same fifty-foot-tall obelisk that appeared on his map, and started in that direction.

As the runner drew closer, a vine-covered twelve-foot-high wall appeared on his right, a sure sign that someone had something worth stealing. It turned out that the spire was firmly planted on an island located in the middle of the street just opposite a pair of well-varnished wooden gates. The city’s police force, or guard, as it was commonly known, was notoriously understaffed, incompetent, and corrupt. That meant everyone who could afford to do so paid members of the watch keeper’s guild for extra protection, be it heavily armed norms like those who lounged in front of the gates directly across from Rebo, or the cudgel-toting heavies who patrolled the better neighborhoods during the night. The runner looked both ways before crossing the street. While none of the brightly uniformed watchmen looked to be especially bright, one of them proved to be fairly assertive. His voice was gruff. “I don’t know what you’re selling, citizen—but it’s safe to say that Merchant Telvas already has one of them.”

Rebo could be charming when he chose to be. He summoned his best smile and displayed the lightning bolt that had been tattooed onto the inside surface of his left forearm when he was twelve. “I’m a runner. Is Merchant Telvas home?”

“What difference does it make?” the watchman demanded. “Give me the message, and I will deliver it for you.”

Rebo shook his head, saw that the other watchmen were moving to flank him, and took three steps back. He hooked his right thumb into the gun belt only inches from the Hogger, and the effort to surround him stopped. “Thanks,” the runner said evenly, “but I am required to put the message into his hands. That’s what it says in the guild book—and that’s what I have to do.”

The head watchman wasn’t surprised. Even though the runner had already been paid by the person who sent the message, he wanted to deliver it personally in hopes of a generous tip. A perfectly understandable motivation, but one that he planned to quash. If anyone was to receive a tip, the guard believed that it should be him.

“Okay,” the watchman growled, “but no weapons. They stay with us.”

It was a ticklish moment. The request was reasonable since members of the assassin’s guild had been known to impersonate runners, even going so far as to have fake guild marks tattooed onto their skins, but once Rebo surrendered his weapons he would be at the watchmen’s mercy. Would they allow him to pass? Or take the box and deliver it themselves? Or worse yet, take the box, keep his weapons, and send him packing? He could summon the guard, but ultimately it would be his word against theirs.

Time seemed to stretch thin, and Rebo was about to back away, when Uba, the goddess of luck, came to his rescue. There was a loud clatter as a bell rang, a small angen-drawn cart rounded a corner, and the driver shouted at a pedestrian foolish enough to cross the street in front of it. The conveyance was little more than a box on wheels but still managed to convey a sense of importance via its well-oiled leather roof, pristine paint job, and the enormous brass lanterns mounted to either side of the brightly clad driver. The genetically engineered animal that stood between the traces still bore a strong resemblance to the horses from which it was descended, except that the angen was stronger, faster, and even more graceful. A man leaned out of a window as the cart ground to a halt. He had a full face, sensual lips, and wore a bright yellow turban decorated with a white feather. “What’s going on here? Open the gate!”

The man could have been a visitor, but Rebo didn’t think so, and took a chance. “Citizen Telvas? My name is Jak Rebo… I have a package from your brother.”

The watchmen moved to intervene, but the merchant raised a pudgy hand. “From my brother? Surely you are mistaken.”

“He said that you might doubt his identity,” Rebo replied quickly, “and told me to tell you that he was the one who took your rock collection when you were six and that he’s sorry.”

The merchant’s eyes widened as if he was surprised, and he hooked a thumb toward the back of the carriage. “Jump aboard.”

Rebo took a dozen steps forward, jumped up onto the step where a footman could ride, and grabbed on to the side bars. The gate had been opened by then, and the watchmen glowered as the cart jerked into motion. Rebo offered them an insulting gesture and grinned as their faces turned purple and the gate swung closed.

Though not especially large, the grounds were well kept and lavishly decorated. As the cart made its way up a slight incline to a formal entry the runner saw all manner of statues, seats, and fountains to either side of the drive. Too many in his judgment, as if someone continued to purchase objects long after the need to do so had passed.

The cart came to a halt under a portico, servants rushed out to welcome their master home, and Telvas had just stepped onto a carefully placed footstool as the runner rounded the corner of the carriage. The merchant nodded. “Feva will show you to my study. I’ll be along soon.”

Rebo had no desire to linger but discovered that he didn’t have a whole lot of choice as Telvas turned and entered his house. The structure was three stories tall, capped by domes of varying heights, and painted an eye-searing white.

Feva proved to be a young, rather comely servant girl with waist-length hair and a floral dress. Very few strangers were allowed within the walls, so she was understandably curious about the ruffian her master had brought home, and directed sidelong glances at the runner as she escorted him into the house.

It was cool inside, and thanks to a generous supply of windows, very well lit. The ceilings were high, the rooms were generously proportioned, and the same excess that could be seen outside was visible within. Not only was each room they passed through full to overflowing with furniture, but it seemed as though every surface supported a lamp, urn, or vase, many of which struck the runner as quite hideous. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, the tinkle of a distant bell floated through the lightly perfumed air, and Rebo wondered if Madam Telvas had just rung for her maid.

Feva led the runner around a corner, gestured toward a long, roughly hewn bench, and curtsied. “Please wait here. Master Telvas will be along soon.”

Others were waiting for an audience as well. One had the sleek well-fed look of a professional, an accountant judging from the well-worn abacus that rested beside him, while the other wore work clothes and sat with his feet on a well-crafted wooden toolbox. A carpenter, perhaps, hoping to receive a commission, or having been summoned to repair something of substance. Rebo nodded to both men, took note of their somewhat grim expressions, and decided that both had been there for a while.

Time passed, shadows slipped across the opposite wall, and the carpenter started to snore. The runner didn’t own a watch, not since a well-endowed barmaid had stolen it three months earlier, but didn’t need one to know that at least two hours had passed by the time the door finally opened and Telvas stepped into the hall. The turban had disappeared, along with the robes, leaving the merchant in a loose-fitting white shirt, baggy black pants, and house slippers. It was a deceptively simple outfit that probably cost a crono if not more. The accountant started to rise, clearly expecting that he would go first, but the merchant pointed to Rebo. “You. Come in.”

Rebo rose, followed Telvas into his study, and pulled the door closed behind him.

The merchant circled an enormous wooden desk to sit in a thronelike chair positioned behind it. There were two guest chairs, and Rebo decided to appropriate one of them without benefit of an invitation. Unlike the rest of the house, the study was nearly barren, suggesting that it was someone other than Telvas who enjoyed the process of buying things just to buy them. That observation served to elevate the merchant in the runner’s estimation. “So,” Telvas began, “you have a message for me?”

“No,” Rebo replied, as he reached inside his jacket. “Not a message, but a package.”

Telvas watched the runner produce a flat box and place it on the surface of his highly polished desk. It was wrapped in blue cloth, tied with a red ribbon, and looked a bit worn. Strangely, from Rebo’s point of view, the merchant made no attempt to touch it. Their eyes met. “What does the package contain?”

Rebo shrugged. “I don’t know. Your brother didn’t say.”

“Tell me more about my brother,” Telvas said, leaning back into his chair. “What does he look like?”

It was a common question, one that runners, especially interstellar runners received all the time. Communications between star systems were infrequent at best, which meant that those who were fortunate enough to receive a letter or package often requested a description of their friends or loved ones. Usually after opening whatever they had received however. “Your brother looks a lot like you,” Rebo answered honestly, “although he has more gray in his hair. He was nicely dressed, much as you are, and wore a lot of gold jewelry.”

“Was there anything else?” Telvas demanded. “Anything unusual about his body or the way that he moved?”

Rebo thought back to the meeting that had taken place more than two years before. Unlike the present encounter it had been brief. But there had been something distinctive about the other brother’s movements. “Yes, your brother had a pronounced limp.”

“Ah,” Telvas replied thoughtfully. “So he still has the leg… I know this conversation must seem strange to you, but suffice it to say that my brother and I had what you might call a business disagreement, which culminated in an injury to his leg. I had assumed that the medicos would remove it.

“So, tell me, Citizen Rebo,” the merchant said, forming a steeple with his fingers. “What was your impression of my brother? I haven’t seen him in many years. Is he a nice man?”

Rebo summoned up a picture of a man with hard eyes, slightly overripe lips, and freshly powdered skin. A man who looked like he’d been a killer once, but currently considered himself to be above that sort of thing, and hoped to leave the previous him behind. But did it make sense to say that? No, the runner thought to himself, and was about to lie when Telvas produced three gold cronos and pushed them across the desk. It was a gratuity, and a generous one, which would make a nice addition to the account that Rebo maintained with the runner’s guild. “Take them,” the merchant ordered, “and put them in your pocket. Then give me your answer—and not the one you think I want to hear.”

Rebo slid the coins off into a palm, felt their reassuring weight, and stashed them in one of the many pockets that lined the inside of his jacket. With that accomplished the runner looked straight into the other man’s eyes. “I think your brother is an extremely dangerous man.”

The merchant nodded soberly. “So, that being the case, would you open the box?”

Rebo looked down at the seemingly innocent box and back up again. “No, sir. I wouldn’t.”

“But what if it contains a peace offering?” the other man insisted. “What then? I feel bad about what happened to my brother’s leg and would like to make it up to him.”

The runner shrugged. “Your brother didn’t strike me as a man who makes peace offerings, but the choice is yours.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Telvas replied. “Thank you for delivering the box. And thank you for the advice. Feva will see you to the gate.”

Rebo stood. “Is there a rear entrance?”

Telvas nodded understandingly. “Yes, there is. Tell Feva, and she will take you there.”

Rebo withdrew after that, discovered that Feva had appeared in the hall, and glanced back over his shoulder as she closed the door. The box remained on the surface of the desk, and Telvas continued to stare at it.

The runner slipped out through the back gate ten minutes later, was pleased when none of the watchmen stationed there showed the least bit of interest in him, and started down the street. Rebo had walked about a hundred feet, and was just about to cross a street, when he heard a dull thump and looked back in time to see a puff of smoke shoot out of a window. The study? Yes, he thought so. There were cries of alarm, followed by hysterical screams, and Rebo knew that Telvas was dead.

The runner paused to take a long slow look around. Was there another runner lurking in the area? A man or woman hired to confirm the merchant’s death and carry a message back to his brother? There wasn’t any sign of one, but that didn’t mean much, so Rebo sauntered away. It was a nice day, a profitable day, but one that left him with an unfathomable question: How could such an apparently smart man be so stupid?

* * * *

Even though Lanni Norr was a stranger to the city, the marketplace was easy to find. First, because at least half of the traffic flowing into Seros was headed there, and second, because once the sensitive drew close enough she could smell the rich amalgam of spices, fried food, and angen feces that scented the air around it.

Then, as she entered the market, even more senses came into play. There were racks of colorful fabrics, bins filled with vegetables, tables covered with jewelry, booths hung with amulets, racks of handmade clothing, piles of woven baskets, bags filled with white nuts, reels of hand-twisted rope, trays loaded with fragrant candles, display boards covered with wicked-looking knives and so much more that one couldn’t hope to see all of it in a single day. And there were sounds, too. The rumble of a thousand haggling voices was punctuated by the squawks, snorts, and squeals of caged angens, the incessant shouts of vendors who never stopped hawking their wares, the ring of hammers on metal, the wail of a lost child, and occasional snatches of music.

But there was more, much more, for Norr at least, who unlike 99 percent of the people swirling about her could see the separate energy fields that each individual emitted, catch glimpses of the discarnate spirits who flitted through the area intent on errands of their own, and was constantly buffeted by waves of projected emotion. Not because she sought to experience such things, but because her ancestors had been genetically engineered to pick up on other people’s emotions, manipulate small objects from a distance, heal the sick, and communicate with the dead.

As Norr made her way through the market, she was exposed to continual bursts of love, hate, greed, fear, lust, and happiness as those about her wrestled with what fellow sensitives referred to as the holy trinity: money, sex, and power—the basic drives behind most human activity, including hers. Because it took money to survive, which was why the sensitive had been forced to emerge from hiding and make the long, uncomfortable trek into Seros.

So, unpleasant though the task was, Norr wandered the long, tight aisles until she spotted the sign she’d been looking for. Most of the city’s population were functionally illiterate, so a large replica of a quill had been hung over the booth, and therefore over the scribe who sat on a stool beneath it.

Like most of his ilk, the bespectacled clerk was a member of the so called A-strain, meaning the 80 percent of humans also referred to as norms. Most had black hair, olive-colored skin, and long, slender bodies. There were exceptions, of course, genetic throwbacks to the days hundreds of thousands of years before, when people came in a rainbow of colors. Such individuals were rare however.

This specimen sported a bowl cut, a pair of thick hand-ground lenses that were perched on the very tip of his nose, and radiated smug superiority. His aura flickered and morphed into something like apprehension as Norr approached the counter. Because even though the young woman with the pack, the long wooden staff, and the knee-high boots looked innocent enough, she had the large dark eyes, high cheekbones, and narrow face of a sensitive. A breed that the scribe, like many others, had reason to fear. Not because of a personal experience with one, but because they were said to read minds, and the wordsmith had things to hide. Like his tendency to mentally undress almost every woman he encountered. In fact he had already stripped Norr, noting that her breasts were too small for his taste, when she arrived in front of his counter. The clerk swallowed the lump that threatened to fill his throat and struggled to speak. “Yes?” he croaked. “Can I help you?”

Norr couldn’t read minds, but she could sense the emotions that surrounded the man and was willing to take advantage of them. “You are a very naughty man,” she said experimentally, and knew she had scored when the scribe’s face turned bright red.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” the wordsmith stuttered. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Good,” Norr replied soothingly. “Apology accepted. Perhaps you can help me.”

“I’ll certainly try,” the clerk replied eagerly, pleased to get off the hook so easily. “What do you need? A letter perhaps?”

“No,” Norr replied deliberately. “I could write that myself. What I need is some advertising.”

“Ah,” the scribe responded happily, “a flyer should do it! I’ll write one up, send it over to the guild’s workshop, and you’ll have five hundred copies by noon tomorrow. The press is broken again, but the apprentices can copy it by hand. The practice will do them good.”

“Thanks,” Norr said cautiously. “But how much would that cost?”

“Oh, about a hundred and fifty gunars,” the wordsmith replied airily, “but well worth the price.”

“Perhaps,” Norr said agreeably, conscious of the fact that she had only a hundred gunars in her purse. “However I’m looking for something a bit more economical.”

The bright red money lust that surrounded the scribe flickered and started to fade. “Yes, well, I suppose we could use graffiti instead. For seventy-five gunars our specialists could paint one-line messages onto two hundred and fifty highly visible walls throughout the city.”

Norr looked surprised. “You mean people pay for that stuff?”

“Of course,” the wordsmith said matter-of-factly. “We run into freelancers from time to time, or lose messages when a citizen slaps a fresh coat of paint over our work, but it doesn’t take long for them to see the error of their ways. Especially after a couple of heavies drop by to say ‘hello.’”

“Okay,” Norr agreed reluctantly. “Two hundred and fifty locations sounds good. But how many words to a line?”

“Ten,” the scribe replied succinctly.

“I need more,” Norr insisted, as she counted them in her head. “Seventeen to be precise.”

“That’s going to cost you five gunars,” the clerk warned primly.

“Not necessarily,” the sensitive countered as she leaned forward. “Remember that apology? What if your superiors were aware of what you’ve been up to?”

The clerk’s supervisor happened to be a woman, and he could imagine what would happen if she knew that he had undressed her hundreds of times. There were worse assignments than the market, much worse, and he had no desire to receive one. Ink-stained fingers reached for a hand-sharpened quill, which the scribe dipped into a disreputable-looking bottle, and held poised above a blank sheet of paper. “Okay, seventeen. What are they?”

Norr looked off into space as she recited them. “Come see the famous sensitive Lanni Norr communicate with the dead Friday at eight, in the actor’s guild.”

“That’s eighteen words.”

“Okay,” Norr said nonchalantly. “Make it eighteen then.”

The scribe’s pen made a scritching sound as he transferred the words to a piece of tan parchment. The sensitive noticed that each letter was formed with the perfection of an ancient printing machine and marveled at how precise the man was. It was evident that he enjoyed his work because as he wrote the color of his aura changed from red to a harmonious blue. “That will be seventy-five gunars,” the wordsmith said as he blotted the paper. “Payable in advance.”

“I’ll give you forty up front, and the rest when the messages actually appear,” Norr replied.

The scribe swore under his breath. “All right… But a heavy will show up Friday to collect, so you’d better be ready to pay.”

“I will be,” Norr replied confidently and counted gunars out onto the surface of the counter. “By the way, this will be a demonstration of psychic phenomena rather than some sort of show. I think you should come.”

“Thank you,” the wordsmith answered politely. “But I’m busy that night.”

“Okay,” Norr said as she prepared to leave. “But your wife is there by your side. She says that her death wasn’t the least bit painful, she’s happy on the spirit plane, and you should stop grieving for her.”

No one knew about the true extent to which the scribe missed his wife, and he hadn’t mentioned her death to the young woman, so how did she know? Tears welled up in the clerk’s eyes, and he used a tattered sleeve to wipe them away. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask Norr what his wife looked like now, but the sensitive was gone.

* * * *

Because the monastery had been built hundreds of years before, back when Seros was little more than a settlement, it occupied a piece of prime real estate atop one of the hills marking the city’s eastern boundary. The complex was surrounded by high walls, which the brotherhood said had been built to keep ignorance at bay, but had practical value as well, for hardly a month passed without an attempt to break in and steal the gold that was rumored to be kept there. There wasn’t any gold, of course, but the monastery did contain some precious artifacts, which was one of the reasons why the Dib Wa (iron men) patrolled the walls. The other reason, the person each of the warriors was sworn to protect with his life, threw a door open and bounded onto the surface of a large flat roof.

The guards smiled indulgently as the ten-year-old boy ran in circles, waved his arms, and sent a flock of white wings flapping into the air. It was a daily ritual and one of the few unstructured moments of the youngster’s day. He wore a pillbox-shaped red hat like those favored by the adult members of his sect, a matching knee-length jacket, and black trousers. And, because Tra Lee was widely believed to be the reincarnated spirit of Nom Maa, a much-revered teacher who had entered the spirit realms a dozen years earlier, all the Dib Wa bowed. Not to the boy, but to the man they believed he would become, and the role that “the Divine Wind” was destined to play in the future.

Because, assuming that the reading of Nom Maa’s death poem was correct, the time had come for a heavenly rebirth, meaning the reemergence of the Saa or “Way,” which would serve as an important counterbalance against what the monks saw as a steady slide into barbarity. The only problem being that the competing black hat sect claimed that Tra Lee was an imposter, and insisted that a lad raised under their control was the real Nom Maa. But if such matters were of concern to Tra Lee, the little boy showed no sign of it as he ran along the top of the walls, played games of his own devising, and shouted orders to imaginary friends.

The period of freedom was all too brief, however, and it wasn’t long before Lee’s spiritual tutor, an avuncular monk named Suu Qwa, rang a tiny bell. Lee ignored the tinkling sound at first, hoping for one of the rare occasions on which Qwa might grant him some extra time, but the noise continued. Finally, shoulders slumped in defeat, the boy walked across the roof to the point where his tutor waited. “So, little one,” the monk said softly, “where will we meet today?”

It was a game that the two of them played every day and Lee brightened at the prospect of it. Although he had to take part in the lesson, he could choose where it would be taught, and delighted in forcing Qwa to teach in all manner of unlikely locations. The only problem was that it was getting hard to come up with new venues. The youngster looked around, spotted the coop where the specially bred carrier flits were kept, and pointed a grubby finger in that direction. “Up there… On the roof.”

Qwa bowed deeply. “The roof it will be. Would your majesty like me to boost you up there? Or will you climb?”

Lee eyed the structure but couldn’t see any way to scale the walls. “It appears that I will need a boost.”

“Yes,” Qwa said as he accompanied the youngster to the coop. “All of us need help from time to time. Many are willing—but how to choose?”

Lee knew that the lesson was under way and responded accordingly. “The correct individual will not only have the desire to help, but motivations consistent with key goals, and possess the skills or tools required to complete the task.”

“Excellent,” Qwa said approvingly as he boosted the boy up onto the roof. “In spite of the abundant evidence to the contrary, it appears that you pay attention once in a while.”

There was a momentary disturbance as the birds fluttered around their cage and cooed to each other. Most had settled down by the time the tutor hoisted himself up onto the gradually slanting surface. It was covered with droppings, and Lee had already claimed the cleanest spot. He grinned knowingly.

But it was difficult if not impossible to get a rise out of the monk, who squatted on his haunches and eyed his student with the same calm gaze that he always manifested. “Today I would tell you of a village and the monk who lived there. One night there was a loud disturbance outside his hut. He got up and opened the door to find that a man and the local midwife were standing on his stoop. Both individuals poured out their hearts to the monk, and it wasn’t long before the situation became clear. The man’s wife was pregnant, but the baby was in a poor position, and the midwife believed that while she could save one of the two, there was very little chance that both would survive. The man favored his wife, but the midwife argued for the infant, both calling upon the monk to render a decision. Which view was correct?”

Lee considered the problem for a moment. “The man was correct.”

Qwa raised an eyebrow. “Why? The midwife argued that while sad, a new life must always take precedence over an old life, for such is the natural order of things.”

“That is true,” Lee answered, “so far as it goes. But the monk had a responsibility to look beyond natural cycles to the greater good. If the woman were to die not only would the man lose his wife, but her other children would lose their mother, and all she might have taught them.”

Qwa nodded approvingly. “That was well said, Excellency. You are both an excellent student and a teacher. Please allow me to take this opportunity to thank you for all I have learned from my contact with you and to say a reluctant good-bye. There are many paths, and now ours must part.”

Lee felt something heavy drop into the bottom of his stomach. The youth had only the vaguest memories of his real family and had come to regard Qwa and his other instructors as a group of uncles. Each brought something unique to his life, and if he lost one of them, it would be difficult to fill the gap. He frowned. “Why do you say that? Are you leaving?”

“No,” Qwa answered, “but you are. The final test awaits. The time has come for you to travel to the holy city of CaCanth.”

Lee felt fear mixed with a sense of excitement. He didn’t want to part company with Qwa, or the rest of his tutors, but not a day went by that he didn’t look out over the city of Seros and wish that he could walk its dusty streets. And CaCanth was on the planet Thara, everyone knew that, which meant he would get to ride in a spaceship! The very thought of it made his pulse pound. “You must accompany me, Master Qwa! I command it.”

“It is true that you command many things,” the monk answered gently, “but this is not one of them. It will be a long, dangerous journey, and special arrangements must be made to ensure your safe arrival. My place is here.”

“But what if I’m not Nom Maa?” the boy demanded heatedly. “I’ll fail the test, the black hats will control the Saa, and your efforts will be for naught.”

“Ah, but you are the Divine Wind,” Qwa answered serenely, “and therefore have nothing to fear.”

A cloud chose that moment to pass in front of the sun, a momentary darkness fell over the land, and Lee felt a chill run down his spine.

* * * *

The tattoo parlor was a small dingy little shop with two workstations. Rebo sat in one of them, his back to the frowsy artist, as she added a new image to the map that already occupied the upper portion of his back. Most of the interstellar runners wore them, not because they had to, but because they wanted to, as a way of memorializing successful runs. Some even went so far as to will their skins to the guild, which typically had sections of the artwork removed, and fashioned into lampshades or other decorative objects. They were the exceptions of course, since most of the star runners died obscure deaths on remote planets, where they were stripped of their valuables before being unceremoniously dumped into a ravine, bog, or unmarked grave. Until that final moment they lived in the hope that they would make it back to whatever world they called home before making the run from which no one could return. Not in the flesh at any rate—which was what the tattoo artist was focused on.

The pain was intense, but rather than attempt to push it away, Rebo had learned to accept it. More than that to go beyond it, to a place where he was only dimly aware of the discomfort as the relentless needle pushed ink in under the surface of his skin. During moments like that the runner entered the equivalent of a reverie, reliving moments from the past, or entering a fantasy world where there was no such thing as pain. And that was why Rebo was slow to respond when a voice called his name. “Citizen Rebo? My name is Suu Qwa. Brother Qwa. The people at the runner’s guild told me I could find you here.”

The words served to bring the world back into focus, and the pain came with it. Rebo frowned as the needle plunged into his back yet again. The monk’s head had been shaved, a simple red robe hung from his skinny shoulders, and he looked like he was thirty or so. The runner found that his throat was dry. “No offense, Brother Qwa, but I’m kind of busy at the moment. Could this wait?”

The monk shook his head. “No, I’m afraid it can’t. A ship is due in four days. We hope to send a package out on it. So, assuming that the vessel actually shows up, we need to hire a runner.”

Rebo understood the problem. Or part of it anyway. What little interstellar commerce there was took place via a fleet of spaceships that dated back to one of the last major technocivilizations. Because they were fully automated, the ships continued to link the far-flung star systems together long after the culture that created them had been destroyed.

Now, thousands of years later, the spaceships were dying because no one had the knowledge or the means to repair them. The result was that there were fewer ships with each passing year, it was no longer possible to reach some destinations directly, and entire solar systems had been left isolated. Just one of the reasons why people hired runners to carry their messages rather than handling the chore themselves.

The pain was even more intense now, and tiny beads of perspiration had appeared on the runner’s forehead. “Look,” Rebo said, “I just finished a run and I’m tired. I suggest that you return to the guild and ask for another recommendation.”

The monk looked unconvinced. “You are the best. That’s what your peers say. We will double your fee.”

Rebo looked the monk in the eye. “Double? That’s a lot of money. This package must be important.”

“It is,” Qwa confirmed. “Come to the monastery tonight. We will show you the package, and assuming that you agree to handle the consignment, pay half of what we owe you up front.”

“And the other half?” the runner inquired.

“You will receive that when you deliver the package to the city of CaCanth on Thara,” Qwa answered.

The name startled Rebo, his body gave an involuntary jerk, and the needle went deep. Thara! The planet on which he had been born, left at the age of twelve, and never gone back to since. Was his mother still alive? It seemed unlikely, but without knowing it, the monk had hit on the one thing that would change the runner’s mind. Rebo’s mother had worked twelve hours a day to obtain enough money to buy his apprenticeship, and now, if he could buy her some comfort in her old age, the journey would be worth it. “All right,” the runner replied, “I’ll see you tonight.”

The monk left, the artist dabbed at her bloody work, and the torture continued.

* * * *

The hall maintained by the actor’s guild was second only to the local amphitheater in terms of the number of people that it could hold, and Lanni Norr peered through dusty red velvet curtains as the citizens of Seros filed in. Many carried cushions to soften the unpadded seats, blankets to protect them from the evening chill, and baskets of food. And, judging from the steady stream of people, it appeared that her advertising campaign had been a success. The actor’s guild would get 10 percent of the gate, but assuming she could fill 80 percent of the seats, the sensitive figured she would take in enough money to defray her expenses for a year. She would come up with a disguise, fade into the countryside, and rent a cottage. Each day would be spent reading, painting, or simply doing nothing. That was Norr’s dream—and the only reason she was willing to expose herself to the dangers associated with the impending performance.

Because while clairaudience was one thing, and the occasional demonstration of telekinesis was another, a full-blown trance was something else. Once the sensitive exited her body and allowed a discarnate soul to enter it, she would be helpless until the entity left. Yes, she had spent her last few gunars on a bodyguard, but what if the entire audience stormed the stage as had happened in the past? Norr had been present the night that an unruly crowd had accused her mentor of witchcraft and subsequently beaten the old woman to death. Norr had been forced to travel for more than a hundred miles before she finally located a cemetery that was willing to accept the sensitive’s remains.

Someone touched Norr’s shoulder and she jumped. It was the heavy named Loro and he was huge. The variant stood a full seven feet tall, weighted close to 350, and looked as though his muscles had muscles. Like all his kind, the bodyguard was the result of the same sort of genetic tinkering that had produced Norr, except that his body was designed to cope with heavy-gravity environments, where massive bones and big muscles were required to survive. Over time some of the big brutes had been absorbed into the general population, where they often wound up as laborers, watchmen, and freelance bodyguards. Loro’s voice consisted of a deep rumble. “Where do you want me?”

“Between me and everyone else,” Norr replied fervently. “Don’t let anyone up on the stage. Especially while I’m in trance. Do you understand?”

The last was said as if the concept might be too complicated for a heavy to understand. Both norms and variants had a tendency to assume that heavies were stupid, but that was absurd since the scientists who designed the enormous humanoids had been trying to create intelligent workers. Loro was so used to the bias he didn’t even take offense anymore. “Of course,” the heavy replied. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” Norr replied gratefully. “Now, if you would be so kind as to take your place out on the stage, I think your very presence will help keep the rowdies under control.”

Loro nodded, pulled one of the curtains aside, and stepped through the resulting gap. The sensitive saw that two-thirds of the seats were full, and sought the momentary solitude of her dressing room. It was her habit to meditate for a few minutes prior to a demonstration, and even that small amount of distance would help reduce the pressure from the multitudinous thought forms that pressed in around her.

Meanwhile, out in the audience, there was a stir as a metal man entered the hall. He wasn’t real, of course, but a replica of a man, one of dozens that had appeared on the streets of Seros during the past couple of years. Nobody liked them. Partly because they were machines, and there was a segment of society that believed that machines were dangerous, but mostly because of their incessant preaching on behalf of a group called the Techno Society. In fact, hardly a day went by when one or more of the androids couldn’t be found near the public market droning on about the benefits of technology.

And sometimes, for reasons known only to them, the metal men would appear at public events like this one. Only rather than preach they were content to sit and observe. Like the rest of his electromechanical brethren, the robot wore a hooded robe that revealed little more than the sculptured planes of his alloy face and hung all the way to the floor. The machine whirred as it brushed past people who had already taken their seats and plopped down between a teacher and a butcher. Neither was especially pleased, and both went to extremes to avoid contact with the creature.

Each attendee had been given a blank square of paper on which they had been invited to write their name, make their mark, or jot down a message to a dead loved one. There was a stir as the ushers called for the audience to pass the billets to the center aisle.

The metal man handed his note to the teacher, who took the moment required to read it, and was surprised to see some extremely neat printing. It read, “Milos Lysander.”

Did that mean the machine was named Lysander? There was no way to know, and it was none of his business, so the teacher passed all the pieces of paper that had come his way down to the center aisle, where they were collected.

The lights dimmed, and the curtains opened, to reveal a young woman sitting on a tall stool with a table at her side. Lamplights, cleverly directed her way through the use of lenses, lit a pretty face. She had long dark hair, large brown eyes, and extremely fair skin. But slender though she was, the sensitive projected an aura of strength, and her eyes flashed as she looked about the room. “Good evening. My name is Lanni Norr. I have good news for you… There is no such thing as death. Only a transition from one plane of existence to another. I am not a witch, nor a magician, but a member of a small group of people who refer to themselves as sensitives. Just as phibs were bred to swim, and wings were born to fly, we were created to facilitate communications between this world and the next.”

Norr emphasized her words by seizing control of the energy in the room, shaping it to her purpose, and reaching out to seize a black skullcap. It belonged to a man seated in the very front row, which meant that everyone could watch the object rise into the air and hang suspended over the man’s head. Its owner looked up in astonishment, clapped a hand to his mostly bald pate, and said, “What the hell?”

A twitter ran through the crowd. One of the people seated directly behind the bald man stood and swept an arm back and forth above the cap to see if it was suspended by a thread. There was no reaction from the hat other than to rise even higher, move sideways through the air, and settle itself onto the skeptic’s head. The audience member examined the cap, shook his head in amazement, and returned the object to its owner.

The crowd loved the byplay, and Norr could feel the amount of positive energy in the room increase. “So,” she continued, “I hope that you will relax and open your minds to the possibility that there are forms of energy and planes of existence beyond the physical realm in which we currently dwell. Contact with those in the next world is never certain, but assuming that we are fortunate enough to construct a momentary bridge between the two planes, listen carefully to what I say. In many cases, though not all, friends and loved ones will attempt to communicate some fact or incident that only the two of you would be aware of as proof that they still exist and love you.

“During this process one or more of them may take temporary control of my physical body in order to speak directly. Should that occur, please remember that I am the channel, not the spirit entity, and have no control over what he or she may say.

“Please remain in your seats throughout the demonstration, and do not approach the stage, or my friend Loro will be forced to reseat you.”

The heavy stepped out of the shadows at that point, crossed his arms over a massive chest, and eyed the audience. Everyone got the point.

“Okay,” Norr said, “if someone will bring me the billets, we will begin. Please note the fact that I had no way to know who would come tonight—and the messages you submitted have been on display throughout the process.”

A basket filled with scraps of paper was brought forward and placed on the table next to Norr’s stool. The sensitive reached in, ran her fingers through the billets, and stopped when her hand started to tingle. She pulled a piece of paper out of the pile without looking at it, crumpled the parchment into a ball, and held it in her fist. Then, blanking her mind, she let what she thought of as “the other side” take over. Words and images began to appear, and she passed them on. “Is there a Loki in the audience? Your mother is here… She says that you are correct about Del. He is a good man, and it would be a mistake to let this one get away.”

The woman named Loki looked shocked, the audience chuckled, and there was a scattering of applause. More than a dozen messages followed. Most contained at least one or two items that were evidential, and everything was going well, until Norr dipped her hand into the basket and chose the next billet. What felt like electricity ran all the way up her arm, the sensitive felt cold air embrace her, and knew that a spirit being was about to take control of her body. It soon became apparent that the invading entity wasn’t used to a female form and didn’t especially like it. But what he did approve of however was the prospect of a captive audience. He took control of her voice box and spoke in a voice so low that it hurt. “Good evening. My name is Milos Lysander. Prior to my death I was a scientist, a philosopher, and the primary force behind the Techno Society.”

Most of crowd sat motionless, not quite sure of what was happening, or why. But the metal man was electrified by the announcement. The robot came to his feet, activated all of its onboard recording devices, and ignored the complaints directed at him by those seated behind him. “The mission of the Techno Society,” Lysander continued, “is to literally reshape the future of mankind. More than that, to use technology as the means to reunite the pieces of a once-great empire and lift the scattered remnants of humanity back into the light of reason. How will we accomplish that? Well, I will tell you. First…”

As the scientist continued to speak there was a mutter of disapproval, followed by a scattering of insults, and a heartfelt chorus of boos. Norr could feel the sentiment in the room start to shift and struggled to reassert control over her body as pieces of food started to fly. A well-aimed piece of overripe fruit hit Norr in the chest, caused Lysander to pause momentarily, and gave the sensitive the opportunity that she’d been looking for. She clamped down, forced the scientist out, and raised her hands in an attempt to calm the crowd. It didn’t work. The rowdier members of the audience liked throwing food at her, the rest were leaving, and the ushers had produced clubs, which they swung freely.

Loro urged Norr to retreat backstage, which she did. A heavy was waiting there to collect the money she owed to writer’s guild and left the moment he was paid. Norr knew she should count the take to ensure that the actor’s guild hadn’t taken more money than they were entitled to but didn’t want to take the time. The crowd was chanting something ugly, the entity named Lysander frightened her, and negative emotions converged from every side. With her bodyguard in attendance the sensitive slipped out through the back door. The metal man was waiting in the shadows, and when the twosome left, the machine followed along behind.

2

The Planet Anafa

In order to reestablish man’s dominion over the stars, and save humanity from barbarity, it may be necessary to carry out barbarous acts against those who resist our efforts. The essential irony of this is not lost upon the governing council, which regrets the necessity to use violence.

—Techno Society Operations Manual, Section One: Guiding Principles

The milky white light produced by the planet’s twin moons filtered down through a thin layer of clouds to bathe Seros in a ghostly glow. There were no streetlights, but as the coach followed the winding road that led to the top of monastery hill, Rebo could look out over the city and see thousands of buttery rectangles, each representing a window. It was easy to imagine the warm homey scenes within and the runner felt a momentary sense of envy as the vehicle’s steel-shod wheels bounced through a pothole, and a pack of feral dogs emerged from the thick roadside underbrush to run alongside. That made the angens nervous, and Rebo felt the carriage surge forward as the animals tried to escape their pursuers. The driver hollered, “Whoa!” and hauled back on the reins, but to no avail.

But the runner had hired two apprentices to accompany him, and the youngsters knew what to do. Both were armed with smooth-bore weapons. Twin flashes strobed the darkness as the youngsters fired, dogs yelped pitifully as the buckshot tore into them, and those that could ran for cover. The angens settled down after that, and Rebo felt confident enough to remove his hand from the Crosser.

It wasn’t long before the carriage swung through a final turn, half a dozen members of the Dib Wa emerged from the surrounding gloom, and orders were shouted up to the driver. The conveyance jerked to a halt, Rebo opened the door, and jumped to the ground. The runner held his hands away from his body as a warrior approached, located his weapons in record time, and removed both from their holsters.

Then, satisfied that the visitor had been defanged, a second Dib Wa led Rebo to a man-sized gate that had been set into a larger gate. The runner stepped over the four-inch-high crosspiece at the bottom of the structure and followed the guard into the monastery’s shadowy interior. Rebo felt rather than saw a distinct change, since it was just as dark inside the walls as it was on the outside. But there was no denying the profound sense of peace that pervaded the monastery, a feeling so strong it seemed to emanate from the structures around him the way accumulated heat radiates from a stone.

Though born on Thara, the planet on which the Way was headquartered, the runner had never been especially religious. Perhaps that was due to the fact that the fisherfolk of Lorval put their faith in a complicated hierarchy of nature spirits rather than a single god, or maybe it was because the runner had left home at the age of twelve. Whatever the reason the result was the same. Though conscious of the Way, and its importance to millions of practitioners, Rebo had never developed an interest in it.

Golden light spilled out through an open door to make a path across the gray flagstones. A man appeared and stood silhouetted in the opening. It wasn’t until the runner was only a few feet away that he recognized Suu Qwa. “Welcome,” the monk said, bowing deeply. “Please follow me.”

In spite of the fact that he was an invited guest, the Dib Wa escort continued to tag along behind Rebo, and the runner wondered why an ostensibly peaceful monastery needed so much security. Perhaps the rumors were true—and the basement was packed floor to ceiling with gold ingots.

Various parts of the temple were connected by a maze of passageways, and there were frequent turns, but if the monks hoped to confuse the runner, they failed. Not only did Rebo have a memory worthy of a tax collector, he had an excellent sense of direction, and knew he could find his way out of the complex on his own should that become necessary.

Finally, after what he estimated to be a quarter-mile walk, the runner was ushered into a large room. One end was dominated by a twelve-foot-tall likeness of the ascended being Teon. He had eight arms, and eight hands, each of which held a symbol. The teacher sat as he always did, with his feet on top of his thighs, a feat the runner knew he wouldn’t be able to duplicate even with a gun to his head.

The center of the space was dominated by a circle, representing the eternal cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. Seated within its embrace was an elderly man and a young boy. Both wore nearly identical outfits that consisted of red pillbox-style hats, matching robes, and leather sandals. Rebo noticed that Qwa bowed to the youngster first. “Greetings, Excellencies,” Qwa said respectfully. “Please allow me to introduce Jak Rebo.”

Being unsure of the correct etiquette, the runner delivered a short jerky bow, said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” and eyed the rather thin pillow that awaited him. Once on the floor Rebo sat with his legs crossed in a poor imitation of the Teon-like posture the monks adopted.

“My name is Dak Babukas,” the elder monk announced, “and the young man to my left is presently referred to as Tra Lee, although we believe that he has lived many previous lives, including his recent incarnation as a teacher called Nom Maa. Now, after years of preparation, the time has come for Tra to make the journey to the city of CaCanth on the planet Thara. Once there he will undergo certain tests, and assuming that he passes them, will take his rightful place as Inwa, or leader of leaders. Your task is to get him there alive.”

Rebo frowned. Though interested in a trip to Thara, there was a considerable difference between delivering a package and a person. Of course such runs were not unknown. In fact, he had handled two such assignments during his career. And, because both individuals had been difficult to get along with, the runner had sworn that he would never accept such a commission again. More than that, Rebo sensed something fishy about the proposal and looked the older monk in the eye. “You have more security than the governor does. So, why hire me? Why not send a squad of your warriors along as escorts?”

The boy remained silent as the adult monks exchanged glances and Qwa spoke. “Our religion consists of two sects, generally referred to as the red hats and the black hats, although the real differences are based on theology rather than fashion. Twelve years ago the sixteenth Nom Maa passed into spirit without naming a successor. That led to a power vacuum, which resulted in competition between the two sects and what amounts to an administrative stalemate. However, now that Tra Lee has completed his training, he is ready to take the throne.”