Runner

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Runner

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2005 by William C. Dietz

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0846-5

  AN ACE BOOK®

  Ace Books first published by The Ace Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: September, 2005

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE The Planet Anafa

  TWO The Planet Anafa

  THREE The Planet Anafa

  FOUR The Planet Anafa

  FIVE The Planet Pooz

  SIX The Planet Pooz

  SEVEN The Planet Anafa

  EIGHT The Planet Ning

  NINE The Planet Ning

  TEN The Planet Ning

  ELEVEN The Planet Ning

  TWELVE The Planet Ning

  THIRTEEN The Planet Etu

  FOURTEEN The Planet Etu

  FIFTEEN The Planet Thara

  SIXTEEN The Planet Thara

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Ace titles by William C. Dietz

  LEGION OF THE DAMNED

  THE FINAL BATTLE

  BY BLOOD ALONE

  BY FORCE OF ARMS

  DEATHDAY

  EARTHRISE

  FOR MORE THAN GLORY

  FOR THOSE WHO FELL

  McCADE FOR HIRE

  McCADE ON THE RUN

  RUNNER

  For Marjorie with all my love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to Allison E. Dietz

  for her advice and counsel.

  ONE

  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.”