Runner Page 13

  Neither Rebo nor Norr understood much of what ensued, but it soon became apparent that a ceremony was under way, and Lee was to be at the center of it. That bothered Rebo, who hated to see his client’s cover so thoroughly blown, but Norr was more philosophical. “Maybe it’s for the best, Jak. After all, once we board the ship, we can start all over again.”

  The runner wasn’t so sure, not if Lee was carried into the city on the shoulders of his followers, but hoped that Larkas could put things right. Given the fact that the local red hats revered the boy, it seemed logical to suppose that they would protect him, even if that meant keeping their mouths shut.

  Eventually, after a good deal of praying, chanting, and singing on the part of the red hats, afternoon faded into evening. The train passengers voted to stay the night rather than travel on their own, sentries were posted, and a fire was built in front of the temple. Then, as the sun dipped below the western horizon, and firelight danced across the cracked dome, the celebrants began to toot small horns and tap on tiny drums. Then, once the proper mood had been established, legends were reborn as fancifully costumed men and women took to the impromptu stage. Rebo watched for a while, but quickly became bored, and was about to turn in, when Norr materialized at his side. He was struck by the way the light played across the planes of her face and the fresh clean smell of her. But there was something different about the sensitive. Something uncharacteristically hesitant, as if she was about to share some sort of secret. Her voice was solemn. “Hello, Jak.”

  The runner answered in kind. “Hello, Lanni.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “I’ll grant it if I can,” the runner answered cautiously.

  “You remember Lysander . . . The entity who seized control of my body in Gos.”

  “How could I forget?” Rebo inquired dryly. “What about him?”

  “Well,” Norr said hesitantly, “I figure it’s only a matter of time before he tries the same thing again. The question is why? There must be a reason.”

  “Yeah?” the runner acknowledged. “So?”

  “So,” the sensitive continued, “I want you to speak with him.”

  “Me?” Rebo demanded incredulously. “Why me?”

  “Because I can’t do it myself, and I trust you,” Norr answered honestly. “Maybe, if I understood what the miserable bastard wants, I could get rid of him.”

  The proposal made a certain amount of weird sense. The runner nodded slowly. “Okay, it’s worth a try. What should I do?”

  “Follow me,” the sensitive instructed. “We’ll need some privacy.”

  Rebo turned to look for Lee. The youngster was seated right next to Larkas, and both of the monks were surrounded by dozens of superfanatical red hats. If the lad was safe anywhere, it was there. “All right . . . Lead the way.”

  The sensitive led the runner across the causeway, past the carefully secured train, and toward the dark bulk of the fortress beyond. The surety with which Norr moved seemed to suggest that she had been that way before and knew where to go. That impression was confirmed a few minutes later when Norr led Rebo through a door and into the ruins beyond. A series of turnings brought them into a roofless room that had once served as the commanding officer’s private quarters. A match flared as the sensitive bent over the makings of a fire, flames were born, and sparks swirled toward the starry sky. “There,” Norr said, pointing toward a carefully positioned chunk of rock. “You will sit there, and I will sit here, next to the fire.”

  Rebo nodded, and was about to take the seat assigned to him, when Norr spoke. “Jak . . .”

  The runner turned. “Yes?”

  “Can I ask another favor?”

  Her voice was so thin, so hollow, that Rebo found himself answering without hesitation. “Of course. What is it?”

  The sensitive took two steps forward. “Hold me.”

  The runner opened his arms, Norr took one final step, and felt him pull her close. The embrace was firm, but gentle, just as she had known it would be. And, as Rebo’s strength flooded in and around her, the sensitive felt the first stirrings of a physical need that she hadn’t thought about for weeks.

  Rebo felt a shiver run through the young woman, remembered her description of the last time Lysander had taken control of her body, and knew that what she proposed to do was equivalent to allowing a man she didn’t know to have sex with her. His right hand found the hollow between her shoulder blades and their lips met a few moments later. Not because either one of them had planned it, but because it seemed like the natural thing to do. Norr stood on tiptoes, locked her fingers behind his neck, and returned the pressure with interest. The kiss lasted for half a minute or so and was broken as she pulled away. “That was nice, Jak. Very nice. But I need to do what we came here for, or I’ll lose my nerve.”

  The runner released the sensitive and waited for her to sit on a chunk of stone before taking the seat assigned to him. “Don’t touch me while I’m in trance,” the sensitive cautioned, “and assuming that Lysander comes through, please try to discover what he’s after.”

  Rebo nodded and watched silently, as Norr closed her eyes and positioned both hands palms upward. The runner had attempted to make contact with his mother once but without success. Did that mean she was alive? Perhaps, although the medium he had hired had cautioned him that some spirits don’t want to return.

  Later, Rebo had wondered why he hadn’t sought to speak with his father, and concluded that while he respected the big fisherman, he’d always been afraid of him, too. Other than that single attempt, the runner had been focused on life rather than death, figuring that he would deal with next plane of existence once he arrived there.

  Then, with no background sound other than the distant thump! thump! thump! of the red hat drums, there was a long period of silence. So long, that Rebo had just about given up on the makeshift séance, when the sensitive opened her mouth and spoke. But, rather than her voice, the runner heard a deep baritone instead. “You! The fool on the rock! Where am I?”

  “You are dead,” the runner responded unsympathetically. “I, on the other hand, am located at the top of Hyber Pass, on the planet Pooz. Is your name Lysander?”

  There was a moment of silence as if the spirit entity was taking a moment to consider the question. “Yes, I was once known as Milos Lysander, although I have had many other names as well. Including that of Nilo Hios, father of the star gate, and ruler of the Imperium.”

  “Congratulations,” Rebo said evenly. “So, your eminence, what is a star gate? And why would anyone care?”

  Though more than a little contentious, the question had the desired effect, and Milos Lysander, aka Nilo Hios, launched into a long rant. By the time it ended the runner had the impression of a once-glorious empire tied together by a network of high-tech portals that rendered spaceships obsolete and allowed travelers to move between planets as easily as they might step from one room to another. “Okay,” Rebo said agreeably, “so what happened? Why aren’t the gates in use now?”

  “With the exception of a maintenance system, which I discovered during the course of my last incarnation, all of the portals were destroyed,” Lysander responded darkly. “In spite of the gift I gave the people of the Imperium, some labeled me as a tyrant, rose up, and tore my government down. My former self was murdered, the star gates were destroyed, and a fleet of sentient spaceships were created to serve in their place.”

  “Wait a minute,” the runner interjected. “Did I understand you to say that some of the gates remain in operation?”

  “Yes, of course,” Lysander said loftily. “They continue to operate under the auspices of the Techno Society, which I founded and dedicated to the full restoration of the star gates. It’s the only thing that can arrest mankind’s steady slide back toward the barbaric past.”

  “So? What’s the problem?” Rebo inquired.

  “New gates can be copied from those that remain operational,” Lysander answered. “That lies within our p
ower. The missing element is the artificial intelligence required to reenergize the interplanetary grid and operate the system. Unfortunately, the knowledge required to construct such an AI was lost hundreds of years ago.”

  “So, that’s why you keep trying to communicate?” the runner demanded. “In order to find this AI thing?”

  “Logos isn’t a thing,” Lysander said reprovingly. “He is, for lack of a better description, an artificial person. I don’t especially like him, but I need him, and he’s far too intelligent to allow some mob to destroy him. That’s why I continue to visit your wretched plane of existence. Because my operatives have been unable to find Logos.”

  “But why this particular channel?” the runner insisted. “She doesn’t want to take part in your search, and there are thousands, perhaps millions of other sensitives. Why not annoy one of them for a change?”

  “Coming back is difficult,” Lysander responded. “It requires a great deal of effort. That’s why a relatively small number of entities make the attempt. However, when a pre-existing link exists between the spirit and the channel, that makes the task easier.”

  “A link?” Rebo demanded doubtfully. “What sort of link could possibly exist between the channel and yourself? The two of you never met.”

  “Not during our most recent incarnations,” Lysander admitted. “But, back when I was known as Nilo Hios, the channel was my daughter. She didn’t like me, but a bond exists nonetheless, and that makes communication easier.”

  There was a moment of silence while Rebo tried to absorb all the implications of what he had just heard. The fire crackled, collapsed in on itself, and released a column of sparks. “Okay, let’s say you’re right, how ’bout some sort of a deal? Rather than turn Lanni over to a bunch of homicidal maniacs—why not help her find this Logos thing?”

  But if Lysander heard the words, he was unable to respond to them, as the connection between the two planes of existence suddenly snapped. Norr shuddered, opened her eyes, and swallowed. Her voice was hoarse. “Is he gone?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” the runner answered. “You tell me.”

  Norr frowned, then nodded. “He’s gone. So, tell me . . . What did he say?”

  “You couldn’t hear?”

  “Some, but not all. I kept drifting in and out.”

  So Rebo told the sensitive what Lysander had said, starting with the star gates, and concluding with her previous relationship to him. That caused Norr to shiver and wrap her cloak around her body. “It’s disgusting, but makes a strange sort of sense. The same thing can’t be said for the deal you offered him, however. What led you to believe that I would knowingly cooperate with him?”

  The runner’s eyebrows rose. “Do you want him to leave you alone or not? And, given the situation, do you have a better idea? Besides, what if what he says is true? What if we could bring back the spaceships? The medical treatments that the ancients had . . . And all the rest of it? That would be a good thing, would it not?”

  Norr knew that technology had been used for evil as well as good. Something that Lysander made no mention of. But there was little doubt that technology had delivered benefits to the human race in the past—and she was ready to try just about anything in order to rid herself of the insistent spirit. “Yes,” she said reluctantly, “I suppose it would.”

  Drums beat an insistent rhythm, a breeze slipped through the pass, and the fire stirred by way of a response. Some, if not all, of her questions had been answered, but the essence of the problem remained.

  Having made its way up through Hyber Pass—the rail on which the Zephyr rode fell toward the plain beyond. With red hats not only crowded onto the cars, but hanging off the sides as well, the driver was forced to brake constantly in an effort to prevent the train from colliding with the angens that half galloped ahead of it. Smoke issued from a wooden block as it made contact with the metal rail, a cloud of steam appeared as one of the lancers dumped a bucket of urine onto the primitive device, and the wet wood squealed in protest.

  But, worrisome as the mechanics of the situation were Rebo welcomed the feel of the early-morning sun on his face, the smell of the mountain air, and the knowledge that bandit country lay behind rather than in front of him. Further bolstering the runner’s spirits was the fact that Larkas had ordered his flock to treat Lee as they would any other boy. Had the black hats inserted a spy into the group? Probably, but Rebo hoped to board the next ship before the opposition could get organized. As for the blond man, and the Techno Society, only time would tell. The runner knew it was foolish to involve himself in Norr’s problems, especially when such involvement could compromise his mission; but, try as he might, Rebo couldn’t bring himself to part company with her. Not yet anyway.

  As the monorail wound its way down through grassy foothills, it crossed back and forth over a smoothly flowing river and swept past a multitude of well-kept farms. Then, as it emerged from the hills, the train rumbled straight toward Tra. Unlike Gos, most of which lay below ground, the towers of Tra seemed to leap up off the plain as if intent on touching the sky. And, unlike the high-rise buildings back on Anafa, which remained unoccupied because of a lack of power, these structures were very much in use. That was made possible by the plain that surrounded the city, the winds that blew in from the west, and rank after rank of two-hundred-foot-tall propeller-driven generators that provided Tra with electricity. There were gaps, of course, times when for one reason or another the winds refused to blow, but the local citizenry had adapted to that. When the power faded so did they, quitting whatever they were doing to take a nap, or breaking to eat a meal.

  It hadn’t always been like that of course, because back in the beginning, when Tra was founded, the wind-powered generators had been used as a supplemental rather than primary source of electricity. But, after the fall of the Imperium, and the destruction of the technocracy that followed, the city’s power core eventually wore out. And, not having the parts to repair it, one of the Shah’s ancestors had commissioned additional wind-driven generators to make up the difference. A comparatively simple technology local machine shops could support. Some even hoped to reactivate the monorail one day, but there wasn’t enough surplus power for that, and the Shah was rumored to oppose it. He liked the way things were, or so the wags said, and perhaps they were right.

  Now, slowed to little more than a crawl by the weight of all the extra passengers, the Zephyr rolled through a gleaming forest as a persistent breeze caused the gigantic propellers to turn. The enormous structures rumbled so loudly that they stole the sound of the wind—and seemed to converse with each other in a language that mere humans could never understand.

  Eventually, as the train slowed to a crawl, some of the passengers got off in order to lighten the load and stretch their legs. Rebo was among them, as was Lee, who walked at the runner’s side. “So,” Rebo shouted to make himself heard over the wind-driven generators, “how’s the Divine Wind?”

  “Don’t call me that,” Lee said crossly. “While I doubt that I’m anyone other than myself, your sarcasm would be inappropriate if I were the Divine Wind.”

  “Sorry,” the runner replied contritely. “Please allow me to rephrase the question. The people all around us believe that you are very special. How does that make you feel?”

  “It scares me,” the boy replied honestly. “They think I’m Nom Maa so they believe I’m wise. But it isn’t true. Yes, I can repeat what the great masters said, but so what? That makes me fit to follow rather than lead.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Rebo said thoughtfully. “Take yesterday, for example. You certainly held your own during those ceremonies.”

  “Yes,” Lee agreed soberly, “because I was raised to do so. Rituals can be conducted by anyone willing to take the time to memorize them. But the spiritual understanding that lies behind them? That comes from within.”

  The runner placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What about what you just said? It sounded like wisdom to
me . . . So where did that come from?”

  “I don’t know,” Lee said miserably. “But the fact remains, if I’m Nom Maa, then I should know it! What if we arrive at the city of CaCanth, and I fail the test? The black hats will take control.”

  Rebo shrugged. “All you can do is try. While I admit that the black hats seem like a rotten bunch, they’ve been in charge before. Or am I wrong?”

  “No,” Lee allowed thoughtfully. “You’re correct.”

  “And the religion survived,” the runner observed, pausing to step over a pile of manure.

  “Yes, I guess it did,” the boy agreed hopefully.

  “So, do your best and let the chips fall where they may,” Rebo advised. “That’s all any of us can do.”

  The youngster took a moment to think about it, looked up into his bodyguard’s face, and grinned broadly. “That sounds like good advice. Perhaps you should have been a monk.”

  Rebo would have replied, but Brother Larkas chose that moment to begin one of his chants, and the sound of human voices merged with the rumble of a thousand propellers to create a deep humming sound. The sun inched a bit higher, the city of Tra shimmered in the distance, and Pooz continued to turn.

  The crowd that turned out to meet the Zephyr was dominated by red-clad religious adherents. They insisted on scattering flower petals all about the platform while burning incense in tiny brass pots and chanting some sort of religious nonsense as they greeted friends and relatives who had completed the pilgrimage. But there were others as well, including a brace of tax collectors, a squad of lancers, and a swarm of vendors, beggars, and pickpockets. And there, hidden among them, was an informer named Mik Stipp, a man always on the lookout for potentially valuable information that he could sell to a variety of clients.

  Stipp, who often posed as a beggar, elbowed his way to what looked like a good spot and wrestled a felt hat out of his coat pocket. Once opened, the heavily creased article of clothing was instantly transformed into a serviceable beggar’s bowl, which the informer held out before him. “Can ya spare a gunar for the poor? A crust of bread for the hungry? A kind word for a man who can barely see? Oh, bless you, ma’am, and your children as well.”