Logos Run (19 page)

Such were Rebo’s thoughts when, as if somehow drawn by the runner’s heretical intentions, the rector appeared at his side. “Look!” the holy man said, as he pointed a long grimy finger down into the canyon. “Do you see the structures to either side of the river? There was a time when they were connected so as to block God’s river! Can you imagine such arrogance?”

Rebo looked, saw little more than a blur, and stuck his hand inside his jacket. The glasses were out, and already on his nose, before the runner realized his mistake. The runner glanced at the rector in hopes that the faux pas had gone unobserved, saw the expression of outraged astonishment on the holy man’s face, and knew he was in trouble. In spite of the fact that he had never read the Book of Abominations, it was clear from the rector’s expression that spectacles were on it. That left the off-worlder with no option but to turn and run. But the rector had recovered his voice by then, and Rebo hadn’t traveled more than thirty feet before a trio of acolytes cut the unbeliever off and began to beat him with their clubs. The runner’s spectacles flew off as he took a blow to the head, and darkness rose to embrace him.

There were moments of consciousness during the long
cold night that followed. Times when Rebo surfaced long enough to see the fires burning all around him, or to hear the sound of a rhythmic chant as the sleepless flock prepared for the cleansing to come. But in spite of his best efforts to do so, the runner was unable to hold focus, and it wasn’t long before he lost consciousness again.

Finally, after what seemed like a long journey in a dark land, Rebo opened his eyes to discover that another wintry day had dawned. The rector stood before him, back turned, as he led his flock in prayer. Rebo was cold,
very
cold, and when the runner went to move his arms and legs he discovered that they were bound in place. But his head was free, which meant he could turn it to either side, even though it pained him to do so. And that was when the runner realized that both he
and
his companions had been strapped to X-shaped crosses. They formed a rough semicircle, with Norr to Rebo’s right, Hoggles to his left, and Phan on the end.

Like him, the others were covered with a rime of crusted snow. All due to
his
mistake. He hadn’t been conscious to see it, but the runner could easily imagine how the acolytes had fallen upon his companions, searched their belongings, and discovered the guns. Did they know about the vibro blade? Or Logos? There was no way to tell.

“And so we leave them,” the rector continued, his sonorous voice rolling out over the crowd. “To meditate on their sins, during these, the final hours of their wasted lives.”

So saying the rector turned, and sketched a symbolic “A” into the air, before hoisting the diviner up onto his shoulders and walking away. If the holy man blamed the little girl for failing to detect the contraband, there was certainly no sign of it.

The Army of God flowed out onto the road, and ten minutes later the entire flock had disappeared, leaving the unbelievers to die of exposure. Each off-worlder had a different reaction. Rebo tried to communicate with Norr, but found that his voice wouldn’t carry, and was left to wonder if it was possible to kill someone on the spirit planes. If so, Lysander was in deep trouble.

Norr tried to use her power of telekinesis to undo even one of the more than two dozen knots that held her in place but was soon forced to give up the task as impossible.

Logos couldn’t manipulate his environment, but had survived similar situations during the last thousand years and knew what to do. Eventually, after his host’s heart stopped beating, human scavengers would arrive to pick over her remains. At that point he would speak to one of the brutes, promise it a large quantity of gold that didn’t exist, and convince them to carry him to Feda. Then, having found a more capable mount, he would continue his journey. Not to Socket, as everyone supposed, but to Haafa. Because, even though Socket was the AI’s final destination, there was someone he would have to murder first.

Hoggles flexed his enormous muscles in an attempt to break the bonds that held him, but soon discovered that the acolytes had anticipated such a move, and tripled the number of ropes that held him in place. And, as a punishment for throwing an acolyte into the canyon, one of his fingers had been removed. The wound had been cauterized—but continued to ache.

Phan turned to her martial arts training in an attempt to gather her energy and channel it into a Ku, or death blow, sufficient to free her from the X-shaped framework. But, owing to the fact that the assassin had killed three of the flock prior to being subdued, two of her throwing spikes had been used to nail her hands to the thick rough-hewn beams. The pain, plus the cold, made it difficult to concentrate. Hope, such as it was, lay in the fact that Shaz would arrive eventually. But would the operative arrive in time? No, Phan didn’t think so.

The snow began to fall more heavily then, covered each of the condemned with a shroud of white, and softened the area around them. Eventually, all movement having stopped, silence claimed the land.

SEVEN

The snow fell from the sky like a lacy curtain and the two
dozen riders seemed to materialize out of the hazy whiteness like ghosts from some long-forgotten battle. But Facilitator Kas Okanda and his well-mounted dragoons were quite real, as were the sleek semiautomatic rifles the troopers carried and the wraithlike hunting dogs that ranged ahead.

Okanda was a relatively small man, but he exuded an aura of authority as he eyed the area, alert to the possibility of an ambush. But there was nothing for him to see beyond a maze of tracks, the usual detritus left behind by a large group of campers, and the row of X-shaped crosses that sat atop a low rise. Four people had been crucified, and judging from appearances, all of them were dead. But the administrator prided himself on the veracity of the reports that he sent to New Wimmura every eight days, so a scout was dispatched to examine the bodies, and ordered to report back.

“Make a note,” Okanda instructed, as the youngster next to him prepared to write on a clipboard. “Having patrolled the area north of the citadel, the company came across four individuals all of whom had been crucified. Since this sort of execution is typical of the antitechnic fanatics, it seems safe to assume that they were responsible for the atrocity.” The facilitator’s secretary scribbled furiously in a desperate attempt to capture each word exactly as it had been spoken.

The scout returned just as the government official finished his paragraph. “Excuse me, sire,” the dragoon said respectfully, “but the people on the crosses are still alive.”

Okanda had bushy eyebrows. They shot upward in surprise. “
What?
” he demanded. “Alive you say. . . . Are you sure?”

“Yes, sire,” the scout replied expressionlessly. “Would you like us to cut them down?”

“Of course!” Okanda responded affirmatively. “But not until Hobarth here has an opportunity to examine the victims and take notes.”

The scout said, “Yes, sire,” and led the younger man over to where the snow-encrusted crosses stood. Now that he was closer Hobarth could see the wisps of vapor that issued from between blue-tinged lips. The better part of ten minutes elapsed while the secretary took elaborate notes on everything from the manner in which metal spikes had been driven through one woman’s hands, to the clothes that the people wore, and the fact that a lightning bolt had been tattooed onto the inner surface of one man’s left forearm.

Once the process was complete, the men and women were taken down and loaded into a pair of sturdy field ambulances. The heavy went into one, while the sensitive, and the norms were placed in the other. Once inside the wagons, the patients were propped up against straw-filled pillows and covered with wool blankets.

And that’s where Rebo was when the dream ended, his eyes opened, and a man with a handlebar mustache said, “Here . . . This’ll fix what ails ya!” and poured a half ounce of fiery liquid into his mouth. The whiskey went down the wrong way, and the runner began to choke.

Norr raised a hand in protest. “Don’t give him spirits. . . . What we need is some warm tea. . . . Or some caf.”

The medics were more than happy to dispense lukewarm tea from the insulated bottles filled earlier that day and consume the medicinal whiskey themselves while the wagons
rattled
through a village and began the long arduous climb to the citadel. Having passed through a well-guarded entrance, the wagons ground to a halt in front of a one-story infirmary, and the patients were carried inside. Within a matter of minutes they were stripped of clothing and immersed in warm baths. Phan, Hoggles, and, to a lesser extent, Rebo were treated for their various wounds before being brought back together for some hot soup.

Then, after a good deal of fussing over by some very efficient female nurses, the travelers were packed off to bed. Norr wanted to sleep more than anything—but refused to cooperate until the staff returned her clothes. Then, clutching a ratty-looking coat to her chest, the sensitive allowed sleep to overtake her. The nurses shrugged, sent the rest of her filthy apparel out to be burned, and left the room.

Once the nurses were gone, and the door was closed, Logos spoke. “Lonni? Can you hear me?” But there was no answer other than a cough, followed by some nonsensical words, and the sound of the sensitive’s breathing. “I know I don’t say this sort of thing very often,” the AI whispered. “But thank you.”

The sun had set three hours earlier, which meant that
most travelers had been forced to camp out or seek the hospitality of a country inn. But Shaz and his party were the exceptions to that rule. Not only could the forward-ranging metal men “sense” obstacles, they could “see” whatever fell under the blobs of white light that projected from their “eyes” and break trail for the angens. Travel remained difficult, however, especially since the humans and their mounts had been on the road for twelve hours and were close to exhaustion.

But it had been two days since the combat variant had spotted one of the red ribbons that Phan typically left adjacent to the road or picked up a written message from the assassin. And that was why the operative insisted that the party continue to push ahead. Of course there are limits to how far one can ride in a day, and the angens had begun to stumble by the time the robots followed a multitude of tracks up to the rise where four X-shaped crosses stood, and paused to look around. A quick reconnaissance revealed an area of heavily churned snow—but it was impossible to know who had been there or why. “We’ll camp here,” Shaz announced to the androids. “Build a couple of fires, pitch the tent, and feed the angens.”

The androids were extremely efficient, so it wasn’t long before the two humans were sitting on small folding stools and warming their hands over a crackling fire. Meanwhile, an oil-fed stove had been established not far away, and a hearty stew would soon be burbling in a pot. Confident that the routine matters were under control, Shaz eyed the sensitive seated across from him. Even allowing for the fact that the campfire lit Dyson’s face from below, the other variant looked older than he was. His skin had taken on a sallow appearance, and his hands shook all the time. Some of that could be blamed on the rigors of the journey and the stress associated with it, but Kane was responsible for the rest.

The situation was difficult for Shaz to assess, not being a sensitive himself, but having been acquainted with Kane prior to his death, it was easy to understand how unpleasant the task of bringing him through could be. But there was no getting around the need to communicate with the dead operative from time to time. Even if that was painful for Dyson, who sat with shoulders slumped, his eyes on the fire.

“Your tea is ready,” a robot announced, and waited for the humans to extend their mugs before starting to pour. Then, having given Dyson an opportunity to sip the hot liquid, Shaz broke the silence. “I know you’re tired, but we haven’t heard from Phan in quite a while, and I need to speak with Kane.”

There was a moment of silence as the sensitive blew the steam off the surface of his tea and took another sip. Finally, his eyes peering out from cavelike sockets, Dyson looked up. It took a great deal of effort to keep his voice steady. “I would like to quit. There’s no need to pay me. . . . I’ll take my bedroll and walk away.”

“Don’t be silly,” the combat variant replied dismissively. “I know Kane can be unpleasant, but I’ll keep the session short, and the whole thing will be over in a matter of minutes. Then, after a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

The other variant was determined to have his way, the sensitive could see that, so there was no point in stalling. Dyson closed his eyes, sought the inner peace that lay deep within, and partially withdrew from his body. Kane, who had already been drawn to the physical plane by the combat variant’s thoughts, was ready and waiting. His beingness flooded into the newly created vacuum, where he hurried to seize control. The first thing the spirit entity noticed was the wonderful tang of woodsmoke, followed by the aftertaste of unsweetened tea and the innate heaviness of the channel’s physical body. A vehicle that was both tired from a long day in the saddle—and hungry for the food that was being prepared nearby.

Shaz became aware of Kane’s presence when Dyson’s body jerked convulsively, some of his tea spilled into the flames, and the fire hissed in protest. Then, once the steam had cleared, the combat variant looked into a pair of dead eyes. “So,” Kane croaked, “we meet again.”