“Yes,” Shaz responded cautiously. “Thank you for coming. I could use your help.”
“You have but to ask,” Kane answered generously, as he held his left hand out toward the fire. The warmth was wonderful—and he reveled in it. Dyson tried to reassert control but couldn’t. Gradually, bit by bit, Kane had become so skilled at controlling the sensitive’s body that the sensitive was powerless to displace him. Dyson uttered a long silent scream, but there was no one to hear, and the conversation continued.
“Good,” the combat variant continued. “We lost contact with Phan—which means we lost contact with the others. Can you tell me what happened to them?”
“Probably,” Kane answered confidently. “Give me a moment.” After pausing to swirl a mouthful of tea around the inside of Dyson’s mouth, the spirit entity directed his attention outward. Other disincarnates could be seen within the thick glutinous material that overlaid the physical plane. One such individual was quite upset regarding his unexpected death. Others sought to comfort the dead man and escort him to a higher vibration. Kane hurried to project his consciousness into the mix. He listened for a while, asked a series of questions, and received most of the answers he needed before the entity’s spirit guides pulled him away.
Shaz had started to wonder if something had gone wrong when Dyson, which was to say Kane, suddenly spoke. “I’m back.”
The combat variant lifted an eyebrow. “And?”
“And Phan is alive, as are the others,” the disincarnate reported. “Although they had a close brush with death prior to being spirited away by a group of people that my contact wasn’t familiar with.”
Shaz felt a sense of relief. His greatest fear had been that some sort of calamity had befallen not only Phan, but the AI, resulting in the machine’s loss. It should be a relatively simple matter to find out where the group had been taken and free them should that be necessary. “Thank you, that is very helpful.”
“You’re welcome,” Kane said politely. “Something smells good. . . . What’s for dinner?”
Shaz, who expected the spirit entity to withdraw at that point, felt the first stirrings of concern. “Stew. . . . Why do you ask?”
“Well,” Kane replied, as Dyson struggled to eject him. “It’s been quite a while since I ate
real
food. I think I’ll stay and have dinner with you.”
The combat variant felt the short bristly hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He struggled to keep his voice level. “You can do that?”
“Why, yes,” Kane answered coolly. “I believe that I can.”
“And Dyson?” Shaz wanted to know. “How does
he
feel about your plan?”
“Oh, he’s against it,” the disincarnate admitted carelessly. “But, I have the poor bastard right where I want him, so it doesn’t really matter. Does it?”
The challenge was obvious, and the air around the combat variant began to seethe as his body prepared for combat. Fortunately, Dyson had consistently refused to carry a weapon, which meant it would have been easy to shoot the sensitive’s body, thereby preventing the disincarnate from controlling it. But what if Shaz needed more information? Sensitives were hard to come by—and it wouldn’t be a good idea to offend Kane.
The creature sitting opposite Shaz nodded understandingly. “Oops!” the spirit entity said lightly. “I guess this puts you between a rock and a hard place doesn’t it? But, hey, not to worry. . . . We’re after the same thing. And later, after we install Logos on Socket, I plan to reincarnate. You’ll be an old fart by the time I make my presence known. As for Tepho, well, he’s
your
problem. Slick, huh?”
That wasn’t the way the combat variant would have described it, but he was a realist and nodded in agreement. “Welcome back. . . . I hope you enjoy your dinner.”
Meanwhile, in a place where no one could help him, Dyson continued to scream.
Rebo awoke to the sound of bells. His eyes felt as if they
had been glued shut but eventually opened to reveal a room so narrow there was no more than two feet of space on either side of his bed. Sunlight poured in through the paned window over his head and threw an asymmetric pattern onto the door across from him. Then, just as the bells stopped ringing, the runner felt the unmistakable pressure on his bladder and knew it was time to get up.
The first attempt to throw the covers aside and swing his legs out over the edge of the bed resulted in an explosion of pain. That caused Rebo to fall back against the pillow and probe the circumference of his skull. It quickly became apparent that there were three different dressings on his head. Fortunately, none of his companions had been killed as a result of his mental lapse. Still conscious of his full bladder, the runner gritted his teeth, battled to swing both feet over onto the cold floor, and stood. By placing one hand on the wall, he was able to remain upright even as a tidal wave of dizziness attempted to pull him under. He felt for his amulet in hopes that the charm would steady him and discovered it was gone. Lost during the battle with the Army of God, Rebo supposed.
He still had the religious medallion, however, which was something of a miracle given the fact that the antitechnics had stolen everything else, so maybe it would protect him. Finally, having kept his feet, the runner went in search of his clothes. That was when he discovered that while his old road-ravaged outfit had disappeared, brand-new clothing was waiting in the tiny closet, a gift for which he was grateful. Getting the fresh garments on was something of a challenge however, and Rebo might have abandoned the project if it hadn’t been for the urgent need to pee. Fortunately, a nurse appeared about halfway through the process and helped the runner get his shirt on.
After a trip to the men’s bathroom, which was equipped with flush toilets, Rebo went looking for Norr, only to discover that she was looking for
him.
Together they took refuge in a sun-splashed solarium. “I’m sorry,” the runner said contritely. “Putting those glasses on was a stupid thing to do.”
Norr shrugged philosophically. “Don’t worry about it. . . . If not the glasses, then something else would have given us away.”
“Thanks,” the runner replied humbly. “But I
am
worried. The antitechnics took off with all of our money, supplies, and weapons.”
“They took most of our stuff,” the sensitive agreed soberly, “but not
everything.
” At that point Norr tapped her chest and winked. The message was clear. Logos was lurking somewhere beneath her brand-new outfit. The runner had mixed emotions where the AI was concerned but forced a smile. “That’s good news. . . . So, how are the others doing?”
During the subsequent report, Rebo learned that while Hoggles’s right index finger had been amputated after the battle with the antitechnics, the heavy was on the mend. “That’s good,” the runner said gratefully. “I need to apologize to him as well. How ’bout Phan?”
“Fortunately, none of the spikes that they drove through her hands struck bone,” Norr replied. “She’ll be good as new within a few weeks.”
“And how good is
that
?” Rebo inquired cynically. “She isn’t who she says she is, we know that, so what to do?”
“Get rid of her,” Norr replied honestly. “As soon as we can.”
Rebo nodded. “Works for me . . . In the meantime, where the heck are we? And who’s running this place?”
“We’re in some sort of government-run complex,” Norr replied. “What was once a university if I understand correctly. More than that I couldn’t really say. But, since Facilitator Okanda invited us to dinner, maybe we’ll be able to learn more from him.”
“Yeah,” the runner said reflectively. “Maybe we will . . . In the meantime here’s hoping that the runner’s guild has a presence in Feda. . . . I should be able to withdraw some money from my account if it does.”
“You’re working for Lysander,” the sensitive responded. “Maybe
he
can help.”
“That kind of help I can do without,” the runner objected, as he came to his feet. “Come on . . . Let’s find Bo. I owe him a body part.”
By the time evening fell, and the youngster named Hobarth
led Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and Phan into the citadel’s Grand Hall, the off-worlders were feeling better. The room was huge, and would have been almost impossible to light had it not been for the ancient Class IV fusion generator located two levels below. The fact that it continued to broadcast electricity was due to a generous supply of spare parts, knowledge handed down for hundreds of years, and no small amount of good luck.
Kas Okanda was waiting to greet his guests when they arrived at the far end of the long, formally set dining table. He was dressed in a heavily embroidered gold coat, black trousers, and gold slippers. His neatly trimmed mustache and pointed beard served to reinforce the aura of material well-being that surrounded him. The facilitator never tired of seeing the expressions of amazement that the brightly lit hall produced on most of his guests. “Welcome!” the government official said warmly. “Please, take your seats, and I’ll call for some wine.”
Okanda was an amiable host, and the next hour passed quickly, as the facilitator plied his guests with good wine, food, and conversation. Finally, having offered the official a carefully edited version of the journey from Thara, Rebo asked his host what the government planned to do about the Army of God.
The facilitator took a sip of wine before replying. “That’s a good question, Citizen Rebo. . . . As you have surmised by now, we not only have a pretty good idea where the rector and his flock are at any given moment, we have the capacity to bring their wanderings to an end whenever we choose.”
“Then why wait?” Hoggles inquired.
Though blunt, the question was understandable given the nature of the heavy’s injury, Okanda smiled sympathetically. “I understand how you feel—and regret what happened to you. But I, along with the other facilitators, have a responsibility to the planet as a whole. The rector is like a magnet to which tiny slivers of iron are inevitably drawn. Once all, or the vast majority of them are clumped together, we’ll sweep them up.”
“And
then
?” Phan inquired skeptically. Not only were her hands sore, they were slightly swollen, which would have made it difficult to handle weapons. If she had
had
weapons—which she didn’t. Had the decision been up to her, the rector and his entire flock would have been crucified and left to die. Men, women,
and
children.
“The present plan is to march the antitechnics to the great salt sea and transport them to a remote island, where they will be free to live without benefit of technology,” Okanda answered smoothly. “A fitting punishment—and one that will serve to protect the rest of the population from their fanaticism.”
Norr heard the facilitator’s words, but what she “saw” was something different. Based on the dark, slowly morphing thought forms that hovered around Okanda, it appeared that while some of the flock might be transported, others would almost certainly be lost at sea. The rector being one of them. She shivered, tugged at the shawl she had been given, and was grateful for the additional warmth.
The rest of the meal passed pleasantly. The main course was followed by a delicious dessert, wine, and a selection of local cheeses. And it was then, as Rebo thanked Okanda for his hospitality, that the facilitator invited the travelers to attach themselves to a government convoy that was slated to leave for Feda in three days. It was a generous offer, and one that would go a long way toward solving one of the group’s most pressing problems, so the runner was quick to accept on behalf of both his companions and himself.
“Good!” Okanda said heartily as he rose from the table. “The matter is settled. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me, I would like to show you through the citadel’s museum. We have a collection of techno artifacts that is second to none. Something that interstellar travelers such as yourselves are uniquely qualified to appreciate.”
Rebo was feeling a bit sleepy after all the wine and food, and would have preferred to go to bed, but couldn’t think of a graceful way to excuse himself. So the runner followed the facilitator to the far end of the hall, through an iron-strapped door, and down a circular flight of stairs. Norr, Hoggles, and Phan brought up the rear.
Electric lights came on, apparently of their own volition, as Okanda led his guests out into a room that would have been equal in size to the hall above except for the fact that the ceiling was a good deal lower. Whereas the Great Hall was open, and sparsely furnished, this space was filled with row after row of glassed-in display cases, with only narrow aisles between them.
Faced with the prospect of what looked like a long march, combined with what promised to be a boring narrative, Rebo uttered a silent groan as Okanda led his guests into the first passageway. It was filled with a mind-boggling array of small household appliances. As the government official led them down the corridor, the visitors were shown machines that the ancients used to toast bread, dry their hair, listen to music, talk to each other, heat their food, and remove unwanted body hair. It was a truly amazing display.
However if
that
section was of interest, the next was even more so, since it was focused on a subject of more than passing interest to at least three of Okanda’s guests. Rebo, Phan, and, to a lesser extent, Hoggles stared in openmouthed lust as they were invited to eyeball case after case of neatly racked weapons. There were knives, pistols, rifles, machine guns, and hand grenades, all displayed along with accessories where appropriate, and quantities of ammunition.
Fortunately, Okanda failed to notice the longing looks, or regarded them as understandable, because he was in no way offended when the previously taciturn Phan peppered him with all manner of technical questions having to do with the weapons laid out before her. But all good things must come to an end, so it wasn’t long before the facilitator led the group into the next corridor, which was even more intriguing in its own way. “
This
,” Okanda announced importantly, “is the section of the museum dedicated to artifacts that we don’t understand fully and probably never will. But our scientists continue to study the more promising specimens in hopes that we will be able to bring some of them back to life.”