Logos Run (30 page)

“Look who’s talking,” Tepho replied, as the handgun came up out of the bath. Water ran out of the barrel, but the technologist knew it would fire. “Hold it right there,” Tepho ordered evenly. “And drop the knife.”

Kane looked at the pistol and swore silently. Tepho had him dead to rights, and there was no reason to proceed. So the spirit entity ordered Dyson to release the knife, but the sensitive refused, and worked to muster every bit of life energy he had left. Gradually, like a man carrying a significant weight, Dyson took a tottering step forward.

Tepho, who was unaware of the battle raging within the noxious creature before him, shook his head in disgust. “You really are one stupid son of a bitch.” Then, having taken careful aim, the technologist fired three rounds.

Both Kane
and
Dyson felt the heavy slugs tear through their mutual body and heard the gunshots, but their reactions were quite different. Kane was forced to exit the sensitive’s body and immediately flew into a towering rage because his ability to influence events on the physical plane had been terminated.

But Dyson, who had finally been able to escape months of enslavement, was overjoyed. And having long since given up any hope of reclaiming his physical body, had already exited the corpse before it hit the floor.

Logos couldn’t speak without being worn, so it was left to Tepho to provide an epitaph for the recently vacated body. “Some things were just never meant to be,” the administratorcommented, as two heavily armed robots entered the room. “There’s some garbage on the floor,” Tepho added. “Remove it.”

The interior of Surface Ramp-47 was like a scene from
hell as Rebo and Norr fought to make their way back up to the surface. Because, as the clock continued to tick, and groups of heavily burdened tomb raiders emerged from the city of Kahoun, the on-again, off-again carnage continued. Insults were exchanged, the wounded lay in moaning heaps, hard-eyed overseers cracked their whips, a disabled metal man screeched pitifully, a woman accidentally shot one of her companions in the leg, metal grated on duracrete as an enterprising tomb raider towed his loot up the ramp on a solar panel, and the air crackled with a cacophony of radio traffic as those on the surface issued dozens of conflicting orders.

Thanks to the fact that they were relatively unencumbered, the twosome made good time at first. But then, as they neared the top of the ramp, the situation changed as incoming extraction teams ran into outgoing extraction teams and created a very contentious traffic jam. And it was then, while caught in the backwash of all the confusion, that Rebo spotted the blue-clad combat variant and a face he had never expected to see again. “Look!” the runner said, as he elbowed Norr. “It’s Phan! Wearing Techno Society blue!”

The sensitive looked, saw that Rebo was correct, and watched as the assassin sent a brace of heavies in to clear the traffic jam. “We’d better pull back,” the variant advised, “or they’ll spot us for sure.”

The runner regretted allowing Phan to live, knew he would bring all sorts of hell down on them if he were to shoot the scheming bitch, and allowed Norr to pull him back. “So, what are we going to do?” Rebo wanted to know. “We can’t stay in here forever, and they’ll spot us if we try to leave.”

“True,” the sensitive agreed thoughtfully, “so let’s change the way we look. See those bodies over there? The ones in green? Let’s strip them.”

In any other circumstance the sight of a man and a woman stripping dead bodies of their clothing would have been the subject of comment if not outrage, but there, within the amoral free-for-all of Ramp-47, the act was little more than a grisly sideshow.

It took a concerted effort to remove the tops and pull the simple garments up over their heads, but eventually the task got done. And though less than enthusiastic about the bullet holes in his newly acquired jerkin and the large bloodstain on the back of it, Rebo was thankful that the garment had a hood. And, judging from the extent to which Norr’s cowl hid
her
face, the runner figured that his would function the same way.

Then, as if to validate the effectiveness of the disguises, a man dressed in Menkur green yelled at them from farther down the ramp. “Hey, you two! Give us a hand with this thing!” Rebo, who was eager to blend in, hurried to comply. Norr followed. The “thing” that the man referred to turned out to be one of the Techno Society’s metal men, which King Menkur’s technologists wanted to study up close so they could create their own army of robotic servants. That was the sort of thing Sogol intended.

The android, which had been tied hand and foot, was still very much “alive,” and hung suspended below a pair of long poles. But the weight was too much for just two men, which was why the man in green was happy to recruit two ostensible allies, even if they were strangers to him. “Grab a handle!” the tomb raider ordered cheerfully. “And keep your weapons handy. . . . The blues won’t like this—so we may have to shoot our way out.”

Rebo swore. Now, rather than slip past the technos unnoticed, they were almost certain to be challenged! But it was too late to choose another course of action, so the off-worlders took hold of the poles, and hoisted them onto their shoulders.

Shaz was the first to notice Menkur’s tomb raiders and the burden that the foursome carried as they pushed up toward the top of the ramp, but no sooner had he dispatched a squad of metal men to deal with the android nappers, than a trio of green-clad wings attacked from above. And it was then, while the combat variant and the assassin were busy defending themselves, that Rebo fired the Sokov. The first projectile exploded against the lead robot’s chest and blew a palm-sized hole through the metal man’s torso. A second machine went off-line as a result of its wounds—and two additional androids were destroyed as more darts hit home.

Then the litter bearers were free of the crowd and out in the desert. A wall of green-clad warriors opened to enfold them, and Shaz was left to fume, still ignorant of the true gravity of his loss. Because not only had a robot been spirited away, the sensitive named Norr had slipped past him as well, along with the AI originally called Logos 1.2. That meant
two
AIs
were on the loose. The question, and a rather important one at that, was which Logos would arrive on Socket first.

ELEVEN

Clusters of lights could be seen in the desert as groups of
exhausted tomb raiders gathered around campfires to brag about the artifacts they had brought up from the city of the dead, wager bonuses they had yet to receive, and mourn those who had lost their lives to flying machines or enemy tomb raiders.

Such was the case in Tepho’s encampment as well, except that unlike the other kings, the technologist was making preparations to leave Haafa. Not forever, but long enough to lay claim to Socket and establish a new system of star gates. Which was why Tepho’s staff was busy carrying supplies out to a long line of waiting wagons.

Having just returned from the desert, both the combat variant and the assassin were tired, sunburned, and dirty. But given the potential importance of the news they had to impart, the twosome requested an audience with Tepho and were shown into his tent. Sections of the canvas wall had been tied back to let the night breezes blow through. The administrator’s raptor was being disassembled for transshipment, and Tepho frowned as a technician jerked on a handful of wires. “Be careful!” the technologist said petulantly. “That wiring harness is worth more than
you
are!”

“It’s almost impossible to find good help these days,” Tepho grumbled as he turned to Shaz. “But such is my burden. So, what brought you here? We won’t be ready to depart for Pohua until the early hours of the morning.”

The combat variant shimmered slightly as he looked toward Phan and back again. “It’s the sensitive. . . . The one named Norr. Phan believes she saw both the variant and the runner leave the ramp with a couple of men dressed in Menkur green.”

Tepho’s gaze shifted to Phan. His eyes were like lasers. “Well?” the administrator demanded. “You ‘
believe
’ you saw them? Or you actually saw them? Which is it?”

Phan swallowed. “I saw them, sir. All of them were dressed in green and carrying a metal man up out of the city.”

Tepho frowned. “A metal man you say? Why would they do that?”

The assassin shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. But based on the fact that Rebo and Norr aligned themselves with Kufu shortly after they arrived, the green livery could be by way of a disguise.”

“Which would have been successful had it not been for your sharp eyes,” the technologist observed approvingly. “But
we
have Logos. . . . So, what were they doing in the ruins? Rooting around for artifacts like everyone else?”

The AI knew the correct answer but couldn’t tell them about Sogol without revealing the extent of his own duplicity, so he took the opportunity to nudge the conversation in a different direction. His voice originated from the vicinity of Tepho’s neck. “There’s no way to be sure,” Logos put in, “but they
are
persistent and could be engaged in some sort of plot to recover me.”

“That’s a good point,” Tepho agreed soberly. “And even if they aren’t trying to take you back, they know far too much about the Techno Society and the star gates. “So,” the administrator said, as he looked from Shaz to Phan, “bring me their heads. I could use a pair of bookends.”

Even though it had been dark for quite a while, the main
road was busy, because that was the time of day when most teamsters preferred to haul supplies out into the desert. Primarily because it was cooler then. But some, like Certa, had additional motives. By working at night, Certa rarely had to interact with his wife, and that left him free to drink all day at his favorite tavern. Besides, there were thousands of glittering stars to gaze upon during the hours of darkness, and his fellow drivers to trade jibes with. The wagon, which was loaded with empty water barrels,
rattled
as it lurched through a dry riverbed.

It was then that Certa heard the thunder of hoofbeats, waited for the group to pass, and was surprised when they drew up alongside instead. It was dark, but both of Haafa’s moons were up, which meant there was sufficient light to see by. The lead riders wore Tepho blue, not that it mattered much, since the teamster prided himself on his neutrality. “Hey, old man,” the nearest rider shouted, as he pulled up next to the wagon. “We’re looking for a female sensitive and a male norm. Have you seen them? There’s a reward.”

It was a stupid question given the fact a couple matching the rider’s description were seated behind him. Certa was about to say as much when he turned to discover that the hitchhikers were gone. And, given the rider’s insulting manner, the teamster saw no reason to help him. Not even for a reward. “No, sir,” Certa lied. “I ain’t seen nothin’.”

The answer was consistent with those given by all the drivers encountered thus far, so Shaz spurred the angen forward, closely followed by Phan and a half dozen heavily armed riders. Once they were gone Certa grinned toothlessly, sent a stream of spittle down toward the surface of road, and felt for the bottle beneath the seat. It was half-full, and the teamster took pleasure in the way the serat warmed the back of his throat before exploding in the pit of his stomach. Others could scrabble for artifacts if they chose to—but Certa was content with what he had.

Meanwhile, a couple of hundred feet back down the road, protected by the darkness that lay like a blanket over the bottom of a dry watercourse, Rebo and Norr came to their feet, dusted themselves off, and took a look around. “Damn,” the runner remarked evenly. “That was close. How did you know?”

“I would recognize Phan’s energy anywhere,” Norr replied grimly. “It looks like they saw us leave the ramp. . . . And they’re hunting for us.”

“But
why
?” Rebo wanted to know. “They have Logos.”

“Who is determined to destroy me,” Sogol reminded the runner, from her position on Norr’s forearm. “It’s my guess that Logos is behind the search.”

“Terrific,” Rebo responded darkly. “So, what now?”

“We have to reach Pohua,” the sensitive answered, as she readjusted her pack. “And we need to arrive before dawn. Any later than that and King Tepho’s wings will spot us.”

“Okay,” the runner said wearily, as he gave her a hand up onto the road. “We might as well get started.”

They walked for hours as Haafa’s twin moons followed their own inevitable path across the sky to finally disappear in the west, finally entering the outskirts of Pohua just before dawn. But the danger wasn’t over, and wouldn’t be until such time as they were able to find a safe place to hide and plan their next move. The runner had dealt with such situations before, however, and knew that their best chance was to hide in a place where their pursuers were unlikely to look, such as a monastery. And not just
any
monastery, but a red-hat temple, where the medallion that still hung around his neck would serve as their introduction.

But how to find one? And do so quickly? During his travels, the runner always made it a practice to avoid asking for directions lest he identify himself as a stranger and therefore a potential victim. But there were times when he was forced to take a chance. That was why Rebo made his way over to a roadside tea stand, where he fumbled some coins out of his belt pouch. “Good morning. . . . Two cups of tea please—and directions to the monastery.”

The woman behind the rickety counter had skin that looked like poorly tanned leather, sky-blue eyes, and brown teeth. Having been up all night brewing tea for the teamsters, she was tired. “There is no monastery, not in Pohua,” the woman replied dully, as she poured hot water into a pair of badly stained mugs. “But the nunnery is located two blocks from the market. Just follow the main road to Pua Street. . . . Take a right and follow Pua to Bako. Go left on Bako. The nunnery will be on your right.”