Still, the feeling that he was under surveillance persisted as Kane swung the powerful telescopic sight onto a gaping window and waited for the warrior hidden inside to reveal himself. Strangely, from the operative's perspective at least, his thoughts turned to Lysander as the seconds continued to tick by. Ever since the moment when they had first met, and for reasons he wasn't entirely sure of, the operative had experienced an inordinate desire to please the cantankerous bastard. And now, even though the scientist had switched sides, Kane was
still
trying to earn his mentor's approval. Not the namby-pamby Lysander, but the
original
version, who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.
There was a flicker of movement as the black hat stepped into the scope's crosshairs, blinked as he sought to accommodate the bright sunlight, and turned his head to the right. That exposed his temple and Kane felt the trigger break, let his shoulder absorb the resulting recoil, and was already swinging his weapon toward the next target by the time the body fell.
Having heard the shot, and unaware of the fact that they were being stalked, the technologist felt sure the other Dib Wa would pop up for a look around. And, because he knew where to look for them, would make themselves vulnerable. The second target stepped halfway out of a doorway, was blown off his feet, and was still falling as the third slug
slammed into a man foolish enough to fire at a target he couldn't see.
That was when silence fell over the spaceport, Kane elbowed his way back into the cool embrace of a shadow, and the last black hat went to ground. Or that's what the warrior intended to do, except that Shaz was standing directly behind the monk and promptly slit his throat. Then, having dragged the body out to a point where Kane would find it, the variant vanished. Not as a means to prove how elusive he could be, but because Kane was an excellent shot, and the variant had no desire to take a bullet in the back.
The Ning dogs moved in on the corpse shortly thereafter, but scattered when Kane arrived and were content to flop down in some shade and wait while the two-legged predator examined the body. Though pleased that his final target had been eliminated, the operative felt a chill run down his spine and whirled to see if Shaz was standing directly behind him. But the room was empty . . . and Kane was alone. Or was he? A sense of uneasiness followed the operative out into the sun and persisted even after the Ning dogs had begun their meal.
The Juno River sparkled with reflected sunlight as it
turned toward the south and carried the float along at a steady six miles per hour. The men on the sweeps had to push hard to prevent the log raft from grounding in the shallows, while the tree walkers dashed hither and yon, shouted friendly insults at each other, and used iron-tipped poles to stab at the sometimes recalcitrant logs.
Rebo, who was seated on the bench that ran along the front side of the shack, never tired of watching the walkers dance from one bobbing, twisting, rolling log to the next.
And that was what he was doing when Duther rounded the corner and paused in front of him. The heavy nodded politely. “Good morning . . . Please inform your companions that we will be passing through the Devil's Chute in thirty minutes or so. We shouldn't have any troubleâbut it's best to be prepared. I suggest that you make sure that everyone is ready for a swimâand assemble your group forward of the sweeps. If the float begins to separate, and you hear me give the order, be sure to go off the trailing edge of the raft. That way you'll be
upstream
of the logsâand a lot less likely to be crushed.
“Tell your people not to fight the river,” the river captain continued, “but to ease their way out of the current, wait for an eddy, and swim into it. Oh, and one other thing . . . If you wind up ashore, watch out for wreckers. They live downstream of the chute and live off the sticks that escape from floats and the people who wash up along the riverbanks. Not only will they steal whatever you haveâthey'll probably hold you for ransom. Any questions?”
Rebo frowned as he came to his feet. “No, I don't think so. Why didn't you mention all of this earlier?”
Duther shrugged philosophically. “There wasn't anything you could do about it except sit around and worry . . . Besides, odds are that we'll make it through without difficulty. I'll see you at lunch.” So saying, the river captain stepped off the platform and onto a glistening log. It dipped under his considerable weight, and water sloshed over the top of it as the variant started his morning rounds.
Rebo watched the heavy for a moment, shook his head in consternation, and went in search of his companions. The clock was ticking, and given the fact that there was no way to get off the float, the passengers had no choice but to prepare themselves for what lay ahead.
Meanwhile, a few miles downstream, a man named Horg
Zikko settled into the carefully padded position that he had prepared for himself earlier that morning. The long-barreled .50-caliber rifle had been specially designed for him, which meant that the stock fit his shoulder perfectly, and the trigger was an exact match for the curve of his right index finger. That, plus the fact that he had spent the last two days shooting at floating targets, made the marksman confident that he could fulfill the terms of his contract. The float, which had been tracked since its departure from Iz, had
three
sweeps, therefore three sweep operators. One would be worth two gold cephors, two would be worth four cephors, and three would be worth
eight
cephors. A princely sum that would make the journey upriver from Cresus worth the effort.
Three wreckers, all members of the local council, watched Zikko make his final preparations and exchanged congratulations. Although various members of the wrecker community had attempted to kill sweeper operators before, none had succeeded. It was extremely difficult to hit a target that was not only drifting downriver but bobbing up and down and jerking from side to side at the same time.
But Zikko not only could, but had made many such shots over the last couple of days, a fact that caused the locals to feel very optimistic indeed. So much so that the rest of the villagers were waiting downstream, where they stood ready to pounce on whatever goodies emerged from the chute. Assuming that things went well, and there was no reason to believe they wouldn't, the next few hours would be profitable indeed.
Having successfully made their way back to the platform
on which the sweep operators stood, the foursome could do
little more than wait and try to stay out of the way. Like the others, Norr wore light clothing plus a small pack, which in addition to her necessaries, contained the gate seed that Lysander had stolen from Kane. Was the artifact waterproof? She believed that it was, but had no means to test her theory, and she hoped to keep the device dry.
The river had narrowed during the last half hour or so, which caused the current to run faster. So fast that the gradually rising banks seemed to zip past as the leading edge of the float bucked its way through a series of standing waves. Sheets of spray flew into the air and were transformed into a windblown mist. Most of the water fell on the first rows of logs, but some of it floated to the rear, where it wet Norr's face. The sensitive used a sleeve to wipe the water away and felt a momentary sense of exhilaration.
Then the float rocked from side to side, a sweep operator yelled, “Here we go!” and the raft entered the chute. Rocky walls rose to either side of river, the float began to undulate as it passed through a series of dips, and the deck shook as the raft's right flank scraped a boulder topped with a cap of green moss.
That was when the sensitive heard a loud
crack!
and saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Rebo had seen it too. The centermost sweep operator had disappeared. “Someone shot him!” the runner yelled. “Bo! Grab that sweep! Lanni, get down!”
Norr threw her arms around Lee, and had just pulled the boy down onto the water-slicked deck, when a second shot rang out. The starboard operator looked surprised, clutched his chest, and fell.
Rebo had his glasses on by then, and stood with legs spread, as he used both hands to aim the long-barreled handgun up at the embankment ahead. He spotted a group
of three tightly clustered stick figures, fired the single-shot pistol, and returned the weapon to its holster. Then, having grabbed hold of a loose sweep, the runner pulled with all his strength. The float, which had been sliding toward the right up until that point steadied, and passed within a foot of a huge, gray-speckled rock.
Zikko saw his second bullet strike home, and was preparing
to place his third, when one of the tiny figures below produced a long-barreled pistol and fired. It was a nearly impossible shot, but such was the pistoleer's skill or luck that the slug hit one of the wreckers and killed him instantly. The body fell on Zikko, which made it impossible to fire, and the third sweep operator was spared as a result.
The surviving council members were distraught to say the least, although it was difficult to say what bothered them more, their collaborator's death or the prospect of having to pay Zikko even though the float had passed through the chute intact. But it hardly mattered. The marksman demanded his pay, tucked it into his purse, and was soon on his way. Though not entirely successful, the trip had been worthwhile, and his family would eat.
Much to the disappointment of the wreckers who lined
both sides of the river, the float was still intact as it surged out of the chute, and followed the main channel downstream. There was a fusillade of shots as the locals fired off their mostly muzzle-loading weapons; but none of the balls found flesh, and it wasn't long before even the trailing edge of the raft was out of range.
Rebo heaved a sigh of relief as the last shots sent geysers of water up behind his sweepâand felt even better when a tree walker came back to relieve him. Then, with the float
under control, the passengers were free to return to their cabin. It felt good to get in out of the wind, but the bullet holes that let light through the walls served to remind the group of how fragile their shelter was and served to erode any sense of well-being they might have otherwise felt.
The river, which ran only inches under the decking, chuckled heartlessly. The only things it cared about were the raindrops that occasionally fell from the sky, the streams that contributed to its strength, and the sea that waited somewhere over the horizon. Those were everythingâand nothing else mattered.
Dinner was over, and, while it was dark outside the cabin,
soft buttery light flooded the interior. The wall that divided the passenger quarters from the galley and bunkroom was only one plank thick, which meant that the foursome could hear the clatter of pots and pans interspersed with muffled conversation as off-duty members of the crew mourned their dead crewmates and discussed the events of the day.
Bo was snoring in the bunk beneath him, and Lee was supposed to be asleep as well. By just barely opening his eyelids, the youngster could see Rebo sitting at the table, with the Crosser disassembled in front of him. Norr sat across from the runner with her chin resting on her hands. She looked beautiful in the soft lamplight, or that's what Lee thought, and he suspected that Rebo would have agreed. They hadn't had much opportunity to be alone of late, and there was tension at times. There was no sign of that, however, as the runner peered through the newly swabbed gun barrel. “I don't know, Lanni,” he said doubtfully. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”
Norr shrugged. “You know Lysander . . . If I say no, he's
likely to come through anyway. We might as well get it over with.”
Rebo lowered the gun barrel and made a face. “Yeah, and there's no telling when he'll decide to do it. Okay, so long as you're up for it, let him through.”
Lee, his interest fully piqued, lay perfectly still. If a dead person was about to speak, then
he
wanted to listen.
Norr nodded and closed her eyes. Lysander was present, she could
feel
it, already trying to push his way in. The sensitive knew he couldn't take over her body permanently, not so far as she knew anyway, but feared that he would if he could. Not to hurt her, but without regard for her desires, consistent with the relationship that existed between them hundreds of years before. He had been ruthless then, and he was ruthless now, the only difference being that the discarnate had switched sides. Now he was ruthlessly good if such a thing was possible. That was the last thought the sensitive had before Lysander pushed in and took control.
Rebo saw Norr jerk as her onetime father stepped in and was ready when the dead man spoke. His voice was pitched a good deal lower than the sensitive's and sounded hoarse. “Oh,” Lysander said as he stared across the table, “it's you.”
The Crosser's barrel made a positive
click
as it mated with the weapon's receiver. “Yeah,” the runner replied emotionlessly, “it's me. Who were you expecting? The Caliph?”
“No, you'll do,” the dead scientist allowed. “Now listen carefully . . . A man named Kane and his operatives are watching the spaceport in Cresus. They don't care about you, the boy, or the heavy, but they want my daughter. More than that, they want the gate seed. You care about her, I can see that, so keep her safe.”