Gregarious by nature, Wama offered to help a young couple with their baggage, and the newlyweds were happy to have some help. All of the best spots had been taken by the time the odd threesome arrived in the hold, which left them with little choice but to take over one of the campsites out in the middle of the deck. They invited the monk to stay, and Wama, who saw no reason to strike out on his own, was quick to agree.
So, as the young couple went to work erecting a shelter that would provide them with a modicum of privacy, Wama opened his pack. It contained a generous quantity of simple but nutritious food, a pot, a bowl, some eating utensils, and a medical kit. But there was no sign of the weapon that he'd been promised, not until Wama hit the very last layer of supplies and discovered the red hat and robe.
That was when he understood what Fiva intended. If the boy and the imposter were one and the same, he and his retainers would be much more likely to trust a member of their own sect. So much so that it might be possible for Wama to approach the boy, wrap his fingers around the little rascal's throat, and throttle the villain to death before anyone could interfere. Such an assassination would mean certain death, of course, but the wheel of incarnation would inevitably turn and deliver him back to the physical world. Strangely, in spite of the comfort that the knowledge should have produced, the monk felt slightly sick to his stomach.
One of the things that Norr liked about the platform on
which she had taken up residence was the ease with which she could monitor movements below. Especially those of the metal men, who continued to watch their fellow passengers like predators inspecting their prey.
Not too surprisingly, many of the people the machines continually peered at became annoyed and weren't hesitant to make their displeasure known. The sensitive had seen the robots subjected to verbal assaults, doused with slops, and struck with a wide variety of clubs. None of those actions served to discourage them.
Days had passed since the ship had broken orbit, or that's what Norr assumed, although she had no way to keep track. Now, having spied on most of the passengers without success, it appeared that the mechanical men were in the process of exploring the rest of the ship in case their quarry had taken up residence somewhere else. That's the way it appeared anyway, since one of the robots left at what seemed like regular intervals and was gone for what had to be hours. A logical move, all things considered, and one that Norr planned to take advantage of.
Having equipped herself with food, candles, and matches, the sensitive hid her pack high among the girders and took a long circuitous route down to the deck below. Hopefully, if luck was with her, the rest of the passengers would believe that she was still up on the platform.
Rather than call the metal men A and B, or 1 and 2, Norr had named them Fric and Frac. And it was easy to tell the two of them apart because even though their features were identical, the robots wore slightly different clothing. Fric's robe hung loose and was tattered at the bottom,
while Frac used a length of rope to cinch his garment at the waist.
That's how the sensitive knew that Fric was the one she followed out of the hold and into the ship's darkened corridors. At first the young woman was concerned about stumbling into the robot, or falling into some unseen hole, but the metal man hadn't walked for more than a few yards when two beams of light splashed the hallway ahead and wobbled across the grimy bulkheads.
Surprised, but pleased regarding her ability to see, Norr followed along behind. Her staff, which was the only weapon the sensitive had, was slung across her back. At one point the brass-shod tip made contact with a bulkhead and made a distinct
click
. Two white eyes swiveled toward the rear as Fric turned, and Norr sidestepped into an open hatch. Five extremely long seconds passed while the robot listened for the sound to repeat itself and, not having heard it again, continued on his way.
Norr discovered that she had been holding her breath and gradually let it go. Then, moving carefully so as not to make the same mistake twice, the sensitive pulled the staff around so it was in front of her.
Then, hurrying forward in an attempt to make up for lost time, Norr continued to follow the machine down the corridor. Now, as the lights projected by the robot's “eyes” caressed the walls, the young woman began to understand why passengers preferred to travel in the ship's hold. One stretch of the passageway had been blackened, as if by a raging fire, and Norr caught a glimpse of a tracked maintenance bot as a small hatch opened to admit it.
Farther down the hall the sensitive passed the remains of what looked like a crumpled barricade, bullet-dimpled walls, and strange burn marks. Three minutes later Fric was
forced to stop in front of a closed hatch. White spray paint had been used to scrawl the words, “This section contaminatedâstay out!” over a poorly rendered skull and crossbones. The lights projected by the robot's “eyes” swung back and forth as Fric paused to look around, accepted the fact that he couldn't proceed any farther, and turned to retrace his steps.
Satisfied that Frac was too far away to be of assistance, and convinced that she would never get a better chance than the one at hand, Norr twisted both halves of her staff in opposite directions. There was a barely heard
click,
followed by the gentle whisper of steel, as the three-foot-long blade left its wooden scabbard. Fric heard the sounds, paused, and spoke. “Hello? Who's there?”
“
I'm
here,” Norr replied as she stepped out of the shadows and into the glare provided by the robot's lights. “You know, the person that you and your friend have been looking for.”
“Really?” the machine inquired skeptically. “How do I know you are telling the truth?”
“You don't,” Norr said, thumbing the vibro blade's power switch. “But ask yourself this . . . Who else would want to remove your head?”
The blade hummed as it passed through the air and made a metallic
ka-chink
as it sliced through Fric's alloy skin. Electricity crackled, and the harsh smell of ozone scented the air as the weapon emerged from the other side. The robot's body collapsed into a heap even as his head bounced and rolled to an uneven stop.
Never having done battle with a robot before the sensitive half expected the severed head to speak, but Fric remained mute as she toed his metal skull and bent to pick it up. Twin beams still shot out of the metal man's “eyes” and
Norr made use of them to examine the metal cadaver. A quick search turned up a purse heavy with coins but nothing else. The sensitive tucked the find away and used the head to light the passageway ahead. Frac wouldn't allow himself to be taken so easily, Norr knew that, but progress had been made.
Lee opened the spigot and water rattled into the bottom of
the badly dented bucket that Rebo had salvaged from a scrap heap. Everyone had to fetch their water, and in spite of the boy's protestations, the runner had assigned the task to him. And not just
that
task, but other chores as well, so that the first part of each artificial “day” was spent cooking, cleaning, and running errands. And what was Rebo doing during that time? Nothing other than sitting around guarding their supplies. A task that required little if any effort.
It wasn't fair, not by a long shot, and Lee could feel the resentment bubbling up from deep inside as he made use of both hands to lift the now-brimming bucket. “Resentment is like acid,” Qwa maintained, “and if left unattended, it will consume your spirit.” Skillful understanding should have been sufficient to ease Lee's discomfort, but it didn't. Just one more indication that the elder brothers were mistaken and the entire voyage was a waste of time.
“Can I help you with that?” The words arrived along with a hand that took up the slack and lightened the burden by half. The response was automatic, and it wasn't until Lee had already said, “Thank you,” in the same tongue, that he remembered that he wasn't supposed to know Tilisi, the language that the monks and parishioners alike spoke among themselves. It was a terrible mistake, and Lee felt the blood rush to his face as he looked upward. And there,
much to the boy's surprise, stood a man in a red hat and matching robe.
“Good morning,” the monk said, as he switched back to standard. “My name is Brother Wama.”
“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Lee answered politely. “My name is Dor Rebo.”
Wama nodded solemnly, and because the introduction had been made using standard, Lee wondered if he'd been mistaken regarding the Tilisi.
Besides,
the youngster reasoned,
it's the black hats that I should fear, not one of my own.
That logic was so obviously correct that once the water had been delivered, and Wama departed the campsite, Lee saw no reason to mention the momentary lapse to Rebo.
In the meantime, Wama was not only stunned by the extent to which the trick had been successful but alarmed by what it meant. Because, there, against all odds, was the very imposter that the entire sect was searching for! There might be some alternative explanation for what the monk felt sure was a wig, but not for the boy's facility with Tilisi, which was virtually unknown beyond the realm of the church. His duty was clear. Like it or not, Wama would have to lure the lad away form the man with the guns and kill him. The knowledge was like acid and ate at the holy man's gut as he returned to the shared campsite and began to brew some tea.
In the meantime, from her vantage point about fifty yards away, the black hat assassin kept watch. Contact had been made, and while she couldn't be sure of the exact nature of what had transpired between monk and boy, Wama's body language had been quite expressive. The long face, slumped shoulders, and lethargic manner all hinted at the same thing. Be he right or wrong, Wama was convinced that he had found the imposter. But were bodyguards other
than the man in red leather jacket present? And if so, would they move to block Wama? Only time would tell. Patience is a virtue where assassins are concernedâand the woman was content to wait.
The metal men didn't maintain a campsite, not the way the
other passengers did, but when not out making their rounds they had a tendency to loiter in the vicinity of the jack panel from which power could be bled from the ship.
So, when Unit A-78214 returned to that point having just completed a tour of the hold, he expected to find 218 there to engage in the usual two-way exchange of data. However, rather than his companion, 214 was confronted by the other robot's lifeless head, which had been left resting on a cross member located directly above the power panel.
A human might have experienced a sense of horror, quickly followed by deep sorrow, but 214 wasn't equipped for that. He simply noted that 218 was off-line and that the perpetrator or perpetrators wanted him to be aware of it. But why? A poorly conceived attempt to intimidate him seemed like the most likely possibility.
The metal man tapped his temple, “heard” the hatch whir open, and felt for the lead that was stored there. A steady pull was sufficient to produce a four-foot length of thin cable. The jack made a
click
as it mated with the receptacle at the base of 218's metal skull and a “thought” was sufficient to stimulate the data flow. A few seconds later 214 had relived 218's journey, had “seen” the man with the vibro blade, and immediately recognized him as passenger “M” for male 146. A seldom-glimpsed individual who made his home on a platform suspended above the hold.
Now, having heard the human admit who he/she was,
214 superimposed him/her over an image of the crone at the spaceport and a picture of the woman who had appeared in the actor's hall. The video morphed only slightly as all of the images melted into one and the truth was revealed. The sensitive called Lanni Norr and passenger M-146 were one and the same.
The metal man processed something akin to a sense of completion, broke the connection with 218's CPU, and placed the skull back where he had found it. There was work to do, and like machines everywhere, 214 was determined to accomplish it.
The message arrived wrapped around a bolt. It missed
Rebo's head by a matter of inches,
clanged
off the bulkhead beyond, and fell to the deck with a soft
thud
. The strange half-light that pervaded the hold made it impossible to see who had thrown the object, but the crude block letters on the parchment were evidence enough. “Hol died . . . and so will you!”
It didn't take a genius to figure out that Hol was the man Rebo had killed shortly after boarding the ship and that the message had been delivered by one of his friends. In fact the only real surprise lay in the fact that it had taken the merchant and his minions so long to get around to it. The runner sighed, took a seat on an empty crate, and fed another piece of the coffin into the tiny fire. The ship did a pretty good job of recycling the air, but its systems hadn't been designed to cope with dozens of open fires, and a permanent haze polluted the hold.
A good fifteen minutes or so passed before Lee returned from wherever he'd been. The last couple of weeks had been good for him, or so it seemed to Rebo, and the evidence was clear to see. The previously round-faced youngster looked a
little leaner and was a lot more confident. He plopped down next to the runner and held out his hand. “Look, Father! I won them!”