Logos run

LOGOS RUN

WILLIAM C. DIETZ

ONE

The Planet Thara

From this day forward the stars shall be ours . . .

—Emperor Hios, on the day that the fi?rst public star gate went into service, and he stepped onto the surface of the Planet Zeen The attack came without warning. The angen-drawn coach had been under way for hours by then, having followed the well-established ruts south through villages of neatly thatched roofs, past prayer ribbons that fl?ew with the wind, and miles of fl?ooded paddies. The genetically engineered draft animals strained at their harnesses as the road began to rise, the driver’s long, supple whip cracked over their vaguely equine heads, and they were forced to assume the fourwheeled vehicle’s entire weight. The angens expressed their unhappiness via snorts, grunts, and occasional bursts of fl?atulence as the low-lying paddies fell away and they pulled the coach up through a long series of switchbacks. But the driver was accustomed to such displays, and his passengers were largely unaware of how the animals felt, since two of the three were asleep within the boxy cab.

The single exception was Lonni Norr, who sat facing the front of the coach with Jak Rebo’s head resting on her lap. The variant’s right leg had gone to sleep ten minutes earlier, but she couldn’t bring herself to wake the runner and thereby break the spell. Because after months of danger and turmoil Norr was temporarily at peace. And had been ever since their departure from the holy city of CaCanth. But Norr’s ancestors had been bred to sense things that norms could not. So even as the heavy who was curled up on the seat across from her continued to snore, and Rebo jerked as if in response to a dream, the young woman knew that confl?ict lay ahead. Partly because the threesome possessed something others wanted—and partly because it was somehow meant to be. The windows were open, which meant Norr caught a brief glimpse of the terrain ahead as the coach lurched up over a pass and began its rattling descent. In contrast to the carefully cultivated paddies the coach had passed earlier in the day, a dense forest awaited them below. The interlocking foliage stretched for as far as the eye could see, and, judging from the occasional glint of refl?ected sunlight, was watered by a serpentine river.

Rebo mumbled something in his sleep, and Norr smiled tenderly as she ran her fi?ngers through the runner’s thick black hair. His features were even, but a bit too rugged to be described as classically handsome, in spite of the fact that women generally found him to be attractive. The relationship with Rebo had been part of the long journey that had begun on the Planet Anafa, and subsequently taken them to Pooz, Ning, Etu, and Thara. What began as a momentary alliance had gradually evolved into a wary friendship, an onagain, off-again romance, and a decision to remain together.

For a month? A year? A lifetime? Not even a person with her gifts could tell.

Such were Norr’s thoughts as the coach found level ground, bounced its way into a set of deep ruts, and was soon embraced by an army of leafy trees. Their trunks were four to fi?ve feet in circumference, and their massive branches came together to form a dense canopy overhead. The thick biomass cut the amount of sunlight that could reach the forest fl?oor by half and caused a drop in temperature. But the chill that Norr felt was not entirely physical. Other senses had come into play, too, senses that norms possess, but rarely take full advantage of. What one of them might have experienced as a vague uneasiness, Norr saw as a roiling blackness, and knew the sensation for what it was: negative energy being broadcast by a group of hostile minds. The sensitive put her hand on Rebo’s arm. “Jak . . . Wake up . . . Something is wrong.”

But the warning came too late. One of the angens uttered a bloodcurdling scream as an arrow sank into its haunch, and a pair of hobnailed boots made a thumping sound as a bandit landed on the roof. That noise was followed by a loud boom as the driver triggered his blunderbuss and sent a dozen .30-caliber lead balls into the undergrowth where the archer was concealed. But that did nothing to protect the coachman from the garrote that dropped over his head, or the noose that began to tighten around his throat. He had little choice but to release both his weapon and the reins in a desperate effort to restore his air supply.

“On the roof!” Norr exclaimed, as her companions awoke. “Bandits!”

Like all his kind, Bo Hoggles had a body that had been designed for life on heavy-gravity worlds. That meant he was strong, so strong that he could smash a massive fi?st up through the thin roof, and grab the bandit’s ankle. That was suffi?cient to scare the would-be thief, who was forced to let go of the garrote, while he attempted to pry the heavy’s sausagelike fi?ngers off his ankle. And that’s what he was doing when Rebo drew the semiautomatic Crosser, pointed the weapon up toward the ceiling, and fi?red two ten-millimeter rounds through the roof. One bullet missed, but the other struck the brigand in the back and severed his spinal cord. The coach rocked sickeningly as Hoggles let go; the body bounced into the air and fell past Norr’s window. The driver had control of the reins by then, but no amount of swearing could make the wounded angen run faster, and that slowed the rest. All of which was part of the time-tested process that the bandits traditionally relied upon to bring their prey to a standstill. So, while the loss of Brother Becko was regrettable, the brigands had every expectation of success as the coach slowed and fi?nally came to a stop. What they didn’t expect were the people who emerged from the carriage. A heavy, armed with a war hammer, a norm with a gun in each fi?st, and a sensitive with a metaltipped wooden staff. But in spite of the fact that the passengers were clearly more formidable than the bejeweled merchants the bandit leader had been hoping for, he had little choice but to hurl himself forward as a volley of arrows arched overhead.

Rather than exert more control over her body, Norr let go instead. That allowed her full array of senses to unfold. The staff made patterns in the air as the variant whirled. There was a series of clacking sounds as half a dozen arrows were intercepted, broken in half, and left to fall like wooden rain. Hoggles was not so graceful, or so fortunate, since he made an excellent target. Two arrows thumped into his chest, but neither possessed the force required to penetrate the mesh-lined leather armor the variant had purchased in CaCanth. And, having fully recovered from the injuries suffered at the Ree Ree River, the hard-charging giant was among the bandits in a matter of moments. Blood fl?ew as the enormous war hammer struck this way and that, while his basso war cry dominated the fi?eld of battle. Nor was that the worst of it, because even as the berserker met the main body of the onrushing brigands in hammer-tohead combat, Rebo was busy shooting at the rest. It was aimed fi?re, which meant that nearly every bullet found its mark, and that added to the slaughter.

And so it was that having lost fully half his band in a matter of minutes, and with a bullet lodged in his left thigh, the group’s leader issued a shrill whistle. Strong hands grabbed the chieftain under the armpits, and his feet were lifted clear off the ground as members of the bandit’s extended family hustled him into the safety of the woods. All the brigands were gone within seconds, leaving the battle-dazed travelers in sole possession of the body-strewn battlefi?eld.

“Well, that was an unpleasant surprise,” Rebo said calmly as he slipped the unfi?red Hogger back into the crossdraw holster at his waist. “Let’s get out of here before they regroup.”

“I agree,” a male voice said emphatically. “And I would very much appreciate it if you would be so kind as to wear a more suitable garment during future battles. . . . I could have been damaged—or taken off-line.”

The sound seemed to originate from Norr, but had actually emanated from the coat she wore, which, in spite of its nondescript appearance, was a computer. A wearable computer that was more than a thousand years old and had once been at the center of a star-spanning system of star gates. Months before, the threesome had agreed to reunite the artifi?cial intelligence (AI) with a control center called Socket on behalf of a dead scientist.

But the AI could be imperious, not to mention downright annoying, which was why Norr responded as she did.

“If you would be so kind as to let us know when we’re about to be attacked—we’ll put you away well in advance. Come to think of it, maybe we should do that anyway. . . . I could use some peace and quiet.”

Logos didn’t like being packed away and therefore chose to remain silent. Rebo grinned. “Good. . . . I’m glad that’s settled. Come on, let’s give the driver a hand.”

Having reharnessed the uninjured angens, and attached the wounded animal to the back of the coach by means of a long lead, the carriage got under way fi?fteen minutes later. Rebo sat next to the driver with the fully recharged blunderbuss across his knees, while Hoggles remained in the coach, war hammer at the ready.

Norr tried to separate the natural apprehension she felt from the external stimuli available to her highly specialized senses but that was hard to do. So, with no assurance that they wouldn’t be attacked again, all the variant could do was to keep her eyes peeled and look forward to the moment when they put the forest behind them.

Eventually, after two hours of suspense, that moment came, as the trees began to thin, and gently rolling grasslands appeared. The sun was little more than a red-orange smear by then, and Rebo wondered how many more sunsets he would witness before he and his companions left Thara and continued the uncertain journey begun so many months before. The coach slowed slightly as it encountered a rise, the driver snapped his whip, and the angens pulled harder.

The undercarriage rattled, darkness gathered, and the stars lay like white dust on the blue velvet sky.

The city of Seros, on the Planet Anafa

The sun was little more than a dimly seen presence beyond the layers of charcoal-generated haze that hung over the city. Much had changed during the ten millennia since the fi?rst colony ship touched down on Anafa. A primitive settlement had evolved into a town and then a city. Or multiple cities, because Seros had been through many incarnations, with the latest sitting atop all the rest. None of which held any interest for the hooded metal man as he paused to examine a building, matched the image to the one stored in his electronic memory, and made his way up the front steps. The long, fi?lthy robe hung loosely over his skeletal body, servos whirred as the machine climbed the stairs, and the locals hurried to get out of his way. The mysterious androids could communicate with one another, everyone knew that, and would hurry to one another’s aid if threatened. That meant it was a good idea to leave the robots alone in spite of their propensity to ignore common courtesies, preach on street corners, and generally skulk about.

Like the structures around it, the rooming house had seen better days. The landlord claimed that it had been an offi?ce building once, back before the techno wars, but the history of the six-story tenement hardly mattered to the hundreds of people who lived there, or to the metal man as he climbed fi?ve fl?ights of stairs, pulled a graffi?ti-decorated door open, and entered the maze of cubicles beyond. Space was let by the square foot, which meant that the squats were of various sizes, depending on what a particular tenant could afford. Paths wound snakelike between the constantly morphing hovels they served. Some of the cubicles had walls made out of brick, others had been constructed with salvaged wood, but most consisted of large pieces of colored cloth draped over a confusing network of crisscrossed ropes. That meant life in the tenement was a largely public affair, in which every aspect of a resident’s life was known to those in the surrounding area, and gossip had been elevated to an art form. So it wasn’t surprising that dozens of inquisitive eyes tracked the android as it followed a serpentine path deep into the squats, paused at one of the many intersections, and took a judicious right. And since the automaton’s progress was heralded by a buzz of excited conversation, Arn Dyson would have known about the visitor well in advance, had his consciousness been resident within his physical body. But it wasn’t, which meant that when the robot arrived in front of the sensitive’s squat and whipped the badly faded curtain out of the way, the man sitting at the center of the simple reed mat made no response. The sensitive was middle-aged. His long hair was fanned out across his shoulders, and his eyes were closed. What few possessions he had were stacked along a wall made of interwoven sticks. A grubby little girl sat with arms wrapped around her knees. She regarded the machine with serious eyes. “Are you here to see Citizen Dyson?”

“Yes,” the metal man grated. “I am. Wake him.”

The little girl seemed to consider the order. If she was afraid of the machine, there was no visible sign of it. “Citizen Dyson has gone to visit the spirit planes. If you wish to speak with him, you must wait for him to return.”

“I will wake him,” the robot said, and took a step forward.

“No!” the little girl objected. “Not while he’s in trance. That could kill him.”

“Is there a problem?” The deep basso voice came from behind the automaton, and the machine was forced to give

way as a heavy entered the tiny squat. The giant’s head had been shaved, he wore a gold ring in his nose, and he was naked from the waist up. Muscles rippled as the variant moved, and the robot knew that the biological could best him in a fi?ght. “My master will pay Citizen Dyson two cronos for two hours of his time,” the android said fl?atly. The heavy looked suitably impressed. He knew that the assassin’s guild would be happy to kill someone for half that amount. “Why didn’t you say so?” he demanded. “Go ahead and bring him back, Myra. . . . The worthless spook owes me thirty gunnars—and I thought the money was gone for good.”

The waif looked from the heavy to the robot and back again. Then she nodded, scraped the wax off the tip of a wooden match, and lit a slender cinnamon stick. The moment a tendril of smoke appeared, the girl blew some of it into the sensitive’s nostrils. The distinctive odor served to stimulate Dyson’s physical body—which sought to bring the rest of him back. The sensitive shivered, blinked his eyes, and frowned. “Myra? Hobar? What’s going on?”

“You will come,” the metal man said tactlessly. “Omar Tepho has need of your services.”

“I don’t know who this Tepho character is,” Hobar put in, “but he’s willing to pay two cronos.”

Dyson looked up at the robot. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” the automaton replied gravely. “It is.”

“Okay,” the sensitive agreed reluctantly. “I wasn’t able to satisfy Tepho’s needs last time. Let’s hope this session is different.”

It took the better part of an hour for the robot and the sensitive to make their way through the laser-straight streets, past the weatherworn pylons that marked the path of a once-glorious transportation system, and up to the seemingly decrepit building from which Omar Tepho ran the Techno Society. The unlikely twosome followed a narrow passageway back to the point where an iron gate blocked further progress. There was an audible click as the automaton inserted a metal fi?nger into the receptacle located next to a print-sensitive identifi?cation pad. The variant had been through the process before, so he wasn’t surprised when the gate swung open, and the robot led him to a metal door. There was a momentary pause while a guard inspected the pair through a peephole followed by a nudge, as the door swung inward. Council member Ron Olvos was there to greet Dyson. He was a small man, but a hard worker and a skilled politician. Those qualities, plus the care with which he always put Tepho’s interests ahead of his own, accounted for his presence on the board. Olvos ignored the machine but extended a hand to the sensitive. “Welcome! Thank you for coming.”

Though not altogether certain that his presence was entirely voluntary, the variant smiled agreeably and wondered if he should demand three cronos rather than two. But he couldn’t muster the necessary courage, the moment passed, and Dyson found himself in a spotless corridor. “The council was in session all morning,” Olvos explained. “The chairman raised the possibility of bringing you back—and will be extremely pleased to learn that we were able to do so.”

“Really?” Dyson inquired doubtfully. “I didn’t meet with much success last time.”

“Ah, but that wasn’t your fault,” the smaller man replied soothingly. “This session will go more smoothly. . . . Do you remember Jevan Kane?”

The sensitive nodded. Kane was the operative who sought him out the fi?rst time. He was a cold man with blond hair, blue eyes, and white skin. All in an age when more than 90 percent of the population had black hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. “Yes, of course,” Dyson replied politely. “How is he?”

“Dead,” Olvos replied emotionlessly. “Which is where you come in. It’s our hope that, unlike the founder, Kane continues to support the Techno Society’s goals and will provide us with some much-needed assistance from the other side. If so, we could have an ongoing need for your services, and that could be quite profi?table for you.”

Dyson was desperately poor, but there are worse things than poverty, and the process of being co-opted by the highly secretive and possibly sinister Techno Society fi?lled the sensitive with misgivings. But there was no opportunity to consider the long-range implications of the day’s activity as servos whined and double doors opened into what had once been a vat. Those days were gone however, and the onetime tank had been transformed into a circular conference room. Electric light fl?ooded the tank, a holo projector was suspended above the round conference table, and streams of incoming data cascaded down wall-mounted screens. All of which were wonders that Dyson had sworn he wouldn’t disclose. A promise he had kept. Six of the seven seats that surrounded the table were occupied, but the sensitive’s eyes were immediately drawn to Omar Tepho—partly because of the way the man looked, which was undeniably different, but mostly as a result of the thought forms that hovered around him. They were dark things for the most part, only half-seen within the electricalstorm-like shimmer generated by a brilliant intellect. Others were present in the room, but as Tepho’s coal black eyes swiveled around to look at him, the variant knew that his was the only opinion that really mattered. He had a deep resonant voice, and it fi?lled the space with sound as he spoke.

“Welcome,” Tepho intoned, as Dyson entered the keyholeshaped space at the table’s center. “Thank you for coming. It is our intention to communicate with Jevan Kane.”

By some accident of birth Tepho had been born with multiple defects. His skull was lumpy rather than smooth, one eye socket was higher than the other, and his ears looked like handles on an earthenware jug. Still worse was the fact that the technologist had a congenital spinal deformity that made it diffi?cult for him to walk or run. None of which would have been of interest to Dyson had it not been for the manner in which the vessel had imparted its shape to the contents. The variant bowed humbly and took his seat. “You’re welcome. . . . I hope I can be of service.”

“As do we,” Tepho replied gravely. “Please proceed.”

Dyson requested that the lights be dimmed, suggested that the council visualize Jevan Kane’s face, and began the series of much-practiced steps that would allow the sensitive to partially exit his body. Meanwhile, on the plane closest to the physical, the disincarnate entity who had once been known as Jevan Kane waited to come through. He had experienced many incarnations—some more pleasant than others. And, although the transition from the physical to the spirit realm had a transformational effect on some spirits, Kane remained unchanged. So much so that he was intent on preparing the physical plane for his next incarnation. A life in which he would control the star-spanning civilization that Tepho sought to establish.

So, no sooner had Dyson half exited his body, than Kane entered it. And not tentatively, but with considerable force, as the operative sought to reintegrate himself with the physical. Everything seemed to slow as the disincarnate entity entered what felt like quicksand—and was forced to cope with a body made of lead. But there were pleasures, too, starting with the sharp tang of vinegar that still clung to the inside surface of the tank and the sudden awareness of the sex organs that dangled between the channel’s legs. Slowly, bit by bit, what had been like a heavy mist vanished, and the conference room appeared.

Tepho was there, as was the shadowy combat variant who stood half-seen behind the chairman, but rather than the fear previously felt when ushered into their combined presence, Kane felt something akin to contempt. Because even as Tepho attempted to manipulate him, he would use the technologist and thereby achieve his ends. “Greetings,” Kane said through what felt like numb lips. “This is Jevan Kane.”

What followed was a long and mostly predictable series of questions focused on the circumstances of Kane’s most recent death, the status of the people he’d been sent to intercept, and the present disposition of the AI called Logos. Kane answered by providing the council with a slightly glorifi?ed description of his own death, but when it came to the other matters, was forced to remind those present that just as it was diffi?cult for them to access the spirit planes, the reverse was true as well. So, in spite of concerted efforts to obtain such information, the best he could give the council was the assurance that the runner and his companions were still on Thara and probably in possession of the computer. “It has no spirit,” the disincarnate explained, “which makes it almost impossible to see. . . . But judging from the founder’s continued interest in the threesome, it’s my guess that they still have it.”

Though hungry for more detail, Tepho was excited to learn that the device he sought was still on Thara and slammed his fi?st down on the table in front of him. A stylus jumped and rolled off the table onto the fl?oor. “Excellent!

Now we’re getting somewhere! Shaz . . . I want you to assemble a team and make the jump to Thara. You’ll need guidance from Kane, so take Dyson with you and stay in touch. I know you two have had your differences in the past, but it’s time to put old grudges aside and work for the common good. Kane? Shaz? Can you do that?”

Tepho’s words ignored the fact that he was the one who originally set the two men against each other—but that was to be expected. “You can count on me,” Kane lied. “What’s past is past.”

The air behind Tepho shimmered as the combat variant made his presence manifest. Originally designed to function as warriors by engineers long dead, and slaughtered by the millions back during the techno wars, there weren’t many of the highly specialized creatures left. Shaz had a doglike aspect that stemmed from a long, dark muzzle, a pair of closeset eyes, and oversized ears. He wore black clothing, a leather harness, and carried a small arsenal of weapons. His smile revealed two rows of razor-sharp teeth. “Of course,”

Shaz prevaricated smoothly. “It’s the future that counts.”

The city of Tryst, on the Planet Thara

Like many of the cities on Thara, the city of Tryst had been attacked more than once over the last few thousand years, which was why it not only occupied the top of a huge granite outcropping, but was surrounded by a twenty-foothigh stone wall. And, while no one had attempted to scale the barrier in the recent past, it was common knowledge that 11,214 red hat warriors had been prematurely forced into the spirit planes while trying to wrest the city away from the black hats during the War of the Glorious Scepter 112 years earlier.

However, thanks to Rebo and his companions, the correct person now sat on the throne of CaCanth. That ensured that both halves of the Way, as the overarching religion was known, would remain at peace with each other for at least fi?fty years.

But, as with any city, the citizens of Tryst not only wanted to know who came and went, but to charge them for the privilege. That’s why the coach was forced to a pause behind a line of farm wagons about halfway up the road that led to the top.

Progress was steady, however, and no more than half an hour had passed before the coach drew level with the customs shed, and a portly-looking norm came forward to collect their paj (entry fee). Meanwhile, waiting in the background should the customs agent have need of them, were half a dozen cudgel-wielding Dib Wa (religious) warriors. The tax collector was armed with a well-worn abacus, which he was just about to employ, when Rebo emerged from the back. The runner smiled engagingly as he held a bronze medallion up for the offi?cial to see. “Good afternoon,” the runner said.

“My name is . . .” But Rebo never got the opportunity to introduce himself as the customs agent took one look at the symbol, bowed deeply, and said something in Tilisi (the language spoken by those who follow the Way). Having heard his words the Dib Wa did likewise.

Rebo bowed in return, straightened, and produced his purse. “How much do we owe?”

“Nothing,” the tax collector replied, his eyes on his feet.

“You and your companions are guests of the Inwa (leader of leaders). Please go in peace.”

The runner bowed once more, reentered the coach, and took his seat. “Well,” Norr said, as the vehicle jerked into motion. “That was a better reception than we usually get. . . . It looks like the royal sigil packs some weight.”

“I guess it does,” Rebo replied. “It’s a good thing I didn’t let Bo trade his for a couple of beers and a meat pie two days ago.”

The metal-shod wheels clattered over cobblestones as the conveyance carried the travelers into what many locals referred to as “the city of stone.” And for good reason, since the early colonists made use of high-tech cutting tools to carve what they needed from solid stone, thereby creating a vast maze of halls, galleries, and rooms, all of which were connected by tunnels, passageways, and corridors so complex that many youngsters found employment as guides. However, what made the city habitable was the extremely deep well that had been sunk down through the very center of the rock into an aquifer below. The original colonists were gone now, as were most of the technologies used to create Tryst, but thanks to the quality of the pumps located more than a thousand feet below, and the huge petal-shaped solar panels that deployed themselves just after sunrise each morning, those who lived within the city of stone had plenty of water.

What the citizens lacked was the additional electricity required to power the thousands of lights that the ancients had installed to illuminate their labyrinth. This became quite apparent as the coach left the customs plaza, rolled up onto a ramp-shaped tongue, and passed through an eternally opened mouth. There were windows, and occasional skylights, but those were rare. That meant it fell to the wall-mounted torches to light the way, or attempt to, although the fl?ickering yellow fl?ames weren’t suffi?cient to stave off the gloom.

There was a sudden clatter and the momentary glare of an oil lantern as a freight wagon passed in the opposite direction, followed by a shout from the driver, as he guided his angens into a turnout. Rebo peered out through the window as an apprentice rushed out to open the door. The torchlit sign over the door was plain to see. It read, runner’s guild, and was picked out with gold paint. The travelers didn’t have much in the way of luggage, and being used to carrying it themselves, didn’t expect any help. That left Rebo to pay the driver, who grinned when he saw the size of his tip and quickly tucked the money away.

“Bless you, sir. . . . And may the great Teon watch over you.”

“And you,” Rebo replied solemnly, before turning to retrieve his pack. Like all of the other structures in Tryst, the guildhall had been carved out of solid rock and originally had been created for some other purpose. But now, after who knew how many previous incarnations, the three-story structure was the center from which local runners were sent to locations all over the globe, and a home-away-from-home for members who had arrived by spaceship, or were waiting to leave on one.

Double doors opened onto a large lobby. It featured high ceilings, sturdy granite columns, and glossy stone fl?oors. There were dozens of chairs and side tables, and candelabras ablaze with light. Some of the seats were occupied, but most were empty, which made sense during the middle of the afternoon. A huge wood-burning fi?replace dominated the far wall, but, large though the blaze was, it couldn’t begin to warm the cavernous room.

The reception desk was off to the right, and since the man who stood behind the polished-granite barrier knew every runner on Thara, and off-worlders were rare, he was prepared to send the norm, the sensitive, and the heavy packing once they arrived at the counter. But that was before the dark-haired man nodded politely—and rolled up a sleeve to display the lightning bolt tattooed onto the inner surface of his left forearm.

Of course guild marks could be faked, but there was a procedure by which the man’s identity could be verifi?ed, and the receptionist nodded politely. A fringe of black hair circled his otherwise bald head, thick brows rode beady eyes, and he was in need of a shave. “Greetings, brother . . . I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No,” Rebo said agreeably. “I don’t think we have. Rebo’s the name . . . Jak Rebo.”

The bushy brows rose incrementally. “I’ve heard of you . . . More than once . . . But never met the man who went with the stories. Please wait here.”

Both Norr and Hoggles had stayed in similar facilities before, but not having been present at check-in, the process was new to them. As the receptionist departed, Norr turned to Rebo. “What’s going on?”

“My name is on fi?le,” the runner explained. “Or should be . . . Along with a code phrase. If it is, and if I know it, we’re in.”

Norr frowned. “How did the information get here?”

“Each time a runner comes to Thara on behalf of a client they bring a guild bag with them,” Rebo answered. “The locals compare the contents against their records and make whatever changes are necessary. There’s some lag time—but it works.”

“So, where’s your guild bag?” Hoggles wanted to know.

“Back on Ning,” the runner answered ruefully. “Valpoon and his people took it.”

The heavy was about to reply when the receptionist returned. He looked from Norr to Hoggles. “Would you excuse us?”

The receptionist waited for the variants to drift away—

before squinting at a scrap of paper. “Please recite your favorite poem.”

Rebo nodded.

When the last of my luck has been spent,

And the sun hangs low in some alien sky,

There shall I lay my head,

Happy to end my run.

The receptionist nodded affi?rmatively. “Thomas Crowley wrote that poem in this very room.”

The runner nodded. “I was his apprentice during the last few years of his life.”

The receptionist smiled. “Welcome to Thara’s guildhall, Master Rebo . . . It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. What can I do for you?”

Half an hour later the threesome was settling into a suite of three interconnecting rooms on the third fl?oor. “So, what did you learn?” Norr inquired, as she joined her companions in the small but well-furnished sitting room. “When is the ship due?” The sensitive had dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a face that was a little too narrow to be classically beautiful. Not that Rebo cared. “What we heard back in CaCanth was true,” the runner replied. “Assuming the vessel is still in service, it should arrive three days from now.”

The others knew what he meant. In the aftermath of the revolution that destroyed most of the star gates, a fl?eet of sentient starships had been constructed and put into service to replace the then-controversial portals. But now, after thousands of years without proper maintenance, the vessels had begun to die. There were fewer of them with each passing year, and, given the fact that the surviving ships were living on borrowed time, it was extremely dangerous to board one. Still, there was no choice other than the star gates, and the Techno Society controlled most of them. That hadn’t prevented the threesome from making use of the portals in the past, however, so it was Hoggles who voiced the obvious question. “What about our mechanical friend? Why take our chances aboard a ship? If he could point us toward a star gate?”

Rebo grinned as Norr opened her pack, removed the ratty-looking coat, and draped it over her shoulders. The response was immediate. “If you insist on attempting to classify my corporeal being, please refer to it as electromechanical,”

the AI said waspishly. “I am not a winepress! And, as for the presence of a star gate, I can assure you that one exists.”

“That’s wonderful,” Norr put in enthusiastically. “They’re scary—but so are the ships.”

“Not so fast,” Logos interjected primly. “I indicated that a gate exists, but given the fact that the equipment is located approximately fi?ve hundred feet below this room, I doubt that you could access it.”

“We’ll check on that,” Rebo said thoughtfully. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. A lot of ancient cities sit atop their own ruins.”

The furniture wasn’t large enough for Hoggles, who was seated on the fl?oor. “That’s too bad,” the heavy commented.

“It sounds like we’d better lay in some supplies. There won’t be any on the ship.”

“Yeah,” Rebo agreed, and fi?ngered his purse. He’d been paid in CaCanth and given more than half of that money to the receptionist, in exchange for a token that could be redeemed at any guildhall throughout known space. That, plus the funds saved up over the years, made the runner a moderately wealthy man. “We’ll need food, some sort of fuel to cook with, and new bedrolls. Not only that . . . but I’m low on ammo.”

“Then tomorrow we shop!” Norr said enthusiastically. “I need some things as well.”

“What about tonight?” the heavy wanted to know. “I’m hungry—and it’s too early for bed.”

“First we’ll go looking for a good dinner,” Rebo announced. “Then it’s off to the circus! I have three tickets—

compliments of the guild.”

“But what about me?” Logos inquired. “It’s boring in Lonni’s pack.”

“That’s easy,” the sensitive replied. “Make yourself a little more presentable, and I’ll wear you.”

The coat had been laid across a chair. Suddenly it began to squirm, started to expand, and morphed into a beautiful evening gown. It was a pale blue, slightly diaphanous, and covered with sparkly things. “Nope,” Norr commented as she held the garment up for inspection. “That’s too fancy . . . Have you seen the sort of men that I hang out with? Bring it down a notch.”

The evening dress shimmered and morphed into a plain but well-cut knee-length dress. “That’s more like it,” the sensitive proclaimed, started toward her room, and paused to look back. “As for you two, it wouldn’t hurt to take a bath and put on some clean clothes.” Rebo ran a hand over his beard, Hoggles grumbled, and the matter was settled.

The city of Seros, on the Planet Anafa

Though of considerable importance now, the star gate that Shaz and his newly formed team were about to employ had been no more than a little-used maintenance portal, back when the system was new. The real network, meaning the one that the public had access to, ran parallel to the so-called B-Grid, and had been more complex. Just one of the reasons why 98 percent of the A-Grid was off-line while segments of the support system continued to function. Metal rang on metal as four heavily burdened robots descended the spiral staircase. Arn Dyson followed them, and a female norm followed him. Her name was Du Phan, and she was an assassin. She had shiny black hair, wide-set brown eyes, and full, rather sensuous lips. Phan’s movements were graceful, like those of a fi?nely trained dancer, and her perfectly sculpted body was festooned with weapons. Her black slippers made little more than a whisper as she fl?owed down the stairs, and Shaz could feel her pull. The air shimmered as a combination of highly specialized skin cells and hormones interacted to help the combat variant blend with the duracrete walls as he brought up the rear. It was a small team, but that was a matter of choice rather than necessity, since Shaz could have hired a dozen assassins had he wanted to. But the mission called for the variant to capture Logos and learn where the control center called Socket was located, because one wasn’t much good without the other. That was a serious problem, because even if he and his team managed to capture the AI, there was no guarantee that Logos would cooperate with them. And while a bio bod could be tortured if necessary, it would be unwise to use such methods on a construct because one mistake could destroy the very knowledge they hoped to gain. All of which argued in favor of a small but lethal team. Which, with the possible exception of Dyson, it was. The stairs twisted down through a pool of light and turned yet again. The radiation produced by the adjacent power core made Shaz feel queasy. Nobody knew what the long-term impact of such exposure might be—but the variant felt sure that it wouldn’t be good. If the other biologicals were experiencing similar sensations, they gave no sign of it as they left the stairs and followed the metal men into the decontamination lock. In spite of the fact that a tremendous amount of scientifi?c knowledge had been lost over the millennia, the Techno Society’s scientists were well aware of what could happen if organisms from one planetary biosphere were allowed to colonize another, which was why Shaz ordered Phan and Dyson to strip off their clothes. The sensitive was clearly nonplussed, and sought cover among the androids, but nakedness, or the possibility of nakedness, was a fact of life for any member of the assassin’s guild, and Phan was anything but a prude. Nor was the assassin a fool, which was why she placed one hand on her hip and smiled. “Sure . . . You fi?rst.”

Two rows of extremely white teeth appeared when the variant grinned. Then, rather than render himself partially invisible as he might have, Shaz did just the opposite. The truth was that he wanted the female to get a good look at his well-muscled physique. A desire that was apparent to Dyson, who took cover behind the blank-eyed robots as he began to remove his clothing.

Impressed by what she saw, and not to be outdone, Phan performed her own strip tease. But fi?rst she had to remove the combat harness and her weapons. With that out of the way, she pulled the top half of the two-piece bodysuit up over her head. Having given Shaz a moment to appreciate her fi?rm breasts, the assassin skimmed the bottom half of her bodysuit down onto her lower legs and sat on the bench that ran along the wall. Then, with her eyes on the variant, Phan lifted her feet off the fl?oor. “So,” she said provocatively.

“Would you like to help?”

Shaz not only wanted to help, he wanted to take the norm right there, and would have except for the queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. So he said, “Yes,” pulled the garment free, and turned to slap a saucer-sized button. There was a hiss followed by a roar as jets of hot water combined with a powerful antibacterial agent struck the entire party from every possible direction. The shower continued for three minutes and was followed by blasts of warm air. Shaz was impressed by the fact that Phan hadn’t tried to conceal her body. Now, as the blowers turned themselves off, the assassin stood facing him. In addition to a pair of nicely shaped breasts, she had a fl?at stomach, and a tattoo that led down into the valley between her legs. The norm smiled knowingly and looked directly into his eyes. “Can we get dressed now?”

“No,” Shaz replied, as he shifted his gaze from her to a bedraggled Dyson. “Why bother? We’ll have to go through the same process all over again as we exit on Thara.”

Both the humans and the machines left a trail of wet footprints behind as they hauled their disinfectant-soaked luggage into the room beyond. The curvilinear walls were covered with hundreds of video tiles. Each square bore a picture with a name printed below. About half of them were lit, meaning it was still possible to travel there, and the rest were dark. The tile labeled thara showed a butte, with hills in the distance, and blue sky beyond. “That’s where we’re going,” Shaz explained, as he pointed to the square. “Put the equipment at the center of the platform and step aboard.”

Phan did as instructed, and Dyson did likewise, leaving the robots to imitate them. Once the team was in place, Shaz touched the butte, felt it give, and hurried to join the rest on the well-worn platform. The room lights fl?ashed on and off as a woman long dead spoke through the overhead speakers. “The transfer sequence is about to begin. Please take your place on the service platform. Once in place, check to ensure that no portion of your anatomy extends beyond the yellow line. Failure to do so will cause serious injury and could result in death.”

The steel disk was extremely crowded, and Phan had to edge inward in order to clear the yellow line. Her thigh came into contact with one of the androids, and his alloy skin felt cold. Dyson wished that he was somewhere else and closed his eyes. Life after death was a fact—so it was the process of dying that he feared. Shaz knew that the public platforms had not only been a good deal larger but equipped with attendants, and chairs for those who chose to use them. Now, as he prepared to make the nearly instantaneous jump from one solar system to another, the operative wondered if the ancients experienced fear as they waited to cross the void, or were so confi?dent of the technologies they employed that the outcome was taken for granted.

Before Shaz could complete his musings, there was a brilliant fl?ash of light. One by one his atoms were disassembled and sent through hyperspace before being systematically reassembled within the receiving gate on Thara. The variant felt the usual bout of disorientation, followed by vertigo, and a moment of nausea. “Okay,” the operative said briskly. “Grab your gear and enter the decontamination lock. Once the shower is over, you can get dressed.”

It took the better part of twenty minutes for the team to clear the decontamination chamber, get dressed, and rearm themselves. Then Shaz led his subordinates into what had once been a standard passageway but had long since been transformed into a lateral tunnel, as the lower levels of Tryst were condemned and the citizenry migrated upward. Though far from fancy, the interior of the access way was reasonably clean and showed signs of recent use. Shaz took this for granted since there were other Techno Society operatives, some of whom had reason to visit Tryst. The tunnel terminated in front of a circular hatch. It consisted of a two-inch-thick slab of steel, was locked against unauthorized intruders, and controlled by a numeric keypad. Shaz tapped six digits into the controller and was rewarded by a loud whine as the barrier unscrewed itself from the wall. The combat variant looked back over his shoulder.

“Okay, here comes the hard part. . . . The hatch opens into a vertical shaft. Turn to the right as you exit, grab on to the maintenance ladder, and climb. The exit is fi?ve hundred feet above us, so take your time and rest if you need to. I’ll lead the way. . . . Number Four will secure the hatch and bring up the rear.”

“And then?” Phan wanted to know.

“And then we head for the runner’s guild. . . . That’s where the runner, the sensitive, and the heavy are most likely to be. If not, we’ll check all of the hotels until we fi?nd them. Once that’s accomplished, the fi?rst objective is to confi?rm that they have Logos.”

Dyson “felt” a low-grade buzz as the thoughts generated by thousands of minds merged into something akin to static and drifted down through solid rock.

Phan hooked a thumb in her combat harness. “Works for me.”

“Good,” the operative replied, and turned to swing the hatch out of the way. Most of the shaft was fi?lled by the huge pipes that carried water up to the surface, and a ladder claimed the rest. One careless move, one slip, and anyone attempting to reach the top would plummet to the bottom. With that sobering thought in mind, Shaz stepped up to the edge, forced himself to ignore the drop, and turned his eyes upward. The top of the well was open to the sky, and thanks to the fact that it was daytime, the variant could see a tiny pinhead-sized circle of light. A single stomachturning step was suffi?cient to put the operative on the rusty ladder. The metal was cold beneath his fi?ngers as Shaz began to climb. Somewhere, if only in his imagination, the ancients started to laugh.

TWO

The city of Tryst, on the Planet Thara

Would you trade your hammer for a rock? Of course not. Yetyou listen when the priests call upon you to cast out technol-ogy. They fear science because it can dispel ignorance. And ig-norance is the primary thing upon which they feed.

—Excerpt from street lecture 52.1 as written by Milos Lysander, founder of the Techno Society, and delivered by thousands of metal men each day

There was something sad about the Circus Solara. Most of the performers were clearly middle-aged, their costumes were ragged, and the fi?rst fi?fteen minutes of the “most exciting show in the galaxy” were extremely boring. However, there was a signifi?cant shortage of things to do in the city of Tryst, which meant that the seats surrounding the circular arena were packed with people, some of whom had started to doze by the time two fancifully dressed clowns secured the local prefect to a brightly painted disk. But Rebo sat up and began to pay attention as the formally attired ringmaster strutted out to the center of the arena and stood next to the turntable to which the offi?cial was being secured. He spoke through a handheld megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! Behold the wheel of death! In a matter of moments this diabolical device will be set into motion . . . Then, once the disk becomes little more than a blur, Madam Pantha will throw her hatchets. Yes! That’s correct! You could have a new prefect by tomorrow morning!”

The joke stimulated laughter, catcalls, and a round of applause. Madam Pantha wore a yellow turban, sported a curly black beard, and was dressed in a loose blouse and pantaloons. Her clothes might have been white once, but had long since turned gray and were patched in places. She waved a hatchet at the audience, tossed the weapon high into the air, and waited for it to fall. Then, having positioned herself just so, Pantha missed the catch. The hatchet generated a puff of dust as it hit the ground—followed by more laughter as the crowd entered into the spirit of the thing. The prefect was an extremely good sport, or that’s what Rebo concluded, as a pair of mimes put the platform on which both the wheel of death and the bearded lady stood into motion. Now everyone could see as the platform began to rotate, and a couple of acrobats began to spin the wheel of death. It took the better part of thirty seconds to get the disk turning at top speed. A drumroll began as Madam Pantha accepted a hatchet from a sad-faced clown, brought the implement back over her right shoulder, and let fl?y. Even the runner stared as the wheel rotated, the hatchet turned end for end, and the somewhat corpulent offi?cial continued to rotate. Then came the solid thwack of metal biting into wood, followed by a gasp of indrawn air as the crowd realized that a second weapon was on the way, quickly followed by a third. Fortunately, the second and third hatchets fl?ew true, both sinking into wood only inches from the politico’s body, even as both the platform and the wheel continued to turn.

The audience roared its approval as the clowns brought the much-hyped “wheel of death” to a stop and freed the prefect from his restraints. Though somewhat disheveled, and a bit dizzy, the offi?cial seemed otherwise none the worse for wear. He waved in response to a standing ovation and was escorted back to his seat.

The formally quiescent crowd was engaged, the ringmaster could feel it, and hurried to take advantage. “Thank you . . . I’m pleased to announce that this is the 3,672,416th performance of the famed Circus Solara. Some claim it originated on Sameron, more than ten thousand years ago, while others say it was founded on Cepa II some twelve thousand years ago. But enough of that!” the ringmaster proclaimed loudly. “The show continues. . . . Bring forth the beasts!”

There was a blare of horns and something of a stir as a man wearing a leather hood, vest, and pants led a column of pathetic-looking animals out into the arena. A white angen led the way. It had what Rebo assumed to be a fake horn secured to its forehead and was harnessed to a cage on wheels. An old dire cat could be seen lying inside the bars, tongue lolling, either too old or too sick to stand. A hairy tusker had been secured to the back of the cage and followed head down, its tail drooping. A dog rode on top of the mammoth and continually turned somersaults, as if trying to bite its own tail. The children loved that, but their parents were becoming restive, and a piece of overripe fruit sailed through the air. It hit the cage, exploded into fragments, and sprayed the dire cat with orange pulp. It snarled, and that generated scattered applause.

“This is absurd,” Rebo said disgustedly, as he whispered into Norr’s ear. “Let’s leave.”

The sensitive was about to agree when the animal that was supposed to be the main attraction followed the tusker out into the arena. Like all its kind, the L-phant had been bioengineered to perform a variety of tasks. Hauling mostly, which was why the ancient engineers had chosen to eliminate what had once been huge heads and thereby create more cargo space above their immensely strong spines. Of course it was important for the L-phants to see the road in front of them, so their eyes had been moved down under their prehensile trunks, forward of their chest-centered brains. But after more than ninety years of hard labor in Thara’s southern jungles, this six-ton beast was no longer useful. Everything from the slowness of his gait, to the way his tail drooped, suggested the same thing. The angen was sick, tired, and depressed. Something that Norr experienced as a vast heaviness. The sensitive was familiar with the breed, having ridden them on Ning, and had come to admire them. So now, as the L-phant plodded out into the center of the arena, she shook her head in response to Rebo’s suggestion. “In a minute. . . . I want to see what happens next.”

Rebo was about to reply, but a blare of trumpets overrode the runner as the beast master went to free the L-phant from his tether. “Look at this mighty beast,” the ringmaster commanded, “and imagine his power!”

That was the cue for a clown to carry a huge melon to the beast master, who ceremoniously placed the object on the ground next to one of the beast’s enormous pillarlike feet. It was clear to everyone present that the angen was supposed to raise its foot and bring it down on the object, thereby demonstrating its strength, but nothing happened. The beast master reacted to what he saw as a betrayal by prodding the L-phant with a six-inch-long steel needle. The poor beast produced what sounded like a human scream, and Norr came to her feet. “Stop that!”

But either the beast master didn’t hear the sensitive, or didn’t care, because, when the L-phant failed to lift his foot for a second time, the goad went in again. Rebo had already started to stand, and was in the process of reaching for Norr’s arm, when the sensitive stepped up onto the knee-high wall and jumped down into the arena. Puffs of dust exploded away from the variant’s feet as she landed. Logos yelled, “Stop!” from the vicinity of her neckline, and the audience produced a reedy cheer. Some of the onlookers felt sorry for the L-phant, while others were simply bored and eager for some sort of confl?ict. None had any reason to support the beast master.

But the members of the troupe did, and they came out to defend one of their own, as the angry young woman crossed the arena. Some were armed with cudgels, others carried wooden staffs, and some wore ancient brass knuckles. A sure sign that they were not only ready for a dustup—but had been in plenty of them before.

The Crosser hung butt down under Rebo’s left arm as he followed Norr into the ring, but the runner didn’t plan to use it unless forced to do so since it would be best to resolve the dispute without bloodshed if that was possible. And, since war hammers weren’t welcome at public events, Hoggles was unarmed. That didn’t stop the heavy from uttering his characteristic war cry, however, as he landed in the arena and hurried to catch up.

Meanwhile, Norr felt a wave of resentment and anger roll over her as the distance between her and the self-styled beast master began to close. But, while she could block some of the incoming thought forms, there was no way to make Logos shut up. “This is insane!” the AI declared angrily. “What if that brute attacks you? I could be injured! I insist that you return to your seat at once!”

But Logos could have been talking to a brick wall for all the good that his imprecations did him—and was still in midrant when Norr came face-to-face with the enraged beast master. “Leave the L-phant alone!” the sensitive demanded. “You’re hurting him!”

“So?” the circus performer replied insolently. “The animal belongs to me. . . . That means I can discipline it in any way that I choose.”

Rebo arrived just as the rest of the circus troupe began to gather behind the beast master. “He has a point,” the runner said hopefully. “The L-phant is his after all.”

“No,” Norr replied through gritted teeth, “no one has a right to hurt angens. Give me the goad,” she demanded, and extended her hand.

“Or?” the beast master wanted to know.

“Or I will take it from you,” Hoggles replied grimly, as he took up a position at Norr’s side.

“Can’t we discuss this?” Rebo inquired reasonably.

“Surely there must be some way to . . .”

But the runner never got the opportunity to fi?nish his sentence as the beast master launched a sucker punch at Norr, was surprised to discover that the sensitive had already stepped back out of the way, and was therefore perfectly positioned to kick him in the balls. The man in the hood uttered a grunt of pain as the variant’s foot came into contact with his private parts and made a grab for the much-abused organs as he fell to his knees. That left his leather-encased skull vulnerable to attack, which Hoggles took immediate advantage of as he locked his fi?sts together and brought them down on top of the performer’s skull. That put the beast master out of his pain and the fi?ght. But rather than terminate the confl?ict as the heavy hoped that it would, the massive blow had the opposite effect. Angered by what they had seen and determined to have their revenge, a mixed force of clowns, acrobats, and musicians rushed to attack the threesome. Rebo positioned himself to Norr’s left. “Now look at what you’ve done,” the runner said, as he intercepted a blow, and returned it with interest.

“I can’t take you anywhere.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” the variant replied defensively, as she eyed the oncoming strongman. “What was I supposed to do? Let him hurt the L-phant?”

“Yes,” Logos put in. “You were.” And the AI might have said more, but Rebo had come under attack by a pair of mimes, while Hoggles was staggering about with three acrobats on his back. That left Norr to deal with the strongman alone, or try to, since the matchup was anything but fair. She attempted to backpedal, but wasn’t able to do so quickly enough, and soon found herself wrapped within the embrace of the weightlifter’s huge arms. Muscles writhed, all the air was forced out of the variant’s lungs, and she was just about to lose consciousness when Logos came to her defense. Or his defense, since that was the AI’s actual priority, consistent with his programming.

Suddenly, just as the heavily muscled norm felt the woman in his arms go limp, the surface of her dress delivered 775,000 volts of electricity directly into the strongman’s body! He let go of his victim, fell over backward, and hit the ground hard. Norr collapsed a few feet away. Having dispatched both mimes and a clown, Rebo was there to scoop Norr up and throw the sensitive over his shoulder. Then, as Hoggles threw an acrobat at a group of bellicose musicians, the off-worlders started to back away. And because the crowd was pelting the circus performers with food, none of the troupe was able to follow. Norr, who had recovered her senses by then, made use of both fi?sts to pound on Rebo’s back. “Put me down, damn you!”

The runner made sure he was well up into the seats before acceding to the sensitive’s demand. “There,” Rebo said, as he placed the young woman on her feet. “You’re welcome.”

“No you’re not,” Logos put in resentfully. “Don’t ever do that again!”

Norr wanted to sound angry, if only to maintain an appearance of independence, but the fact that her dress was talking back to her made that hard to do. She laughed, Rebo joined in, and Hoggles rumbled loudly. Then, having passed an interesting if not especially relaxing evening, the threesome hired one of the many torchbearers who were waiting outside and followed the boy home. Having sent Dyson into the runner’s guild to investigate, and having confi?rmed that a sensitive and two male companions had checked in, Shaz knew that the troublesome trio were right where he expected them to be. However, because the runner’s guild had excellent security, it soon became obvious that there was only one member of the team who was likely to get inside the facility, and that was the combat variant himself. So Shaz sent the rest of the team away, chose a vantage point in the shadows opposite the guildhall, and waited for his chance. Despite the fact that his built-in camoufl?age was good, it wasn’t perfect, which meant the guards would spot the operative if he were to walk in through the door. But if there was a distraction, something to claim at least some of their attention, then the variant stood an excellent chance of slipping past them. Once inside, Shaz felt confi?dent of his ability to locate and enter the correct room. And, if the subjects of his investigation were present? Then he would wait, and wait some more if that was necessary, because he was nothing if not patient. Which was fortunate, because the better part of an hour was to pass before the combat variant heard the rattle of an approaching carriage and saw the conveyance pull into the brightly lit area in front of the hall. There was no way to know who the passenger or passengers were, but they must have been important, because once the doorman blew his brass whistle, all manner of staff boiled out to greet the newly arrived guest or guests. Which was exactly what Shaz had been hoping for. In their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the woman who was exiting the coach, the guards missed the momentary shimmer associated with the operative’s passing and remained unaware as the variant made his way across the lobby toward the front desk. The next part was somewhat tricky, because even though Shaz knew the people he was interested in were staying at the hall, he had no idea which room or rooms they were in. So, conscious of the fact that the hustle and bustle associated with the VIP’s arrival wouldn’t last much longer, the variant made his way around the end of the counter, and sidled up behind the burly receptionist. His opportunity came as the newly arrived guest made her grand entrance. Whereas most runners preferred to maintain a low profi?le, lest they be targeted by members of the thief’s guild, this individual was an extremely obvious exception. She wore a glittery headband, complete with a red feather, and a bright green dress, all meant to impress her upscale clientele, or so Shaz assumed. But, rather than ogle the woman’s considerable cleavage, as the receptionist was doing, the operative examined the guestbook instead. And, when he couldn’t fi?nd what he sought, Shaz had to fl?ip the current page out of the way in order to inspect previous entries. That was when the variant saw Rebo’s signature, followed by Norr’s, and the nearly illegible scrawl that probably belonged to the heavy. Shaz took in the fact that the threesome had taken suite 303, and was already backing away, when the receptionist turned to pull the guestbook over in front of him. He noticed that the ledger was turned to the wrong page, assumed that an errant breeze had been responsible for the change, and wondered what the woman in front of him would look like naked.

A scant fi?ve minutes later the combat variant had climbed three fl?ights of stairs, made his way down a long hall, and was standing with his ear to a door with the numerals 303 on it. Then, having waited for a full minute without hearing any activity within, Shaz made use of a pick to open the lock. Having glanced both ways to make sure the hall was clear, the variant pushed the door open and slipped into the room. Once inside, the operative discovered that the suite was not only dark but momentarily empty, which suited his purposes well. The possibility that the AI was there, resting within a few feet of him, caused the variant’s heart to beat faster. The search began. Rebo yawned as he led the other two up the broad fl?ight of stairs, tried to remember which room he and Crowley had stayed in thirty years earlier, and couldn’t. Once on the third fl?oor he turned to the right. Wall-mounted lamps marked off regular intervals and threw pools of light onto the fl?oor. Once in front of 303, the runner inserted his key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open. The next couple of minutes were spent fumbling with matches and fi?nicky lamps. “Bring them to me,” Norr offered, having mastered the process. “And I’ll light them for you.”

Hoggles nodded gratefully, went to remove one of the lamps from a wall bracket, and swore when it burned his fi?ngers. “Damn! That thing is hot!”

Rebo frowned, slid his hand in under his jacket, and wrapped his fi?ngers around the Crosser. “Hot? Why would it be hot?”

“Because it was lit,” Logos grated contemptuously. “Check the bedrooms. I predict that someone came to turn the beds down.”

“He’s right,” Norr confi?rmed, as she peered into her room. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”

Having taken refuge in one corner of the sitting room, Shaz stood perfectly still and strove to defocus his mind. Because just as combat variants had been provided with the means to fool the eye, they had also been equipped to evade detection by sensitives, but only if they exercised perfect control over both their thoughts and emotions. Now, having discovered that Norr not only had the AI, but was wearing the device, the operative was hard-pressed to contain a sense of jubilation. Fortunately, there were things to worry about as well—which meant Shaz could use one emotion to counter the other. What to do? Attack the threesome and attempt to steal what he had come for, or escape and follow them? Though of value to the Techno Society in and of himself, Logos would be worth even more if they knew where Socket was, and given his present frame of mind, the AI wasn’t likely to tell them.

In the end it was that, plus the fact that Shaz couldn’t be absolutely sure that he would win what would almost certainly be a hard-fought battle, that helped to make up the variant’s mind. Rather than attack the AI’s custodians, the operative resolved to follow them to Socket, where he could take both prizes at the same time. Assuming he could escape, that is—which was anything but certain. Norr was just about to bid the others good night and enter her room, when she sensed something strange. The almost indiscernible glow was similar to the aura that all living beings generated, yet different somehow, as if partially shielded. The sensitive opened her mouth, and was about to comment on the phenomenon, but never got to do so as Milos Lysander took control of her physical body. The invading spirit preferred male plumbing but had occupied this body on previous occasions and gradually grown accustomed to it. “He’s in the corner!” the dead scientist proclaimed loudly, as he pointed at the spot where Shaz was hiding.

“Grab him!”

But neither Rebo nor Hoggles was expecting such an order and, when they turned to look at the corner in question, saw nothing more than a vague shimmer.

That brief moment of hesitation was all the combat variant needed. He crossed the room, opened the door, and was already in the hall by the time Rebo went to probe the empty corner. The runner turned as the door slammed. Hoggles moved as if to follow, but Lysander shook Norr’s head. “Don’t bother,” the dead man said disgustedly. “You blew the only chance you’re likely to get.”

“Lysander?” Rebo inquired irritably. “Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me!” the disincarnate replied testily.

“Who else would it be?”

“Wonderful,” Logos said sarcastically. “The megalomaniac returns.”

“Look who’s talking,” the dead scientist responded resentfully. “I don’t remember you speaking up for the huddled masses back when you were in control of the star gates.”

“Stop it,” Rebo ordered tersely. “We don’t have time for this crap. Someone was in the room . . . So who is he? And what was he after?”

“His name is Shaz,” Lysander answered. “Back before Kane got killed, he functioned as Tepho’s bodyguard and enforcer. Then, when Kane passed over, the chairman promoted him.”

Hoggles frowned. “Why couldn’t we see him?”

“Because he’s a combat variant,” the dead scientist explained.

“Perfect,” Rebo commented sourly. “Not only did the Techno Society manage to locate us—they sent an operative who can make himself invisible.”

“It gets worse,” the spirit entity said wearily, as he dropped Norr’s body into a chair. “My onetime son, which is to say the man you knew as Kane, continues to work for the Society. And, while none of us can see into the physical plane with much clarity, it was he who directed Shaz to Thara.”

“But how?” Hoggles wanted to know.

“They have a sensitive, a man named Dyson, who can bring Kane through,” Lysander explained.

“So what are they waiting for?” Rebo wondered. “They know where we are, and they know we have Logos, so what’s holding them back?”

“They want Socket,” Logos put in grimly. “Then, assuming they can force me to do their bidding, they’ll have everything they need to reestablish the network.”

“And could they?” Hoggles inquired curiously. “Get you to do their bidding that is?”

“Of course not!” the AI lied hotly. “What do you take me for?”

“A somewhat self-centered computer program,” Lysander commented cynically. “But you’re all we have.”

“So what would you suggest?” Rebo inquired pragmatically. “Kane could follow us anywhere.”

“Yes,” the disincarnate agreed. “But the task remains. . . . Once you reach Socket, and Logos takes control, it will be too late for them to interfere. Socket has defenses that will keep them at bay.”

“Or had,” Logos put in cynically. “They might be in need of maintenance by now.”

“I don’t know,” the runner said doubtfully. “It sounds pretty iffy to me.”

“And me,” Hoggles added. “So where did this Shaz person go? Maybe we could track him down.”

But Norr’s body gave a convulsive jerk at that point, her eyelids fl?uttered, and she looked confused. “What happened?”

“Lysander paid you a visit,” Rebo said disgustedly. “And guess what? The Techno Society knows where we are.”

The sensitive was still in the process of absorbing that piece of unwelcome information when Logos spoke to her. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” the AI said reassuringly. “Because even though they know where we are, they don’t know where we’re going. There’s only one person who knows that: me.”

While many of the billions of disincarnate spirits who populated the spirit planes preferred life in the ethereal realms to that on the physical plane, Kane was not one of them, and therefore welcomed the summons when it came. The sensation was barely felt, as when a child tugs on a pant leg, but very persistent. And that was a sure sign that rather than merely being remembered by one of the many people Kane had known during his most recent incarnation, one or more individuals were determined to make contact with him. So, eager to revisit the material world, no matter how briefl?y, Kane directed his energy toward those who were focused on him. And, having already agreed to continue his relationship with the Techno Society, the ex-operative was far from surprised to discover that Shaz and Dyson were waiting for him. A female was present as well, and even though Kane didn’t recognize her vibration, he felt a natural affi?nity for the dark energy that seethed around her. It was easier to enter Dyson’s body the second time, pleasantly so, and Kane felt something akin to an orgasm as all of his physical senses were magically restored. His vision, which was to say Dyson’s vision, blurred, then cleared. Both Shaz and a beautiful woman sat opposite him. With the exception of some ring bolts and the darkish stains around them, the wall behind the pair was featureless. Darkness gathered where the lamplight couldn’t reach. “Not that it matters,” Kane croaked, “but where am I?”

“We’re sitting in the basement of the Techno Society’s headquarters on Thara,” the combat variant replied evenly.

“Ah,” Kane responded gravely. “So you followed my counsel.”

“Yes,” Shaz confi?rmed. “And they have Logos. I heard it speak.”

In spite of the fact that Kane generally preferred life on the physical plane to his present existence, there were advantages to being dead. Chief among them was the fact that it was impossible for enemies to murder him. Not Shaz, not anyone. So, rather than fear the combat variant as he once had, the disincarnate was free to needle him. “You heard the AI speak? But left the device where it was? I suspect Chairman Tepho will wonder why.”

“He knows why,” Shaz replied defensively. “We need Socket . . . which is why you were summoned. Since they don’t have access to the local star gate, the sensitive and her companions will be forced to board the next ship.”

“Assuming it comes,” Du Phan put in emotionlessly.

“Yes,” the variant acknowledged. “Assuming it comes, the ship will carry them to Derius. Watch over them to the extent that you can. We’ll be waiting when they arrive.”

A frown wrinkled Dyson’s brow. “You want me to protect them?” Kane inquired incredulously.

“For the moment, yes,” Shaz replied sternly. “The trip is risky in and of itself . . . But what if something were to happen to them in transit? So your task is to provide whatever assistance you can.”

“Why not board the ship yourself?” the dead man wanted to know.

“Because they’re on the lookout for a combat variant now,” Shaz responded. “Your onetime father saw to that. . . . And the woman might sense a hostile presence.”

“I can try,” Kane allowed. “But it won’t be easy. Locating something on the physical plane is like feeling your way through a thick fog. And once their ship enters hyperspace, the task will become that much more diffi?cult.”

“Do what you can,” Shaz insisted, “and we will speak to you on Derius.”

Kane eyed the woman and forced Dyson to smile. “I don’t believe we have met.”

Phan knew the look and allowed a smile to touch her lips. “No, I don’t believe we have. My name is Du Phan.”

“Du Phan . . .” the disincarnate said experimentally.

“Well, Du Phan, until next time then.”

As the assassin ran the tip of a pink tongue over her already glossy lips, Kane felt Dyson’s body respond. And so, for that matter, did the being to which it belonged. Because while slightly out of phase with his physical form, the sensitive was conscious of everything that took place and didn’t like the way in which Kane was making free with his body. He struggled to push the invading spirit out, eventually managed to do so, and found himself soaked with sweat. Somehow, Dyson had been thrust to the forefront of a war he didn’t understand and wanted no part of.

“Good work,” Shaz said emotionlessly. “Come on . . . We have things to do.”

The spaceship She who swims the void

Like a silvery fi?sh in a large black pond Shewhoswimsthevoid slipped past a gravelly asteroid belt, swung round a planet-sized orange-red boulder, and began to decelerate. Because up ahead, only ship hours away, lay her next port of call, the planet that the biobeings riding deep within her ancient hull knew as Thara. It was a planet that she had orbited many times before. For such was her purpose, and what she experienced as pleasure, even though the doing of it would eventually lead to her dissolution. But, like the natural laws that governed what the great vessel could do in space, the urges inherent in her programming limited what Shewhoswims could desire, and thereby ensured that so long as the ship could carry people from one planet to another, she would. Regardless of the cost to her. The question wasn’t if she would die, but when, and even though it lay within her power to carry out the necessary calculations. Shewhoswims chose not to do so. Because for the moment she had purpose, and that made her happy. Cool nothingness caressed the ship’s hull, galaxies wheeled in the unimaginable distance, and a thousand suns lit the way.

The city of Tryst, on the Planet Thara

The public market occupied the topmost level of Tryst, where golden sunlight shone through the glass panels set into the domed roof, and goods were hoisted from the ground below by means of wooden cranes. Each massive swing arm was named after the family to which it belonged and was served by a team of sturdy angens. They made squalling sounds as they walked endless circles around brightly painted capstans.

Just to the rear of the cranes was an extremely busy thoroughfare that the cart men used to transport newly arrived goods, even as hundreds of people swirled around them. There were red hats, black hats, bakers, soldiers, scribes, metalsmiths, townspeople, tailors, heavies, herbalists, and gangs of schoolchildren all weaving a transitory tapestry of thought, language, and color. It made for a heady atmosphere and one which Norr, who rarely got a chance to spend time with Rebo, enjoyed. Because right then, as the couple strolled hand in hand, they could interact in a way that just wasn’t possible when others were around.

Having entered the market proper, Rebo and Norr found themselves following one of two dozen aisles that converged on the center of the pie-shaped fl?oor plan. That was where all of the food vendors were forced to gather so that their smoke could be channeled up through a single hole at the center of the domed roof. The odors of freshly baked bread, roasted meat, and brewed caf combined to make Rebo’s stomach growl. But it was too early for lunch—and there was work to do. “The fi?rst thing we need is a gunsmith,” the runner mused, as they paused at an intersection. “It will take them time to crank out fi?ve hundred rounds—so the sooner they get going the better.”

“That makes sense,” Norr agreed. “Then we’ll shop for fuel, dried food, and personal items.”

And so it was agreed. It took half an hour to fi?nd a gunsmith who could perform the work to Rebo’s specifi?cations plus an hour to gather up the other items they needed. And it was then, while Norr was waiting for the runner to return from a consultation with a Ju-Ju master, that Norr ran into the old crone. She was a sensitive by the look of her, albeit an ancient one, who told fortunes for a living. Her booth consisted of little more than panels of blue cloth stretched over a wood frame. She had straggly white hair and, judging from the wrinkled skin that hung around her face, had once been heavier than she was now. Cataracts clouded her eyes, but her second sight remained clear, and she could sense the young woman’s presence. “Come over here, dear. I won’t hurt you,” the old woman said reassuringly. “Even though there are others who would!”

Norr felt sorry for the seer and found the last statement to be intriguing. “Here,” the sensitive said, as she pressed a coin into the oldster’s palm. “Tell me more.”

The contact caused the old crone to cock her head to one side and frown. “What is this?” she demanded. “Some sort of trick? You have the gift . . . Tell your own fortune.”

“No,” Norr replied gently as she took her place on the low stool that fronted the oldster’s well-worn chair. “You know what they say . . . The seer who looks to his own future is blind.”

“What you say is true,” the older sensitive replied, as she revealed some badly decayed teeth. “And I know what it is to be blind! Give me your hand.”

Norr reached out to take the fortune-teller’s hand. It was extremely warm. “Ah,” the old woman said knowingly.

“You are but halfway through a long journey . . . and the greatest dangers lie ahead.”

“What sort of dangers?”

“Beware of the thief,” the seer cautioned importantly.

“Lest you lose that which is most precious.”

Norr nodded. “Go on.”

“There will be a battle,” the other woman predicted.

“And when it comes you must seek that which you already have.”

While the fi?rst message seemed like an obvious reference to Logos, the second didn’t make any sense at all, but Norr was polite nonetheless. “Thank you,” the younger sensitive replied. “I will keep that in mind.”

“And there’s something more,” the fortune-teller added, her eyes seemingly focused on something Norr couldn’t see.

“Yes?”

“An angel is watching over you. A dark angel but an angel nonetheless. There is a momentary alignment between you. It cannot last but could be helpful in the short run. Does that make sense?”

“No,” Norr replied. “It doesn’t . . . Not right now. But perhaps later it will.”

The reading came to an end shortly after that, Norr went to lunch with Rebo, and a metal man followed the couple back to the guildhall.

The spaceport, or what hadbeen the spaceport, had been transformed into a huge crater some 4,216 years earlier, when an ark ship crashed there. Most of the ship’s hull had been salvaged and converted into tools, implements, and construction materials that were still being recycled and used. But a few pieces of riblike metal continued to curve up toward the sky and harkened back to days only dimly remembered. A sobering reminder of what could happen to those who traveled among the stars. But that didn’t stop thousands of runners, merchants, thieves, holy men, assassins, romantics, con artists, scholars, and lunatics of every possible description from gambling their lives each year. A fact made apparent by the long column of heavily burdened people who wound their way down out of the elevated city of Tryst to follow a narrow footpath out toward the crater. Of course, some of the people were spectators, children in tow, who would return to their homes by nightfall. But those who wore packs, or carried bundles between them, were intent on boarding the shuttle if it landed. Those who were veteran travelers, individuals like Rebo, Norr, and Hoggles, carried just what they needed, while neophytes had a tendency to neglect essentials like fuel, food, and medicine in favor of frivolous items like folding furniture, elaborate shelters, and fancy clothing—much of which would either be stolen by their fellow passengers, converted into fuel to ward off the cold, or abandoned as impractical. For his part Rebo felt pretty good about the provisions the three of them carried, especially the locally made fuel tablets, packets of dried food, and the hand-loaded ammunition acquired the day before. And, adding to the runner’s sense of well-being was the powerful talisman that he had purchased to supplement the much-stressed amulet that had seen him through the last few months. Norr believed such things were silly, not to mention superstitious, but Rebo knew better. He was alive, wasn’t he? Even though plenty of people wanted him dead. That spoke for itself. The runner’s thoughts were interrupted by a sound similar to rolling thunder as a wedge-shaped shuttle broke the sound barrier and circled high above. There was a shout of jubilation as spectators and travelers alike paused to celebrate the ship’s return. They couldn’t see Shewhoswims, of course, since the vessel was far too large to negotiate a planetary atmosphere, but the sight of the shuttle was wondrous enough, especially for those who had never seen a fl?ying machine before. And there were at least a thousand pilgrims, many of whom had walked hundreds of miles in hopes of bearing witness to a landing and thereby confi?rming what some people said. Out beyond the darkness lay other planets, populated by humans just like them, all having a common ancestry. The visitors were understandably excited as the fantastic apparition lost altitude and prepared to land. Horns sounded, drums rattled, and bells tolled as the long, colorful procession followed the seldom-used path down into the crater and the mound of hard-packed earth that dominated the center of it. For it was there, on what amounted to a huge pedestal, that the space black shuttle would put down.

Even though her central processing unit remained in orbit, Shewhoswims could “see” via the shuttle’s sensors and felt a deep sense of regret as she looked down on what amounted to a grave. Not for one of her brother-sister ships, because the wreckage predated them, but for a lesser vessel that had succumbed to mechanical failure, human error, or entropy.

“So,” Norr said, as the shuttle settled onto its skids, “do you think he’ll board the ship with us?”

There was no need for the runner to ask who the sensitive was referring to, since the unseen combat variant had been on all of their minds since the break-in and Lysander’s visitation. In fact, though he wouldn’t have been willing to admit it, Rebo had spent a good deal of time looking over his shoulder during the last couple of days. “It beats me,”

the runner replied. “But I doubt it. . . . Logos claims that the local star gate is buried deep underground. But there must be a way to access it, or this Shaz character would be on the incoming shuttle. That would suggest that he’s on Derius by now . . . waiting for us to complete the trip the hard way.”

But the Techno Society operative wasn’t on Derius. Not yet and wouldn’t be for weeks. First he had to ensure that the troublesome trio actually boarded the shuttle, then he was scheduled to return to Anafa, where Chairman Tepho was waiting for a report. Then and only then would the variant make the jump to Derius. The brass telescope had been rented from one of the many vendors who had positioned themselves along the crater’s rim and allowed Shaz to monitor their progress from a safe distance as the threesome left the bottom of the depression and wound their way up onto the landing pad. Boarding had yet to begin, and wouldn’t, until such time as Shewhoswims sent the necessary signal. That left the wouldbe passengers to mill around the recently arrived ship and jockey for position.

Those who had never been aboard a spaceship before were pushing and shoving, hoping to be among the fi?rst to enter the vessel, while veterans like Rebo, Norr, and Hoggles were careful to hang back, secure in the knowledge that the last people to board the shuttle would be among the fi?rst to exit, thereby positioning themselves for the subsequent race into the main hold. And it was then, while they were waiting to enter the ship, that Hoggles tapped Rebo on the shoulder. “Jak . . . See the man with the beard? He looks familiar somehow.”

Rebo eyed the man in question and frowned. “Yeah, he does look familiar. . . . But I can’t place him. Lonni, how

’bout you?”

The sensitive looked, then looked again. “Uh-oh,” she said ominously. “I think we’re in trouble.”

“In trouble?” the runner inquired mildly. “Why?”

“That isn’t a man, or maybe it is, but the last time I saw him he was dressed as a woman and was throwing hatchets at the local prefect!”

Rebo took another look, realized that Norr was correct, and scanned the faces around the person in question. It was hard to tell, since the circus performers had been wearing heavy makeup the last time he’d seen them, but the runner thought he recognized an acrobat, a clown, and the strongman that Logos had zapped. It was then, as the ramp began to deploy, that the travelers came to understand the full extent of their misfortune. Not only were they about to risk their lives on an extremely uncertain journey—they were going to be locked inside a durasteel hull with the full cast of the Circus Solara!

And, as if to underscore that fact, a man with a horribly scarred face lurched out of the crowd. He had tiny little eyes and green teeth that went on full display as he smiled at Norr. “Remember me?” the beast master demanded. “No?

Well I remember you. It’s a long way to Derius, sweetheart—

and your friends will have to sleep sometime. But don’t worry, my friends and I know how to treat a lady, especially one who looks like you do!”

That elicited a series of guffaws from the beast master’s cronies, some of whom bore obvious injuries acquired during the melee in the arena and were eager for revenge. And they might have moved in on the threesome right then had it not been for Hoggles. The heavy unlimbered his ragwrapped war hammer and took a giant step forward. That sent the troupe scuttling, if only for the moment, and Norr uttered a sigh. “Maybe we should wait for the next ship. . . . Or forget the whole thing.”

“I would agree with you,” the runner responded, “except for the Lysander problem. He won’t leave you alone until Logos reaches Socket—and I promised him I would make the delivery.”

“And don’t forget the gates,” Hoggles added. “Once people can step from planet to planet, knowledge will spread, lives will be saved, and conditions will improve for billions of people.”

“Or so Lysander claims,” Rebo replied cynically, “but that’s the hope. So I reckon we should board.”

“I’m in,” Norr announced, fi?ngers wrapped around her staff.

“Me too,” Hoggles agreed.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Logos interjected. “If those ruffi?ans hurt you, they could hurt me, and that’s unacceptable. We must return to Tryst, where we will await the next ship!”

“I’ll take that,” Rebo said, as he lifted Norr’s pack off her shoulders. “Now, if you remove that raggedy-looking coat, I think you’ll be a lot more comfortable.”

Logos, his voice ever more strident, was still talking when the sensitive rolled the AI into a ball and shoved him down into the depths of her pack. The ramp hit the ground at that point, and rather than the outpouring of passengers that Rebo expected, no one appeared. That was a surprise, but there wasn’t much time to think about what if anything the phenomenon might mean, as the fi?rst-time passengers nearly trampled one another in their eagerness to board. The voyage was about to begin.

THREE

The spaceship Shewhoswimsthevoid

To those who preach the benefi?ts of technology—I say look atthe ruins of Wimmura! The ancients gloried in the dark arts,and God struck them down! So teach the Book of Abominations to your children, and do battle with your uncleanthoughts, or give yourself to the fl?ames of purifi?cation.

—Grand Vizier Imbo Moratano,

Church of the Antitechnic God

One hundred and fourteen people, that was how many crowded their way into the shuttle and were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder as the ship forced its way up through Thara’s atmosphere. Some of them cheered, some of them cried, and at least a dozen threw up as the shuttle left the planet’s gravity well. Had they been free to do so, the passengers would have free-fl?oated through a galaxy of vomit globules. But the tightly packed bodies held the travelers in place, and while that was claustrophobic, it helped to prevent injuries. Those who knew to do so wore bandit-style bandannas that fi?ltered most of the vomit out of the air. But no one could completely escape the vile mist that found its way into their hair and clothes.

Fortunately, the trip was relatively short, which meant that after only a few hours of suffering, Shewhoswims guided the tiny extension of herself into an open docking bay. There was the barely heard whine of hidden machinery, followed by the sudden restoration of gravity, and a dull thud as the transport was captured and locked into place. “And here it is,” Rebo said to no one in particular. “Home sweet home.”

An especially long fi?ve minutes passed before servos whined, the aft hatch hit the deck outside, and those closest to the opening were given access to the ship’s decontamination chamber. It was smaller than the shuttle’s cargo bay, so only a third of the passengers could enter before the hatch closed and a thick mist fogged the air. The runner, sensitive, and heavy had been expecting the antibacterial spray, but some of their fellow passengers weren’t. Some screamed and started to thrash about, while others attempted to calm them. Rebo took the opportunity to confer with his companions. “I fi?gure about thirty to thirty-fi?ve members of the Circus Solara were on the shuttle. Maybe half that number are here in the decontamination chamber. It’s pretty clear that the whole group has been planet-hopping for years—

and is familiar with the way the ships operate. That’s why I expect the advance party to make a run for the hold, secure a corner, and wait for the rest to arrive with the baggage.”

“That’s what I would do,” Hoggles agreed stolidly. “And it will work. They have more arms and legs than any other group aboard.”

“Exactly,” Rebo agreed. “And once they get established, they’ll come after us. So, rather than grab a wall slot or try for a corner, I suggest that we seize control of the water supply instead.”

Norr was visibly surprised. “But that’s public property!

No one does that.”

“Oh, they try,” the runner replied. “I encountered the problem once. A group of toughs set up camp right in front of the faucet and charged each passenger a gunnar per bucket of water, until the rest of the passengers banded together and put a stop to it. Five people were killed during the battle.”

Hoggles frowned. “So why would we want to put ourselves in a position to get killed?”

“We’ll go about it differently,” Rebo answered. “Rather than demand money from our fellow passengers, we’ll provide them with water for free so long as they don’t attack us. But if they do, we’ll cut them off.”

“You’re pretty smart for a norm,” Norr said admiringly.

“No wonder I hang out with you!”

“You may feel differently later on,” the runner replied soberly. “It won’t be easy to guard that faucet constantly. . . . But it’s worth a try.”

The heavy nodded. “So, what happens when the hatch opens?”

“Lonni and I will make a run for the hold,” Rebo replied, as the mist began to dissipate. “You bring up the rear with the packs, or if they’re too heavy, guard them. One of us will come back to lend a hand.”

The hatch had already begun to open when the sensitive freed herself from her pack and, staff in hand, prepared to follow Rebo out into the corridor beyond. The twosome wasn’t the fi?rst to exit the decontamination chamber, that honor fell to a young man who rolled under the steadily rising door, but the couple were able to secure a position toward the front of the pack. That advantage, signifi?cant though it was, couldn’t make up for the fact that the Circus Solara performers had superior numbers. The beast master, the strongman, and a particularly well-built rigger led a phalanx of twelve people who pushed the rest of the passengers out of the way. The beast master took particular pleasure in elbowing Norr as he passed by her, thereby throwing the sensitive into a durasteel bulkhead and effectively putting her out of the race. But Rebo wasn’t so easily defl?ected, and, while unable to block the circus performers, did manage to keep up with them. Elbows fl?ew, poorly directed blows were defl?ected, and the air was thick with grunts and heartfelt swear words as the mob surged down the fi?lthy passageway to the point where a hatch had been welded shut more than a thousand years before. At that point the group had no choice but to turn left. The bullet-pocked bulkheads to either side of them were covered with grime, peeling paint, and countless layers of head-high multicolored graffi?ti. Below that, barely visible beneath the grime, phrases like watch your step!

hinted at a more civilized past.

Then they were through a large opening and in the ship’s main hold, a space that the earliest passengers would never have been allowed to visit, much less live in. But that was back before Shewhoswims had been forced to seal off most of her vast body lest the now-barbarous humans do even more damage to her precious operating systems. What light there was originated from high above, and rather than the stillsmoldering campfi?res the previous set of passengers typically left, there was nothing to see but piles of rubbish. And the gloom that circled beyond.

True to common practice, and the runner’s predictions, the beast master and the rest of his fl?ying squad immediately struck out for a distant corner. Once in their possession, and with more than thirty people to call upon, the triangular section of deck would be relatively easy to defend compared to a spot out in the middle of the hold.

Once Rebo confi?rmed that the troupe didn’t have plans to seize control of the water supply themselves, he let out a sigh of relief and took the opportunity to drag some likely looking debris over to the point where the faucet protruded from the steel bulkhead. A large puddle had formed there—

and it shivered in sympathy with the vibration produced by the ship’s power plant. Then, as more people fl?ooded into the cavernous hold, the runner was forced to forgo scavenging in order to take up a defensible position next to the faucet. Norr arrived shortly thereafter—followed by a heavily burdened Hoggles. “Damn,” the variant said, as he dropped the packs next to the puddle. “Those things are heavy.”

“Uh-oh,” Norr said, as she rewrapped her fi?ngers around the long wooden staff. “Here comes our fi?rst set of visitors.”

Rebo already had the four men under surveillance and nodded politely as they approached. They had the look of merchant adventurers, a common breed aboard the great ships, and were well armed. “What’s the deal?” the largest member of the group demanded as he eyed the pistols that dangled at the runner’s sides. “What are the weapons for?”

“There are more than thirty members of the Circus Solara on this ship,” Rebo explained patiently. “They threatened to attack us.”

“But they won’t if you control the water,” the man ventured.

“That’s the idea,” the runner agreed.

“So, what about us?” the smallest of the group wanted to know.

“You can take all the water you want,” Rebo replied evenly, “so long as you don’t pass any along to members of the troupe. If you do, we’ll cut you off.”

“And you don’t plan to charge us?”

“Nope . . . That would be wrong.”

“It sure as hell would be,” the fi?rst man commented fervently. “We’ll be back with our canteens.”

“Sounds good,” Rebo replied. “We’ll see you later.”

The men left, word spread quickly, and it wasn’t long before a large contingent of circus performers had threaded their way between the newly created encampments to form a semicircle in front of the water faucet. The rest of the passengers saw the action and stopped whatever they were doing in order to watch. Not because they favored one faction over the other, but because the question of who controlled the water was important, and everyone had a stake in the confl?ict.

Most of the troupe were in mufti, but a few wore full makeup, which made them look more menacing somehow. The beast master had chosen himself as spokesman for the group. His voice was little more than a growl, and his eyes seemed to glow with hatred. “Give the woman to us, leave the area, and we’ll let you live.”

Rebo nodded gravely. “Generally speaking, I like a man who comes right to the point—but I’m afraid that you constitute the exception to that rule. I suggest that you return to your corner.”

“Or what?” the beast master demanded belligerently.

“Do you think you can shoot all of us?”

“No,” the runner replied evenly. “That would be unrealistic. I am pretty fast however, so I think I can kill fi?ve or six of you before you can close with us. Then, given Bo’s expertise with that war hammer, two or three more will go down. Oh, and don’t forget the woman you want so much. . . . She’s good for at least a couple more. That puts the price for water at ten people. So, if that’s acceptable to you, make your move. Which one of you clowns would like to die fi?rst?”

But, before any of the performers could reply, Norr pointed upward. “Jak! Look!”

The runner looked up into the maze of girders that crisscrossed the top of the hold, spotted a fi?gure silhouetted against one of the lights, and knew he’d been suckered. Even as the beast master kept him busy one of the troupe’s trapeze artists had worked his way into position and was about to fi?re a long-barreled rifl?e.

But Rebo carried the long single-shot Hogger for exactly that sort of situation—and knew he could make the shot with his spectacles on. Unfortunately the runner’s spectacles were stored in his pack, and the would-be assassin amounted to little more than an out-of-focus blur. That’s what the runner was thinking as he brought the long-barreled pistol up into position and the acrobat fi?red. There was a fl?ash, followed by a loud report and a clang, as the lead ball nipped the top of Rebo’s right shoulder and fl?attened itself against the bulkhead behind him.

Thanks to the fact that the sniper was armed with a muzzle-loader rather than a repeater, there was no followup shot—which provided the runner with the opportunity to return fi?re. The momentary pain, followed by the sudden rush of adrenaline, combined to produce an instinctive response. The big handgun jerked in Rebo’s hand, the 30-30 slug fl?ew true, and the out-of-focus blob seemed to wobble. Then, as the loud boom echoed back and forth between the ship’s steel bulkheads, the trapeze artist fell. There was a sickening thump as his body hit the deck. That was followed by a clatter as the muzzle-loader shattered, and the force of the impact sent pieces of the weapon skittering far and wide.

“So,” Rebo said, as he lowered the still-smoking Hogger.

“He went fi?rst. . . . Who would like to go second?”

The beast master and a couple of others might have taken their chances, but the rest of the crowd had already begun to back away, and that forced the more ardent performers to withdraw as well.

“You can have all the water you want so long as you leave us alone,” Rebo told them coldly. “But the next time you try something like this we will cut you off. And, oh by the way, when you want water send one person to get it. And send the same person each time.”

“We’ll get you for this!” the beast master threatened, as he backed away.

“That will cost you twenty hours without water,” the runner replied mildly. “Would you like to double that?”

There was no reply as the performers faded into the surrounding murk, although Norr could “see” the thought forms they had created and knew the danger was far from over.

“Damn,” Hoggles said, as he peered up into the latticework of beams and girders above their heads. “We need eyes on the top of our heads.”

“Yeah,” Rebo agreed soberly. “We do. Maybe we can build a shelter with a bulletproof roof.”

Norr took a look around. “At least there’s plenty of materials. Let’s get to work.”

None of the three noticed the ancient security camera mounted high on the opposite bulkhead, or the fact that it panned slightly as if in response to some invisible hand before zooming out to a wide shot. In the meantime, Shewhoswims broke orbit, accelerated out toward the edge of the solar system, and began to calculate the next jump. She was only vaguely aware of what the humans were up to, and so long as they did minimal damage to her body, was not especially interested in their activities. The stars were not only more compelling but a good deal more predictable, and that was a virtue in her opinion. The AI hummed while she worked.

The ship’s Security Control Center had once been home to a force of fi?fty—men, women, and androids—charged with everything from crime prevention to crowd control. As such, the interconnected compartments included an offi?ce for the watch commander, a ready room complete with six bunks, a lounge that boasted its own auto chef, a well-stocked armory, and a high-tech surveillance facility where the video provided from more than fi?ve hundred cameras was constantly monitored. But those days were long gone by the time the brothers Mog, Ruk, and Tas moved into the facility and took up residence. More than two standard years had passed since the day when Mog experimentally entered his birth date into the keypad outside the Security Center and watched in openmouthed amazement as the much-abused hatch cycled open. A more philosophical person might have marveled at his good fortune, or wondered how many thousand such attempts had failed prior to his, or pondered why that particular sequence of numbers had been chosen to protect the facility. But Mog wasn’t much of a thinker—nor were his half brothers Ruk and Tas. What they were was criminals, who—

having botched a robbery—were on the run from the law when they happened upon the crowd that had gathered to watch a shuttle lift from the Planet Derius, and impulsively dashed up the ramp. But, not having prepared themselves for the trip, the siblings soon discovered that they had exchanged one life-threatening situation for another.

Still, the ship carried a plentiful supply of the one thing criminals can’t get along without, and that was victims. Because, while many of the merchants, religious pilgrims, and other travelers were armed against the possibility of petty theft, they weren’t prepared to deal with ruthless predators like Mog, Ruk, and Tas.

However, vulnerable though they were, the other passengers outnumbered the brothers, which was why Mog thought it best to locate a defendable hideout prior to initiating what he thought of as “the harvest.” But when the hatch to the Security Control Center magically opened before him, the criminal realized that he had something of greater value than a simple refuge. Here was a compartment to sleep in, an alcove full of neatly racked weapons, and a roomful of magical windows. Strange but wonderful devices that allowed the criminal and his two siblings to monitor their prey before venturing out to attack them.

The benefi?ts of Mog’s discovery, and the rather crafty manner in which he employed them, produced what could only be described as a rich harvest. Armed with high-tech weapons and an ability to watch their fellow passengers from a remote location, it took the brothers less than three weeks to slaughter all of their fellow passengers and confi?scate their valuables. In fact the trip was so profi?table, that when it came time to leave the ship, the brothers elected to stay aboard. Now, after more than two years of living in the Security Control Center, Mog and his brothers had accumulated so much loot that it occupied most of what had once been the lounge. There were pots full of gold cronos, sacks of gunnars, boxes fi?lled with jewelry, canisters of rare spices, bottles of exquisite perfumes, and bolts of silk. “We’ll be rich when we land.” That’s what Mog liked to say, but neither he nor his siblings had any real desire to put down on their native planet and confront the authorities there. Not yet at any rate. Now, as Mog and Ruk sat in front of the two dozen surveillance screens that still functioned, they were evaluating the latest fl?ock. Because each brother had been fathered by a different man, they had very few features in common. Mog was a big hulking brute with a bushy beard. And while slim when compared to his brother, Ruk had developed a bit of a paunch of late and was eternally in need of a bath. He eyed the screen as he scratched a hairy armpit. “So, brother Mog, what do you think?”

“I think we’re looking at slim pickings,” the older man said cynically. “The group in the back corner doesn’t have more than two gunnars to rub together. And, while the merchants will no doubt yield a crono or two, I daresay the rest are likely to disappoint.”

“But not the women,” Ruk growled.

“No,” Mog said agreeably. “Even the homely ones are good for a little fun.”

“I want that one,” Ruk said eagerly, as he pointed a grimy fi?gure at Norr.

“You can have her when I’m done,” Mog said airily.

“That isn’t fair! You always take the pretty ones!”

“That’s right,” Mog answered contemptuously, “and I always will. . . . Unless you would like to challenge my authority.”

Ruk did want to challenge his brother’s authority, but was afraid to do so, which left him with no choice but to back off.

“So,” Tas said, as he entered the room. “When do we hit them?”

“Most will go to sleep in about three hours,” Mog predicted. “Eight hours later they will get up and start to explore. That’s when the harvest will begin.”

“Good,” Tas replied as he eyed the scene in the hold. “I’m hungry.”

Thirty miles south of Seros, on the Planet Anafa Though large by most people’s standards, Chairman Tepho’s estate was modest when compared to those owned by the planet’s moneyed aristocracy, but that would eventually change. In the meantime, the two hundred acres of land more than met the reclusive leader’s rather eccentric needs—none of which had much if anything to do with farming. That was evident in the way once-productive fi?elds now lay fallow, previously sturdy fences went unmended, and the extensive angen pens stood empty. But there were guards, plenty of them, all made of metal. The androids stood alone, or in small groups of two or three, each holding a spear taller than it was. Most had been splashed with bright-colored paint. None of the neighbors knew why—or dared to ask.

All of which seemed strange to Shaz, who had been summoned to the estate upon his return from Thara and was presently ensconced in the back of a Techno Society coach. The conveyance rattled alarmingly as it topped a rise and started down the far side. Then, as the dusty road curved to the left, the variant caught a glimpse of the once-proud villa that capped a low hill. He knew the house intimately, having once been Tepho’s chief bodyguard, and was surprised to see that the building had suffered what appeared to be fi?re damage during the months of his absence. Had the lower levels been affected, Shaz wondered. Because that was where the reclusive Tepho spent most of his time. Not with groups of people, who might look askance at his twisted body, but with a few trusted attendants and a coterie of nonjudgmental machines. The coach followed a curving drive up to the front of the villa and stopped beneath a smoke-stained portico. The variant opened the door, and his boots had barely touched the ground, when a whip cracked and the conveyance jerked into motion.

That was the moment when the combat variant began to feel uneasy, allowed his camoufl?age to kick in, and stood ready to draw both of his semiautomatic pistols. He was already backing away from the front of the villa when he heard the muffl?ed whine of servos, a half ton of masonry exploded outward, and a large machine emerged from hiding. It stood about twelve feet tall and consisted of an eggshaped control pod mounted between two retrograde legs. The weapons mounted on both sides of the control pod burped blue light as Shaz drew his pistols. But the energy bolts fl?ew over the variant’s head, and when the visitor turned to look over his shoulder, he saw the smoking remains of a storage shed fall lazily out of the sky. More servos whirred as the canopy opened and Tepho released the three-point harness. Then, without a word having been spoken, the machine performed a deep knee bend that allowed its owner to reach the ground. It was a maneuver that normally required help from one or more of the technologist’s assistants, but something Tepho was determined to accomplish on his own given the fact that Shaz was there. The technologist grinned mischievously as the combat variant returned both weapons to their cross-draw holsters.

“Had you going there—didn’t I? There were thousands of raptors at one time. . . . Most were destroyed, but some enterprising tomb raiders found this unit buried with a Faro on Torus, and subsequently sold it to me. Our techs had to tear the whole thing apart and bring the pieces through the gates one or two at a time. But here’s the part that you’ll be interested in,” the scientist continued. “Based on my research, it looks like the ancients created raptors to kill combat variants! That would suggest some sort of revolt. . . . Interesting, isn’t it?”

It was interesting, but for more than academic reasons. Having been born into a violent universe, and having a vulnerable body, Tepho was understandably concerned for his personal safety. And now, having promoted his onetime bodyguard to a higher position, the chairman had every reason to be afraid of him. Not just a little, but enough to justify the acquisition of a very expensive machine that was not only more powerful than the combat variant but couldn’t be bribed, tricked, or otherwise suborned. And that, Shaz realized, was why he had been summoned to Tepho’s country estate. To learn about the machine, its capabilities, and the chairman’s newfound strength.

“Yes,” Shaz said tactfully. “That is interesting.” So was the fact that most of the original machines had been destroyed, suggesting that his ancestors had discovered a way to defeat them. But the variant knew better than to say as much. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes,” the technologist replied. “I’m looking forward to your report. The medicos claim that I need more exercise—

so you can benefi?t from my frailties as well. Let’s walk.”

The sun emerged from behind a cloud, and had there been someone present to observe it, they might have thought the scene somewhat strange as the norm who wasn’t normal limped along the road, while his companion shimmered like a mirage, and the raptor followed a few steps behind.

The machine walked with birdlike precision, each pod-step raising a puff of dust as its sensors scanned the surrounding area for signs of danger.

Meanwhile, Tepho listened as his subordinate described the team’s arrival on Thara, the successful break-in, and the discoveries that followed. “So, Logos can be worn!” the scientist mused. “Imagine! Computers that you wear like a coat!

And we’re going to bring those days back, Shaz. . . . And soon, too! Where is this marvel? I want to speak with it.”

A lump formed in the combat variant’s throat, but the operative managed to swallow it. With Tepho at his side, the decision that appeared to be so logical before seemed questionable now. Still, Shaz knew that it was important to be assertive, and his voice was forceful as he told the chairman what he’d done, and why. To the technologist’s credit he allowed the underling to fi?nish the report before making his reply. But there was no mistaking the tightness in his voice, the way his right index fi?nger stabbed the air, or the fact that he was limping faster now. “Dammit, Shaz . . . I’d like to say that I agree with your decision to let the sensitive and her companions take Logos aboard that vessel, but I don’t! Travel aboard the starships is just too damned risky these days. . . . What if the old tub can’t fi?nd its way out of hyperspace? But what’s done is done. . . . Don’t let it happen again however.”

Tepho was capable of towering rages, and knowing that, the variant discovered that he’d been holding his breath. He let some of the air escape along with the words. “Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.”

The scientist glanced sideways as if to gauge the sincerity of the response and nodded. “I believe you, Shaz. . . . Make the jump to Derius and wait to see what happens. Hopefully, they will arrive right on time. If it looks like they want to use the local gate—then allow them to force their way in. Just keep Logos safe! Eventually, assuming you wait long enough, he’ll lead you to Socket. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good,” the scientist replied fi?rmly. “Now, watch this . . .” So saying, Tepho removed a pistol-shaped device from the brand-new shoulder holster that hung under his left arm. It was shiny, like highly polished silver, and apparently seamless. Tepho aimed the artifact at a highfl?ying bird, pressed a red button, and brought his other hand up to shade his eyes. There was no report, as one would expect from a handgun, but the raptor fi?red one of its energy cannons, and the broadwing exploded. Shaz watched a cloud of feathers drift toward the ground, wondered how his ancestors had countered such machines, and hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to do so again.

Aboard the spaceship Shewhoswimsthevoid

Though relatively safe, the corner of the hold that the circus performers had claimed for themselves was poorly lit, which was just as well insofar as the beast master was concerned. The humiliation suffered in the arena had been bad enough, but having been faced down immediately after boarding the ship, the animal handler’s standing among his peers was at an all-time low. And, since their questionable esteem was the only thing the norm possessed, the situation was deeply disturbing.

So, while the others slept, copulated, and gambled around him, the beast master plotted his revenge. A murder that could be carried out from a distance—and without the least bit of risk to himself. But there was work to do fi?rst. The fact that the circus hopped from planet to planet every fi?ve years or so meant that new animals had to be acquired soon after landing, trained to do tricks, and sold just prior to liftoff.

But, while the beast master couldn’t bring an L-phant aboard, smaller animals were okay so long as he fed them, and none of the other performers were inconvenienced. There had been a long sequence of such pets over the years, but the sturdiest and most enduring was the Poda pod he had acquired on Baas. Being from a desert environment, the pod didn’t require much water, and so long as it received three drops of liquid fertilizer every fi?fteen days, would reportedly live for more than a hundred years. Not that the pod was a pet. . . . No, the real pet was the six-inch-long Slith snake that lived inside the pod and took most of its sustenance from the plant—a relationship the beast master didn’t fully understand, and didn’t need to, so long as he took the symbiotic coupling into account.

Now, as the norm held the pod up in front of his face, he made use of both spatulate thumbs to rub what he thought of as the pod’s throat. A full ten seconds passed before the tiny serpent made its appearance. It had a single beady eye, a long black tongue, and an orange stripe that ran down its spine.

“Greetings my sweet,” the beast master whispered lovingly.

“And how are you today? Hungry? I’m not surprised.”

Then, having made use of his right hand to reach for a pair of tweezers, the circus performer selected a likely looking insect from a half-full jar, and held the still-wriggling prize up for inspection. “So, sweetums, what do you think? Is this little beauty worthy of your stomach?”

The serpent opened its mouth and thereby revealed a respectable set of fangs. Its head snapped forward, and the insect disappeared. And that, to the beast master’s way of thinking, was something of a mystery. He had observed animals all of his life, and while never the recipient of a formal education, knew how a food chain worked. Which raised the obvious question: Why would an animal that ate insects require fangs? To defend both itself and the pod?

That seemed likely—but there was no way to be sure. What made the little snakes valuable was the fact that they could be trained to follow a particular scent to its source and kill the organism associated with it. So long as the target was vulnerable to Slith venom, that is, which, according to the assassin from whom the serpent had been purchased, included just about everyone. It was an assertion the beast master had tested twice before. First, as the means to eliminate an acrobat foolish enough to sleep with his woman, then as a way to punish the bitch herself. The key, and a very important one, was to provide the tiny killer with an item from which it could extract the necessary scent. In this case a tiny scrap of cloth that one of the troupe’s little people had snipped from the sensitive’s cloak after she boarded the shuttle. “Here, sweetums,” the circus performer whispered, as he held the tiny piece of fabric out for inspection. “Get a good sniff of this.”

The long, narrow tongue seemed to caress the scrap of cloth before being withdrawn. The animal was visibly agitated now, its head jerking from side to side, as the beast master extended his right index fi?nger. It was an act of faith, because a single strike from the Slith snake’s fangs would lead to an agonizing death, but such was the serpent’s training that it had no interest in harming anyone other than the being associated with the newly assimilated odor. Then, once it returned from its deadly mission, the tiny assassin knew that a special feast would be waiting. Conscious of how dangerous a trip across the cluttered deck could be for his pet, and hopeful that it would choose to travel via the overhead girders instead, the beast master stood and held his fi?nger up to a diagonal support structure. He felt rather than saw the serpent unwind itself from his fi?nger, wished his pet well, and watched death slither into the darkness.

A good deal of time and effort had gone into the effort to construct the shack next to the hold’s single water faucet. And while not especially attractive to look upon, or bulletproof, as Rebo had originally hoped, the shelter did provide the threesome with a welcome sense of privacy, and if not actual safety, then the illusion of it, which contributed to their peace of mind. And that’s where the runner was, sitting within the embrace of four rickety walls cleaning the Hogger by the light of an oil-fed lamp, when Norr entered the hut. The entryway was large enough to accommodate Hoggles, but just barely, and the sensitive had to duck before straightening again. Rebo looked up from his work as the variant took the seat opposite him. The runner never tired of looking at Norr’s face and wondered what that meant. There had been women before her, quite a few of them, but none so compelling. That was why he had agreed to a run that was not only unlikely to pay off but could strand him on an inhospitable planet, or get him killed. So, why was he there? Was he in love with Lonni? Or the idea of someone like her? She was in love with him . . . Rebo thought so anyway. Then what was he waiting for? He could tell her, no ask her, and the deal would be done. However, because such contemplations caused the runner’s head to hurt, he put it aside in favor of a joke. “How’s the weather?”

Norr made a face. “There isn’t any, not unless you count the light breeze from the far side of the hold and the stink associated with it.”

Rebo grinned. “I’m happy to report that I can’t smell a thing!”

“That’s because you’re part of the problem,” the sensitive observed tartly. “There’s some news though. . . . When you control the water supply—everyone stops to chat.”

The runner squinted down the Hogger’s bore into the lamplight. Then, satisfi?ed with what he’d seen, Rebo pushed a shell into the weapon’s chamber. “There’s news? I’m surprised to hear it.”

“Yes, there is,” the variant replied, as she held her hands out to collect the scant warmth generated by the lamp.

“And it isn’t good . . . You know the merchants? The ones camped by the number two pillar?”

“The ones with the fancy crossbows?”

Norr knew from long experience that the runner had a tendency to describe people by the way they looked, or the artifacts that they carried, rather than how they felt, or acted. “Yes,” she replied. “The ones with the crossbows. Two of them went out to explore the ship and never came back.”

“It’s a big ship,” Rebo said neutrally. “Maybe they got lost.”

“That’s what I fi?gured,” the variant agreed, “until one of the missing merchants appeared right next to the man I was talking to.”

The runner raised an eyebrow. “Dead?”

“Very.”

“Did you tell the person you were talking to?”

Norr shook her head. “No . . . I wasn’t sure what to do.”

Rebo frowned. “So, how did he die? Could you tell?”

The lamp lit the sensitive’s face from below. It gave her features a spectral quality. “Yes, I could. The spirit didn’t say anything, but he was holding his head in his hands, and it was screaming.”

The city of New Wimmura, on the Planet Derius

As Shaz, Phan, Dyson, and four metal men stepped out of the decontamination lock on Derius and began the process of pulling their damp clothes back on, it quickly became apparent that something was wrong. They could hear the insistent pop, pop, pop of gunfi?re for one thing, accompanied by yelling and the muted beat of unseen kettledrums. Then the entire structure shook as a team of fanatical antitechnics carried a palanquin loaded with black powder into the building’s lobby and blew themselves up. The idea had been to bring the two-story structure down, but the supports were too strong for that, so the building still stood.

The combat variant’s fi?rst instinct was to retreat to Anafa via the star gate, but it quickly became apparent that it was too late for that, as the power went off. Fortunately, the emergency lights, which were powered by a battery, fl?ickered and held. “You’d better arm yourselves,” Shaz said grimly, as he slipped into the two-gun harness. “It looks like the building is under attack. We may have to fi?ght our way out.”

Phan was a professional killer, and therefore received the news with aplomb, but Dyson was frightened. He looked from one person to the other. “I don’t have any weapons.”

“No,” the combat variant observed, “you don’t. . . . So, I suggest that you stay close to Phan—and do whatever she tells you.”

The sensitive fi?nished putting his shoes on, shouldered his pack, and wished that the empty feeling in his stomach would go away.

Having armed themselves with stout wooden cudgels, the heavily robed robots made their way out into the offi?ce area beyond, followed by Shaz, Phan, and Dyson. Smoke swirled as a disheveled-looking man whirled to aim a double-barreled shotgun at the group of intruders. His face lit up when he spotted Shaz. “By all of the blue devils it’s good to see you, sir! How did headquarters know we were in trouble?”

“They didn’t,” the variant answered fl?atly. “What’s going on?”

“It’s those damned antitechnics,” the functionary responded angrily. “Come on, I’ll show you what I mean.”

Shaz and the rest of the team followed the local past a landing where two norms and a metal man were busy defending a staircase and into one of the offi?ces that fronted the second fl?oor. It was dark outside, or would have been, had it not been for a multitude of torches. The light they generated combined to illuminate what looked like a crowd of at least three hundred seething bodies. Most were lower down, but some had succeeded in climbing up onto the same level as the building and were busy hurling stones at it. The missiles rattled as they hit the wooden façade. “Be careful,” the functionary cautioned. “The Antitechnic Book of Abominations limits their warriors to smoothbores, but some of those bastards are damned good shots, and one of them nailed Kavi. . . .”

As if to illustrate the norm’s point, a sniper chose that particular moment to send a .30-caliber slug whizzing past Phan’s head. That was a mistake, because the assassin spotted the telltale muzzle fl?ash, and it was only a matter of seconds before the woman brought the scope-mounted rifl?e up to her shoulder and fi?red in response. The sniper never knew what hit him as the .300 Magnum slug blew a hole through his chest. “You were saying?” Phan asked sweetly, as she worked a second round into the chamber.

“Nice shot!” the local said enthusiastically. “That should slow the bastards down. It all started about two hours ago, when the holy men ambushed A-63127, and tied him to a stake. Then they piled fl?ammable materials around the poor bastard. A crowd gathered, the fanatics began to preach all their usual antitechnology bullshit, and that’s when a priest lit the fi?re.”

Though conscious of the fact that there were bound to be snipers other than the one that Phan had neutralized, Dyson edged his way up to the shattered window and was amazed by what he saw. After the original city of Wimmura was slagged during the techno wars, the survivors had been able to found a new settlement within the embrace of the nearby open-pit mine, and constructed dozens of one-and twostory buildings on the benchlike contours that surrounded the hole. One end of the kidney-shaped basin was fi?lled with water, but the rest had come to function as New Wimmura’s central plaza, and that was where the unfortunate metal man had been set alight. Dyson didn’t know if androids could experience the electronic equivalent of pain, but judging from the way that 127 continued to writhe within a cocoon of orange-yellow fl?ames, it seemed all too possible.

“Kill it!” the sensitive insisted, as he turned toward Phan.

“Kill it now!”

The assassin looked at Shaz, saw the operative nod, and brought the rifl?e back to her shoulder. The second shot was just as effective as the fi?rst. The metal man jerked convulsively as the heavy slug tore through his badly blackened alloy torso, which slumped against the wire that bound him to the fl?aming pole. Dyson nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”

But the decision to let Phan terminate the robot had nothing to do with compassion, a fact that soon became apparent. A howl of protest went up from the crowd gathered on the plaza below as the subject of their hatred was released from its suffering, and there was a sudden swirl of activity as various holy men pointed up at the building from which the shot had originated, and urged their followers to attack. The response was immediate, as half a dozen snipers opened fi?re on Techno Society headquarters, and scores of warriors began to scale the wooden ladders that would carry them up onto the highest bench. “Now we know who their leaders are,” Shaz stated coldly. “Kill them.”

Phan smiled, secured a fresh grip on her weapon, and went to work. Her aim was good, and each death sent ripples out through the ethers, which rolled over Dyson like waves of pain. He staggered backward, brought his hands up to his temples, and slid down the rear wall to sit on the fl?oor.

Meanwhile, having volunteered to act as the assassin’s spotter, Shaz brought a small pair of binoculars up to his eyes and directed Phan’s fi?re. They made a good team. Leader after leader fell, and, as they did, the attack began to falter. Then, having reloaded numerous times, the assassin went to work neutralizing those snipers who still survived, while the combat variant fi?red both pistols into the crowd directly below. The ensuing slaughter lasted for less than a minute before the holy warriors broke and ran. Dozens lay dead, their bodies akimbo, their spirits still fi?lled with hatred. Some of the fallen groaned, or called for help, but were soon dispatched by cudgel-wielding metal men who prowled the battlefi?eld like hooded angels of death. “Well,” Shaz remarked lightly, “that went reasonably well.”

“Yes, it did,” the local operative agreed gratefully. “But even though the ignorant bastards didn’t know what they were doing, one aspect of their attack was successful.”

The combat variant looked up from reloading a pistol.

“And what, pray tell, was that?”

“The gate,” the functionary replied sadly. “The explosion took it off-line.”