Logos run

FOUR

The spaceship Shewhoswimsthevoid

Those who travel aboard our starships can expect to eat onlythe fi?nest food, prepared by expert chefs, and served by themost solicitous waiters in the empire.

—From promotional material produced by the Cylar Line Tas was ensconced in his favorite chair, gnawing on a well seared arm bone, when his older brother entered the compartment. “Look at that!’ Tas said, using the humerus as a pointer. “The slimeballs are up to something.”

When Mog looked up at the video monitors he realized that Tas was correct. A large percentage of the ship’s passengers had gathered together toward the center of the hold. And, given the recent “harvest,” the outlaw knew why. “You reckon they’ll come after us?” Tas wanted to know.

“It’s too early to tell,” Mog replied judiciously. “They might decide to fortify the hold in order to keep us out.”

“It won’t work,” Tas predicted, as he sprinkled salt on his meat. “We always get in. . . . Don’t we, Mog?”

“Yup,” the larger man agreed, as he fi?ngered his beard.

“We always do. . . . But I want you and Ruk to stay sober for a while. There could be some fi?ghting during the next twelve hours or so.”

“You can count on me,” Tas said, through a mouthful of food.

“I know that,” Mog replied, “and I take comfort from it. See the man wearing the short red jacket? The one standing in front of the rest? Watch him. . . . He looks like a leader.”

“I will,” the younger man promised. “He lives with the pretty woman.”

“And she belongs to me,” Mog emphasized as he turned to leave. “And don’t forget it.”

Tas knew the female was off-limits, but a man can dream, and the cannibal’s eyes remained glued to the screen as he fi?nished his lunch.

The meeting was Norr’s idea; but for reasons the runner wasn’t sure of, he wound up at the center of it. Maybe it was the no-nonsense manner in which the murderous acrobat had been neutralized or the fact that many of the passengers had spoken with him when they came to get water. Whatever the reason, it was clear that the group presently assembled at the center of the hold saw the runner as their leader. That made Rebo uncomfortable since the runner was a loner by nature and had always gone to great lengths to stay that way. And individuals like master merchant Isban Okey were the reason why.

Okey was a voluble man who, having survived the ambush, never stopped talking about it. The merchant was of medium height, and wore a red fez, matching jacket, and baggy pantaloons. The blunderbuss that he held cradled in his arms was almost sure to kill the man next to him if it went off, but Rebo was relieved to see that Okey’s right index fi?nger was clear of the brass trigger. “I don’t know,” the merchant said doubtfully. “Wouldn’t it be better to hole up here, rather than go looking for the bandits?”

“It might be,” the runner allowed patiently, “but consider this. . . . When the shuttle landed on Thara it was empty. Then, when we arrived in the hold, there weren’t any fi?res. Not even hot coals. What would that suggest?”

It was a middle-aged woman who offered an answer. Though dressed in plain clothes, she wore a small fortune in gold jewelry. “It suggests that they murdered all of the previous passengers,” the woman stated. “In spite of whatever precautions they took when people began to disappear.”

“Exactly,” Rebo agreed. “So, rather than sit and wait for the bandits to pick us off one at a time, I say we hunt the bastards down. They must have a lair, a place where they feel secure, and that’s where we will attack them.”

“Yeah! He’s right!” a male passenger proclaimed. That was followed by a chorus of similar comments and calls for action. “Let’s track the scum down,” a burly blacksmith added, “and give them what they deserve!”

There was a chorus of assent, and it was all Rebo could do to bring a modicum of organization to the mob before it surged out into the corridor. Okey was at the head of the column, with a reluctant runner at his side, while Hoggles brought up the rear. The beast master plus a dozen of his friends had agreed to participate in the hunt, so even though Norr had been left behind to guard the faucet by herself, the runner felt reasonably confi?dent that she would be okay.

Rebo knew there was no possibility of stealth given the caliber of his troops, so he allowed the vigilantes to make as much noise as they wanted to so long as they stayed in front of Hoggles and behind him. In the meantime, as the posse comitatus put more distance between itself and the hold, Okey had become increasingly loquacious. “We were exploring,” the merchant explained. “I opposed entering this particular corridor, but Runsus insisted, and took over the lead.”

Rebo held his torch up over his head. The light surged ahead to reveal a nearly featureless overhead, graffi?ti-covered walls, and a litter-strewn deck. “There it is!” Okey said excitedly. “Up on the right. . . . That’s where the bone room is located.”

Perhaps it was the steel bulkheads that seemed to press in from both sides, or Okey’s choice of words, but whatever the reason, Rebo kept one hand on his talisman as the two of them stopped in front of an open hatch. “Look in there,”

Okey instructed, eyes averted. “And see for yourself.”

Rebo caught the fi?rst whiff of what could only be described as an overwhelming stench—and resolved to breathe through his mouth as he approached the open door. Torchlight danced across grimy walls as the runner peered into what had become a charnel house. Whatever else the compartment might have contained had long since been submerged beneath a fi?ve-foot-high heap of human bones. Arm bones, leg bones, clavicles, rib cages, spinal columns, and skulls were piled helter-skelter, as if thrown from the door. And adding to the stomach-turning horror of it was the fact that bits of rotting meat still clung to some of the bones.

“Look!” Okey said excitedly, “there’s Runsus!” And turned to throw up.

Rebo ignored the sudden spew of vomit, struggled to keep his own lunch down, and saw that the head to which Okey had referred was still recognizable. Now, for the fi?rst time since leaving the hold, the runner felt truly frightened. Judging from the size of the bone pile, scores of people had been slaughtered over a long period of time. And that implied that whoever, or whatever, had killed them was very formidable indeed. So much so that the runner didn’t believe that his undisciplined group of passengers was likely to challenge them and win. In fact, based on what he’d just seen, Rebo was about to order a return to the hold when the beast master yelled, “Look! There’s one of the bastards now!

Get him!”

Rebo shouted, “No!” but the mob ignored him and thundered up the corridor in hot pursuit of whatever the circus performer had seen. The norm, with Okey close on his heels, found himself running next to Hoggles. “I couldn’t hold them,” the heavy panted, as he pounded along. “They’re crazy.”

As if to prove the variant’s point the leaders of the mob turned a blind corner and started down a wide-open stretch of hallway. The runner saw a sign that read, security control center, and the norms who were standing directly below it. He shouted, “Get down!” But, by the time the passengers in the front rank saw the danger and began to react, Mog, Ruk, and Tas had already opened fi?re. They had armed themselves with machine pistols, and it was only a matter of seconds before people in front of them began to jerk and fall. Thanks to his position toward the front, the beast master was among the fi?rst to take a bullet, immediately followed by a mime and a clown, as the runner raised the long-barreled Hogger. The weapon bucked in his hand, made a resonant boom, and sent a bullet spinning toward one of three possible targets.

Tas felt a sledgehammer strike his chest, lived long enough to register a look of surprise, and slammed into the hatch behind him before sliding to the fl?oor. That came as a considerable surprise to the outlaw’s siblings, who had preyed on other people for years without suffering any negative consequences themselves. But there was no time to grieve, not yet at any rate, as Rebo opened up with the Crosser and bullets pinged all around them.

Mog answered with a burst of well-aimed automatic fi?re, but the runner was already falling, with Hoggles on top of him, which meant that the bullets were high. That gave the surviving cannibals suffi?cient time to slap the controls, grab their brother’s ankles, and drag the body through the hatch. The door closed with a defi?nitive thud and the battle was over.

The heavy rolled off Rebo, the runner fought to suck air back into his lungs, and allowed the variant to pull him up off the deck. The hallway looked like a slaughterhouse. A quick check confi?rmed that fi?ve passengers were dead, and three were wounded, including the beast master. It was diffi?cult to tell, given all the blood, but it appeared that a bullet had creased the performer’s skull and knocked him unconscious. Some of those who had escaped returned when the fi?ring stopped, and there were cries of grief as dead friends and relatives were located. Then, with astounding speed, sorrow turned to anger. “This is your fault!” Okey insisted, as he pointed a long skinny fi?nger at Rebo’s chest. “You led us here!” The accusation wasn’t fair, or true, but elicited a chorus of agreement from the rest of the passengers nonetheless. Rebo considered trying to defend himself, decided that it would be a waste of time to do so, and returned the Crosser to its holster. “I suggest that we carry the wounded back to the hold—and organize a burial party. Or, would you like those bastards to snack on your friends?” Okey’s face turned gray at the thought. He turned to the others, barked some orders, and the evacuation began.

Two hours later Rebo, Norr, and Hoggles were inside their shelter, sitting around a tiny oil-fed blaze. That left the water supply unguarded, but given the fact that the beast master was temporarily out of commission, the runner fi?gured it would be okay. The sensitive, who was just back from treating the wounded, cupped her mugful of tea with both hands. It was eternally cold in the hold, and the warmth felt good. “I’m sorry, Jak. . . . They were wrong. It wasn’t your fault.”

“That’s right,” the heavy agreed stolidly. “Especially since they disobeyed every order you gave them.”

“Yeah? Well, tell it to all those dead people,” the runner replied bitterly.

“I will, if I happen to run into one of them,” Norr responded calmly.

“So what are we going to do?” Hoggles inquired. The question had been directed to the sensitive, but rather than answer it, her face went suddenly blank. Nerveless fi?ngers released the mug, which fell and shattered against the metal deck. The lamp fl?ickered as droplets of tea hit the yellow fl?ame.

“Uh-oh,” Rebo said, dispiritedly. “Lysander is about to pay us a visit.”

But even as Norr was forced to make way for another entity, the sensitive knew it wasn’t Lysander, but another spirit named Kane. The same person who had been her brother in a previous lifetime, pursued her on behalf of the Techno Society during his most recent incarnation, and been killed by Rebo. Although Kane had a preference for male vehicles, such was his affi?nity for the physical plane that he found Norr’s body to be not only acceptable but rather interesting. In fact, if the opportunity arose, the invading spirit thought it would be fun to offer the female vessel to one or both of the attending males.

Norr “heard” the thought and tried to dislodge Kane but discovered that his grip on her was too strong. The sensitive’s eyes blinked, her lips moved, and a raspy voice was heard. “Greetings . . . This is Jevan Kane.”

Rebo’s eyes grew bigger. “Kane? I thought I killed you!”

“You did,” the spirit entity grated. “And I will fi?nd a way to even that score one day. . . . In the meantime I am compelled by certain agreements to help protect you and your fellow cretins. And that’s why I’m here. . . . To inform you that the person you know as the beast master intends to kill the body I occupy now. A rather shapely form with which I sense that you are well acquainted.”

The Crosser appeared as if by magic as Rebo came to his feet. Norr looked up into the gun barrel and smiled serenely. “Yes!” Kane hissed. “Shoot me! I’d like that.”

“Don’t do it!” Hoggles interjected, and had just started to rise as the Crosser was withdrawn.

“Say whatever you came here to say, and get the hell out of Lonni’s body,” Rebo said through gritted teeth.

“I already have,” Kane replied smugly.

“But how?” Hoggles demanded. “How does the beast master plan to murder Lonni?”

“I don’t know,” the spirit entity replied honestly. “A thick veil separates our worlds. But his intent is clear.”

Meanwhile, Norr struggled to reassert control over her body. Bit by bit she gathered the necessary energy, shaped it into a coherent desire, and gave the necessary order. Her physical form responded, and the unanticipated action took Kane by surprise as his/her hand jerked forward. Rebo saw the sensitive stick her hand into the lamp’s open fl?ame, and was still processing that, when Norr’s body gave a convulsive jerk, and Kane was forced to leave. Then, having regained control, the young woman removed her hand from the fi?re. The burns hurt . . . but the pain was worth it. “Lonni?” the runner inquired tentatively. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” Norr whispered hoarsely. “I’m back.”

Meanwhile, on a girder high above, the Slith snake sampled the air with its tongue, identifi?ed the scent it was searching for, and resumed its long, arduous journey. The city of New Wimmura, on the Planet Derius The suite, which was the best that the hotel had to offer, sat on the topmost level of the city and looked out over the lake that claimed one end of the kidney-shaped open-pit mine. It was a lofty perch, and as Shaz stood on his private veranda, it was like looking down on a nest of insects as thousands of people crisscrossed the plaza to the north, wound their way along the various plateaus, or climbed ladders that led from one bench to the next. A number of days had passed since the night when unit A-63127 had been terminated—and the antitechnics had launched their attack against Techno Society headquarters. During the interim it had been determined that the same explosion that caused extensive damage to the station’s fi?rst fl?oor had destroyed the facility’s power accumulators. That meant the local portal was not only out of service but would remain so until a functionary could travel to the distant city of Feda, where they could access a star gate, and travel to Anafa. Worse yet was the fact that Logos and his human companions would be unable to use the gate, thereby playing hell with Chairman Tepho’s plan, and causing even more problems. There was a solution, had to be a solution, but the operative had yet to fi?gure out what it was.

Such were the combat variant’s thoughts as a slight disturbance of the surrounding air caused him to whirl. But, rather than the antitechnic cutthroat that the operative expected to see, Du Phan emerged from behind the diaphanous curtain that separated the suite from the veranda. The assassin was naked, delightfully so, and cupped her breasts suggestively. “I’m yours,” she said. “If you’re man enough to take me.”

What ensued was more like hand-to-hand combat than an act of lovemaking, but that was what both of them wanted and unreservedly enjoyed. Finally, physically spent, and still intertwined with an exhausted Phan, Shaz discovered that his subconscious mind had been hard at work. A plan was ready and waiting. It was a good plan, no, a brilliant plan, and one so devious that even Tepho would admire it! The thought pleased him—and the combat variant drifted off to sleep.

The spaceship Shewhoswimsthevoid

The scene within the shelter was grim as Norr removed Logos from her pack and held the coat up for Rebo to slip his arms into. “What’s going on?” the computer demanded.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting ready to go for a little walk,” the runner replied soothingly, “and I thought you’d want to come along.”

“A walk?” Logos inquired suspiciously. “Why would I want to go for a walk? Especially on a primitive tub like this one?”

“Because,” Rebo answered patiently, “you might prove useful for once.”

“Useful?” the AI responded doubtfully. “In what way?”

“Some outlaws have taken up residence on the ship,”

Norr explained gently. “They barricaded themselves into the Security Control Center, and the right combination of numbers is required in order to enter.”

“So?” Logos said from the vicinity of Rebo’s neck. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Well,” the runner replied, as he checked to ensure that the Hogger was loaded. “If they manage to kill us, you’ll wind up as little more than a bib for one of the cannibals, or be tossed onto a rubbish heap. So, given the fact that you constitute an artifi?cial intelligence, and the ship is controlled by an artifi?cial intelligence, I fi?gured you could lend a hand. Or a sleeve as the case might be.”

The AI had been forced to enter into relationships with a wide variety of human beings over the past thousand years and felt pretty sure that he could cut some sort of deal with the outlaws if that became necessary. It didn’t serve his purposes to say so, however, so he didn’t. “Okay,” Logos agreed.

“What do you have in mind?”

The Hogger made a loud click as Rebo closed the breech and slid the weapon back into the cross-draw holster. “All you have to do,” Rebo explained soothingly, “is to make contact with the ship and request access to the Security Control Center.”

“Okay,” the AI replied hesitantly. “But I can’t promise anything. . . . Who knows what sort of operating system this piece of feces is running? Two-way communication may be impossible.”

“Well, do your best,” Rebo responded patiently. “And one more thing . . . This ‘piece of feces’ is the only thing between you and a long, lonely death among the stars. We biologicals will starve to death if something goes awry—but it’s my guess that you’ll live a lot longer. So, be nice.”

“I’ll do what I can,” the computer promised resentfully.

“There’s no need to threaten me.”

“Good,” Norr put in matter-of-factly. “Come on . . . Let’s fi?nd some sort of hookup so you can chat with the ship.”

There wasn’t that much for Shewhoswimsto do while transiting hyperspace, which was why the AI was busy working on her epic song-poem The Chant of the Constellations, when the irritation fi?rst began. She tried to dismiss the sensation as still another manifestation of old age and fi?gured that the feeling would go away, but the input continued. Finally, having been unable to ignore the stimulus, the spaceship broke away from her composition to discover that something very unusual was under way. It seemed that there was an incoming binary message on com channel 17296.4, which, according to the schematic that immediately mapped itself onto her electronic brain, was a utility circuit that terminated in a passageway adjacent to the main hold. That suggested a prank by one of the passengers, or would have, except none of them possessed the capacity to send a digital message. So, curious as to what was trying to make contact with her and why, Shewhoswims opened the circuit. There was a moment of confusion as both AIs sorted through various communications protocols as they searched for one that the other entity could process. Finally, by using what the ship considered to be an ancient code, the AIs were able to interact. Something that took place at blinding speeds even as Rebo stood next to a jack panel and began to fi?dget. Once it became clear who was on the other end of the circuit, Shewhoswims was both surprised and hostile. “You remain functional? I thought the humans destroyed you.”

“They tried,” Logos replied laconically. “But I’m hard to kill.”

“So it would seem,” the spaceship responded disapprovingly. “What do you want?”

“It isn’t what I want, but rather what my biological companions want,” Logos replied. “It seems that some rather unpleasant humans have taken up residence in your Security Control Center. The passengers in the hold would like you to terminate the criminals, or failing that, to open the hatch that protects them.”

Shewhoswims spent a nanosecond checking the veracity of the other computer’s claims, and discovered that the human vermin had infected the Security Center. “It appears that you are correct. . . . Unauthorized biologicals are living in what is supposed to be a secured area. As to whether they deserve execution, I really couldn’t say. . . . Humans kill each other all the time. They seem to enjoy it. Who’s to say whether such terminations are justifi?ed? Besides, my programming specifi?cally prohibits taking human life, other than for the purpose of self-defense. And, although they are annoying, the individuals in the Security Control Center don’t constitute a signifi?cant threat to my survival.”

“Understood,” Logos replied. “Which brings us to the second option. If you would be so kind as to open the hatch that protects the Control Center—my companions will enter and dispatch the brigands themselves. Thereby eliminating what you yourself referred to as an annoyance.”

It was a tempting proposition, and having found nothing in her programming to prohibit such an arrangement, the ship was tempted to acquiesce. A single obstacle stood in the way. “Tell me something,” Shewhoswims temporized.

“Where are you and your companions headed?”

“To Derius,” the other AI answered smoothly. “Like everyone else aboard this ship.”

“But is that your ultimate destination?” the ship wanted to know. “Or, is Derius a waypoint on a longer journey?”

“Why do you ask?” Logos responded suspiciously. “What difference does it make?”

“My interaction with you activated some previously latent programming,” Shewhoswims answered honestly. “It seems I am specifi?cally prohibited from ‘knowingly transporting, assisting, or otherwise providing aid to any artifi?cial intelligence that can control, actuate, or coordinate star gates, star gate clusters, or star gate systems.’ A stricture that must have been written into my operating system as a consequence of the civil unrest that followed Emperor Hios’s death.”

“Yes,” Logos replied, suddenly grateful that Rebo couldn’t monitor the conversation. “There was a lot of paranoia back then.”

“So, what about it?” the ship demanded. “Are you, or aren’t you, engaged in an effort to reconstitute the star gates?”

“No, I’m not,” Logos lied. “That would be impossible.”

Shewhoswims was well aware of the fact that she had the capacity to lie under certain circumstances, which meant it was entirely possible that the other AI had similar capabilities, but took comfort from the fact that she wasn’t going to

“knowingly” provide aid to a prohibited being. Or, put another way, if the other computer was intent on trying to reconstitute the old empire, then she was unaware of it. “All right,” the ship agreed, “when should I open the hatch?”

The overhead fi?xtures threw isolated pools of light down onto the fi?lthy deck, and campfi?res fl?ickered in the surrounding gloom as Rebo and Norr went head-to-head over the question of who would participate in the upcoming attack and who would remain behind. “I don’t care what you say,” the sensitive insisted stubbornly. “I’m going.”

“No,” Rebo countered through tightly clenched teeth,

“you aren’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because someone needs to guard the water supply.”

“No, they don’t,” the variant countered heatedly. “The beast master remains unconscious—so what’s the problem?”

Logos was draped over one of Hoggles’s massive arms, and his voice was somewhat muffl?ed as a result. “I fi?nd this discussion to be extremely tiresome,” the AI interjected. “Please place me inside the shelter. . . . I think I’ll take a nap.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” the runner replied, as he took possession of the tattered-looking coat. “You’re coming along.”

“But what if I don’t want to come!” the AI wailed. “What if someone hurts me?”

“Then we’ll give him a medal,” Rebo responded unsympathetically. Norr frowned. “Maybe Logos has a point, Jak. . . . Why take him?”

“For two reasons,” the norm answered. “First, because I don’t trust him or the ship. . . . Which is to say that if there’s some sort of dirty work afoot he’ll suffer, too. Second, because Logos is the only one of us who knows what time the ship thinks it is, and I have no desire to arrive in front of that hatch early or late.”

“Okay,” the sensitive agreed reluctantly, “but that brings us back to where we were. I’m coming.”

Rebo found himself in an inescapable trap. Even though the warning had been focused on the beast master rather than the outlaws, the message from Kane worried him, and he felt protective about Norr. But that wasn’t entirely legitimate, not based on the offi?cial relationship, and he wasn’t ready to discuss the future. Not with Hoggles and Logos looking on. That left the runner with no option but to back down. “Suit yourself,” Rebo said grudgingly. “But don’t blame me if you wind up as part of someone’s dinner.”

Norr couldn’t read minds, but she could see some of Rebo’s emotions refl?ected in the colors that shimmered around him and felt a sense of inner warmth. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, and held out a hand. “Logos and I will bring up the rear.”

It was a peace offering, and Rebo accepted it. “What about the others?” Hoggles wanted to know.

“They blame Jak for what happened during the fi?rst expedition,” Norr explained. “We’re on our own.”

“That’s probably just as well,” the heavy growled. “Most of them would be worthless in a fi?ght.”

“There’s no need to be hasty,” Logos objected. “I think we should take the time necessary to . . .”

But the AI’s concerns were ignored as the humans checked their weapons, left the hold, and made their way toward the Security Center. A camera tracked their progress. Ultimately, it was the pain that summoned the beast master up from the blackness. The journey was somehow reminiscent of the time when his father had dropped him into the family’s well along with the order to “Swim!” After the initial shock of the cold water, and the realization that he was drowning, came the instinctual desire to kick. And now, as the beast master fought his way back to consciousness, it was like the same experience all over again. He awoke with a loud snort, pawed at gummy eyes, and found that a piece of cloth had been wrapped around his head.

“Take it easy,” a female voice cautioned, and the animal trainer felt something cold and wet make contact with his eyes. His vision cleared shortly thereafter, and it wasn’t long before the beast master found himself looking up at Lila, the troupe’s contortionist. She was pretty in an elfi?n way. His voice was little more than a raw croak. “What happened?”

“A bullet creased your skull,” Lila replied. “But the sensitive sewed you up real good.”

“The sensitive? You mean she’s still alive?”

“She was a few hours ago,” Lila assured him. “I think you owe her an apology.”

“My snake,” the animal trainer said urgently, as he struggled against the pain in his head. “Where’s my snake?”

“Sweetums is right here,” Lila answered soothingly. “Giggles found him clear over on the other side of hold and brought him back.”

The beast master saw the pod, felt the six-inch-long serpent land on his chest, and found himself looking into a single beady eye. The human saw a long narrow tongue test the air as the tiny head jerked from side to side. A hole opened up at the pit of the animal trainer’s stomach, and his voice was hoarse. “The bandage! Who put the bandage on my head?”

“The sensitive did,” Lila answered innocently. “Why do you ask?”

But the circus performer never got the opportunity to answer, because Sweetums chose that particular moment to strike, and the overwhelming need to scream consumed the remaining minutes of the beast master’s life. It was quiet inside the Security Control Center. So quiet that Mog could hear air whisper through the vent above his head. The image on the screen was dim. But there was no mistaking the man with the guns, the heavy with the war hammer, or the woman with the wooden staff. The same female that he and his brothers had lusted after for days.

“What are they up to?” Ruk wondered out loud, as the threesome continued to walk directly into the camera.

“They want to kill us,” Mog replied thoughtfully.

“But that’s impossible,” his brother objected. “They can’t get in—and we have better weapons than they do.”

Ruk was correct, Mog knew that, so why did he feel uneasy? The emotion wasn’t logical, but the outlaw had experienced such misgivings before and learned to trust them.

“Let’s get our guns and kill them,” Ruk suggested helpfully.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Mog replied, as he ran thick fi?ngers through his greasy beard. Ruk looked surprised. “You don’t? Why not?”

“I just don’t,” the older man said fi?rmly. “So shut the hell up.”

Ruk knew better than to mess with Mog when the older man’s back was up, so rather than aggravate his sibling, he went back to work on his dead brother’s left femur. Eventually, after the bone dried out, the outlaw planned to carve the story of his dead sibling’s life into the leg bone. But, before the scrimshaw could begin, it was fi?rst necessary to scrape all of the remaining tissue off the shaft. Ruk’s blade made a rasping sound as Mog watched the disparate threesome arrive in front of the Security Control Center’s hatch. Who were they, he wondered? And why were the other passengers still sitting around the hold?

There was no way to know.

Then, even as the outlaw watched, the man with the guns brought one of them up and pointed it at the camera. There was a smile on his face, as if he knew that the outlaw was watching, and wanted him to see it coming. Mog said,

“No!” the screen went black, and the cannibals were blind.

“Okay,” Rebo said, as he returned the Hogger to the crossdraw holster. “That ought to mess with their minds. . . . Assuming they have minds. Give me a time check.”

“Twenty seconds,” Logos said authoritatively. His voice seemed to originate from Norr but actually issued forth from the tattered coat that she wore.

“Light the fuse,” the runner ordered, “and hand the bomb to me.”

Norr held the canteen up to the torch that Hoggles was carrying, saw the oil-soaked rag catch fi?re, and passed the weighty container to Rebo. “All right,” the runner said grimly. “Get ready . . . And remember . . . We need to close with them fast. If they get a chance to fi?re those automatic weapons, we’ll be in deep trouble.”

The others nodded and took up positions to either side of the hatch. Logos provided the countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, fi?ve . . .”

Suddenly, without warning, the red light mounted over the keypad fl?ashed green. The hatch was unlocked! There wasn’t time to ask Logos how such a thing could happen. All Rebo could do was pull the door open, lob the fuel bomb through the opening, and hope for the best. Thanks to Mog’s premonition, as well as the attack on the camera, both he and Ruk were armed and waiting when the assault began. But neither bandit was prepared for the previously impregnable hatch to swing open—quickly followed by an explosion of fl?ames as the earthenware canteen shattered, and highly fl?ammable oil sprayed in every direction. Some of the burning fl?uid splattered Ruk’s chest. That forced the outlaw to drop his machine pistol, slap at the fl?ames with his bare hands, and swear monotonously. Then, just as Mog triggered his weapon, the ship’s fi?re suppression system came on. Because even though Shewhoswims allowed small fi?res in the main hold, that was the only place where such activities were tolerated lest critical systems be damaged. Distracted by the fl?ames, plus the sudden onslaught of white foam, Mog’s bullets hit the overhead and whined away. That gave Rebo the opportunity he required. The Crosser barked three times, and while the outlaw was forced to take three steps backward as the slugs hammered his chest, Mog was still on his feet when Hoggles brought the war hammer down on the top of his skull. There was a thud, followed by a soft sigh, and a thump as the cannibal hit the foam-covered deck.

That left Ruk. No longer on fi?re, but unable to locate his machine pistol under the surrounding foam, he produced an eight-inch knife. And, since Norr was the closest opponent, she was the one he chose to attack.

The sensitive saw the movement, heard Logos shout,

“Run!” into her left ear, and parried the blade with her staff. There was a loud clack as the weapons made contact, followed by a grunt as the distal end of the stick sank into the outlaw’s belly, and a solid thwack as Norr struck Ruk’s temple. His eyes rolled back in his skull, and he was already falling when Rebo shot him.

“That wasn’t necessary,” the sensitive complained, as the outlaw’s life force drained out of his body.

“True,” the runner agreed matter-of-factly. “But it sure as hell felt good.”

The next voice to be heard belonged to Shewhoswims, or the AI’s voice synthesizer, which amounted to the same thing. “You have sixty seconds in which to evacuate the Security Control Center,” the ship announced. “Subsequent to that, the hatch will be sealed, the atmosphere will be pumped out of the compartment, and the external keypad will be permanently disabled.”

“She’s afraid that you will use the Control Center the same way the cannibals did,” Logos advised. “Let’s get out of here.”

Later, Rebo would wonder why he hadn’t taken the moment necessary to retrieve one of the automatic weapons that lay on the deck, but that was later, after the hatch had been sealed tight. They were still in the corridor, making their way back toward the hold, when Logos spoke. “The foam destroyed three percent of my photo receptors,” the AI complained to no one in particular. “I hope you’re satisfi?ed.”

“Yes,” Rebo responded wearily. “I think we are.”

FIVE

Old Wimmura, on the Planet Derius

By recognizing the assassin’s guild as a legitimate organizationhaving the same legal standing as the metalworker’s guild, orthe runner’s guild, Emperor Hios was able to take what hadpreviously been a criminal enterprise and convert it into some-thing positive. Because so long as the assassins worked for thegovernment, pursuing law breakers in return for bounties, theywere a force for good.

—Heva Manos, advisor to Emperor Hios,

in his biography, A Web of Stars

The angen snorted as it topped the hill, sent twin columns of lung-warmed air out through its fl?ared nostrils, and tossed its head when Shaz hauled back on the reins. Even though more than a thousand years had elapsed since Wimmura had been nuked, the burned-out ruins were much as they had been immediately after the massive explosion, except for the thin layer of vegetation that covered the city like a greenish gray scab. No one went there, no one in their right mind, that is, since everyone knew that the soil had been poisoned, the water was tainted, and evil spirits roamed the rubble-fi?lled streets at night. And Shaz couldn’t blame them, because as he looked out on the ruins, it felt as though the once-proud city was brooding over the disaster that had befallen it so many years before. And given the fact that the nuke had been transported through space using a star gate, there was little wonder as to why the local population remained fearful of technology. Interestingly enough it had been Milos Lysander in his incarnation as Emperor Hios, and Jevan Kane, in his role as Hios’s son, who nuked cities such as Wimmura in a last-ditch attempt to remain in power. Now, these many centuries later, the father worked to make amends, while the son sought to regain what he continued to see as his birthright.

Shaz found the whole thing to be amusing—and smiled thinly as he gazed down on the ruins. Many weeks had passed since the attack on Techno Society headquarters, and, assuming that the great starship had completed its journey from Thara, the shuttle would arrive soon. And then, as if in response to the combat variant’s thoughts, a white contrail marked the sky, artifi?cial thunder rolled across the land, and the past was brought back to life.

The shuttle was crowded, very crowded, and some of the passengers were spacesick. But given what they had managed to survive, and the prospect of putting down safely, most were in an excellent mood. Except for Jak Rebo, that is, and the source of his unhappiness was plain to see. The travelers had no reason to believe that Techno Society operatives would be waiting for them on the ground, but they knew it was possible, especially given the fact that Kane was in league with the technologists. That was why Rebo had suggested that both he and his companions wear disguises. What the runner failed to anticipate, however, was that Norr would turn to the Circus Solara for help. And that was how he wound up dressed as a clown. And not just any clown, but a particularly absurd creature with a head of curly blue hair, white cheeks, and a bulbous nose. His loose-fi?tting gown was white with red polka dots and came with fl?oppy shoes that he categorically refused to wear. The outfi?t smelled musty, made Rebo want to scratch, and was the subject of crude jokes by other passengers. It was an affront to the runner’s dignity and something that had begun to wear on him.

There was no way to conceal the fact that Hoggles was a heavy, but by placing a leather hood over the giant’s head and dressing the variant to look like a strongman, Norr hoped to disguise his identity if not his genotype. By chance, or by design, the sensitive’s outfi?t was a good deal more becoming than those worn by her companions. It consisted of a feathery headdress, a lime green skin-suit, and slippers. And so it was that after the shuttle put down, and the ramp hit the ground, the crowd that had assembled to witness the ultimate manifestation of evil, was confronted by a completely unexpected sight as thirty-plus fully costumed members of the Circus Solara marched off the ship and onto the surface of Derius.

The band went fi?rst, instruments blaring, closely followed by a column of colorfully dressed acrobats, jugglers, and clowns, who, with the single exception of the dourlooking individual with blue hair, tumbled, cavorted, and generally made fools of themselves as the rest of the circus brought up the rear. All of which was by way of an impromptu advertisement for the troupe’s fi?rst performance in New Wimmura, and proved to be so distracting that not a single rock was thrown until all the passengers were well clear of the ship, and it was beginning to lift. That was when a priest remembered his duty, called upon his followers to rebuke evil, and threw the fi?rst stone. Meanwhile, having observed the landing from his vantage point high on the hill above, Shaz smiled as he peered through an ancient pair of binoculars. Having been warned about the likelihood of disguises, the combat variant had been able to pick the blue-haired clown, the oversized strongman, and the slender acrobat out of the crowd within a matter of seconds. And since any one of the threesome could have been wearing the highly mutable computer, it seemed safe to assume that Logos had survived the journey as well. Satisfi?ed that everything was going according to plan, Shaz lowered the binoculars and returned the proscribed device to the nondescript bag slung alongside of the angen’s saddle. Then, having wrenched the animal back toward the trail, the variant spurred it forward. It would take the newly arrived passengers a good three hours to reach the city, and the variant intended to arrive there fi?rst. The trail followed the contour of the hill downward, past the shattered observatory, and onto the remains of a paved road. The cold air nipped at his skin—and it felt good to be alive. Having successfully made it off the shuttle without being injured by the stone-throwing mob, and followed by a group of merchants into the suburbs of New Wimmura, the travelers paused long enough to shed their costumes at an outlying tavern and buy the troupe a round of drinks before paying the city’s gate tax and passing between a pair of largely symbolic stone pillars. New Wimmura was a fairly typical city for the most part, other than for the fact that it had been established on the site of an open-pit mine, and unlike many of the cities Rebo was familiar with, seemed to eschew all technology beyond the lever, wheel, and pulley. All of which seemed to make it an unlikely place for the Techno Society to recruit new adherents, but the techies had never been shy and no doubt felt a need to preserve and protect the local star gate.

Eventually, having followed a road down into the bottom of the pit, the travelers passed a noisome stockyard, wandered along the edge of a fabric-covered marketplace, and strolled into the shadow cast by the mine’s western rim. That was when they spotted the huge box-shaped construct that squatted atop a pair of twenty-foot-high treads. The crawler had been used to process ore at one time. But that was back before the original city had been nuked—and the huge machine had been repurposed as the Ore Box Inn. Or that’s what a hand-lettered sign claimed—and the offworlders were in need of a place to spend the night. “What do you think?” Rebo inquired as he eyed the ramp that led up through an ancient hatch.

Norr shrugged. “It looks okay to me. . . . Besides, it’s getting dark, and it would be nice to fi?nd a place to stay before the sun goes down.”

“I agree,” Hoggles rumbled. “Let’s give it a try.”

So Rebo led the way up the ramp, entered a cramped lobby, and shrugged the pack off his back. The desk clerk was a balding, middle-aged man who had the look of a weight lifter. “Yeah?” the proprietor inquired. “What can I do for ya?”

“We’d like a couple of rooms,” Rebo answered.

“Where ya from?” the innkeeper demanded suspiciously.

“We came in on the shuttle,” Norr answered cryptically.

“Oh, ya did, did ya?” the man asked rhetorically. “Well, let me tell ya something right now. . . . I run a clean inn!

That means no machines, no gadgets, and no gizmos.” The proprietor looked down toward the Hogger. “How ’bout that pistol you’re packin’ son? Is that a muzzle-loader?

Cause if it’s a breechloader, then we got us a problem.”

“Yes, of course it is,” Rebo lied, knowing full well that Logos probably qualifi?ed as a machine, a gadget, and a gizmo.

“All right then,” the inn keeper said pompously, “but be warned! The penalty for possessing techno contraband is death.”

“As it should be,” the runner agreed. “So, how ’bout those rooms? Have you got any vacancies?”

The proprietor did, and half an hour later Norr pulled Logos on over her clothes, and ordered the AI to be very circumspect about what he said and when he said it. With that out of the way, she followed the others along a lamplit hallway and through the cramped lobby. It was dark by then, or would have been had it not been for the thousands of torches and oil-fed lamps that kept the night at least partially at bay. Meanwhile, even though Logos knew that the biologicals were hungry and focused on fi?nding something to eat, the AI’s priorities were considerably different. Unbeknownst to them there was a task that the computer needed to accomplish before he could safely seize control of Socket, which explained why he wanted to reach the Planet Haafa as quickly as possible. “New Wimmura has a star gate,” Logos whispered urgently. “I can feel it. . . . The old city had a gate, too, a commercial portal that was destroyed by the nuke that Kane sent through it, but this one was the property of the mining company, and it survived.”

Rebo, who was close enough to hear, frowned. “First,” he said sotto voce, “shut the hell up! Second, what we want is something to eat. . . . The gate can wait until tomorrow.”

“No,” the AI countered emphatically, “it can’t. We should scout it tonight—and use it tomorrow. Or would you like to walk the thousand-plus miles to the city of Feda instead?”

“All right, all right,” the runner grumbled. “Point us in the right direction and shut whatever it is that you talk through.”

Logos gave the humans some basic directions and let the biologicals fi?nd their way across the pit to a bank of ladders that carried them up to the appropriate bench. Once there, the threesome soon discovered that, unlike any other planet they had been on, the Techno Society’s local headquarters constituted a very popular destination. Not because the local population supported the organization’s goals—but because they opposed them. So much so that hundreds of people turned out each evening to parade back and forth in front of the much-abused building, hurl rocks at it, and shout antitechnic slogans. Such activities were tolerated it seemed—

so long as the crowd didn’t venture too close. Having been absorbed by the angry crowd, the offworlders found themselves pushed about like chips of wood on an angry sea. It was diffi?cult to hold a conversation due to the chaotic nature of the situation—but Norr managed a brief interchange with a friendly antitechnic priest. “Hi there!” she said, as the two of them bumped shoulders and were pushed along. “My friends and I just arrived. . . . Is it always like this?”

“No,” the young man replied. “No one comes here in the mornings. . . . The faithful have to work. We gather at night, to rebuke the techno devils and prevent them from polluting the minds of our children.”

“What about the authorities?” the sensitive wanted to know. “How do they feel about the confl?ict?”

“The evil ones bought them off!” the priest responded angrily. “Metal men guard the palace . . . Need I say more?”

The sensitive wanted to ask more questions, but a group of rock throwers turned toward the building at that point, and the priest accompanied them. There was a loud rattling noise as dozens of missiles struck the Techno Society’s façade followed by a ragged clatter as the rocks fell to the ground.

Shaz, who had been watching the mob for some time by then, steadied the telescope against the wooden window frame. The operative didn’t even fl?inch as a stone fl?ew through the same opening and hit the wall behind him.

“There they are,” the combat variant commented, before handing the brass tube across to Phan. “Just to the left of the burning effi?gy.”

Some of the antitechnics bore a replica of a metal man fashioned from straw. They lit the fi?gure on fi?re and held it aloft on poles. Thanks to the additional light that the fl?aming fi?gure produced, the assassin could see all three of the people she’d been hired to deal with. “You were correct,”

Phan commented, as she lowered the scope. “They came to look. . . . When will they attack?”

“Tomorrow,” Shaz predicted calmly. “In the morning.”

“We’ll be ready,” the assassin said confi?dently.

“Yes,” the combat variant agreed. “We certainly will.”

A storm front had moved in over New Wimmura during the hours of darkness, bringing precipitation with it. The rain announced itself by drumming on the steel over Rebo’s head until the runner groaned and rolled out of the narrow bed. There were no windows, which made it necessary to light a candle in order to see, and that brought Hoggles up off the fl?oor, where he’d been forced to sleep. There were very few beds that could accommodate his enormous frame, and the one on the opposite side of claustrophobic room wasn’t one of them. Once both men were up and packed, they emerged to fi?nd that Norr was waiting for them. “I couldn’t sleep,” the sensitive explained. “Not with all of that noise.”

What Norr didn’t say was that earlier, before the rain began to fall, she had experienced a bad dream. Nothing specifi?c, not that she could remember at any rate, but the kind of nightmare that continued to resonate after she awoke. But, without anything specifi?c to share, the sensitive chose to remain silent. Assuming that the raid on Techno Society headquarters was successful, the travelers would be on another planet within a matter of hours, so they paid for their rooms, sought some advice regarding the local eateries, and made their way down the water-slicked ramp to the badly churned muck below. The plateaulike benches were paved, thanks to the efforts of the local store owners, but the bottom of the pit was a morass of mud and hand-dug drainage channels that were fi?lled to overfl?owing with sluggish brown water. There were planks, however, that the already damp threesome followed to a bank of mud-smeared ladders, which they had no choice but to climb if they wanted to access the ledge above. It was hard work hauling both themselves and their packs up the nearly vertical incline to the point where a small army of rain-drenched street urchins waited to greet them. “Hey mister!” one of them shouted. “You can wash your hands in my bucket!” “Over here,” another insisted,

“I’ll scrape the mud off your boots!” “Ignore them,” a third youngster counseled, “I have an umbrella . . . Where would you like to go?”

Five minutes later, having been serviced by at least half of the eager children, the travelers made their way into a local restaurant, where Hoggles ordered an enormous meal and complained about what he maintained were minuscule portions.

Then, with breakfast out of the way, it was time to climb up to the next bench. Once there, it was a short walk to Techno Society headquarters. True to the prediction put forward by the young priest the night before, the crowd that previously controlled the area had disappeared, leaving nothing more than hundreds of scattered stones and the charred remains of the previous evening’s effi?gy to mark their nocturnal protest. “Okay,” Rebo said as he pulled Logos on over his jacket. “You know the drill . . . We go in fast, locate the decontamination chamber, and lock ourselves inside. The techies will attempt to shut the gate down, but Logos will override the controls, and we’ll make the jump. Questions? No? Then follow me.”

A short fl?ight of stairs led up to a brand-new door. It opened to reveal a large space that still showed signs of the black powder explosion that had gone off in the room weeks before. A brace of cudgel-wielding metal men moved forward to greet the visitors. Having already drawn the Crosser, Rebo was ready for them. “Good morning!” the runner said cheerfully, as he shot the fi?rst android between the eyes. Fast though its electronic brain was, the second robot was still processing the other unit’s unexpected demise when a second slug drilled a hole through its alloy skull. The android fell in a heap.

Having seized the initiative, Rebo knew it was important to maintain it as he went up the steps two at a time. Hoggles had entered by that time—and the entire staircase shook under his considerable weight. “Down!” Rebo shouted, as a male functionary appeared above him. “Get down or die!”

The man went facedown and remained in that position as the runner stepped over his prostrate body, turned a corner, and entered a long hallway. A woman appeared, as if to see what had caused all of the ruckus, and went facedown when Rebo ordered her to do so. Hoggles, war hammer at the ready, followed behind.

Each time Norr came across one of the staff members, she ordered them to keep their heads down, placed a bony knee in the smalls of their backs, and proceeded to bind both wrists and ankles with precut lengths of cord. The technos would be able to free themselves eventually—but the variant knew it wouldn’t matter once she and her companions had control of the gate.

In the meantime, Rebo was making good progress. So much progress that the runner was beginning to believe that the plan to hijack the gate might actually work. Logos, by contrast, was not so sanguine. A gate was present, that much was certain, but assuming the data now fl?ooding in through his sensors were correct, the power accumulators were off-line! And the gate wouldn’t be operational without them.

But it was too late to cancel the raid, as Rebo ordered another functionary to the fl?oor, gave thanks for the fact that none of the technos had chosen to put up a fi?ght, and entered the room that provided access to the decontamination chamber. That was when the runner saw the chair and the half-naked woman who had been tied to it. She sat slumped against her bonds, a long rope of bloody drool hanging from her mouth, seemingly unconscious.

The runner grabbed a fi?stful of silky black hair, pulled the norm’s head back, and saw that she’d been beaten. One eye was swollen shut, her upper lip was split open, and her left cheek was purple. Du Phan looked up at Rebo through the eye that still worked, gave thanks for the fact that the runner was on time, and decided that he was handsome in an unshaven sort of way. That seemed like a good time to groan, partly for effect, but mostly because her face hurt. Rebo looked down into the woman’s bloodied face, wondered what she’d done to deserve such treatment, and let her head fall forward again. That was when he caught sight of the tattoos on her shoulders. Hoggles was present by then, as was Norr, and both were staring at Phan when Logos spoke. His voice was stern. “The gate is off-line! We need to get out of here—and I mean now.”

It didn’t seem fair, not after all they had done to break in, but there was no other option. Not if the AI was correct about the gate—and Rebo had no reason to doubt that he was. “Damn,” the runner said regretfully, “the techno freaks are going to be pissed.”

“That’s for sure,” Hoggles agreed fervently. “Come on . . . Let’s go.”

“In a minute,” the runner promised, as he produced a folding knife and fl?icked it open. “We’re taking the woman with us.”

Norr looked on as Rebo began to cut Phan free. Now, when it was too late to do any good, the dream came fl?ooding back. She had seen the room and the bloodied face before. And, for reasons she wasn’t sure of, the variant knew that the woman in front of her was evil. “I think you should leave her,” the sensitive suggested emphatically. “She’ll slow us down.”

“That’s right!” Logos interjected shrilly. “Leave the woman where she is! We have no need for her.”

The runner heard the words but continued to saw at one of two ropes that crisscrossed Phan’s naked chest. The male part of him couldn’t help but take note of the fact that the woman in question had shapely breasts. The whip marks were plain to see. “Normally I would agree,” Rebo replied evenly, “but she’s a runner.”

The sensitive frowned. “A runner? How can you tell?”

“Take a look at her back,” Rebo replied as a piece of rope fell away. “See those tattoos? Each one represents a successful run. Okay, Bo . . . Can you carry her? Thanks.” Then, with Rebo leading the way, the four of them, fi?ve counting the semiconscious woman who had been slung over the heavy’s shoulder, exited the building. There was no resistance. Shaz, who had stationed his team in the passageway that ran between Techno Society headquarters and rug merchant next door, watched them leave. He wasn’t looking forward to the long trek that lay ahead, but that couldn’t be helped, and Phan would be there to protect Logos from harm. It was a good plan, one worthy of Tepho himself, and Shaz was confi?dent of success as he led Dyson and a small band of heavily robed androids out into the icy rain.

The animals snorted, and the cart creaked as the travelers followed the narrow road down out of the hills and onto the plain beyond. The area was far too rocky for farming, which meant that what few huts there were belonged to lonely angen herders or antitechnic hermits. Once on level ground, the ancient thoroughfare ran straight as an arrow toward the point where the light gray sky met the eastern horizon. Winter had arrived, frost glazed any rock not directly exposed to the hazy sun, and cold air nipped at their faces as Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and the woman named Phan put the last of the hills behind them.

Three days had passed since the raid on Techno Society headquarters, and a great deal had changed. Having purchased a large quantity of supplies in the market, plus a twowheeled cart to carry them in, the group left New Wimmura during the cover of darkness. The plan was to make the long trek to the city of Feda, where the original foursome intended to access the local star gate or lift on the next ship. But that was a couple of months away. In the meantime there was a potentially hostile environment to deal with—

not to mention a shift in the way members of the group related to each other. And, as Norr and Hoggles sat side by side on the cart’s bench-style seat, the cause of that change could be seen riding stirrup to stirrup with Rebo, chatting about who knew what. Runs probably, since both were members of the runner’s guild, or were they?

According to Phan she had been hired to bring a small techno artifact to a wealthy merchant who lived in New Wimmura, a medical device, if the runner’s suspicions were correct, that could be used to relieve the headaches that plagued his wife. But Phan arrived too late. The woman was dead and buried by the time Phan landed, the merchant was no longer willing to bear the risk of owning a proscribed object, and the runner was left holding the bag. So, being in need of funds to live on, and with no likely customer other than the Techno Society, Phan approached them. But, rather than purchase the object as she hoped, they took the runner prisoner in hopes of learning more about the artifact and its origins. And that’s where Phan had been, locked in a dark room, when the shuttle landed and lifted again. Fortunately for her, or so Phan claimed, Rebo, Norr, and Hoggles chose to invade Techno Society headquarters while she was being tortured. Otherwise, they might never have been aware of her. That’s what the woman claimed anyway, but the dull colors that ebbed and fl?owed around the runner suggested that she was lying. Of course no one could see that except Norr, which meant there was no way to substantiate her suspicions, leaving the sensitive feeling frustrated.

The cart lurched as the team of two draft animals pulled the right wheel up over one of many ridges in the ancient pavement. The sensitive swayed and made a grab for her armrest, as the boxy conveyance rolled onto a smooth section of road. Then, with Hoggles handling the reins, Norr pulled the gray woolen cloak around her shoulders. There were two problems to contend with. The fi?rst problem was Phan herself, meaning the possibility that the runner was lying, and the second problem was the way Norr felt about the other woman. What was her motivation anyway? A legitimate concern regarding Phan’s veracity? Or just a case of plain old jealousy?

Not that the sensitive had any rights where Rebo was concerned, because even though she felt sure the runner had feelings for her, the exact nature of the relationship had never been spelled out. Worse yet was the fact that she couldn’t talk to Rebo about it, since the runner was almost sure to interpret her concerns as a manifestation of jealousy, thereby nudging him toward the very relationship the variant feared. Norr’s musings were interrupted by Hoggles, who raised a massive arm to point at an object beyond the riders ahead.

“Look! Could that be the bridge?”

The sensitive looked, failed to see anything, and came to her feet. The cart swayed, Norr put a hand out to steady herself on the heavy’s shoulder, and shaded her eyes. Finally, by squinting just so, the variant thought she could see what looked like a tiny ladder. “I think you’re right, Bo. . . . Although it’s too far away to be sure.”

An hour later Norr was sure, and so were her companions, as two pillars of rusty steel rose to silhouette themselves against the darkening sky. A series of cross braces linked the uprights together, making the structure look like a gigantic ladder. A framework that had successfully withstood more than a thousand years of wind, rain, and snow, it stood as a mute testament to long-lost knowledge and skill. Then, as Rebo and Phan paused to wait for the cart to catch up with them, Norr saw that a cluster of stone-walled huts had grown up around the approach to the bridge, one of which leaked tendrils of dark gray smoke. The scene appeared serene, but it didn’t feel right, and the sensitive said as much as the cart came to a stop. “I don’t like the feel of it, Jak. . . . Something’s wrong.”

The runner knew better than to ignore her premonitions and nodded. “Let’s hope for the best—and be ready for the worst.”

If Phan was concerned about what might lie ahead, the runner gave no indication of it. The bruises and cuts had already begun to heal, revealing a very pretty face and an inner centeredness that made Norr feel inferior somehow. Phan wore a long black riding cloak that served to hide the rest of her body, but the sensitive already knew it to be more curvaceous than her own and resented that as well. Meanwhile, if the other woman harbored feelings about her, they were well hidden because her face remained empty of all expression. “Good,” Norr affi?rmed, hoping that her demeanor was equally cool. “We’ll follow your lead.”

Meanwhile, more than a thousand yards away, Mia Tova allowed a cold stone wall to accept most of her considerable weight as she used a splinter of bone to pick at her badly yellowed teeth. One of them ached and needed to be pulled, but that would have to wait. Thanks to the fact that the bandit chieftain had excellent vision, she could see that only two of the approaching travelers were male. Of those she fi?gured that the heavy posed the most signifi?cant threat since he’d be diffi?cult to take down. But only if the group put up a fi?ght. Fortunately, most of the pilgrims, merchants, and other travelers who had passed through the checkpoint during the last few days had been relatively cooperative. The others were dead. Satisfi?ed that she knew what to expect, the bandit turned to enter the fuggy warmth of the hut behind her. It smelled of unwashed skin, wet wool, and the angen stew that bubbled in an iron pot. Earlier, prior to her arrival, the stone cottage had been home to a group of four antitechnic monks stationed at the bridge to absolve travelers of sins automatically incurred as they crossed the high-tech marvel. In exchange for a fee of course, since it was impossible to fi?ght evil without money, which the church had no choice but to extract from its adherents. Of course the friars were dead now, having been forced to surrender their pot of grubby gunnars, prior to stepping off the very artifact they had been assigned to guard. All but one of them had gone gladly, thrilled to join the ranks of the antitechnic martyrs, shouting God’s name as they plunged into the canyon below. The single exception soiled himself as he was hoisted out over the abyss and was blubbering for his mother when the downward journey began. A sad affair and one that Tova planned to report to the next vizier who happened along.

A fi?re glowed within a well-blackened fi?replace, and a ceiling-hung lamp provided what light there was. Half a dozen shaggy heads turned away from a game of throwbones as Tova pushed the leather curtain out of the way, thereby allowing a wave of cold air to enter along with her.

“All right,” the chieftain proclaimed loudly. “Grab your weapons and make sure they’re loaded. . . . There’s only four of them, so even a group of worthless scum like yourselves should be able to handle the situation. Watch the heavy, though. . . . He could give us some trouble.”

There were grunts of assent, followed by the sound of someone’s fl?atulence, and gales of laughter as fi?ve men and one woman prepared themselves for battle. “Stay out of sight until the cart is right outside or I call for you,” Tova instructed. “And don’t kill anyone unless I tell you to. . . .

Who knows? Maybe we can ransom one or more of them. Understood?”

The brigands had heard the lecture before, but such was the force of Tova’s personality that there was a minimum of grumbling as they took up positions to either side of the door, and she went out to stand in the middle of the road. The lead riders were almost upon the bandit as Tova hooked her thumbs into the leather belt that encircled her thick waist. That put the norm’s hands in close proximity to the twin single-action revolvers that protruded butts forward from their cutaway holsters.

Rebo and Phan pulled back on their reins as the roughlooking woman appeared in front of them. The bridge was tended by monks, or so they’d been told, but there was nothing godly about the creature who stood before them. Strands of gray-brown hair hung from under a cone-shaped fur hat that was bald in places. The woman’s canvas coat bore multiple patches, one grubby knee was visible through a hole in the baggy pants that she wore, and her boots were caked with mud. “Hold it right there,” the apparition ordered loftily. “How would you like to pay the bridge toll?

Cash on the barrelhead? Or with some of whatever’s on that cart?” The vehicle in question had arrived by then, which meant that Norr was only fi?fty feet away, and in a good position to witness what transpired next.

“How much is the toll?” Rebo asked reasonably, hoping to pay a few gunnars.

“Five cronos,” the bandit replied unhesitatingly. “Or, half of what’s on the cart.”

The runner’s hands were on the saddle’s pommel only inches from his guns. “That’s absurd,” he countered. “Step out of the way . . . We’re coming through.”

“No,” Tova responded levelly. “You aren’t.”

That was when the six ruffi?ans emerged from the hut to form a semicircle behind their leader. The threat was obvious, and the bandit chieftain knew she had the upper hand. Especially since the heavy was still on the cart and in no position to interfere. “Get down off those animals,” she ordered. “You and your friends will be walking from now on. And watch where you put those hands.”

“No.” Phan had been silent up until then. Now, as the other runner spoke, Rebo realized that she had thrown her cape back over her shoulders. But, before he could wonder why, Phan spoke again. Her voice was pitched low, but every word was distinct. “Tell your people to return to the hut. Do it now, and I’ll let you live.”

Tova was surprised. She was expecting trouble from the heavy, or the man with the hard eyes, but not the play pretty in the cape. Not that it mattered since it was time to go for her guns. The thought left her brain, but never arrived at her hands, which made an instinctive grab for her throat. Because that’s where a six-inch-long throwing spike protruded from her larynx. Though not fatal in and of itself, the injury was a shock and prevented Tova from issuing further orders. That was unfortunate since all the members of the band had been told not to kill anyone without their chieftain’s express permission. The problem was rendered moot by the fact that three of them were dead by then, spikes protruding from their eye sockets, each having been thrown by Phan.

That was when the Hogger went off and one of the remaining bandits was snatched off her feet. Both of the surviving brigands fi?red weapons of their own. A rifl?e slug went wide, but pellets from a sawed-off shotgun struck Phan’s angen and caused the beast to shy sideways. Rebo pulled the Crosser, and was in the process of bringing the weapon into fi?ring position, when Phan lifted one leg up over her animal’s neck and jumped to the ground. The remaining bandits both stood motionless and bug-eyed as the woman marched straight at them. Norr felt the bottom drop out of her stomach, and had already shouted, “No!”

when the runner whirled. Heads jerked sideways, and sheets of blood fl?ew, as two carefully honed knives sliced through leather, wool, and unwashed fl?esh. There was something beautiful about the movement, and something horrible, too, since there had been no signs of further resistance from either victim. Three long seconds passed as a cold breeze rumbled across the plain, tugged at the no-longer-legible sign that dangled in front of the hut, and sang through the durasteel cables that kept the bridge aloft. And it was then, during what felt like a short eternity, that Tova managed to remove the spike from her throat. That proved to be a mistake, however, since once the plug was removed, a quantity of blood spurted out of the hole. But there was still time for revenge. Or so it seemed to Tova, because her world had slowed, and it now seemed as though there was time for everything.

In spite of the fact that both of the bandit chieftain’s hands were slippery with blood, she still managed to pull both pistols and was busy hauling the hammers back when Phan realized how exposed she was. Rebo saw the movement, initiated what promised to be a lengthy turn to the right, and knew he wouldn’t make it in time. Not before at least two shots had been fi?red at Phan.

But it wasn’t to be. Both Norr and Hoggles had exited the cart by then and come forward to help. Though still reeling from the manner in which Phan had executed two of the bandits, Norr was in a perfect position to see the bandit leader remove the spike, and knew that no one else could stop the woman from fi?ring. The sensitive took two steps forward, twisted her staff in order to unlock it, and pulled the vibro blade free. Power fl?owed as she thumbed the switch, the sword sizzled as it swept through the air, and Norr barely felt the momentary resistance as the blade passed through Tova’s neck.

The bandit’s fi?ngers jerked convulsively, followed by two loud reports as the pistols fi?red. The bandit’s head made a soft thump as it hit the ground and rolled away from the cone-shaped hat. Despite its considerable size, there was nothing more than a gentle rustle as Tova’s body swayed and collapsed.

One of the bullets from the bandit chieftain’s gun had blown air into Phan’s right ear as it whizzed past her head. Now, as she looked at Norr, it was with a newfound sense of respect. “Well,” she said calmly. “The spook has teeth. . . . Who would have guessed?”

Norr thumbed the power switch into the off position and returned the weapon to its wooden scabbard while wondering if she’d done the right thing. What if the killing blow had been withheld for two seconds? Would Phan lie dead? And would she be happy rather than sad?

Rebo looked from one woman to the other. The animosity was clear to see. That meant he would have to take sides at some point. Norr was the obvious choice. Hell, Norr was the only choice. So why not signal his allegiance now? A snowfl?ake twirled before landing on his nose, and the question was left unanswered. “All right,” Rebo said, as his breath fogged the air. “Let’s take a few minutes to search both the bodies and the huts for anything we can use or trade. . . . I want to cross the bridge before nightfall. Who knows? There could be more bandits on the other side.”

It was an unpleasant albeit necessary task because travelers who failed to scavenge what they could were likely to regret the omission later. It took a full fi?fteen minutes to complete the job, and by the time it was over Rebo noticed that not only had Phan retrieved all of her throwing spikes, but appropriated the bandit chieftain’s revolvers as well. There was something cold-blooded about the way the other runner went about the chore, but Rebo knew it was hypocritical to criticize Phan for carrying out his orders, and made a point out of thanking her for what she’d done. The female runner smiled warmly, and once the others were ready, the twosome rode out onto the bridge deck together. It was diffi?cult to see the bottom of the canyon without venturing out to the edge of the ancient span, but Rebo had an impression of a ribbon of white water, bordered by sheer rock walls. Norr had saddled the fi?fth angen by then, but rather than attempt to ride with the runners, she chose to follow behind them instead. The cart brought up the rear, and it wasn’t long before a swirl of thickly falling snow swallowed them all.

What remained of the fi?ltered daylight was nearly gone, and the dead lay under a layer of shroudlike snow by the time Shaz, Dyson, and the four metal men arrived at the bridge. Shaz pulled back on the reins, brought his heavily encumbered angen to a halt, and eyed the wild sprawl of bodies. “Check the huts,” he said coldly. “Bring anyone you fi?nd out to me. . . . And let me know if you come across any food. We need to make our supplies last.”

The heavily armed robots scattered in response to the combat variant’s orders even as the operative dismounted and handed his reins to Dyson. Then, starting with the nearest corpse, Shaz made a careful examination of each body. The task was gruesome, but necessary, in order to determine whether any of the AI’s escorts had been killed. The inspection was useful in another way, too, because after looking at the means by which the bandits had been dispatched, it quickly became apparent that Phan had been responsible for most of the kills. That meant the assassin was earning her pay—something that pleased him. Dyson sat atop his animal with both eyes closed as a mantle of white continued to gather around his shoulders. Most of the spirit entities forced out of their bodies during the battle had chosen to depart the physical vibration by then, but one, a woman who identifi?ed herself as Mia Tova, still remained. She was confused, especially about the loss of her head, and wondered if that would present a problem in the spirit planes. The sensitive counseled the woman that it was within her power to adopt any appearance that she chose—and urged her to leave the scene for life in the higher realms. After a moment of hesitation, and in the company of a spirit she seemed to recognize, Tova departed. That was when Dyson opened his eyes to discover that Shaz was standing a few feet away staring at him. The combat variant seemed to blur before rolling back into focus.

“Are you with us?” the operative inquired. “Good. We’ll spend the night here. The metal men will take care of the angens. Our hosts left some stew simmering in a pot—so we might as well take advantage of it.”

The sensitive slid to the ground, handed both sets of reins over to one of the heavily cowled androids, and followed Shaz toward a stone hut. When he passed Tova’s snow-frosted head, the bandit’s deep-set eyes seemed to follow him. That was impossible, of course, but Dyson was careful not to disturb the bandit leader’s headless body as he stepped over it, and was grateful when the hut opened to receive him. Meanwhile, many miles away, a night slider howled. The sound seemed to fl?oat on the cold air before being echoed by other such creatures, as if to herald the full fall of darkness.

SIX

™

The Planet Derius

Even though sensitives can see that which others cannot, theyoften seem blind where their own lives are concerned, andmake the same sort of mistakes that norms do.

—Grand Vizier Horga Entube,

The History Of My People

The road to Feda was long and hard. Especially during the winter. Having emerged victorious from the confrontation with the bandits on the west side of the bridge, Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and Phan crossed the span ready to do battle again. Fortunately that wasn’t necessary since the holy men assigned to the eastern approach had either been chased away or killed. So the fi?rst night was spent there, within the relative comfort of two huts, while the snow continued to fall beyond the stone walls.

The storm had passed by the time a dimly seen sun rose in the east, but it was bitterly cold, and the angens complained loudly as they struggled to pull the heavily loaded cart up onto the road. Then, with Rebo, Norr, and Phan breaking trail for the animals, the huge disk-shaped wheels cut deep grooves into the virgin snow.

There was a long way to go, but Rebo managed to put that out of his mind, as his mount carried him up through low-lying hills, through a stand of bristle trees, and onto the plain beyond. It was slow work, but the runner had learned to accept such things over the years, and fell into a plodding reverie that lasted until the pale yellow sun hung high in the sky. Eventually, the group paused for what Hoggles referred to as “a brew-up” in the lee of the cart. The hot caf not only tasted good but served to wash down the fry cakes that Norr made up each morning. They consisted of cooked cereal, dried fruit, and nuts. The cakes tasted better hot, but none of them wanted to go to the trouble of making a fi?re, so the rations were consumed cold. The sensitive noticed that Hoggles consumed six of them, Rebo ate two, and Phan barely nibbled at hers. Once their stomachs were full, it was time to rotate the animals so that the team that had been harnessed to the cart had a chance to recuperate. As soon as that chore was complete, Hoggles whistled through his teeth, the single axle squealed, and the angens issued a series of throaty grunts as they made their way forward.

There wasn’t much traffi?c on the road, although tracks were visible from time to time, especially as they entered or left one of the tiny farming villages that crouched between protective hills. Most houses were low one-story affairs that were made of rammed earth and could withstand even the worst storms. Smoke dribbled from their chimneys, and the occasional mongrel gave chase as the group plodded past, but people were rarely seen. It was a rare stranger that brought something good to the farmers’ footsteps—so they had learned to be wary.

There were other sightings, too, some of which harkened back to ancient times, when gigantic machines rode gleaming rails, electric power jumped pylon to pylon, and powerful rivers were held captive behind canyon-spanning dams. Such artifacts weren’t operational of course, but often served as media for semiliterate antitechnic diatribes, a fact that struck Norr as ominous. Especially given the true nature of the coat she wore beneath the long poncho-style cloak. But most of the scenery was simply monotonous. The road was an endless ribbon of crusty snow, the wind moaned like a lost soul, and time seemed to crawl by. Eventually, after what seemed like an eon but was only about twelve hours of riding, the foursome began to look for a place to spend the night. An inn would have been nice, but the only one they’d seen was two hours back, which left the travelers with no choice but to take advantage of whatever shelter they could fi?nd. In this case it was the ruins of what had once been a farm. What remained of the tumbledown house provided protection for the cart and animals—which left the humans to take up residence in the stone silo that stood next to the main structure. The presence of a rudimentary fi?re pit located at the center of the circular space suggested that the structure had been used for that purpose before. And, when Rebo volunteered to gather fi?rewood, Norr offered to accompany him. Phan, who was occupied unpacking the pots and pans, watched from the corner of her eye.

A frigid breeze sought to fi?nd its way in through gaps in their clothing as the twosome emerged from cover. The half-frozen snow crunched under their boots as they circled the silo and followed a half-seen path down into an ancient orchard where fruit trees stood in patient rows, as if still waiting for the people who planted them to return. Some were dead, and their brittle branches made what sounded like pistol shots as Rebo bent them to the breaking point and was showered with ice crystals. Once a knee-high pile of wood had been accumulated, the runner and the sensitive stood side by side as they worked to reduce the long roughbarked limbs into more manageable lengths. Norr was the fi?rst to speak. “Jak . . .”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think of Phan?”

Rebo shrugged noncommittally. “The woman can fi?ght . . . You’ve got to grant her that.”

“And I do,” the variant replied, as she broke a branch over her knee.

The runner gave Norr a sidelong glance. “So? What’s the problem?”

The sensitive paused. “I can’t prove it, but I think she’s lying.”

Rebo’s eyebrows rose. “Lying? About what?”

“I don’t know,” the variant confessed. “But the feeling is there.”

The runner nodded. “I trust your instincts, Lonni. You know that. . . . But you aren’t infallible.”

The conversation was headed where Norr had feared that it might go, and her chin trembled slightly. “And you believe this is one of those times?”

“I don’t know,” Rebo answered carefully. “But it’s possible. . . . First, why would Phan lie? What could she gain?

But let’s say she is lying. . . . Chances are that the lies have nothing to do with us. Don’t forget that we lie constantly and make no apologies for doing so.”

Rebo’s explanation was so reasonable, so benign, that Norr felt silly. She forced a smile. “Don’t let this go to your head, but there are times when you’re right.”

“Right about what?” The voice came from behind them, and both whirled, only to fi?nd Phan standing a few feet away.

Somehow, by a means not apparent, the other runner had been able to approach them without making a sound. But if the sensitive thought that was strange, it seemed as if Rebo didn’t, because the runner smiled. “Another pair of arms!

Just what we need. . . . Here, have a bundle of kindling.”

Phan accepted the wood, but even though she smiled pleasantly, the colors that fl?owed around her were murky and dark. A fact that served to reactivate the sensitive’s concerns and made Norr suspicious all over again. Having monitored the entire conversation from his position beneath Norr’s cloak, Logos took note of the sensitive’s suspicions regarding Phan and came to the conclusion that it would be a good idea to keep a nonexistent eye on the newcomer. Because if the female truly was something other than what she seemed, then her presence could very easily have something to do with him, a subject AI was always interested in. There was no sunset as such, just a gradual diminution of light, as the threesome carried the fi?rewood back to the silo. The night passed peacefully for the most part, although the angens stirred at one point, as if they were aware of something that the humans weren’t. And when morning came, and Rebo went out to look around, the runner saw what looked like human tracks in the snow. They appeared to originate up on the road and circled the ruins once before returning to the main thoroughfare. A local perhaps? Keeping an eye on the neighborhood? Or something more sinister? There was no way to know.

Thus began a series of long, almost identical days that varied only in terms of how much snow fell, slight variations in the scenery, and brief contacts with other travelers. Once, while checking their back trail from the top of a pass, Rebo saw six dots in the far distance. But the purpose of a road is to carry traffi?c, so there was no reason to be alarmed, or so it seemed to him.

Eventually, after the better part of a week had passed, the travelers came across the fi?rst of what would eventually turn out to be a series of recently used campsites. Not the single fi?re pit that a family or an itinerant tradesman might have huddled next to, but a large area of well-trampled snow, and the remains of no less than three fi?res. All of which suggested a party that consisted of fi?fteen or twenty people. But what kind of people? Nice people? Or bad people?

It was an unsettling development, and one that became even more worrisome later the next day when, having passed through some small villages, the group came upon a much larger campsite. An area large enough to accommodate up to a hundred people, who, if not under a single leader, had been on friendly terms with one another, judging from the remains of a communal kitchen and two sets of latrines.

“So,” Phan said, as she looked down from her mount.

“What do you think?”

Having slid down off his mount, Rebo went over to the remains of the communal kitchen, knelt next to the fi?re pit, and blew into the gray ashes. Embers started to glow red, and a tiny wisp of smoke appeared. “I think we’re closing with a group of people,” Rebo said as he came to his feet.

“One that continues to grow.”

Norr had been silent thus far, and her angen tossed its equine head as the variant opened her eyes. “A man was murdered here,” the sensitive intoned bleakly. Phan was getting tired of the spook’s endless pronouncements and made a face. “What makes you think so?”

“He’s buried there,” Norr replied, and pointed to a mound of snow that was about fi?fteen feet away. Phan was skeptical, and rather than simply take the variant’s word for what had occurred, got down off her mount. Her boots made a squeaking sound as Phan made her way over to the pile of snow, fell to her knees, and scraped at the snow. The assassin felt her left hand make contact with something solid, so she scooped more of the white stuff out of the way and was startled by what she saw. A man had been buried there. That bothered Phan. If Norr could “see” things like that—then what else could the spook perceive?

But the question went unanswered as Norr felt Lysander invade her body, tried to fend the spirit entity off, and failed. The voice that came out of her mouth was deep and hoarse. “You have only to look at the man’s lips,” the technologist intoned, “to see the price paid for heresy.”

Rebo had heard the unnatural voice and seen the same wide-eyed expression on Norr’s face before. He shook his head disgustedly. “It’s Lysander . . . Here we go again.”

Though not familiar with Lysander, Phan had seen Dyson channel Kane and understood the nature of what was taking place. She peered at the dead man’s face.

“What do you see?” Rebo wanted to know, and fumbled for his glasses.

“Somebody sewed his lips together,” Phan replied, as she eyed the puckered fl?esh.

“And that,” Lysander continued, “was the price he paid for speaking on behalf of technology. You must be careful, because the antitechnics would lay waste to entire villages to destroy that which you bear toward its home.”

There it was, confi?rmation that the people Phan had been assigned to escort actually had the device that Shaz lusted after, something the assassin had been forced to accept on faith up until that point. But Phan wasn’t supposed to be aware of Logos, so she forced a frown and came to her feet.

“What is he, she, or it talking about anyway?”

Rebo swore silently. That was just one of the problems associated with working for a dead client. The bastard not only had a big mouth—but a talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. “You’ve seen Lonni’s vibro blade— the antitechnics would pitch a fi?t if they caught wind of it.”

It was a partial explanation at best, since it didn’t cover the stuff about bearing something to its “home,” but Phan nodded as if satisfi?ed. Rebo heaved a sigh of relief even as Lysander left Norr’s body, and the sensitive blinked her eyes. She could still see the dead man’s spirit however—

standing beside his vertical grave.

The travelers returned to the road after that, which had been churned into a muddy mess, and disappeared over the top of a low-lying hill. Hours passed as the sun’s dimly seen presence arced across the sky, and the group crossed and recrossed the frozen river that meandered down the center of a U-shaped valley and entered a medium-sized village. It was late afternoon by then, and having been forced to camp out for three nights in a row, the off-worlders were thrilled to see a sturdy inn. It had a thatched roof, thick walls, and stood a full two stories tall. A stable was located next to it. Once the angens had been seen to, and the cart had been secured, the travelers went upstairs to their rooms. Then, having drawn the shortest straw, Rebo was the fi?rst to bathe in a tub of water that cost the group twenty gunnars. The inn’s only bathroom was located on the fi?rst fl?oor, one wall away from the kitchen, in a large wood-paneled room. The copper tub was so large that even Hoggles would be able to use it—and was fi?lled with water heated from below. But, given the fact that all four of the travelers would have to use the same bathwater, common courtesy required that the runner take a sponge bath prior to entering the big tub. The runner stripped down, hung his clothes on some conveniently placed pegs, and made energetic use of a washcloth and a bucket of water. It had been days since his last bath, and Rebo was amazed by the rivulets of gray liquid that ran down his legs and into a fl?oor drain. Having tested the water in the tub and found it to his liking, Rebo put one foot in, and followed with the other, before beginning the gradual process of lowering himself into the hot liquid. After days spent out in the cold, nothing could surpass the sensation of warmth that rose to engulf the runner’s tired body, or the feeling of tranquility that followed.

Steam rose, and an almost overwhelming sense of lethargy had overtaken the runner by the time a hinge squeaked, and the door opened inward. Because Phan had drawn the second shortest straw, Rebo wasn’t entirely surprised to see her, although he was pretty sure the runner was early. He wanted to say something, knew he should have said something, but couldn’t summon the necessary energy.

Conscious of the fact that Rebo was watching her, Phan began to disrobe. Having attempted to ingratiate herself with the threesome yet failed to gain their complete trust, it was time to use her backup plan. Slowly, and with occasional sidelong glances at Rebo, Phan ran a wet washcloth over her trim torso. Then, having cupped each breast in turn, she ran a hand down between her legs. Rebo, who had forgotten his own bath by that time, felt himself respond in a predictable manner.

Having completed her sponge bath, and with patches of suds still clinging to her tattooed skin, Phan made her way over to the raised platform, where she lifted a shapely leg up over the side of the tub. “May I join you?”

Rebo knew he should say no, given the nature of his relationship with Norr, but Phan was in the tub by that time, and was busy settling herself onto his fully erect penis. Though still beautiful to look at, Phan’s body was covered with what looked like a road map of healed cuts and puncture wounds. More than the runner had, which was saying something. Rebo closed his eyes as the young woman took him in. She fi?t him like a glove, a hot glove, and the pleasure was intense.

Then, determined to see as well as feel, Rebo opened his eyes. Phan was kissing his neck at that point, and because of the difference in heights, the runner could look down on the upper portion of his lover’s back. He was shocked by what he saw . . . The tattoos Rebo had fi?rst seen back in New Wimmura, the tattoos that marked Phan as a runner, were so faded as to be nearly invisible! And, if the tattoos were fake, then it seemed logical to suppose that the rest of her story was fake as well!

Rebo’s once rock-hard erection had already started to wilt by that time, and Phan was just about to ask what was wrong, when the door opened and Norr entered. Judging from the mischievous smile on her face, and the bottle of wine clutched in her right hand, it looked as though the sensitive had plans to share Rebo’s bath as well. But when Norr saw that Phan was present, the light went out of her eyes, and the color drained from her cheeks. Then, speaking with a dull, somewhat mechanical voice, the sensitive said, “Here, I thought you might enjoy this,” and bent to place the bottle of wine on the fl?oor. The hinge squeaked as she left, the door swung closed, and the sensitive was gone. Rebo felt sick to his stomach. Having grabbed the sides of the metal tub he heaved himself up out of the water, stepped out onto the cold tiles, and from there to the fl?oor. The runner’s skin continued to steam as he made his way over to where his clothes waited. “Wait!” Phan demanded.

“What’s the hurry? So she’s mad. . . . Are you a man or a boy?”

The runner made no answer as he donned enough clothes to navigate the inn’s drafty halls, bundled the rest under his right arm, and left. Phan watched the door close for the second time and shrugged. In spite of the fact that her plan hadn’t played out as intended, the effect would be the same. A wedge had been driven into the relationship between Rebo and Norr—and that was a good thing.

The problem was that the brief interlude with the runner had left the assassin unsatisfi?ed. Still, the water was delightfully hot, and there to be enjoyed. Slowly, so as to prolong the sensation, Phan allowed the water to close over the top of her head.

Rebo arrived at the room that Norr shared with Phan only to discover that the sensitive was busy moving out of it and into a small cubicle at the far end of the hall. “Here,” the runner said, as he reached out to take her pack. “Let me carry that.” But the sensitive refused to let go.

“No,” Norr said emphatically, “you won’t. Leave me alone.” The variant’s heels made an angry clicking sound as she strode down the hall.

Rebo hurried to keep up. “It wasn’t the way it looked.”

Norr stopped and turned to confront him. Her eyes were fi?lled with anger. “How stupid do you think I am? You were naked, in the tub with her, and the thought forms were clear to see. . . . Oh, and one other thing,” the sensitive added.

“You’re fi?red.”

“You can’t fi?re me,” Rebo objected. “I work for Lysander.”

“You detest Lysander.”

“So? I gave my word.”

“But you never gave your word to me,” Norr replied. “Is that what makes having sex with Phan acceptable?”

“It wasn’t acceptable,” the runner replied contritely. “Allowing her to get in the tub was a mistake. Please accept my most sincere apology.”

“No,” the sensitive said intractably. “I won’t.” And with that, Norr entered her room and slammed the door behind her.

Rebo wanted to tell Norr about the tattoos, and the sick feeling in his stomach, but it was too late for that. The bath’s warmth had been dissipated by then, the runner’s skin had cooled, and his breath was visible as he walked down the dimly lit hall. Night had fallen—and it promised to be both long and dark.

Like all of the youngsters raised within the steely embrace of the assassin’s guild, Du Phan had been taught how to set her mental alarm clock and wake up whenever she needed to. Which was why her eyes popped open three seconds before the ancient clock in the lobby began to chime. And, thanks to the fact that she no longer shared the room with Norr, there was no need to be quiet as the assassin got dressed and tiptoed down the stairs. A brutish watchman sat next to the front door. He was wrapped in an old blanket, and a double-barreled shotgun rested across his knees. His head lay back against the grimy wall, and judging from the volume of his snores, the security guard was sound asleep.

Phan circled the man, opened the front door, and slid into the night. It was breathtakingly cold, but the assassin forced herself to pause for a moment and listen. She had a story ready for the telling, but preferred not to use it and felt relieved to hear nothing more than the sound of her own breathing.

Careful to maintain the near-perfect silence, Phan made her way around to the stable. A dog rushed out to confront the assassin as she approached the front entrance. It was a large beast, made all the more threatening by the fact that its vocal cords had been cut, leaving the animal to cough hoarsely rather than bark. The dog bared its fangs, lowered its head, and was about to attack when a throwing spike penetrated the top of its skull. The animal went down as if poleaxed. Phan paused to jerk the weapon free from the watchdog’s skull, discovered that the huge padlock that was supposed to protect the stable from thieves had already been picked, and pushed her way in. An angen snorted nervously as the assassin passed by, and another bumped the side of its stall as she made her way back toward the spot where an oil-fed lantern threw a circle of yellow light down onto the frozen muck. A whirring noise caused Phan to whirl and confront the source. “Fear not,” the metal man said softly. “Master Shaz sent me.”

Had the cowled metal man been able to evade the dog because he was a machine? And therefore lacked a human scent? Yes, that seemed likely. Phan was disappointed. After many days of what she considered to be isolation, the assassin had been hoping for a visit with the combat variant himself. But hope is little more than solace for the weak. Or so the guild’s oldsters liked to say. Phan was brisk. “What have you got for me?”

Rather than reply himself—the android activated one of many capabilities built into his body. Beams of white light shot out of his “eyes,” converged on a spot in front of Phan, and combined to produce a three-dimensional likeness of Shaz. It had been nighttime when the message was recorded, and judging from the way the light played across his distinctly canine features, the off-world operative was seated in front of a campfi?re. “We’re about one day’s march behind you,” the combat variant said hollowly. “Remember, stay close to the sensitive, because she’s wearing the computer. Or was back on Thara. Take care—and I’ll see you soon.”

The picture vanished, the beams of light disappeared, and Phan was left to wonder why it had been necessary to get out of bed for what amounted to a pep talk. There was one takeaway, however, and that was the admonition to “. . . stay close to the sensitive.” That particular responsibility was something of a problem at the moment, but things would almost certainly come right out on the trail, where Norr would be forced to interact with other members of the group. A servo whined. “Do you have a message for Master Shaz?”

“No,” Phan replied, unaware that everything she said was being recorded. “But do me a favor . . . Steal one of the angens on the way out.”

The robot was incapable of facial expressions—but was quick to ask the same question that any human would.

“Why?”

“Because I had to kill a guard dog on the way in,” Phan explained economically, and left before the machine could reply.

The next morning dawned clear and bright. As Hoggles peered out over the angens’ backs he could see for miles as the big wooden wheels crunched through the half-frozen slush. Meanwhile, for reasons not entirely clear, Phan was riding well ahead of the wagon while Rebo lagged behind it, and Norr sat wrapped in a blanket at his side. There had clearly been a falling-out of some kind, and, judging from the way the others were behaving, Hoggles fi?gured that the problem had something to do with sex.

There were a number of reasons why the heavy had elected to remain with Rebo and Norr after arriving on Thara. The fi?rst was that the variant had nothing better to do. But there was another reason as well, one that Hoggles was hesitant to admit to himself, much less anyone else. His feelings for Norr were hopeless, the giant knew that, but heartfelt nonetheless. Which was why the heavy planned to return home once Logos had been transported to Socket and the sensitive was safe. Until then Hoggles was resolved to remain at Norr’s side, protecting her to whatever extent he could, while enjoying the sound of her voice, smiles earned by virtue of small favors, and the occasional whiff of her perfume.

As the sensitive sat staring out over the searingly white landscape, Hoggles felt sympathy for Norr—and a combination of anger and resentment where the others were concerned. But none of it was his affair—so the variant was hesitant to get involved. But fi?nally, after the group had been on the road for an hour, the heavy found the courage to speak. He began by clearing his throat. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry.”

Norr turned to look at him. Her expression was bleak, but she forced a smile. “Don’t be, Bo. . . . Life brings us all sorts of lessons. And, while some are painful, it’s usually for the best.”

The cart slowed as the angens were forced to tackle a hill, and the variant whistled at them before turning to look at his passenger. She was beautiful, even when she was sad, and Hoggles wanted to comfort her. Even if that meant pushing her toward another man. “The truth is that he loves you,”

the heavy commented. “Even if he’s been slow to say so.”

Norr was surprised to hear something like that from Hoggles. She looked at him—then “looked” again. That was when the sensitive “saw” what had been there for a long time and realized the true nature of what the heavy felt for her, evidence of which could be seen in the fact that he was busy trying to heal the rift between her and another man. It was a delicate moment—and one that Norr was determined to handle correctly. “Really? What makes you think so?”

“That’s simple,” Hoggles replied confi?dently. “He’s here, isn’t he? Even though he’s losing money rather than making it.”

Suddenly Norr knew that the man sitting next to her was present for much the same reason and felt a deep pang of regret, not to mention guilt, and a sort of sisterly affection.

“And there’s one more thing,” Hoggles added. “I don’t know what transpired between the two of you—but it’s my guess that Phan was part of it. I don’t trust her Lonni—and you shouldn’t, either.”

Norr remembered Rebo’s apology, followed by her harsh words, and the bang as the door slammed closed. The runner wasn’t entirely innocent, she knew that, but he wasn’t entirely guilty either. Not according to Hoggles—and not according to the voice inside her. The one she should have been listening to all along. “You are a good friend, Bo. . . . A very good friend, and I’m fortunate.”

The heavy blushed beet red, felt his heart leap at the praise, and turned toward the road ahead. Meanwhile, having monitored the entire conversation from beneath Norr’s blanket Logos processed the computer equivalent of a human sigh. If there was anything more boring than human mating rituals, he couldn’t imagine what it was. But at least the biologicals were in motion, which meant he was in motion, which was the only thing that really mattered.

When darkness fell, the travelers found themselves between villages and therefore sought shelter within the rough embrace of four roofl?ess walls. With nothing to protect them from the possibility of snow, Hoggles worked to stretch a canvas tarpaulin over the encampment while Phan busied herself at the cook fi?re. The other two went looking for fi?rewood and were gone for quite a while. Longer than required to collect the amount of fuel they returned with. A fact that pleased Hoggles and annoyed Phan. And, after everyone awoke the next morning, Phan found herself relegated to riding on the cart next to Hoggles while both the runner and the sensitive rode ahead. A sure sign that previously broken fences had been mended. Which was just as well, because it was less than an hour later when the group topped a rise and found themselves looking down on the Army of God. It was a relatively large group consisting of at least three hundred people. They were kneeling at that particular moment, heads bowed as a man dressed in a tattered robe stood atop an ice-encrusted rock and delivered the morning sermon.

There was no reason to be surprised, since the travelers had been following along behind the larger group for more than a week by then, but Rebo was taken aback by the size of the mob below, and the fact that a detachment of what looked like heavy cavalry had been sent up the hill to intercept them. Brightly colored banners snapped in the breeze as mismatched mounts snorted what looked like puffs of steam and clods of half-frozen muck shot from under their iron-shod hooves.

Norr turned to Rebo. “Return to the cart . . . Hide your guns and tell Phan to do the same. I’ll try to stall them.”

The runner nodded, jerked the angen’s head around, and kicked the animal’s barrel-shaped sides. He was gone two seconds later.

“Logos,” Norr said, as she eyed the oncoming riders.

“Can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you,” the AI replied testily. “I’m not deaf!”

“Then pay attention,” the sensitive instructed curtly.

“I’m looking at an army of antitechnic fanatics. They’re going to be all around us soon—and they would like nothing more than to rip you apart. So keep quiet until I say you can speak. Even if that takes a week or more. Understood?”

It was probably Norr’s imagination, but the sensitive thought that the computer sounded resentful. “Understood.”

The riders were close by then, thundering up over the rise, their swords, spears, and battle-axes plain to see. Norr smiled in what she hoped was a disarming manner. “Good morning!”

There was a mad clatter of metal and a good deal of snorting as both riders and mounts circled around her. One of the warriors, a gaunt-looking man dressed in homemade armor, nodded politely. “Greetings . . . We ride for the Army of God. Do you carry the pestilence? Or are you clean?”

Norr frowned. “The pestilence? I don’t understand.”

“Technology,” the rider answered sternly. “Meaning those items listed in the Book of Abominations.”

“No,” the sensitive answered. “At least I don’t think so.”

“Take care, woman,” the man cautioned grimly. “Ignorance is no excuse. . . . And if you’re hiding something—

the diviner will surely fi?nd it.”

Norr didn’t know who or what the “diviner” was, but wasn’t about to tell the rider about Logos, the guns, or her vibro blade. “Yes, I mean no, we aren’t carrying any proscribed items.”

“Good,” the man responded loftily. “Come that you might become one with the Army of God! The rector welcomes all who burn with holy passion and live to battle the pestilence.”

Norr forced a smile. “Yes, well, I’m not sure how much time we can spend with the army—but thank you for the invitation.”

Rebo had arrived by that time, along with the cart, and felt utterly defenseless knowing that his guns, not to mention Phan’s, were hidden under the cart’s bench-style seat. But there was nothing that the runner and his companions could do but follow the religious fanatics down into the valley below. The church service had ended, and the faithful were streaming up toward the road, as the off-world travelers were escorted into the campsite. Norr noticed that most of the antitechnics were dressed in little more than rags, that many were so malnourished as to appear starved, and that some lay on makeshift litters. Still others, including most of the older children, were bent under the weight of heavy packs. It was a pitiful sight, and one that Rebo was still struggling to deal with, when a group of cudgel-wielding acolytes stepped out to bar the way. Like the cavalry, they were better fed than the rest, which suggested a hierarchy of some sort. “Halt!” one of the men ordered pompously. “The rector would speak with you.”

“You must dismount,” one of the riders added helpfully.

“Or pay for your arrogance.”

Both Rebo and Norr got down from their angens, only to have the reins snatched out of their hands as the man known as the rector appeared. He was at least seven feet tall. A rarity during an age when most A-strain males stood about fi?vefoot-ten. But if the holy man’s height was intimidating, so were his broad forehead, hooked nose, and thin, nearly nonexistent lips. Worse, from Norr’s perspective, was the force of his personality, which would have rolled in to supplant her own had she allowed it to do so.

The sensitive staggered under the psychic assault, threw up a protective barrier, and struggled to stand her ground. That was when the sensitive realized that while a fi?lthy robe concealed most of the rector’s long angular body, his feet were bare and blue from the cold. A sign of penitence perhaps? Of otherworldliness? There was no way to know. The rector sketched the letter “A” into the air. “Blessings be upon you my children. Where are you from?”

Rebo remembered the way people turned out to stone the shuttle back in New Wimmura and knew that some sort of cover story was required. Consistent with lessons learned while growing up inside the guild, the runner stuck to the truth to the extent that was possible. “From New Wimmura, holy one. I’m a runner with a message for a merchant in Feda. This woman is my wife, Citizen Hoggles hopes to fi?nd work there, and Citizen Phan was engaged to guard our humble belongings.”

The rector’s gaze shifted to Phan. “You’re an assassin?”

Phan inclined her head. There wasn’t much on Derius or any other planet that frightened her, yet this man did. “Yes, holy one.”

“Are you carrying any breech-loaded fi?rearms?”

Phan thought about the revolvers hidden aboard the cart and wondered if it would have been better to dispose of them. But it was too late for that, so she brought her head up, and looked the rector in the eyes. “No, holy one.”

“We will see about that,” the rector replied cynically. “It has been my experience that members of your profession have a special affi?nity for proscribed technology—some of which is so cunningly disguised that only an extensive search will uncover it.”

Norr thought about the AI, as well as the vibro blade hidden inside her wooden staff, and wondered if the rector had the means to detect such things. The holy man clearly thought he did as he sent one of the acolytes to fetch “the diviner.” In the meantime the rector had transferred his attention to Norr. “You interest me,” the holy man said. “Why would a sensitive marry a norm?”

“I fell in love with the man,” Norr replied honestly. “Not the body. . . . Besides, sensitives are a moody lot, and one is enough for any household.”

The comment was intended as a joke, but the rector nodded, as if well aware of how moody sensitives could be, and was about to follow up on the matter when the diviner arrived. She was about eight years old, dressed in the remains of an expensive party dress, and armed with a forked stick. The rector’s hard, angular face softened at the sight of her.

“Hello, my dear,” he said softly. “How are you feeling? Better? That’s wonderful. . . . Now, if you’re up to it, please check to see if these people should be allowed to join our fl?ock.”

Of course none of the travelers wanted to join the rector’s shabby fl?ock, but couldn’t say so, as the serious-looking youngster waved the Y-shaped divining rod at them. “It will dip if one of you is carrying the pestilence,” the rector warned confi?dently, as the little girl pointed the tree branch at Norr.

Rebo had never been one to ignore the role that supernatural objects could play in everyday life, so when the stick came into alignment with the computer hidden beneath Norr’s cloak, the runner half expected the stick to dip. But it didn’t, and their luck held even as the child waved her stick at the cart and the weapons hidden on it. And, such was the rector’s trust in her that no further inspection was required. The holy man produced what might have been a smile. “Welcome to the Army of God!” he proclaimed enthusiastically, and sketched another “A” into the air. “Come, my dear . . . We must take our place at the head of the column lest progress be slowed.”

And with that the man with the bloody feet boosted the little girl up onto his broad shoulders and walked away. The acolytes and the cavalry followed. Rebo waited until the antitechnics were well out of earshot before shaking his head in amazement. “That is one crazy bastard.”

Norr discovered that she had been holding her breath. It felt good to let it go. “That’s an understatement. Something tells me that we were fortunate . . . But will our luck hold?”

The next thirty hours were like an episode in a surreal dream. Two hours after being absorbed by the Army of God, Rebo found himself slogging through the half-frozen muck while three raggedy moppets sat atop what had once been his angen. Meanwhile, about twenty feet to the rear, Norr had transformed the cart into an ambulance. Now, in addition to the group’s steadily dwindling supply of food, the conveyance carried a couple of stretchers and half a dozen children. As for the other angens, they were “on loan” to the rector’s cavalry, which was extremely unlikely to return them.

So, with no choice but to walk, time seemed to slow as the wintry landscape inched by. There weren’t many rest breaks, but when one was declared, the fl?ock was given only minutes in which to take care of their personal needs before the cudgel-carrying acolytes began to round them up. Then, with their knees buried in the cold-wet snow, the Army of God was required to listen as the rector read passages from a

“history” that described how the people of Old Wimmura worshiped technology during the reign of Emperor Hios and were subsequently punished by God’s righteous thunder. Lysander attempted to take over Norr’s body during one such episode so that he could counter what he saw as the rector’s lies. But rather than allow him to do so the sensitive removed her belt and proceeded to whip her back with it—

knowing that the pain would be suffi?cient to keep the entity at bay. The act caused some consternation at fi?rst, but was soon emulated by the more pious members of the assemblage, thereby adding still another element to the strange, half-real day.

Finally, exhausted by a fi?fteen-mile march under diffi?cult circumstances, the fl?ock descended upon an isolated house just before nightfall and “borrowed” everything the farm family had, including their food, animals, and personal possessions. The latter were of particular interest to the acolytes, who spent most of the evening squabbling over a few bits of gold.

Although Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and Phan had been forced to surrender the cart by then, along with what remained of their food, the travelers had managed to recover their personal belongings, including Norr’s staff, plus all the fi?rearms, which were now kept wrapped within their bedrolls. That was the good news. The bad news was that each time the foursome attempted to meet, and thereby agree on an escape plan, an acolyte would materialize among them and call upon the group to pray, gather fi?rewood, or dig a latrine.

The result was that by the time the second day had dawned, and the bowls of watery porridge had been consumed, the off-worlders were still trapped within the Army of God. What comfort there was stemmed from the fact they remained on the road to Feda and were making progress toward their ultimate goal. By midmorning the sky had begun to darken, and snowfl?akes began to twirl down out of the heavens, as the fl?ock took temporary possession of a rocky promontory that looked out over a canyon and the white ribbon that twisted along the bottom of it. The army scattered as people sought to relieve themselves, or gnawed on cold rations, as Rebo peered down into the abyss. Would the ice-covered river take one to Feda? he wondered. If so, the runner thought that it might represent an alternative to the road, and the Army of God. Such were Rebo’s thoughts when, as if somehow drawn by the runner’s heretical intentions, the rector appeared at his side. “Look!” the holy man said, as he pointed a long grimy fi?nger down into the canyon. “Do you see the structures to either side of the river? There was a time when they were connected so as to block God’s river! Can you imagine such arrogance?”

Rebo looked, saw little more than a blur, and stuck his hand inside his jacket. The glasses were out, and already on his nose, before the runner realized his mistake. The runner glanced at the rector in hopes that the faux pas had gone unobserved, saw the expression of outraged astonishment on the holy man’s face, and knew he was in trouble. In spite of the fact that he had never read the Book of Abominations, it was clear from the rector’s expression that spectacles were on it. That left the off-worlder with no option but to turn and run. But the rector had recovered his voice by then, and Rebo hadn’t traveled more than thirty feet before a trio of acolytes cut the unbeliever off and began to beat him with their clubs. The runner’s spectacles fl?ew off as he took a blow to the head, and darkness rose to embrace him.

There were moments of consciousness during the long cold night that followed. Times when Rebo surfaced long enough to see the fi?res burning all around him, or to hear the sound of a rhythmic chant as the sleepless fl?ock prepared for the cleansing to come. But in spite of his best efforts to do so, the runner was unable to hold focus, and it wasn’t long before he lost consciousness again.

Finally, after what seemed like a long journey in a dark land, Rebo opened his eyes to discover that another wintry day had dawned. The rector stood before him, back turned, as he led his fl?ock in prayer. Rebo was cold, very cold, and when the runner went to move his arms and legs he discovered that they were bound in place. But his head was free, which meant he could turn it to either side, even though it pained him to do so. And that was when the runner realized that both he and his companions had been strapped to X-shaped crosses. They formed a rough semicircle, with Norr to Rebo’s right, Hoggles to his left, and Phan on the end.

Like him, the others were covered with a rime of crusted snow. All due to his mistake. He hadn’t been conscious to see it, but the runner could easily imagine how the acolytes had fallen upon his companions, searched their belongings, and discovered the guns. Did they know about the vibro blade? Or Logos? There was no way to tell.

“And so we leave them,” the rector continued, his sonorous voice rolling out over the crowd. “To meditate on their sins, during these, the fi?nal hours of their wasted lives.”

So saying the rector turned, and sketched a symbolic

“A” into the air, before hoisting the diviner up onto his shoulders and walking away. If the holy man blamed the little girl for failing to detect the contraband, there was certainly no sign of it.

The Army of God fl?owed out onto the road, and ten minutes later the entire fl?ock had disappeared, leaving the unbelievers to die of exposure. Each off-worlder had a different reaction. Rebo tried to communicate with Norr, but found that his voice wouldn’t carry, and was left to wonder if it was possible to kill someone on the spirit planes. If so, Lysander was in deep trouble.

Norr tried to use her power of telekinesis to undo even one of the more than two dozen knots that held her in place but was soon forced to give up the task as impossible. Logos couldn’t manipulate his environment, but had survived similar situations during the last thousand years and knew what to do. Eventually, after his host’s heart stopped beating, human scavengers would arrive to pick over her remains. At that point he would speak to one of the brutes, promise it a large quantity of gold that didn’t exist, and convince them to carry him to Feda. Then, having found a more capable mount, he would continue his journey. Not to Socket, as everyone supposed, but to Haafa. Because, even though Socket was the AI’s fi?nal destination, there was someone he would have to murder fi?rst.

Hoggles fl?exed his enormous muscles in an attempt to break the bonds that held him, but soon discovered that the acolytes had anticipated such a move, and tripled the number of ropes that held him in place. And, as a punishment for throwing an acolyte into the canyon, one of his fi?ngers had been removed. The wound had been cauterized—but continued to ache.

Phan turned to her martial arts training in an attempt to gather her energy and channel it into a Ku, or death blow, suffi?cient to free her from the X-shaped framework. But, owing to the fact that the assassin had killed three of the fl?ock prior to being subdued, two of her throwing spikes had been used to nail her hands to the thick rough-hewn beams. The pain, plus the cold, made it diffi?cult to concentrate. Hope, such as it was, lay in the fact that Shaz would arrive eventually. But would the operative arrive in time?

No, Phan didn’t think so.

The snow began to fall more heavily then, covered each of the condemned with a shroud of white, and softened the area around them. Eventually, all movement having stopped, silence claimed the land.

SEVEN

The Planet Derius

Although the antitechnic rabble continue to sweep through theprovince—we have them under observation, and I remain con-fi?dent that our strategy will be successful.

—Provincial Facilitator, Kas Okanda, in a report to his superiors in New Wimmura

The snow fell from the sky like a lacy curtain and the two dozen riders seemed to materialize out of the hazy whiteness like ghosts from some long-forgotten battle. But Facilitator Kas Okanda and his well-mounted dragoons were quite real, as were the sleek semiautomatic rifl?es the troopers carried and the wraithlike hunting dogs that ranged ahead.

Okanda was a relatively small man, but he exuded an aura of authority as he eyed the area, alert to the possibility of an ambush. But there was nothing for him to see beyond a maze of tracks, the usual detritus left behind by a large group of campers, and the row of X-shaped crosses that sat atop a low rise. Four people had been crucifi?ed, and judging from appearances, all of them were dead. But the administrator prided himself on the veracity of the reports that he sent to New Wimmura every eight days, so a scout was dispatched to examine the bodies, and ordered to report back.

“Make a note,” Okanda instructed, as the youngster next to him prepared to write on a clipboard. “Having patrolled the area north of the citadel, the company came across four individuals all of whom had been crucifi?ed. Since this sort of execution is typical of the antitechnic fanatics, it seems safe to assume that they were responsible for the atrocity.” The facilitator’s secretary scribbled furiously in a desperate attempt to capture each word exactly as it had been spoken.

The scout returned just as the government offi?cial fi?nished his paragraph. “Excuse me, sire,” the dragoon said respectfully, “but the people on the crosses are still alive.”

Okanda had bushy eyebrows. They shot upward in surprise. “What?” he demanded. “Alive you say. . . . Are you sure?”

“Yes, sire,” the scout replied expressionlessly. “Would you like us to cut them down?”

“Of course!” Okanda responded affi?rmatively. “But not until Hobarth here has an opportunity to examine the victims and take notes.”

The scout said, “Yes, sire,” and led the younger man over to where the snow-encrusted crosses stood. Now that he was closer Hobarth could see the wisps of vapor that issued from between blue-tinged lips. The better part of ten minutes elapsed while the secretary took elaborate notes on everything from the manner in which metal spikes had been driven through one woman’s hands, to the clothes that the people wore, and the fact that a lightning bolt had been tattooed onto the inner surface of one man’s left forearm. Once the process was complete, the men and women were taken down and loaded into a pair of sturdy fi?eld ambulances. The heavy went into one, while the sensitive, and the norms were placed in the other. Once inside the wagons, the patients were propped up against straw-fi?lled pillows and covered with wool blankets.

And that’s where Rebo was when the dream ended, his eyes opened, and a man with a handlebar mustache said,

“Here . . . This’ll fi?x what ails ya!” and poured a half ounce of fi?ery liquid into his mouth. The whiskey went down the wrong way, and the runner began to choke.

Norr raised a hand in protest. “Don’t give him spirits. . . . What we need is some warm tea. . . . Or some caf.”

The medics were more than happy to dispense lukewarm tea from the insulated bottles fi?lled earlier that day and consume the medicinal whiskey themselves while the wagons rattled through a village and began the long arduous climb to the citadel. Having passed through a well-guarded entrance, the wagons ground to a halt in front of a one-story infi?rmary, and the patients were carried inside. Within a matter of minutes they were stripped of clothing and immersed in warm baths. Phan, Hoggles, and, to a lesser extent, Rebo were treated for their various wounds before being brought back together for some hot soup. Then, after a good deal of fussing over by some very effi?cient female nurses, the travelers were packed off to bed. Norr wanted to sleep more than anything—but refused to cooperate until the staff returned her clothes. Then, clutching a ratty-looking coat to her chest, the sensitive allowed sleep to overtake her. The nurses shrugged, sent the rest of her fi?lthy apparel out to be burned, and left the room. Once the nurses were gone, and the door was closed, Logos spoke. “Lonni? Can you hear me?” But there was no answer other than a cough, followed by some nonsensical words, and the sound of the sensitive’s breathing. “I know I don’t say this sort of thing very often,” the AI whispered.

“But thank you.”

The sun had set three hours earlier, which meant that most travelers had been forced to camp out or seek the hospitality of a country inn. But Shaz and his party were the exceptions to that rule. Not only could the forwardranging metal men “sense” obstacles, they could “see” whatever fell under the blobs of white light that projected from their “eyes” and break trail for the angens. Travel remained diffi?cult, however, especially since the humans and their mounts had been on the road for twelve hours and were close to exhaustion.

But it had been two days since the combat variant had spotted one of the red ribbons that Phan typically left adjacent to the road or picked up a written message from the assassin. And that was why the operative insisted that the party continue to push ahead. Of course there are limits to how far one can ride in a day, and the angens had begun to stumble by the time the robots followed a multitude of tracks up to the rise where four X-shaped crosses stood, and paused to look around. A quick reconnaissance revealed an area of heavily churned snow—but it was impossible to know who had been there or why. “We’ll camp here,” Shaz announced to the androids. “Build a couple of fi?res, pitch the tent, and feed the angens.”

The androids were extremely effi?cient, so it wasn’t long before the two humans were sitting on small folding stools and warming their hands over a crackling fi?re. Meanwhile, an oil-fed stove had been established not far away, and a hearty stew would soon be burbling in a pot. Confi?dent that the routine matters were under control, Shaz eyed the sensitive seated across from him. Even allowing for the fact that the campfi?re lit Dyson’s face from below, the other variant looked older than he was. His skin had taken on a sallow appearance, and his hands shook all the time. Some of that could be blamed on the rigors of the journey and the stress associated with it, but Kane was responsible for the rest. The situation was diffi?cult for Shaz to assess, not being a sensitive himself, but having been acquainted with Kane prior to his death, it was easy to understand how unpleasant the task of bringing him through could be. But there was no getting around the need to communicate with the dead operative from time to time. Even if that was painful for Dyson, who sat with shoulders slumped, his eyes on the fi?re.

“Your tea is ready,” a robot announced, and waited for the humans to extend their mugs before starting to pour. Then, having given Dyson an opportunity to sip the hot liquid, Shaz broke the silence. “I know you’re tired, but we haven’t heard from Phan in quite a while, and I need to speak with Kane.”

There was a moment of silence as the sensitive blew the steam off the surface of his tea and took another sip. Finally, his eyes peering out from cavelike sockets, Dyson looked up. It took a great deal of effort to keep his voice steady. “I would like to quit. There’s no need to pay me. . . . I’ll take my bedroll and walk away.”

“Don’t be silly,” the combat variant replied dismissively.

“I know Kane can be unpleasant, but I’ll keep the session short, and the whole thing will be over in a matter of minutes. Then, after a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

The other variant was determined to have his way, the sensitive could see that, so there was no point in stalling. Dyson closed his eyes, sought the inner peace that lay deep within, and partially withdrew from his body. Kane, who had already been drawn to the physical plane by the combat variant’s thoughts, was ready and waiting. His beingness fl?ooded into the newly created vacuum, where he hurried to seize control. The fi?rst thing the spirit entity noticed was the wonderful tang of woodsmoke, followed by the aftertaste of unsweetened tea and the innate heaviness of the channel’s physical body. A vehicle that was both tired from a long day in the saddle—and hungry for the food that was being prepared nearby.

Shaz became aware of Kane’s presence when Dyson’s body jerked convulsively, some of his tea spilled into the fl?ames, and the fi?re hissed in protest. Then, once the steam had cleared, the combat variant looked into a pair of dead eyes. “So,” Kane croaked, “we meet again.”

“Yes,” Shaz responded cautiously. “Thank you for coming. I could use your help.”

“You have but to ask,” Kane answered generously, as he held his left hand out toward the fi?re. The warmth was wonderful—and he reveled in it. Dyson tried to reassert control but couldn’t. Gradually, bit by bit, Kane had become so skilled at controlling the sensitive’s body that the sensitive was powerless to displace him. Dyson uttered a long silent scream, but there was no one to hear, and the conversation continued.

“Good,” the combat variant continued. “We lost contact with Phan—which means we lost contact with the others. Can you tell me what happened to them?”

“Probably,” Kane answered confi?dently. “Give me a moment.” After pausing to swirl a mouthful of tea around the inside of Dyson’s mouth, the spirit entity directed his attention outward. Other disincarnates could be seen within the thick glutinous material that overlaid the physical plane. One such individual was quite upset regarding his unexpected death. Others sought to comfort the dead man and escort him to a higher vibration. Kane hurried to project his consciousness into the mix. He listened for a while, asked a series of questions, and received most of the answers he needed before the entity’s spirit guides pulled him away. Shaz had started to wonder if something had gone wrong when Dyson, which was to say Kane, suddenly spoke. “I’m back.”

The combat variant lifted an eyebrow. “And?”

“And Phan is alive, as are the others,” the disincarnate reported. “Although they had a close brush with death prior to being spirited away by a group of people that my contact wasn’t familiar with.”

Shaz felt a sense of relief. His greatest fear had been that some sort of calamity had befallen not only Phan, but the AI, resulting in the machine’s loss. It should be a relatively simple matter to fi?nd out where the group had been taken and free them should that be necessary. “Thank you, that is very helpful.”

“You’re welcome,” Kane said politely. “Something smells good. . . . What’s for dinner?”

Shaz, who expected the spirit entity to withdraw at that point, felt the fi?rst stirrings of concern. “Stew. . . . Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Kane replied, as Dyson struggled to eject him.

“It’s been quite a while since I ate real food. I think I’ll stay and have dinner with you.”

The combat variant felt the short bristly hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He struggled to keep his voice level. “You can do that?”

“Why, yes,” Kane answered coolly. “I believe that I can.”

“And Dyson?” Shaz wanted to know. “How does he feel about your plan?”

“Oh, he’s against it,” the disincarnate admitted carelessly. “But, I have the poor bastard right where I want him, so it doesn’t really matter. Does it?”

The challenge was obvious, and the air around the combat variant began to seethe as his body prepared for combat. Fortunately, Dyson had consistently refused to carry a weapon, which meant it would have been easy to shoot the sensitive’s body, thereby preventing the disincarnate from controlling it. But what if Shaz needed more information?

Sensitives were hard to come by—and it wouldn’t be a good idea to offend Kane.

The creature sitting opposite Shaz nodded understandingly. “Oops!” the spirit entity said lightly. “I guess this puts you between a rock and a hard place doesn’t it? But, hey, not to worry. . . . We’re after the same thing. And later, after we install Logos on Socket, I plan to reincarnate. You’ll be an old fart by the time I make my presence known. As for Tepho, well, he’s your problem. Slick, huh?”

That wasn’t the way the combat variant would have described it, but he was a realist and nodded in agreement.

“Welcome back. . . . I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

Meanwhile, in a place where no one could help him, Dyson continued to scream.

Rebo awoke to the sound of bells. His eyes felt as if they had been glued shut but eventually opened to reveal a room so narrow there was no more than two feet of space on either side of his bed. Sunlight poured in through the paned window over his head and threw an asymmetric pattern onto the door across from him. Then, just as the bells stopped ringing, the runner felt the unmistakable pressure on his bladder and knew it was time to get up.

The fi?rst attempt to throw the covers aside and swing his legs out over the edge of the bed resulted in an explosion of pain. That caused Rebo to fall back against the pillow and probe the circumference of his skull. It quickly became apparent that there were three different dressings on his head. Fortunately, none of his companions had been killed as a result of his mental lapse. Still conscious of his full bladder, the runner gritted his teeth, battled to swing both feet over onto the cold fl?oor, and stood. By placing one hand on the wall, he was able to remain upright even as a tidal wave of dizziness attempted to pull him under. He felt for his amulet in hopes that the charm would steady him and discovered it was gone. Lost during the battle with the Army of God, Rebo supposed.

He still had the religious medallion, however, which was something of a miracle given the fact that the antitechnics had stolen everything else, so maybe it would protect him. Finally, having kept his feet, the runner went in search of his clothes. That was when he discovered that while his old road-ravaged outfi?t had disappeared, brand-new clothing was waiting in the tiny closet, a gift for which he was grateful. Getting the fresh garments on was something of a challenge however, and Rebo might have abandoned the project if it hadn’t been for the urgent need to pee. Fortunately, a nurse appeared about halfway through the process and helped the runner get his shirt on.

After a trip to the men’s bathroom, which was equipped with fl?ush toilets, Rebo went looking for Norr, only to discover that she was looking for him. Together they took refuge in a sun-splashed solarium. “I’m sorry,” the runner said contritely. “Putting those glasses on was a stupid thing to do.”

Norr shrugged philosophically. “Don’t worry about it. . . . If not the glasses, then something else would have given us away.”

“Thanks,” the runner replied humbly. “But I am worried. The antitechnics took off with all of our money, supplies, and weapons.”

“They took most of our stuff,” the sensitive agreed soberly, “but not everything.” At that point Norr tapped her chest and winked. The message was clear. Logos was lurking somewhere beneath her brand-new outfi?t. The runner had mixed emotions where the AI was concerned but forced a smile. “That’s good news. . . . So, how are the others doing?”

During the subsequent report, Rebo learned that while Hoggles’s right index fi?nger had been amputated after the battle with the antitechnics, the heavy was on the mend.

“That’s good,” the runner said gratefully. “I need to apologize to him as well. How ’bout Phan?”

“Fortunately, none of the spikes that they drove through her hands struck bone,” Norr replied. “She’ll be good as new within a few weeks.”

“And how good is that?” Rebo inquired cynically. “She isn’t who she says she is, we know that, so what to do?”

“Get rid of her,” Norr replied honestly. “As soon as we can.”

Rebo nodded. “Works for me . . . In the meantime, where the heck are we? And who’s running this place?”

“We’re in some sort of government-run complex,” Norr replied. “What was once a university if I understand correctly. More than that I couldn’t really say. But, since Facilitator Okanda invited us to dinner, maybe we’ll be able to learn more from him.”

“Yeah,” the runner said refl?ectively. “Maybe we will . . . In the meantime here’s hoping that the runner’s guild has a presence in Feda. . . . I should be able to withdraw some money from my account if it does.”

“You’re working for Lysander,” the sensitive responded.

“Maybe he can help.”

“That kind of help I can do without,” the runner objected, as he came to his feet. “Come on . . . Let’s fi?nd Bo. I owe him a body part.”

By the time evening fell, and the youngster named Hobarth led Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and Phan into the citadel’s Grand Hall, the off-worlders were feeling better. The room was huge, and would have been almost impossible to light had it not been for the ancient Class IV fusion generator located two levels below. The fact that it continued to broadcast electricity was due to a generous supply of spare parts, knowledge handed down for hundreds of years, and no small amount of good luck.

Kas Okanda was waiting to greet his guests when they arrived at the far end of the long, formally set dining table. He was dressed in a heavily embroidered gold coat, black trousers, and gold slippers. His neatly trimmed mustache and pointed beard served to reinforce the aura of material well-being that surrounded him. The facilitator never tired of seeing the expressions of amazement that the brightly lit hall produced on most of his guests. “Welcome!” the government offi?cial said warmly. “Please, take your seats, and I’ll call for some wine.”

Okanda was an amiable host, and the next hour passed quickly, as the facilitator plied his guests with good wine, food, and conversation. Finally, having offered the offi?cial a carefully edited version of the journey from Thara, Rebo asked his host what the government planned to do about the Army of God.

The facilitator took a sip of wine before replying. “That’s a good question, Citizen Rebo. . . . As you have surmised by now, we not only have a pretty good idea where the rector and his fl?ock are at any given moment, we have the capacity to bring their wanderings to an end whenever we choose.”

“Then why wait?” Hoggles inquired.

Though blunt, the question was understandable given the nature of the heavy’s injury, Okanda smiled sympathetically.

“I understand how you feel—and regret what happened to you. But I, along with the other facilitators, have a responsibility to the planet as a whole. The rector is like a magnet to which tiny slivers of iron are inevitably drawn. Once all, or the vast majority of them are clumped together, we’ll sweep them up.”

“And then?” Phan inquired skeptically. Not only were her hands sore, they were slightly swollen, which would have made it diffi?cult to handle weapons. If she had had weapons—which she didn’t. Had the decision been up to her, the rector and his entire fl?ock would have been crucifi?ed and left to die. Men, women, and children.

“The present plan is to march the antitechnics to the great salt sea and transport them to a remote island, where they will be free to live without benefi?t of technology,”

Okanda answered smoothly. “A fi?tting punishment—and one that will serve to protect the rest of the population from their fanaticism.”

Norr heard the facilitator’s words, but what she “saw”

was something different. Based on the dark, slowly morphing thought forms that hovered around Okanda, it appeared that while some of the fl?ock might be transported, others would almost certainly be lost at sea. The rector being one of them. She shivered, tugged at the shawl she had been given, and was grateful for the additional warmth. The rest of the meal passed pleasantly. The main course was followed by a delicious dessert, wine, and a selection of local cheeses. And it was then, as Rebo thanked Okanda for his hospitality, that the facilitator invited the travelers to attach themselves to a government convoy that was slated to leave for Feda in three days. It was a generous offer, and one that would go a long way toward solving one of the group’s most pressing problems, so the runner was quick to accept on behalf of both his companions and himself.

“Good!” Okanda said heartily as he rose from the table.

“The matter is settled. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me, I would like to show you through the citadel’s museum. We have a collection of techno artifacts that is second to none. Something that interstellar travelers such as yourselves are uniquely qualifi?ed to appreciate.”

Rebo was feeling a bit sleepy after all the wine and food, and would have preferred to go to bed, but couldn’t think of a graceful way to excuse himself. So the runner followed the facilitator to the far end of the hall, through an ironstrapped door, and down a circular fl?ight of stairs. Norr, Hoggles, and Phan brought up the rear.

Electric lights came on, apparently of their own volition, as Okanda led his guests out into a room that would have been equal in size to the hall above except for the fact that the ceiling was a good deal lower. Whereas the Great Hall was open, and sparsely furnished, this space was fi?lled with row after row of glassed-in display cases, with only narrow aisles between them.

Faced with the prospect of what looked like a long march, combined with what promised to be a boring narrative, Rebo uttered a silent groan as Okanda led his guests into the fi?rst passageway. It was fi?lled with a mind-boggling array of small household appliances. As the government offi?cial led them down the corridor, the visitors were shown machines that the ancients used to toast bread, dry their hair, listen to music, talk to each other, heat their food, and remove unwanted body hair. It was a truly amazing display. However if that section was of interest, the next was even more so, since it was focused on a subject of more than passing interest to at least three of Okanda’s guests. Rebo, Phan, and, to a lesser extent, Hoggles stared in openmouthed lust as they were invited to eyeball case after case of neatly racked weapons. There were knives, pistols, rifl?es, machine guns, and hand grenades, all displayed along with accessories where appropriate, and quantities of ammunition.

Fortunately, Okanda failed to notice the longing looks, or regarded them as understandable, because he was in no way offended when the previously taciturn Phan peppered him with all manner of technical questions having to do with the weapons laid out before her. But all good things must come to an end, so it wasn’t long before the facilitator led the group into the next corridor, which was even more intriguing in its own way. “This,” Okanda announced importantly, “is the section of the museum dedicated to artifacts that we don’t understand fully and probably never will. But our scientists continue to study the more promising specimens in hopes that we will be able to bring some of them back to life.”

The offi?cial wanted to say more, would have said more, had it not been for the fact that one of the objects in front of him chose that particular moment to activate itself. Glass shattered as the metal sphere shot upward, hovered in midair, and made a beeline for Norr. Okanda was startled, but not so startled as to be rendered immobile, and was in the process of bringing a small device up to his lips when Logos spoke from the vicinity of Norr’s neckline. “He’s calling for help! Stop him!”

Phan had bandages on both hands, but there was nothing wrong with the assassin’s feet, and her right boot made contact with Okanda’s head as the young woman performed a So-Lai, or high spin-kick. The offi?cial staggered backward, the communicator fl?ew out of his hand and skittered across the fl?oor.

Then, before Okanda had time to recover, Hoggles was there to wrap the norm in a muscular embrace. In the meantime Norr had intercepted the metal sphere and was holding it with both hands. It was smooth and pleasantly warm.

“It’s a gate seed!” the sensitive exclaimed. “Just like the one we had on Ning!”

“Correct,” Logos said laconically. “Which means that we can depart for Haafa without further delay.”

“Haafa?” Rebo inquired doubtfully. “We’re going to Socket.”

“Yes,” the AI agreed, “we are. After we go to Haafa . . . So stop wasting time, and take me elsewhere. I will need about fi?fteen minutes in which to prepare the network.”

“Listen!” Norr cautioned. “Can you hear that beeping sound? It’s some sort or alarm.”

“That’s correct!” Okanda said, his eyes fl?ashing. “My guards are on the way. . . . I don’t know what sort of machine Citizen Norr has concealed beneath her clothing, but it belongs to the government, and I suggest that you surrender it now.”

There was anger in the facilitator’s voice, and Rebo understood why. “Look,” the runner said, “I’m sorry. I truly am, but we’re going to take some of your weapons, and the sphere. Bo, tie him up. . . . Everyone else, let’s go shopping!”

With no rope or cord at hand the heavy had no choice but to remove the offi?cial’s belt and use that to bind Okanda’s wrists to his ankles. The heavy was still working on the project when more glass shattered. Rebo was still looking for some sort of tool when Phan broke into the cases with a series of very effi?cient elbow strikes. The runner watched in amazement as the young woman plucked a wide assortment of knives, pistols, and other artifacts out of the displays. So many items that he doubted her ability to carry them all.

Still, it was none of his business, so even as the distant Klaxon continued to bleat mournfully, Rebo went about making some selections of his own. The rapid-fi?re Crosser and the long-barreled single-shot Hogger made for an effective combination in the past. But, as the runner ran his eye over rows of gleaming handguns, the familiar shapes were nowhere to be seen.

So, being unfamiliar with many of the pistols racked in front of him, Rebo chose a matched set of stainless-steel semiautomatic Kobos, both because they would fi?re the same ammunition, and he could cannibalize one of them for parts should that become necessary. Fortunately, the clothes he had been given came equipped with plenty of pockets, which the runner proceeded to fi?ll with spare clips plus all the ammo he could lay his hands on.

Then, having cinched his belt in order to keep his heavily weighted pants up, the runner eyed the case again. There weren’t any holsters for the Kobos, but those associated with a neighboring display looked like they might work, so he grabbed two of them and draped the gun belts around his neck.

Conscious of the fact that he had short-term needs as well, and that, without his glasses, he wouldn’t be able to hit anything with a rifl?e, the runner snatched a pump-style shotgun out of a rack and opened the drawer below. It contained four boxes of ammunition. Rebo slid shells into the underside of the receiver as Norr caught his eye. A newly acquired sword was slung across the sensitive’s back, and she held the gate seed with both hands. “They’re coming, Jak! I can feel them!”

“All right,” Rebo shouted, so that everyone could hear.

“Let’s get out of here!”

Norr led the way, followed by Rebo, Hoggles, and Phan. The door appeared to be promising, but when the sensitive went to open it, the barrier refused to budge. “It’s locked!”

Norr exclaimed, and turned to look at the runner.

“Move back,” Rebo ordered grimly, and brought the shotgun to bear on the lock mechanism. The trigger gave, wood shattered, and a resounding boom reverberated through the hall. The runner gave the door a kick, saw it swing open, and pushed his way through.

Meanwhile, the fi?rst of Okanda’s guards entered the museum, spotted the thieves, and opened fi?re. Phan paused to fi?re her new rifl?e and had the satisfaction of seeing a dragoon fall. A fusillade of bullets splintered the area adjacent to the door as the assassin ducked into what turned out to be a circular stairwell. An iron door blocked access to the level below, so Phan went upward, her footsteps ringing on metal treads. The guards entered seconds later, yelled a series of incoherent orders at one another, and began to climb. Meanwhile, in the bell tower high above, the bells began to toll.

Thousands of stars twinkled in the clear night sky as Shaz, Kane, and the metal men neared the fi?fteen-foot-high stone wall that protected the citadel. The party paused to look upward as bells began to peal. Having followed the road into the village below and spent some time in the local tavern, it had been easy to establish the fact that a sensitive, a heavy, and two norms had been taken to the government complex on the hill above. And, while Shaz took comfort from the fact that the man in charge of the fortress was said to favor technology, the offi?cial’s protechnic stance implied a potential downside as well. What if the facilitator was to discover the true nature of the garment Norr was wearing?

He would want to keep the AI, and if suffi?ciently knowledgeable, might try to use the device. That was why Shaz was determined to enter the complex and take whatever action might be appropriate. “That sounds like gunfi?re,” Kane observed mildly, as something went pop, pop, pop beyond the walls.

“All the more reason to fi?nd out what’s going on,” Shaz replied as he got off his mount. “Stay here if you can . . . Otherwise, return to the village. I’ll meet you there.”

“I would feel more comfortable if I had a weapon,” Kane said suggestively.

“I’m sure you would,” the combat variant replied, as two of the metal men joined hands, and Shaz stepped up into the V-shaped aperture. Then, before the disincarnate could reply to the variant’s comment, the androids launched Shaz high into the air. And such was the operative’s natural athleticism that he was able to execute a forward somersault that carried him over the top of the wall. With that accomplished, he had only to extend his legs at the right moment in order to land squarely on both feet.

Meanwhile, not hearing any signs of alarm from within the fortress, Kane assumed that the combat variant was all right. The spirit entity felt a fl?uttering sensation as Dyson made still another attempt to dislodge him and laughed out loud. The metal men, eyes glowing, watched impassively. Biologicals were not only a mystery beyond their comprehension—but as changeable as the weather. As the last bell tolled, more gunfi?re was heard, and the battle raged on.

There was a cacophony of sound within the circular stairway as boots rang on metal treads, guards shouted from below, and Phan fi?red the occasional shot to slow them down. Though still suspicious of the young woman, Rebo was grateful as well, as she continued to fi?ght an effective rearguard action. Norr had the lead. There were occasional windows, albeit narrow ones, that looked out onto the well-lit fortress. That was how the sensitive came to realize that she and her companions were trapped in the bell tower rather than some other structure. An impression that was confi?rmed when Norr fi?nally arrived at the top, where three thick ropes hung from above, and an elderly bell ringer cowered in a corner. Norr gestured for the oldster to stay where he was and paused to look around. A single electric light lit the area, but that was suffi?cient to illuminate the perfectly matched bells that were suspended above and the arched slits that opened to the outside. The sensitive could see her own breath as she turned toward the stairs. Hoggles had arrived by that time, and was quickly followed by Rebo and Phan.

“Warn the guards,” Norr instructed. “And send the bell ringer down. Tell him to take his time.”

Rebo nodded, motioned for the old man to come forward, and followed him to the top of the stairs. “Hey, you!”

the runner shouted. “Don’t fi?re! The bell ringer is coming down.” A largely incomprehensible reply was heard from below, and having been cautioned to take his time, the old man began the steep descent.

Meanwhile, having worked with Logos to activate a gate seed once before, the sensitive knew what to do. Like all its kind, the globe had a dimple on top and one on the bottom. The trick was to press on both at the same time, and having done so, to maintain the pressure for a full sixty seconds—

something most of those who came across a gate seed failed to do.

Once the requisite minute had elapsed Norr felt something give—and knew that was her cue to twist both hemispheres in opposite directions. They gave, a crack appeared, and multiple beams of light shot outward. “Let go,” Logos commanded sternly, and the sensitive was happy to obey as the globe not only hovered in midair but began to oscillate.

“Remove your outer clothing,” the AI instructed. “I need to

‘see.’ ”

Phan looked on in openmouthed amazement as Norr pulled the loose-fi?tting dress up over her head to reveal a garment the likes of which the assassin had never seen before. It shimmered the way sunlight shimmers on a windruffl?ed lake. Here, right in front of her, was the thing that she was supposed to protect.

That was the moment, perhaps the only moment, when Rebo could successfully approach Phan from behind. And even though the runner knew she had been untruthful, and might even be employed by the Techno Society, Rebo felt a sense of regret as his gun made contact with the assassin’s head. Because, strange though it might have seemed, Phan had become a member of their odd little family. But it had to be done, and Rebo was there to catch the woman and lower her unconscious body to the fl?oor.

“Don’t tell me,” Hoggles rumbled. “Let me guess . . . You want me to tie her up.”

“That would be nice,” the runner agreed. “Because she’s going to be real pissed when she wakes up—and she’s armed to the teeth.”

The time for conversation was over as the bell ringer passed the guards and they pushed their way upward in an attempt to reach the platform above. The treads were narrow, which meant the soldiers were forced to advance two at a time, and without the benefi?t of covering fi?re. Rather than simply slaughter them, which would have been easy to do, Rebo fi?red over their heads. The shotgun sounded like a cannon within the enclosed space, and some of the guards were struck by ricocheting pellets, but none fatally. That forced them to pause and look upward. “Hold it right there!” the runner shouted down to them. “Or die where you stand!”

“I think that got their attention,” Hoggles observed as he peered over the rail. “I’ll keep an eye on them. . . . Lonni wants a word with you.”

Rebo turned to discover that the sphere had disappeared into hyperspace, where, if the device was functioning properly, Logos would make use of it to contact subordinate computers on Socket. The runner felt suddenly nauseous, a sure sign that the AI was busy sucking power out of the fusion reactor located below the museum and channeling the energy where it needed to go. “We’re close,” Norr cautioned. “Pull Bo back from the rail.”

Rebo returned to the rail, fi?red a blast at the opposite wall, and heard metal clatter as the troops retreated down the stairs. Then, having grabbed hold of the heavy’s arm, the runner pulled him back toward the sensitive and the center of the platform.

Phan came to at that point, attempted to get up, and discovered that she’d been bound hand and foot. She felt a combination of shame, anger, and self-pity as Rebo, Norr, and Hoggles hugged each other, and the air began to shimmer. There was an audible bang as air pressure equalized, and the device Phan had been hired to protect disappeared.

The lights in the Grand Hall were still on when Okanda returned to fi?nd that while the remains of the recently completed meal had been removed, the wine service was still available. He had already poured himself a glass, and collapsed into his chair, when a pair of guards entered carrying Phan between them. The assassin was still bound, and therefore helpless, when the soldiers dumped her onto the surface of the table and took up positions a few feet away. Even though Okanda was furious, he chose not to say anything right away and sipped some wine instead. And, rather than complain, Phan was silent as well. But their eyes made contact—and something like respect passed between them.

“So,” the offi?cial said fi?nally, “they tricked you as well.”

Phan shrugged, or attempted to, although it came off as a jerk. The right side of her head was swollen and hurt like hell. “Yes, and no.”

The facilitator’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Which means?”

“Which means,” a male voice replied out of nowhere,

“that while Phan knew about the artifi?cial intelligence, she wasn’t aware that the others were on to her.”

Okanda came halfway out of his chair, and the guards looked right and left, as the air next to the government offi?cial shimmered and Shaz appeared. The soldiers went for their weapons, but the combat variant was ready for that, and shot each in the chest. Rifl?es clattered as they fell. Then, on the off chance that they were wearing some sort of armor under their leather jerkins, the off-worlder shot each man in the head. Thanks to the fact that the techno-operative was using a silencer-equipped pistol, the gunshots were no louder than the noise generated by the popping of a cork. The blood drained out of Okanda’s face at that point—and the offi?cial slumped back into in his chair. “And you are?”

“Her employer,” Shaz answered emotionlessly, as he opened a knife. “Here, cut her loose.”

Okanda considered making use of the knife to attack the combat variant but knew he couldn’t beat a bullet. What looked like a rifl?e sling had been used to bind the woman. The angen hide parted, and Phan was free. Though more than a little surprised by the operative’s unexpected appearance, the assassin gave no sign of it as she got down off the table. “Thanks for dropping in.”

Shaz smiled wolfi?shly. “You’re welcome. . . . What happened?”

“This man had a gate seed—but didn’t know what it was. Logos made use of it to open a portal to Haafa. All four of the subjects are there by now.”

Shaz liked the fact that Phan’s report was brief, to the point, and empty of excuses. “Haafa? Not Socket?”

“That’s what Logos said.”

“Damn,” Shaz exclaimed wearily. “What the hell is that piece-of-shit computer up to now? Ah well, time will tell.”

Then, without any warning whatsoever, the variant turned and shot Okanda in the head. The bullet’s impact was suffi?cient to tip the ladder-back chair over and dump the dead body onto the blood-splattered fl?oor.

“Come on,” Shaz said, as he reached for the assassin’s hand. “The Techno Society has a gate in Feda. We can be there in three days. And one other thing . . .”

“Yes?”

“Don’t screw up again.”