Runner (4 page)

Meanwhile, out in the audience, there was a stir as a metal man entered the hall. He wasn't real, of course, but a
replica
of a man, one of dozens that had appeared on the streets of Seros during the past couple of years. Nobody liked them. Partly because they were machines, and there was a segment of society that believed that machines were dangerous, but mostly because of their incessant preaching on behalf of a group called the Techno Society. In fact,
hardly a day went by when one or more of the androids couldn't be found near the public market droning on about the benefits of technology.

And sometimes, for reasons known only to them, the metal men would appear at public events like this one. Only rather than preach they were content to sit and observe. Like the rest of his electromechanical brethren, the robot wore a hooded robe that revealed little more than the sculptured planes of his alloy face and hung all the way to the floor. The machine whirred as it brushed past people who had already taken their seats and plopped down between a teacher and a butcher. Neither was especially pleased, and both went to extremes to avoid contact with the creature.

Each attendee had been given a blank square of paper on which they had been invited to write their name, make their mark, or jot down a message to a dead loved one. There was a stir as the ushers called for the audience to pass the billets to the center aisle.

The metal man handed his note to the teacher, who took the moment required to read it, and was surprised to see some extremely neat printing. It read, “Milos Lysander.”

Did that mean the machine was named Lysander? There was no way to know, and it was none of his business, so the teacher passed all the pieces of paper that had come his way down to the center aisle, where they were collected.

The lights dimmed, and the curtains opened, to reveal a young woman sitting on a tall stool with a table at her side. Lamplights, cleverly directed her way through the use of lenses, lit a pretty face. She had long dark hair, large brown eyes, and extremely fair skin. But slender though she was, the sensitive projected an aura of strength, and her eyes flashed as she looked about the room. “Good evening. My name is Lanni Norr. I have good news for you . . . There is
no such thing as death. Only a transition from one plane of existence to another. I am not a witch, nor a magician, but a member of a small group of people who refer to themselves as sensitives. Just as phibs were bred to swim, and wings were born to fly, we were created to facilitate communications between this world and the next.”

Norr emphasized her words by seizing control of the energy in the room, shaping it to her purpose, and reaching out to seize a black skullcap. It belonged to a man seated in the very front row, which meant that everyone could watch the object rise into the air and hang suspended over the man's head. Its owner looked up in astonishment, clapped a hand to his mostly bald pate, and said, “What the hell?”

A twitter ran through the crowd. One of the people seated directly behind the bald man stood and swept an arm back and forth
above
the cap to see if it was suspended by a thread. There was no reaction from the hat other than to rise even higher, move sideways through the air, and settle itself onto the skeptic's head. The audience member examined the cap, shook his head in amazement, and returned the object to its owner.

The crowd loved the byplay, and Norr could feel the amount of positive energy in the room increase. “So,” she continued, “I hope that you will relax and open your minds to the possibility that there are forms of energy and planes of existence beyond the physical realm in which we currently dwell. Contact with those in the next world is never certain, but assuming that we are fortunate enough to construct a momentary bridge between the two planes, listen carefully to what I say. In many cases, though not all, friends and loved ones will attempt to communicate some fact or
incident that only the two of you would be aware of as proof that they still exist and love you.

“During this process one or more of them may take temporary control of my physical body in order to speak directly. Should that occur, please remember that I am the channel, not the spirit entity, and have no control over what he or she may say.

“Please remain in your seats throughout the demonstration, and do not approach the stage, or my friend Loro will be forced to reseat you.”

The heavy stepped out of the shadows at that point, crossed his arms over a massive chest, and eyed the audience. Everyone got the point.

“Okay,” Norr said, “if someone will bring me the billets, we will begin. Please note the fact that I had no way to know who would come tonight—and the messages you submitted have been on display throughout the process.”

A basket filled with scraps of paper was brought forward and placed on the table next to Norr's stool. The sensitive reached in, ran her fingers through the billets, and stopped when her hand started to tingle. She pulled a piece of paper out of the pile without looking at it, crumpled the parchment into a ball, and held it in her fist. Then, blanking her mind, she let what she thought of as “the other side” take over. Words and images began to appear, and she passed them on. “Is there a Loki in the audience? Your mother is here . . . She says that you are correct about Del. He
is
a good man, and it would be a mistake to let this one get away.”

The woman named Loki looked shocked, the audience chuckled, and there was a scattering of applause. More than a dozen messages followed. Most contained at least one or
two items that were evidential, and everything was going well, until Norr dipped her hand into the basket and chose the next billet. What felt like electricity ran all the way up her arm, the sensitive felt cold air embrace her, and knew that a spirit being was about to take control of her body. It soon became apparent that the invading entity wasn't used to a female form and didn't especially like it. But what he
did
approve of however was the prospect of a captive audience. He took control of her voice box and spoke in a voice so low that it hurt. “Good evening. My name is Milos Lysander. Prior to my death I was a scientist, a philosopher, and the primary force behind the Techno Society.”

Most of crowd sat motionless, not quite sure of what was happening, or why. But the metal man was electrified by the announcement. The robot came to his feet, activated all of its onboard recording devices, and ignored the complaints directed at him by those seated behind him. “The mission of the Techno Society,” Lysander continued, “is to literally reshape the future of mankind. More than that, to use technology as the means to reunite the pieces of a once-great empire and lift the scattered remnants of humanity back into the light of reason. How will we accomplish that? Well, I will tell you. First . . .”

As the scientist continued to speak there was a mutter of disapproval, followed by a scattering of insults, and a heartfelt chorus of boos. Norr could
feel
the sentiment in the room start to shift and struggled to reassert control over her body as pieces of food started to fly. A well-aimed piece of overripe fruit hit Norr in the chest, caused Lysander to pause momentarily, and gave the sensitive the opportunity that she'd been looking for. She clamped down, forced the scientist out, and raised her hands in an attempt to calm the crowd. It didn't work. The rowdier members of the audience
liked
throwing food at her, the rest were leaving, and the ushers had produced clubs, which they swung freely.

Loro urged Norr to retreat backstage, which she did. A heavy was waiting there to collect the money she owed to writer's guild and left the moment he was paid. Norr knew she should count the take to ensure that the actor's guild hadn't taken more money than they were entitled to but didn't want to take the time. The crowd was chanting something ugly, the entity named Lysander frightened her, and negative emotions converged from every side. With her bodyguard in attendance the sensitive slipped out through the back door. The metal man was waiting in the shadows, and when the twosome left, the machine followed along behind.

TWO
The Planet Anafa

In order to reestablish man's dominion over the stars, and save humanity from barbarity, it may be necessary to carry out barbarous acts against those who resist our efforts. The essential irony of this is not lost upon the governing council, which regrets the necessity to use violence.

—Techno Society Operations Manual,
Section One: Guiding Principles

The milky white light produced by the planet's twin moons
filtered down through a thin layer of clouds to bathe Seros in a ghostly glow. There were no streetlights, but as the coach followed the winding road that led to the top of monastery hill, Rebo could look out over the city and see thousands of buttery rectangles, each representing a window. It was easy to imagine the warm homey scenes within and the runner felt a momentary sense of envy as the vehicle's steel-shod wheels bounced through a pothole, and a pack of feral dogs emerged from the thick roadside underbrush to run alongside. That made the angens nervous, and Rebo felt the carriage surge forward as the animals tried to escape their pursuers. The driver hollered, “Whoa!” and hauled back on the reins, but to no avail.

But the runner had hired two apprentices to accompany him, and the youngsters knew what to do. Both were armed with smooth-bore weapons. Twin flashes strobed the darkness as the youngsters fired, dogs yelped pitifully as the buckshot tore into them, and those that could ran for cover. The angens settled down after that, and Rebo felt confident enough to remove his hand from the Crosser.

It wasn't long before the carriage swung through a final turn, half a dozen members of the Dib Wa emerged from the surrounding gloom, and orders were shouted up to the driver. The conveyance jerked to a halt, Rebo opened the door, and jumped to the ground. The runner held his hands away from his body as a warrior approached, located his weapons in record time, and removed both from their holsters.

Then, satisfied that the visitor had been defanged, a second Dib Wa led Rebo to a man-sized gate that had been set into a larger gate. The runner stepped over the four-inch-high crosspiece at the bottom of the structure and followed the guard into the monastery's shadowy interior. Rebo
felt
rather than saw a distinct change, since it was just as dark inside the walls as it was on the outside. But there was no denying the profound sense of peace that pervaded the monastery, a feeling so strong it seemed to emanate from the structures around him the way accumulated heat radiates from a stone.

Though born on Thara, the planet on which the Way was headquartered, the runner had never been especially religious. Perhaps that was due to the fact that the fisherfolk of Lorval put their faith in a complicated hierarchy of nature spirits rather than a single god, or maybe it was because the runner had left home at the age of twelve. Whatever the reason the result was the same. Though conscious of the Way, and its importance to millions of practitioners, Rebo had never developed an interest in it.

Golden light spilled out through an open door to make a path across the gray flagstones. A man appeared and stood silhouetted in the opening. It wasn't until the runner was only a few feet away that he recognized Suu Qwa. “Welcome,” the monk said, bowing deeply. “Please follow me.”

In spite of the fact that he was an invited guest, the Dib Wa escort continued to tag along behind Rebo, and the runner wondered why an ostensibly peaceful monastery needed so much security. Perhaps the rumors were true—and the basement
was
packed floor to ceiling with gold ingots.

Various parts of the temple were connected by a maze of passageways, and there were frequent turns, but if the monks hoped to confuse the runner, they failed. Not only did Rebo have a memory worthy of a tax collector, he had an excellent sense of direction, and knew he could find his way out of the complex on his own should that become necessary.

Finally, after what he estimated to be a quarter-mile walk, the runner was ushered into a large room. One end was dominated by a twelve-foot-tall likeness of the ascended being Teon. He had eight arms, and eight hands, each of which held a symbol. The teacher sat as he always did, with his feet on top of his thighs, a feat the runner knew he wouldn't be able to duplicate even with a gun to his head.

The center of the space was dominated by a circle, representing the eternal cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. Seated within its embrace was an elderly man and a young boy. Both wore nearly identical outfits that consisted of red pillbox-style hats, matching robes, and leather sandals. Rebo noticed that Qwa bowed to the youngster first. “Greetings, Excellencies,” Qwa said respectfully. “Please allow me to introduce Jak Rebo.”

Being unsure of the correct etiquette, the runner delivered a short jerky bow, said, “It's a pleasure to meet you,”
and eyed the rather thin pillow that awaited him. Once on the floor Rebo sat with his legs crossed in a poor imitation of the Teon-like posture the monks adopted.

“My name is Dak Babukas,” the elder monk announced, “and the young man to my left is presently referred to as Tra Lee, although we believe that he has lived many previous lives, including his recent incarnation as a teacher called Nom Maa. Now, after years of preparation, the time has come for Tra to make the journey to the city of CaCanth on the planet Thara. Once there he will undergo certain tests, and assuming that he passes them, will take his rightful place as Inwa, or leader of leaders. Your task is to get him there alive.”

Rebo frowned. Though interested in a trip to Thara, there was a considerable difference between delivering a package and a person. Of course such runs were not unknown. In fact, he had handled two such assignments during his career. And, because both individuals had been difficult to get along with, the runner had sworn that he would never accept such a commission again. More than that, Rebo sensed something fishy about the proposal and looked the older monk in the eye. “You have more security than the governor does. So, why hire me? Why not send a squad of your warriors along as escorts?”

The boy remained silent as the adult monks exchanged glances and Qwa spoke. “Our religion consists of two sects, generally referred to as the red hats and the black hats, although the
real
differences are based on theology rather than fashion. Twelve years ago the sixteenth Nom Maa passed into spirit without naming a successor. That led to a power vacuum, which resulted in competition between the two sects and what amounts to an administrative stalemate. However, now that Tra Lee has completed his training, he is ready to take the throne.”

“Yes,” Babukas agreed, “except that the black hats claim that one of their boys is the real Nom Maa, and based on that assertion, believe that he should ascend the throne.”

“That's correct,” Qwa put in, “and there's more. The black hats may seek to prevent the Divine Wind from reaching Thara.”

“May?”
Rebo inquired pointedly. “Or
will?
”

“There is no way to know for sure,” Qwa replied carefully, “but the odds favor some sort of assassination attempt.”

“Which brings us back to where we started,” the runner said. “Why me?”

“Because an escort of Dib Wa would attract a lot of attention,” Babukas answered honestly. “There are thieves to consider . . . and the black hats can muster as many warriors as we can. But a father and son? No one is likely to notice such a pair.”

“
If
I had a son, which I don't,” the runner remarked, “he wouldn't be bald.”

“A wig has been prepared,” Qwa replied smoothly, “and appropriate clothes would be provided as well.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, which was broken when Tra Lee spoke for the first time. “I don't believe that Citizen Rebo is being entirely frank with us. He was willing to accept the assignment until he learned the true nature of the package involved. Now he has doubts. So, Citizen Rebo, what can I do or say to convince you that I will be a minimum amount of trouble?”

The runner looked into Tra Lee's eyes and saw unexpected depths there. The little boy sounded more like an adult than a nine- or ten-year-old. Were the monks correct? Did Tra Lee's body house the reincarnated body of a great teacher? Or did the little boy seem wise beyond his years solely because he had been raised to come across that way? It
was impossible to tell, but something about the youngster's seemingly sincere demeanor caused the runner to soften slightly. Besides, Rebo
did
want to visit Thara, and the pay was extremely good. He cleared his throat and addressed his questions to Lee. “Would you follow my orders? And do so quickly? Without question?”

The boy gazed unblinkingly into Rebo's eyes. “So long as your instructions are consistent with moral law, I will obey.”

The qualification bothered the runner, but he couldn't imagine asking the lad to do something
immoral,
so he nodded. “All right then, I'll take the commission. One thing though . . . See if you can find a boy who looks a lot like our young friend here. Dress him for the part, parade him about, and treat him like he's the real deal. Maybe, if we're lucky, the black hats will believe that he's still in Seros long after our ship breaks orbit.”

“It shall be as you say,” Babukas replied. “When should his majesty join you?”

“Tomorrow,” Rebo replied. “Figure out a low-key way to deliver him to my guild. I'll take it from there.”

“Excellent,” Qwa replied. “Would you care for some tea? No? I will escort you out then. The first half of your pay is waiting in your carriage.”

Rebo rose, hoped the monks couldn't tell how stiff he was, and said good-bye to both Babukas and Lee. Later that night the runner would return to Thara in his dreams, none of which were good.

It was dark along the street,
very
dark, which was one of
the reasons why the locals retreated inside their homes and locked their doors within minutes of sunset. The Market Street Inn was no different. Lights glowed behind thick panes of glass, but the front door was securely closed, and
presumably barred from within. A problem, but not an insurmountable one, assuming that this was the correct location.

Jevan Kane used a series of quick hand gestures to position his operatives, taking special care to post lookouts and ensure that the back entrance was covered. Finally, satisfied that no would be able to escape the structure without being intercepted, Kane turned to the metal man who stood at his elbow. “This is the place . . . You're sure?”

Robots didn't possess emotions, so the machine took no offense. “Yes, sir. The sensitive handed something to the heavy. He left, and she went inside.”

Kane pulled a hood down over his face and pulled a semiautomatic pistol out of his waistband. The eyes that stared out through the precut holes were like chips of blue ice. “Good. Depart the area immediately. I don't want you and your kind associated with this kind of activity.”

The machine backed into the darkness and was gone moments later. Kane gave a low whistle. A pair of hooded heavies appeared. They held a metal battering ram between them. On a signal from Kane they approached the front door, swung the ram back, and heaved it forward. There was a loud
crash,
followed by the splintering of wood, and shouts from within. The battering ram struck again, the beam that barred the door broke in two, and what remained of the barrier flew open. A man appeared in the opening. He was armed with a double-barreled scattergun, which he fired into the night. One of the heavies cried out in pain and brass arced away from Kane's weapon as it bucked in his hand. The reports were still dying away as the innkeeper fell over backward.

Three operatives pushed through the doorway after that and Kane heard more gunfire. The operative entered the
tiny lobby to find the innkeeper's wife huddled in a bloody corner, while a guest who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time lay a few feet away. That left a sobbing maid. Tears ran down her acne-pitted face, and her body shook with fear, as a heavy held her in his grasp. “I'm looking for a sensitive,” Kane told her. “A young female. Which room is she in?”

“R-r-room three,” the maid stuttered.

“Thanks,” Kane said, and shot her in the chest. Blood sprayed the heavy, who swore, and let go of her arm. The body made a soft
thump
as it hit the floor.

“Room three must be upstairs,” one of the operatives said, having just returned from a quick exploration of the ground floor.

Boots thundered on worn treads as the invaders raced up the stairs to the second floor, where they examined the numbers on each door. “Here it is!” someone shouted, and Kane turned in that direction. “Open it,” he said tersely, “but don't shoot. We need her alive.”

The operative knew that, but nodded obediently, as a heavy shoulder hit the door. It flew open and Kane followed his team inside. But outside of a single bed, a dilapidated dresser, and a single chair the room was empty. Kane kicked the chair and sent it crashing into a wall. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

Although the metal man had seen Norr enter, the android had been forced to leave long enough to make his report. It appeared that during that relatively short interval the sensitive had slipped away. The question was why? Did the young woman know that the Techno Society was looking for her? She was a psychic after all. Or was she simply prudent? The sensitive had every reason to be concerned about thieves—and might have left for that reason alone.