Logan Trilogy (29 page)

Logan remained silent as Gant fingered a large, square-cut ruby, one of several on the desk. He studied his captive, turning the ruby slowly in his fingers. "Now I have the Central Core, and you. A double bonus."

"All these years…you've been brooding about my escape."

"You dishonored me as a Sandman!"

"You have no honor, Gant! You've never had it. All you're after is revenge."

"An honorable goal in itself," said Gant. "Many great men have sought it." He chuckled. "In fact, when you killed at Steinbeck you were seeking exactly that against the Borgias. Revenge."

"I wanted Jess back. I went there to find her—but it was you behind it all. You had her taken!"

"No, I'm afraid I can't claim credit for that. The outlanders happened upon her, didn't realize the prize they'd found. I was able to purchase her for a very modest price. But the price didn't matter…"

He stood up, walked casually over to Logan, buried his right fist in his hair and savagely jerked Logan's head back. "I wanted you, Logan." His voice was cold iron. "Wanted you here!"

Then he smiled again, releasing his grip, moved back to his desk. "Actually, until Jessica was put on the Market, I was not aware that you'd returned to Earth. But once I found her it made everything simple. Buy her. Hold her. Get word to you. Wait for you. All very simple."

"How do I know you haven't killed her?"

"You don't," said Gant. "I thought carefully about it, thought about bringing you here and showing you her corpse…but decided on a richer plan. One that will…satisfy me more."

"Were you…satisfied with Jonath's death?" asked Logan bitterly.

"He was brandishing a weapon. There was no other course of action possible."

"Look…" Logan drew in a breath. "We've had our talk. When do I see Jess?"

"Soon. As I promised," smiled the tall man. "I note, by the way, that you seem to find my smile unusual. Rubies happen to be a personal vanity of mine. I visited a New You and had these put in. I rather like the effect."

"Why can't I see Jessica now?"

Gant's face tightened. "Because I say you can't. First…there's a special room you must visit. Of my own design. I think you'll find it…stimulating. After your visit there you'll be reunited with Jessica."

"If you're lying to me, Gant…If she's dead…"

"What will you do?"

"I'll kill you. Somehow, I'll kill you"

Gant laughed, a booming sound in the room. "As a Sandman you never lacked bravado, Logan.

Always full of drive, self-confidence…But, in your present situation, threatening me is an empty and ridiculous gesture." He took a Fuser from his desk, moved quickly to press the flanged barrel against Logan's forehead. "I could burn you in an instant."

"I don't deny it," said Logan. His eyes met Gant's, locked on them. "But you heard what I said."

Gant flung aside the weapon, abruptly turned his bronzed back on Logan. He raised a hand. "Take him away."

And Logan was dragged from the room.

STORM

In the six years since the death of the cities Gant had built his personal kingdom at Crazy Horse.

Stripping the Thinker itself for raw materials, he'd constructed a miniature city beneath the mountain.

Logan saw only parts of it as they marched him down hallways, past labs and crew quarters, through a courtyard, past food-storage lockers…but he was impressed.

Yet he did not ask questions. His curiosity about Gant was canceled by his consuming desire to see Jessica, to hold her again…She's here, he told himself, here in one of these buildings…

Escape, at this point, was a useless hope. In addition to the chokechain and tapewire, the four Sandmen who walked with him (one leading, one to either side, another following) all carried Guns in their hands.

He would do as they instructed. If Gant had not been lying, he'd be allowed to see Jess after whatever torture the man had set up for him to endure. And Logan had endured much in his life. He would endure this—and hope.

Jess, Jess…I love you!

"Stop here," said the lead Sandman.

They had reached a wide duralloy door, set flush into the corridor's end. The door was solid metal, and smelled of oil. One of the Sandmen unlocked it, swung it back. "Inside," he said.

Logan entered—and the heavy door crashed shut behind him.

Soft laughter in the corridor, and the Sandmen were gone.

Logan was alone.

The chamber was large, perhaps twenty by twenty feet, of bolted metal, totally bare. Not a single item of any kind—just metal walls, ceiling, floor. And, as Logan tested the surface, cool to the touch.

There were round holes of varying size punched into the ceiling, scores of them. And as many in the floor. The walls were vented, top to bottom.

Am I to be gassed in here? Is that Gant's plan? Ironic. Saved in New York from the same fate I'll suffer here…Will Gant really allow me to see Jess? Will I leave this room alive?

Logan raised his head, tensing his body; he swung around abruptly.

Someone was touching him!

No, not someone. Something: a slight draft of currented air, touching at his face, his hair…emanating from the vents. Fresh. Not gas. Fresh air.

But subtly increasing, gradually becoming stronger.

A soft, pattering sound—and Logan felt wetness against his skin. Slow drops of water, dripping down on him from a multitude of ceiling holes.

A muted rumble from the room, a faint, far-distant sound, like the throb of giant drums.

The current of air had become a breeze, blowing chill against Logan's rapidly-dampening uniform.

The patter of drops from the ceiling intensified, became a steady downfall, soaking Logan's hair and clothing.

The breeze soon mounted to a wind, whipping at Logan in cold gusts from the wallvents surrounding him.

The downpour increased to a fierce curtain of iced sleet, and the muted drum-rumble boomed into full thunder, assaulting Logan's eardrums.

He staggered back, dazed, helpless—as the wind punished him, building in force by the second.

Now another frightening element manifested itself in the chamber: firebolts of lightning danced and crackled around him, first at one wall, then at the next.

Logan clapped both hands to his ears to muffle the thunder's brutal roar, his mouth gaping in shocked agony.

A solid gust of wind slapped him to the floor. He rose to his knees, fighting for balance on the

rainslick metal, crawled toward a corner to lessen the storm's impact—but a sizzle of heat-lightning forced him back to the room's center.

The wind was a demon's shriek, the thunderclaps now impossibly loud in the metal chamber.

Something began cutting at Logan's skin, drawing blood along his cheek. Hailstones—sharp-edged pellets of cold ice which pounded and slashed at his unprotected head and shoulders.

Now the wind suddenly reversed direction, taking Logan by surprise; under its gale force, he was toppled and slammed into the wall.

Again the hurricane blast abruptly reversed direction, and Logan was hurled across the slippery floor into the opposite wall, striking the metal with bonecrushing impact.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Viciously pelted and buffeted, Logan lay gasping on his back, blood running from a dozen wounds, the hail and rain drumming his flesh.

He opened his mouth and cried out, but his voice was swallowed up in the cruel, unending din, as the storm raged.

REUNION

"Do you think he's ready now?" asked Evans 9.

Gant nodded. "Tell them to kill the storm, then have Logan brought to Room K…" His smile glowed red….where I shall keep my promise to him."

Evans turned to leave when Gant's voice stopped him.

"One thing I'd like to know."

"Yes?"

"I'm curious," said Gant. "What made you betray him? You were friends once…yet you set the trap that brought him here."

"I'm a proud man," said Evans. "Logan kept me in his shadow. In DS he assumed a position of superiority. He was arrogant, self-serving. He never tried to understand me. Even took our friendship for granted. Thought it was a privilege for me to be his friend! But I was never his friend! I knew someday I'd best him. And I have."

"Indeed you have," nodded Gant. "It seems we share similar emotional attitudes toward Logan. Which helps bind us in the venture."

"I want him dead," said Evans flatly.

And he left.

When they opened the door Logan did not move, did not look at them. Water dripped languorously from the ceiling, draining away along the floor.

The storm was over.

Logan lay in a far corner of the chamber, knees drawn up tight against his body, head sunken against his chest, eyes closed. His breathing was irregular. His soaked, torn uniform was spotted with blood.

Two Sandmen walked over to him, lifted him by the elbows, dragging him toward the door. He moved in a broken child's stumble, his eyes glazed, unfocused. Small, mewling sounds issued from his mouth.

The Sandmen smiled at one another as they led him away from the stormroom.

Room K formed part of Gant's personal living quarters, and was lavish. Cut from the natural rock of the mountain, it was walled in leathertrim and lit by moonglobes, which cast their soft radiance on Jessica's pale skin. When Gant entered she rushed to him, eyes pleading. "Have you brought Logan?

Where is he?"

Gant ran a dark hand along the shine of her hair. "They're bringing him. He'll be here soon, I assure you."

She turned away, slipped nervously into a bodychair. The green silk gown she wore, cut low at the breasts, pressed in against the curves of her body.

"I'm sure he'll find you as desirable as ever," Gant said, moving to a winetable. Seating himself, he sampled a French vintage, inhaling its subtle bouquet. "The Borgias treated you well, all things considered. They could have disfigured you, ruined your beauty."

"They were foul to me," she said.

"Come now, Jessica. Put yourself in their place. You belonged to them. You were a woman of strong sexual attraction. Naturally they used you. But Lucrezia knew enough not to allow abuse. That was the key. She kept your Market value intact." He chuckled. "Had she known just how much I wanted you, and for what ultimate purpose, she could have realized a much greater profit."

"I'm glad Logan killed her," said Jessica darkly. "She didn't deserve to live—not after what she did to Jaq."

"Your Logan is a strong-willed, violent man." He hesitated, for effect. "Or should I say…was."

Jessica looked startled, suddenly frightened. Her eyes sought Gant's. "Then, he's not coming! You've lied to me…Logan is dead!"

Gant smiled, and the moonglobes flashed crimson from his rubied teeth. "No, not dead. Merely…

gentled…eased from his violence. I have given him the gift of bodily peace."

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"I went to a great deal of trouble to have him brought here to you. In justice, you should be grateful to me, not suspicious."

Jessica's eyes burned with heat; her hands were fisted. "You hate us both for daring to do what you lacked the courage to do—for seeking Sanctuary."

"I stood by my duty," said Gant, his voice gone hard. "Logan ran from his."

The door chimed softly.

"Ah, the moment of your reconciliation is at hand," said Gant. "It should be touching." He palmed the door and it whispered open.

Logan was there, his sagging body held erect between two Sandmen. He blinked rapidly as Jessica ran forward to embrace him.

"Logan…oh, Logan!" She put her arms around him, frantically kissed his lips, held his face between her cupped hands. He showed no sign of recognition.

His face was totally expressionless.

"He doesn't know me!" She swung toward Gant, stunned. "What have you done to him?"

Gant smiled, a red gash of pleasure.

Logan stared at nothing.

FRIEND

They were stripped naked and thrown into a cell of raw rock, dirt-floored, exposed to constant drafts of cold air slicing through the interior of Crazy Horse. Gant's instructions were concise: No clothing.

No food. Water at two-day intervals.

He wanted to see them rot.

Logan was helpless. He whimpered, lacked control of his body functions, was incapable of speech. As Jessica held him, his muscles jerked spastically. His, eyes rolled white. Saliva dribbled from the corners of his slack mouth.

The stormroom had broken him.

Through the long hours, Jessica crooned to him, stroked his trembling skin with gentle fingers—but he did not know her. She was a warm presence, nothing more, in the dim gray web of his mental world.

Her voice was a litany: "Logan, my darling…my dearest…Logan…Logan…Logan, my love…

But they had a friend at Crazy Horse—a silent figure weaving in shadowed stealth through the twisting rock caverns surrounding the Thinker—a friend who knew Gant's ways and awaited the chance to move against him.

Watching.

Waiting.

Until a plan was evolved.

And acted upon.

Gant entered their cell with Steratt, his chief guard. Steratt was lean and sharp-featured, with the muscles of a hunting dog; he was dressed in slash-chest ivory leathers, wore thighboots and carried a small black handcase.

Jessica looked up at them, blinking, nestling Logan close to her shoulder.

Gant opened the handcase, took out a looped object.

Bodywhip.

He handed the whip to Jessica. "Use it on him," he said in a flat, emotionless tone.

"No!" She threw it aside.

Gant nodded to Steratt. He pulled Jessica up by her hair, swinging her toward Gant. Who slapped her.

Hard.

Logan blinked at them, his face devoid of expression. Blood flecked Jessica's mouth. "I…won't," she gasped.

"If you don't," said Gant, taking a Fuser from his belt, aiming it at Logan, "I'll burn him where he lies!"