Logan Trilogy (47 page)

Nothing impressed Miles 7 except certain exotic favors he'd received at a local glasshouse.

Logan didn't want to ask the question that had to be asked. He drew in a breath, fighting to maintain a surface calm. The muscles in his cheeks were rigid.

"Is she dead?"

The DS veteran shrugged. "We had her totally blocked. No way out of the woods. She was locked on the scope-less than a mile ahead of us. But when we closed in…" He shrugged again. "Nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"You've heard of them. We all have. Runners who disappear. Females. They just vanish. That's the only word for it."

"She was gone when you closed in?"

"That's what I said. Gone. No trace of her."

"Maybe there is a Sanctuary," said Logan softly.

The DS man raised an eyebrow. "Sanctuary?" He stared at Logan. "What's that?"

With his fears for Jess eliminated (She wasn't homered! She may be alive somewhere on this Earth!) Logan gave himself over to Godbirth.

For Logan and Francis and the ten others in their group, it was the Time of Ritual. Their robot guide was tall and faceless and unapproachable and would answer no questions. He was there only to direct them; they must do precisely what he ordered.

They rode in tense silence through the maze.

Logan experienced a sense of renewed confidence. Against all odds, he had survived to make this journey. Perhaps he could uncover the world powerhead and defeat it; perhaps he could return to his own Earth, to Jess and their new son…

The mazecar flashed through the long tunnels in a steady, humming surge, a glint of swift-running silver, moving…

Where? To what global destination?

The platform they reached in final transit gave no hint of location. But as they left the maze they moved up into desert beat.

At ground level, they had their answer: upper Egypt. The eastern bank of the Nile.

They stepped from the maze exit into a stunning mass of carved granite, of shaped stone pillars and pylons and obelisks and massive courtyards open to sky and sun. They were in the Great Temple of Amon-Re, the Sun King, at Luxor, near Thebes, walking through a stone forest of immense drum columns that towered nearly seventy feet above their heads, each column alive with Egyptian hieroglyphs—an elaborate stonecut history of this timeless land.

They were now allowed to ask their guide basic questions.

"Is this the Place of Miracles?" Logan asked.

"No," said the robot. "This is an area of preparation, where your bodies and minds will be cleansed—

so that you may be worthy to join the Gods."

"Bodies and minds," Logan remarked softly to Francis. "That means they'll lift us, give us drugs."

"Don't judge things," Francis warned. "Just do exactly what you're told to do. We're in other hands now, Logan. We're into the ritual. Flow with it, don't question it!"

Logan hated all drugs. As a Sandman, he had visited hallucimills when he'd been down, guilt-ridden, when he had felt despair and depression. Drugs were an escape from life, a weakness, a distortion of reality—the reflection of a sick society. But now he had to accept the ritual. No choice. Don't question what happens, just let it happen. This is what you've been waiting for, fighting to reach. Go with it.

They were led down an avenue of cool stone, between tall rows of reclining ram-headed beasts with shadowed eyes, past fountains that whispered in liquid voices, to a wide courtyard dominated by a pool of shining crystal edged in tinted limestone.

Here they undressed and bathed in the scented waters.

In spungold sunrobes, they were led to the Place of Meditation, a vast, stone-topped chamber forming the heart of Amon-Re's temple. Surrounding them, lining the four walls, were rows of manlike beast-headed Gods carved in black ebony.

The twelve were seated, in a loose circle, on satin pillows. The floor of the chamber was covered with soft furs, and the afternoon sunlight was muted to a golden haze in this atmosphere of tranquillity.

Each of them was handed a small, delicately wrought cup of scrolled silver-containing what the robot called "the elixir of divinity," designed to place them in "a state of inner peace and receptivity."

Receptive to what? Logan wondered. According to the aliens, he had been provided with a mindshield against this type of mental preconditioning. Therefore, no drug, however potent, could have a lasting effect on him.

I'll go under, but I'll come out clean. I'm shielded against ultimate mental control.

Or am I?

Francis smiled, raising his cup. "To Godbirth!"

And they drank.

PAIN AND ANGUISH

Now they were out of Egypt, in a mazecar headed for Cape Steinbeck, to the rockets, and Francis was Ballard, which was perfectly normal, perfectly understandable, and Logan was glad it was over.

Jessica was waiting for him on board the rocket. Ballard had brought her there from Jamaica.

"She was running," said Ballard, old and tired, with the gray in his hair making him look older—but then, he'd lived a double lifetime…

"Thank you for saving her," said Logan.

"That's my job. Saving people. That's what I'm here to do. As Francis I kill them and as Ballard I save them. We each have our job."

"I thought you were dead," Logan told him.

"Well, I'm here. I'm with you in this mazecar. That's proof of life, isn't it?"

"There's too much death," said Logan. "I'm glad you survived."

"You'll survive too, Logan," said the tired man. "You don't quit. You never give up. You'll survive."

The mazecar slotted into a platform and they climbed out.

They were at Steinbeck, at the edge of the Keys, and the muggy Florida heat assaulted them as they cleared the maze.

It was noon, and desperately hot. Serengeti heat. The tarmac bubbled and steamed beneath Logan as he walked. The raw smell of tar was in the air, and the long plain ahead of them shimmered and danced.

"There, Logan! The rocket!"

Logan raised his head, blinking.

"She's on board, waiting for you. Jess is waiting!"

The rocket was tall and magnificent, glinting against the horizon, a thing of power and grace and beauty. A mountain of metal, a silver Kilimanjaro rising into baked blue sky.

Logan smiled. He would ride this great ship into space, ride it home with Jess, to their son, to young Jaq and Fennister and Mary-Mary and Jonath…

No, Jonath was dead. Evans 9 had Gunned him at Crazy Horse. Used a ripper on him.

"Here we are," said Ballard, standing with Logan at the foot of the iron ladder that led to the open port. "Better get aboard."

They shook hands firmly. "I owe you everything," said Logan. His voice was tight with emotion.

"Nonsense. You owe me nothing. You did it…you survived. You'll never die, Logan. They can't kill you. They tried, with their power and their Guns, but you eluded them, outwitted them. You lived as others died."

"Jonath wanted to live," said Logan.

"We all want to live. With you, we run, we survive."

"They killed Jaq. The Riders killed him"

"He lives in you. And in Jessica. A new Jaq lives!"

Ballard made it all sound right. Simple and direct and easy to understand. All of it easy. No mysteries.

No guilts. No losses.

"Come with us, Ballard! Home! To a better Earth."

The gray man shook his head slowly. "I've got my job to do here," he said quietly.

"And if they kill you?"

"Then I'll live in you," he said, smiling.

And Logan began climbing the ladder.

Upward, steeply upward, steel rung after steel rung after steel rung after steel rung…

The rocket was very tall, miles tall, and Logan had to climb all the way up to reach Jess. All the way.

A mile up, he paused. Jessica was waving to him from the open hatch, a tiny warm dot above him. He looked down, over his right shoulder—and Ballard was Francis, all in black, all in killing black, with the Gun shining, and with his skull-thin smile shining and his eyes dark, and shining in the sudden midnight that engulfed them, engulfed the Keys, the tall rocket, the ladder.

Where was Jess now? Logan could no longer see her; the darkness was too thick, like dense smoke.

His tongue tasted of rust and bile as he continued to climb. Rung after steel rung after steel rung after steel rung after steel rung…

How high now?

Three miles? Four?

Below him, Francis aimed the Gun. "Time to die, Logan," he said in a soft, venomous whisper. Logan heard him clearly.

"No, damn you, no!" And he began climbing faster.

Must outclimb the homer, he told himself. Because it's coming for me. He's fired it by now, and it's unfair. Totally unfair. He told me I'd live forever. He lied. No, not Ballard. He would never lie. It was Francis. You could never trust Francis. Keep it all straight in your mind. Don't get confused.

It's coming for me. As it came for the girl near the fence back at Angeles in that other world so long ago. Remember her? Oh, it came for her and she tried to run and it followed her along the fence and it took out her entire nervous system like bursting stars. Starflesh. Bursting.

Logan could feel it coming up through the heavy dark, slicing the night, fast, fast…

Hurry! Rung after steel rung after steel rung after steel rung…climbing for Jess. Climbing for life.

There! He was at the hatch. He'd made it! He reached the open port and in the fogged darkness he was pulled on board the ship.

The hatch slammed shut.

Saved! He'd outclimbed the homer!

Jessica was in his arms. Her lips were sweet. Her hair smelled of hyacinth and wild honey. Her eyes were shining with love, shining like the eyes of Francis.

She was Francis.

"There's no escape," the gaunt Sandman whispered, and his smile was a knife, cutting.

He fired the homer into Logan's stomach.

With the charge working in him, tearing him apart, with his nerves splitting, ripping, unraveling, he clawed open the hatch and jumped from the silo.

Into the jaws of the dragon…into the 'cuda's razored mouth.

And the dark gouted blood.

…drug…in the cup…making all this…must not let it…control me…not…let it…

Francis stroked the girl's naked shoulder with gentle fingers. His voice was soft, his dark eyes filled with sadness. "She's so beautiful, Logan…so very, very beautiful."

"But why is she here?"

They were in the main databank report room at DS. The room was very quiet. All the boards were silent. No one else was there.

Just Logan, Francis, and the girl.

"I asked her to come here," said Francis. He reached out, tipped up her chin. "Open your eyes. Tell Logan your name."

The girl opened her eyes. She was sitting in front of the central feeder unit, her naked body illumined faintly by the banded rows of glowing circuit lights. The lights struck through her blond hair, creating filaments of glowing gold. Her full breasts stirred as she turned toward Logan.

"I'm Glinith," she said. "Glinith 21. And that's what I'll be very soon!" She giggled, holding out her right hand to him, palm up. "See!" The time-crystal was blinking.

"She's on Lastday," said Francis, stroking her night-dark hair. The lights of the board were smothered and trapped in this inked mane of full-spilling hair. "She'll be dead very soon."

"Very soon," echoed Glinith, and her hair was deep-crimson, flowing like soft fire to her waist.

Logan was alert, cat-nervous. Things were wrong in this room. Many wrong things here. "Why are the boards inactive?" he asked Francis.

"Simple." The gaunt man nodded. "All the runners are dead."

"All dead," echoed the girl. She extended her arms. "Take me, Logan. Sex me!"

"No." He shook his head. "Not now. Not here. It's all wrong here."

"I'll take her." Francis grinned, stripping his uniform. He lifted Glinith from the control chair, placing her gently on the polished black-marble floor.

Francis touched her breasts, spreading himself beside her on the cool marble. She ran her hands slowly over his naked chest, her hair gold now under the flickered lights.

Logan said, "I'm going."

"Where?" asked Francis, as the girl writhed beneath him. "Where is there to go?"

"Back to my unit."

"It's not there," Francis said, and the girl moaned softly as his body penetrated hers. "Nothing's out there, Logan. It's all here. Everything is here."

The girl sobbed, cried out in sharp release as Francis rolled away from her. Sweat glistened along his shoulders and back, a finely beaded mist. The sweat of cold passion.

Logan could not find the exit door.

Something was very wrong.

"Hand me my belt," said Francis.

The girl lay face down on the mirror-polished floor, breathing deeply.

Wrong.

Logan gave the belt to Francis, who unsnapped the Gun holster. He removed the weapon. It pulsed in molten heat against the girl's skin as Francis pressed the long barrel into her lower spine.

"What are you doing?" Logan asked.

"Killing her," said Francis. "She's on black now."

And he triggered the Gun.

The nitro blew the girl apart.

…the drug is…what is this…doing to me wrong…twisted…I'll be all right…if I…can…just…

And Jessica stared at her mirror-imaged self. "Why did you come here? Why come to me?"

"To tell you that Logan is dead," said Jess. "Francis killed him. It was inevitable. No one can escape Francis."

"Did you love him?"

"Yes. As you did. We both loved him, and he loved both of us. In many ways, to him, we were the same person. Exactly alike."

"I'm not like you. I have a son."

"My flesh is yours."

"Not mine. No. You come from another world,"

"Bridged by space and time."

"But uncrossable. Each world separate. Each cut off from the other."

"But I'm here. You see me."

"I see myself. The mirror self. Only me. Not you. I'm alone here. And Jaq is dead."