Logos Run (33 page)

If the abbess thought Rebo was about to flee, she made no effort to stop him as the runner bolted out of surgery and sprinted down the hall. Once in the cell where the two of them had been allowed to sleep, the off-worlder grabbed what few belongings they had and went back the way he had come. The scarab had surfaced by that time, Norr’s wound had been sealed, and the robot’s tiny feet continued to wiggle as the abbess placed the device back in its basin.

“Okay,” Rebo said, as he dumped both packs next to the operating table. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all that you’ve done. . . . The police are sure to separate us once they come in—so could I have a moment alone with Lonni?”

Kartha’s expression softened. “Yes, of course. But don’t take long.”

“I won’t,” the runner promised, and felt for Norr’s pulse as the nuns left the room. It was weak, but still there, and Rebo allowed himself to hope.

Norr wasn’t entirely sure what was taking place in the physical realm, but allowed herself to be drawn back into her body, where it was necessary to grit her teeth against the pain. Conscious now, but still laid out on her stomach, the sensitive heard Rebo speak. “Sogol? Can you hear me?”

The AI slithered up the sensitive’s bare arm to gather itself on her shoulder. “Yes,” the computer answered, “I can hear you.”

“Good. Lonni damned near got killed stealing that gate seed . . . So the least you can do is get us out of here!”

“I would be happy to,” Logos 1.2 responded. “But before I can activate the gate seed you must remove the sphere from the cage that presently surrounds it.”

Now, having been reminded, Rebo knew that the AI was correct. Once activated the globe would start to spin— which wouldn’t be possible until the object was released from the lamp. But how to free it? And do so
before
the police came to get him?

The runner swore a long string of oaths as he secured a grip on the big instrument cabinet, wrestled the piece of furniture over to the door, and pushed it into place. The obstacle wouldn’t keep the authorities out for very long, Rebo knew that, but figured any delay would help.

Having bought some time, the runner began to rifle through the cabinet’s drawers. He had already rejected a number of instruments, none of which looked like they would be appropriate to the task, when he saw what appeared to be a bone saw. But would it cut through metal? Rebo was about to experiment when Sogol spoke. “What about Norr’s sword? Would
that
do the job?”

“Damn!” Rebo exclaimed. “I should have thought of that.” The bone saw clattered as it hit the floor.

The nuns had removed both the sword and scabbard shortly after bringing Norr into the operating room. The runner hurried over to where the weapon lay and heard the whisper of steel as he pulled the blade free. Norr, who had been witness to the conversation, managed to croak his name. “Jak . . .”

Rebo felt his heart leap. He hurried to the young woman’s side. “You’re conscious! Thank God! How do you feel?”

“Never mind that,” the sensitive whispered hoarsely. “Be careful with the sword! The blade is extremely sharp. If you aim for the center of the lamp, it will cut through the framework
and
the gate seed.”

“Which would be most unfortunate,” Logos 1.2 put in. “Because the resulting explosion would destroy this room, the nunnery, and half of Pohua.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Rebo said dryly. Then, having placed the lamp well clear of the operating table, the runner brought the sword up over his head and brought the supersharp edge down along the right side of the lamp. There was a shower of sparks as metal parted, the runner took a nasty shock, and the acrid scent of ozone filled the air. His arm was still tingling when Rebo returned the weapon to its scabbard and bent to retrieve what remained of the lamp. He was relieved to see that the sphere was intact. Then, as the runner struggled to bend a piece of metal out of the way, someone began to pound on the door. “This is the police! Open up!”

Rebo drew the 9mm, fired two shots into the very top of the door, and heard loud scuffling noises as the police beat a hasty retreat. “Okay,” the runner said, having returned the pistol to its holster, “where were we? Ah, yes, the gate seed. I press on both dimples for sixty seconds . . . right?”

“That’s correct,” Sogol assured him. “Then, when you feel the locks give, twist both hemispheres in opposite directions.”

Rebo pressed, heard noises out in the hall, and knew the police were getting ready to take another crack at the door. “Hurry,” Norr croaked. “Or we’ll rot in whatever passes for Pohua’s jail.” The sensitive made an attempt to rise, but the pain was too intense, and she collapsed.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the locks gave. Then, having secured a good grip on both halves of the sphere, the runner twisted them in opposite directions. Beams of bright light stabbed the walls, the object started to oscillate, and Rebo had to let go as a battering ram hit the door.

TWELVE

The elders had been hung by their thumbs from the frame
work that normally served to smoke meat during the fall months, when the entire village labored to make itself ready for winter, and the dogs grew fat from eating scraps. The villagers’ bare feet had been weighted with rocks, and hung only six inches above the coals, which meant that those who were conscious could smell their burning flesh. All because the village’s chief had been so brave, or so stupid, as to spit on the crippled man.

But, in spite of the systematic torture, the locals refused to surrender their secrets. Or so Tepho assumed, as he ordered one of the metal men to throw another bucket of water onto Subchief Milo Vester, in hopes that the shock would revive him. The water hit the villager’s smoke-blackened face, brought him back into full consciousness, and provoked an explosion of steam as it hit the hot coals. The subchief screamed, or tried to, but produced a strange choking noise instead.

Meanwhile, those villagers lucky enough to survive the spitting incident stood in a sullen group with downcast eyes. Tepho made use of the dead chief ’s hand-carved totem stick to point at Vester’s badly charred feet. “You think that’s painful?” the off-worlder demanded contemptuously. “You know nothing of pain. . . . I was born in pain, have lived with pain every day of my life, and know what
real
pain is. And so will you unless you answer my questions truthfully.”

“But I
have
,” Vester protested pitifully. “There is
no
island of Buru, not that I’m aware of, so how can I tell you about it?”

Tepho slapped his leg with the totem stick and was about to order one of the metal men to put more wood on the fire, when Logos spoke. Because the AI’s voice seemed to originate from Tepho, the villagers assumed that
two
spirits occupied the stranger’s twisted body. They stirred uneasily and sketched protective symbols into the air. “He could be telling the truth,” Logos suggested. “I doubt any of these people have been more than a couple of hundred miles from the village—so their knowledge of geography is bound to be somewhat limited. Not to mention the fact that the island could have been renamed during the years I’ve been absent.”

Vester wasn’t sure where the second voice was coming from, but sensed a potential ally and was quick to agree. “That’s right!” the subchief said desperately. “We’re ignorant people here. . . . We know nothing of such important matters.”

Tepho tapped his cheek with what had become a swagger stick. “Then who would?” the technologist inquired mildly.

“Lord Arbuk would!” Vester answered eagerly. “He rules from the city of Esperance.”

Tepho turned to the assembled villagers. “Is that true?”

Heads nodded, and a number of voices answered in the affirmative.

The administrator eyed their grimy faces. “Who among you has been to Esperance?”

After a pause, and some whispering, three slightly hesitant hands went up.

Tepho turned to Shaz and Phan. “Put them in shackles. Kill the rest.”

Rather than waste ammunition on a planet where it could be difficult to obtain more—the combat variant ordered the metal men to carry out the executions with their clubs. Some of the villagers tried to flee, but were quickly run down and dispatched on the spot.

Vester passed out at some point during the bloody process but was returned to consciousness when the rain hit his face. The off-world killers had departed by then, so even though the subchief
wanted
to die, no one remained to grant his wish. Tendrils of steam rose around the subchief, rain-drops fell like tears, and Socket passed high above.

There was a loud crash as the battering ram made contact with the operating room’s door, followed by the sound of splintering wood, and a prolonged screech as two burly policemen pushed the heavy storage unit out of the way. Once the path was clear the chief of police and Ulbri Alzani stepped into the surgery and paused to look around.

They saw the operating table, the nude woman who lay facedown on it, and the man who stood next to her. Then there was a flash of light, followed by a miniature clap of thunder, and the tableau disappeared. The table, the woman,
and
the man vanished into thin air, as did part of the nearest wall, a sizeable chunk of the tiled floor, and the Alzani family’s prized lamp. The reality of that, the finality of it, brought the old man to his knees. And that’s where Ulbri Alzani was, still sobbing, when his number three son came to take the patriarch home.

When Rebo came to he was drowning. The water was crystal clear, which meant he could see the operating table, Norr, and all manner of other objects as they drifted toward the sandy bottom. The runner wanted to breathe more than he had ever wanted anything before. But if
he
needed to breathe, so did Norr, who continued to sink toward the bottom in spite of her feeble efforts to swim. It felt as if his lungs were on fire as Rebo fought his way down to the variant, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and kicked as hard as he could. Bubbles raced them to the surface, spray exploded away from the runner’s head, and Norr emerged a second later.

Both spluttered as they gasped for air. Rebo spotted an island, wrapped an arm around Norr’s torso, and kicked for shore. The bottom came up quickly, Rebo found his feet, and cradled the sensitive in his arms as he marched up out of the water toward the smokestack-shaped construct that dominated the center of the island.

Norr winced as the runner laid her down in the shade. Rebo saw the grimace, rolled the sensitive onto her side, and saw that her wound had reopened. A rivulet of blood was running down her back. The runner unbuckled his weapons harness, hurried to remove his shirt, and worked to wring as much water out of the wet garment as he could. Norr made a face when the cold, salty fabric came into contact with her wound but knew Rebo was doing the best he could.

Satisfied that the makeshift pressure dressing would stop the bleeding, the runner set about gathering driftwood for a fire. Thankfully, there were more than a dozen wax-coated matches in one of his belt pouches. The first stick broke off just below the head, but the second produced a wisp of smoke, followed by a bright yellow flame. Twigs crackled as they caught fire, larger pieces of wood burst into flame, and it wasn’t long before waves of welcome heat rolled over Norr. The shaking stopped soon thereafter, her color improved, and her respirations evened out.

And that was when Rebo realized that Sogol was missing. The last time he’d seen the AI she had been coiled up on Norr’s back. The runner wondered where the construct was now. . . . Back on Haafa? But he had more pressing problems to deal with, starting with the fact that Norr still looked pale, and he had very few items to work with. That was when the runner remembered seeing the operating table drift toward the bottom of the sea—and wondered what else might be laying around out there? There was only one way to find out. Rebo added more wood to the fire, knelt next to Norr, and was about to tell her about his plan, when the runner realized that the sensitive was either asleep, or unconscious, a possibility that made his mission that much more urgent.

A quick scan revealed that outside of what might have been another island, and a sail on the far horizon, there was nothing else to be seen other than a nearly cloudless sky and the sea below. Or was it a lake? No, he was a fisherman’s son, and knew that the line of seaweed and other debris that ran horizontally around the island represented the high-tide mark, the presence of which implied at least one moon.

Having left both his weapons and boots piled next to Norr and equipped himself with the remains of a broken plank, Rebo retraced his earlier steps down into the sea. Besides providing additional flotation, the plank’s other purpose was to help the runner bring salvaged materials back to the beach, assuming he recovered any. The first objective was to find the operating table, which, being the largest object transferred, would also be the most visible. Then, assuming the water wasn’t too deep, he would dive to retrieve whatever he could.

Rebo stretched out on the plank, paddled his way out to what he hoped was the correct area, and rolled off into the salty water. Then, with his face down and one arm thrown across the length of wood, he kicked with his feet. Thanks to the fact that the water was extremely clear, he could see all the way to the sandy bottom. There were outcroppings of rock, along with spiral-shaped plants, that swayed from side to side as the runner passed over them. Fish, if that’s what the pancake-shaped creatures could properly be called, fled ahead of the human, their pale bodies undulating as they hurried to escape the dark menace above.