Runner (3 page)

Because, assuming that the reading of Nom Maa's death poem was correct, the time had come for a heavenly rebirth, meaning the reemergence of the Saa or “Way,” which would serve as an important counterbalance against what the monks saw as a steady slide into barbarity. The only problem being that the competing black hat sect claimed that Tra Lee was an imposter, and insisted that a lad raised under their control was the
real
Nom Maa. But if such matters were of concern to Tra Lee, the little boy showed no sign of it as he ran along the top of the walls, played games of his own devising, and shouted orders to imaginary friends.

The period of freedom was all too brief, however, and it wasn't long before Lee's spiritual tutor, an avuncular monk named Suu Qwa, rang a tiny bell. Lee ignored the tinkling sound at first, hoping for one of the rare occasions on which Qwa might grant him some extra time, but the noise continued. Finally, shoulders slumped in defeat, the boy walked across the roof to the point where his tutor waited. “So, little one,” the monk said softly, “where will we meet today?”

It was a game that the two of them played every day and Lee brightened at the prospect of it. Although he had to take part in the lesson, he could choose where it would be taught, and delighted in forcing Qwa to teach in all manner of unlikely locations. The only problem was that it was getting hard to come up with new venues. The youngster looked around, spotted the coop where the specially bred carrier flits were kept, and pointed a grubby finger in that direction. “Up there . . . On the roof.”

Qwa bowed deeply. “The roof it will be. Would your majesty like me to boost you up there? Or will you climb?”

Lee eyed the structure but couldn't see any way to scale the walls. “It appears that I will need a boost.”

“Yes,” Qwa said as he accompanied the youngster to the coop. “All of us need help from time to time. Many are willing—but how to choose?”

Lee knew that the lesson was under way and responded accordingly. “The correct individual will not only have the desire to help, but motivations consistent with key goals, and possess the skills or tools required to complete the task.”

“Excellent,” Qwa said approvingly as he boosted the boy up onto the roof. “In spite of the abundant evidence to the contrary, it appears that you pay attention once in a while.”

There was a momentary disturbance as the birds fluttered around their cage and cooed to each other. Most had settled down by the time the tutor hoisted himself up onto the gradually slanting surface. It was covered with droppings, and Lee had already claimed the cleanest spot. He grinned knowingly.

But it was difficult if not impossible to get a rise out of the monk, who squatted on his haunches and eyed his student with the same calm gaze that he always manifested. “Today I would tell you of a village and the monk who lived there. One night there was a loud disturbance outside his hut. He got up and opened the door to find that a man and the local midwife were standing on his stoop. Both individuals poured out their hearts to the monk, and it wasn't long before the situation became clear. The man's wife was pregnant, but the baby was in a poor position, and the midwife believed that while she could save one of the two, there was very little chance that both would survive. The man favored his wife, but the midwife argued for the infant, both calling upon the monk to render a decision. Which view was correct?”

Lee considered the problem for a moment. “The man was correct.”

Qwa raised an eyebrow. “Why? The midwife argued that while sad, a new life must always take precedence over an old life, for such is the natural order of things.”

“That is true,” Lee answered, “so far as it goes. But the monk had a responsibility to look beyond natural cycles to the greater good. If the woman were to die not only would the man lose his wife, but her other children would lose their mother, and all she might have taught them.”

Qwa nodded approvingly. “That was well said, Excellency. You are both an excellent student and a teacher. Please allow me to take this opportunity to thank you for all I have learned from my contact with you and to say a reluctant good-bye. There are many paths, and now ours must part.”

Lee felt something heavy drop into the bottom of his stomach. The youth had only the vaguest memories of his real family and had come to regard Qwa and his other instructors as a group of uncles. Each brought something unique to his life, and if he lost one of them, it would be difficult to fill the gap. He frowned. “Why do you say that? Are you leaving?”

“No,” Qwa answered, “but
you
are. The final test awaits. The time has come for you to travel to the holy city of CaCanth.”

Lee felt fear mixed with a sense of excitement. He didn't want to part company with Qwa, or the rest of his tutors, but not a day went by that he didn't look out over the city of Seros and wish that he could walk its dusty streets. And CaCanth was on the planet Thara, everyone knew that, which meant he would get to ride in a spaceship! The very thought of it made his pulse pound. “You must accompany me, Master Qwa! I command it.”

“It is true that you command many things,” the monk
answered gently, “but this is not one of them. It will be a long, dangerous journey, and special arrangements must be made to ensure your safe arrival. My place is here.”

“But what if I'm
not
Nom Maa?” the boy demanded heatedly. “I'll fail the test, the black hats will control the Saa, and your efforts will be for naught.”

“Ah, but you are the Divine Wind,” Qwa answered serenely, “and therefore have nothing to fear.”

A cloud chose that moment to pass in front of the sun, a momentary darkness fell over the land, and Lee felt a chill run down his spine.

The tattoo parlor was a small dingy little shop with two
workstations. Rebo sat in one of them, his back to the frowsy artist, as she added a new image to the map that already occupied the upper portion of his back. Most of the interstellar runners wore them, not because they had to, but because they
wanted
to, as a way of memorializing successful runs. Some even went so far as to will their skins to the guild, which typically had sections of the artwork removed, and fashioned into lampshades or other decorative objects. They were the exceptions of course, since most of the star runners died obscure deaths on remote planets, where they were stripped of their valuables before being unceremoniously dumped into a ravine, bog, or unmarked grave. Until that final moment they lived in the hope that they would make it back to whatever world they called home before making the run from which no one could return. Not in the flesh at any rate—which was what the tattoo artist was focused on.

The pain was intense, but rather than attempt to push it away, Rebo had learned to accept it. More than that to go beyond it, to a place where he was only dimly aware of the
discomfort as the relentless needle pushed ink in under the surface of his skin. During moments like that the runner entered the equivalent of a reverie, reliving moments from the past, or entering a fantasy world where there was no such thing as pain. And that was why Rebo was slow to respond when a voice called his name. “Citizen Rebo? My name is Suu Qwa. Brother Qwa. The people at the runner's guild told me I could find you here.”

The words served to bring the world back into focus, and the pain came with it. Rebo frowned as the needle plunged into his back yet again. The monk's head had been shaved, a simple red robe hung from his skinny shoulders, and he looked like he was thirty or so. The runner found that his throat was dry. “No offense, Brother Qwa, but I'm kind of busy at the moment. Could this wait?”

The monk shook his head. “No, I'm afraid it can't. A ship is due in four days. We hope to send a package out on it. So, assuming that the vessel actually shows up, we need to hire a runner.”

Rebo understood the problem. Or part of it anyway. What little interstellar commerce there was took place via a fleet of spaceships that dated back to one of the last major technocivilization. Because they were fully automated, the ships continued to link the far-flung star systems together long after the culture that created them had been destroyed.

Now, thousands of years later, the spaceships were dying because no one had the knowledge or the means to repair them. The result was that there were fewer ships with each passing year, it was no longer possible to reach some destinations directly, and entire solar systems had been left isolated. Just one of the reasons why people hired runners to carry their messages rather than handling the chore themselves.

The pain was even more intense now, and tiny beads of perspiration had appeared on the runner's forehead. “Look,” Rebo said, “I just finished a run and I'm tired. I suggest that your return to the guild and ask for another recommendation.”

The monk looked unconvinced. “You are the best. That's what your peers say. We will double your fee.”

Rebo looked the monk in the eye. “
Double?
That's a lot of money. This package must be important.”

“It is,” Qwa confirmed. “Come to the monastery tonight. We will show you the package, and assuming that you agree to handle the consignment, pay half of what we owe you up front.”

“And the other half?” the runner inquired.

“You will receive that when you deliver the package to the city of CaCanth on Thara,” Qwa answered.

The name startled Rebo, his body gave an involuntary jerk, and the needle went deep. Thara! The planet on which he had been born, left at the age of twelve, and never gone back to since. Was his mother still alive? It seemed unlikely, but without knowing it, the monk had hit on the one thing that would change the runner's mind. Rebo's mother had worked twelve hours a day to obtain enough money to buy his apprenticeship, and now, if he could buy her some comfort in her old age, the journey would be worth it. “All right,” the runner replied, “I'll see you tonight.”

The monk left, the artist dabbed at her bloody work, and the torture continued.

The hall maintained by the actor's guild was second only
to the local amphitheater in terms of the number of people that it could hold, and Lanni Norr peered through dusty red velvet curtains as the citizens of Seros filed in. Many carried cushions to soften the unpadded seats, blankets to protect
them from the evening chill, and baskets of food. And, judging from the steady stream of people, it appeared that her advertising campaign had been a success. The actor's guild would get 10 percent of the gate, but assuming she could fill 80 percent of the seats, the sensitive figured she would take in enough money to defray her expenses for a year. She would come up with a disguise, fade into the countryside, and rent a cottage. Each day would be spent reading, painting, or simply doing nothing. That was Norr's dream—and the only reason she was willing to expose herself to the dangers associated with the impending performance.

Because while clairaudience was one thing, and the occasional demonstration of telekinesis was another, a full-blown trance was something else. Once the sensitive exited her body and allowed a discarnate soul to enter it, she would be helpless until the entity left. Yes, she had spent her last few gunars on a bodyguard, but what if the entire audience stormed the stage as had happened in the past? Norr had been present the night that an unruly crowd had accused her mentor of witchcraft and subsequently beaten the old woman to death. Norr had been forced to travel for more than a hundred miles before she finally located a cemetery that was willing to accept the sensitive's remains.

Someone touched Norr's shoulder and she jumped. It was the heavy named Loro and he was
huge
. The variant stood a full seven feet tall, weighted close to 350, and looked as though his muscles had muscles. Like all his kind, the bodyguard was the result of the same sort of genetic tinkering that had produced Norr, except that
his
body was designed to cope with heavy-gravity environments, where massive bones and big muscles were required to survive. Over time some of the big brutes had been absorbed into the general
population, where they often wound up as laborers, watchmen, and freelance bodyguards. Loro's voice consisted of a deep rumble. “Where do you want me?”

“Between me and everyone else,” Norr replied fervently. “Don't let anyone up on the stage. Especially while I'm in trance. Do you understand?”

The last was said as if the concept might be too complicated for a heavy to understand. Both norms
and
variants had a tendency to assume that heavies were stupid, but that was absurd since the scientists who designed the enormous humanoids had been trying to create
intelligent
workers. Loro was so used to the bias he didn't even take offense anymore. “Of course,” the heavy replied. “I'll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” Norr replied gratefully. “Now, if you would be so kind as to take your place out on the stage, I think your very presence will help keep the rowdies under control.”

Loro nodded, pulled one of the curtains aside, and stepped through the resulting gap. The sensitive saw that two-thirds of the seats were full, and sought the momentary solitude of her dressing room. It was her habit to meditate for a few minutes prior to a demonstration, and even that small amount of distance would help reduce the pressure from the multitudinous thought forms that pressed in around her.