Logan Trilogy (25 page)

Logan considered it. There was nothing left for him in Old Washington. Why not stay here in the New York Complex? One city was no better or worse than another now, without Jess.

"I accept," said Logan.

"There's risk in a full dex," said Lacy. "It could kill you."

Logan said nothing.

"There's no body or mind control with such a high dosage," she said. "You're at the mercy of the drug."

"I want maximum lift," said Logan. "A full re-live. And only a dex will give me that."

"Your decision," shrugged Lacy. "Get whatever personal belongings you have in the ship, then come back here. I'll have the R-11."

He hated losing the paravane: It was a high price to pay. Still, Lacy could have simply taken it, as she said: In dealing with the Market there were no guarantees. You took what they gave you.

Logan had the Gun when the guard said, "You can't go back inside with that." His name was Stile, and he captained Lacy's men. Huge. Slab-bodied. Cruel-faced.

"Lacy made the deal," said Logan. "She gets the ship and I get my personal belongings. This is mine. It goes with me."

Stile looked sullen. "All right…I'll make an exception this time," he said. "But keep it holstered."

"Couple of Fusers in there you can have," said Logan. "They were never mine to begin with."

He fixed the Gun holster to his belt.

There was nothing else. The ship was theirs now. As the R-11 would soon be his.

The small liftroom was stark and empty, dun-colored, without ornament or decoration. Four walls, a floor and a ceiling. No windows or vents.

"You'll need this," Lacy said, and gestured. A gray-clad guard dumped a bodymat, quickly unrolled it.

The mat covered the floor, wall to wall.

"What about oxygen?"

"Enough. The room's not sealed."

"I'll need water."

"At necessary intervals. Pelletgun…directly in to your system."

"I don't want to be observed," said Logan.

"You won't be," said Lacy. "But if you convulse…

"No observation. Just the injections…water when I require it. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"The drug?" asked Logan.

From her belt, Lacy withdrew a small silver disc. She pressed its center and the disc released a single milky-white pearl. It rolled, catching the light, in the palm of her hand.

"Hard to believe that's a full dex," said Logan.

She smiled. "You've never used R-11?"

"No," he admitted.

"A normal dosage is almost microscopic," she told him. "This is a quantam, full-dex strength. Usually this much R-11 is broken into powder, administered in several stages. I've never seen anyone take a pearl."

"The Re-Live drawers died with the cities," said Logan. "This is the only way left to go back."

"Is going back that important?"

"Yes," said Logan. "It's that important."

She looked at him for a long moment, then handed him the pearl.

"Just place it in the middle of your tongue," she said. "Let it dissolve directly into the tissue. It's effective immediately after ingestion."

And she left him.

LIFT

Logan brought up the pearl, holding it between the thumb and index finger of his right hand; he studied it in the subdued light of the room. Harmless looking. Beautiful in its simple perfection.

But potent. Very, very potent.

The surface-distortion drug he'd been given by the Scavengers was Candee next to R-11, which was designed to penetrate to the deepest levels of stored life-experience. Science had long since proven, beyond any doubt, that every experience, however trivial, is permanently retained: every sight, sound, odor, every sensory moment of touch, every spoken word…all there, all three-dimensionally alive in the depths of the human brain.

The Re-Live parlors were built on this principle. In their metal wombs it had been possible to re-experience, at choice, any hour, or day, or moment of one's past.

That was the key word: choice. The Re-Live drawers gave you selective control, provided you wished to exercise it. And there were built-in shutoffs if the emotional surge threatened body-health. A ReLive drawer was safe.

Not so with R-11. At maximum dosage, there was, no control; it prowled the vaults of memory at will, and all choice was removed. However, short of maximum, Logan was not certain he could reach his full experiences with Jaq and Jessica. Under a light dosage he might never find them again.

R-11 had one basic advantage over any other mind-drug. It gave back truth, not fantasy; experiences, not hallucinations. It did not distort as Lysergic Foam did. What Logan re-lived would be real events from his past.

And, buried in that past, his wife and son waited for him.

Logan sat down on the mat which gave softly under his weight.

Now.

Pearl into mouth. On the tongue. Dissolving…

Logan was fighting for balance. The wind whipped at his tunic, fisting him with short, savage gusts.

He wasn't sure he could maintain his footing—and a fall was death.

He was sixteen, and new to DS. A raw Sandman, just out of Deep Sleep Training, hunting his first female, nervous, and over-anxious to prove himself.

Logan's runner, Brandith 2, had glass-danced the Arcades before her flower blacked; she was extremely agile, with an incredible sense of body-control. She had lured her nervous pursuer onto a narrow outside repair-ramp, dipping and weaving her way along the thin ridge of metal ahead of him. Luring him forward.

You should have fired the homer, the homer would have finished her!

In his excitement, Logan had set the Gun at ripper, and to be effective a ripper must be fired at fairly close range. He could re-set for homer, but to do so would require taking both hands off the ledgerail, and that was impossible. He'd lose his balance for sure.

"What's the matter, Sandman?" her voice mocked him. "Can't you catch me?"

She had passed an angle-beam, and was no longer in direct sight. Logan moved faster along the ramp, reached the beam. She was waiting for him.

"You're dead, Sandman!" And, braced on the beam, Brandith 2 delivered a smashing blow to his chest with her left foot.

Logan swayed, pitched forward to his knees. The Gun slipped from his clawing fingers. He twisted, hooking his right arm into a strut-support, and slashed up with the heel of his left hand.

The surprise blow took Brandith 2 at throat level, and crushed her windpipe. She clutched at her neck, gasped blood, and fell over the edge in a long, screaming death drop.

Logan felt relief, and instant shame. He'd failed to homer her, and worse yet—much worse—he'd lost the Gun. A Sandman must never relinquish his weapon: the first rule of DS. And now he had allowed a female runner to disarm him, and almost kill him.

On the ramp, alone in the crying wind, Logan could not move. He was locked into his misery.

"Failure!" he said aloud. "Failure!"

Would he ever deserve to wear the uniform of a Sandman?

Egypt was a bore.

Logan was eight, and had taken a robocamel to the Pyramids with his best friend, Evans 9. They'd been to Japan earlier that morning, and found Kyoto dull with its restored temples and fat, bronze deities. But, in Tokyo, a sumo wrestler had taught them how to immobilize an opponent by a theatrical display of aggression, without actual body contact. Fascinating.

But Egypt was all heat and endless sand and ugly-snouted robot camels. The Pyramids were a disappointment—smaller than Logan expected, and badly in need of repair. The surface was pitted and crumbling, with many large stones near the top missing entirely.

"They ought to fix them," said Logan. "Smooth them out."

"No, tear them down," said Evans. "Put up new ones, better ones. Old things aren't worth saving."

"Old things are ugly," said Logan.

And that night they took a mazecar to Uganda.

"I can leave here, go with you," she told him.

"No, that's not possible."

"Why isn't it?"

"Because it isn't."

"But you find me exciting? You enjoy my body?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll pair-bond. Until it goes bad. When it goes bad, I'll leave. What's wrong with that?"

"A lot," he said. "I live alone."

"Why?"

"Because of what I am."

This silenced her.

The lovelights of the glasshouse played over their bodies. Gold…

Silver…

Red…

Yellow…

Blue

And still she did not speak.

When Logan left the glasshouse he was angry. Why couldn't he form an alliance? Why must he live alone, finding sexual satisfaction on this fragmented, impulse basis?

Because of what I am.

A DS man cannot function effectively if he is pair-bonded. All emotional ties must be severed.

Commitments must not be made. Nothing must interfere with duty.

Duty.

Duty.

"Show me your hand, Logan," said the psyc doctor. Logan obeyed.

"Do you know why you have this?" he said, tapping the palmflower with an index finger.

"To tell my age," Logan said.

"And how old are you?"

"I'm six."

"And what happens when you're seven?

Logan looked down at his palm. "It goes to blue. And I…leave Nursery."

The doctor nodded. He had kind eyes. "And you are afraid?"

"Yes," said Logan.

"Why? Why are you afraid, Logan?"

The words spilled out in a rush: "Because I love my talk puppet and because I don't want to leave Nursery and because…"

"Go on, tell me."

"Because the world is so big and I'm so little."

"But every boy and girl feels that way, and they're not afraid."

"I'll bet some of them are," said Logan. "Or they wouldn't use a machine like you."

"I deal with many problems at Nursery," said the doctor. He whirred to a medcab, took out a packet of Candees.

"I don't want a Candee," said Logan.

"But they taste good and they make you feel good," said the doctor.

"They make me sleepy."

"Take a Candee, Logan."

"No."

"Do as I say! Take one."

"No."

Logan backed away, but the square machine whirred after him. The doctor's kind eyes were no longer kind. They glittered with determination.

"I'll report this to Autogoverness," he threatened. "You'll be punished."

"I don't care," said Logan defiantly.

"Very well," said the doctor. And he pushed a button on his desk.

An Autogoverness rolled into the office.

"Logan 3 is to be punished. After punishment, he will be given a Candee."

"Yes, doctor," said the round, many-armed robot. She took Logan's hand in one of hers.

"You see, Logan," said the doctor as the boy was being led out. "You can't win."

"How long has he been under?" asked Lacy.

"Two days, six hours," said Stile.

"Convulsions?"

"Minor so far."

"Heartbeat?"

"Erratic, but holding."

"Skincount?"

"One over fifteen. The chemical balance is distorted, but not critical. Of course, he's going in deeper. It could get worse. No way of telling."

"If he dies, notify me immediately."

"Of course," said Stile.

The blow caught Logan at the upper part of the shoulder, a deltoid chop, delivered with force and precision. He felt his left arm go numb, angled his body sharply to keep Francis in direct line of attack.

He lashed out with a reverse savate kick, catching Francis at rib-level, causing him to lurch back, gasping for breath.

"You're good, Logan," said the tall, mantis-thin man, slowly circling his opponent.

"You're better, damn you!" Logan said. "But I'm learning."

"More each day," agreed Francis. "Shall we end this?"

Logan nodded, rubbing his shoulder. "I've had enough."

They hit the needleshower, standing together silently in the cutting spray. Francis had paid for his reputation; his body, in contrast to Logan's unmarked one, bore the scars of a hundred near-death encounters with fanatic runners, cubs, gypsies…Of the crack DS men at Angeles Complex, Francis was the fastest, the most dangerous, the best. Logan was still his pupil, but soon he might be his equal

—with natural talent, good fortune, supreme dedication.

Francis had all these.

They walked back into the combat room, got into fresh grays.

"There's a lift-party tonight at Stanhope's," said Logan. "Why not unbend, take it in?"

Francis smiled thinly. The smile was bloodless. "I don't party," he said.

"But we're off-duty until—"

"A Sandman's never off-duty," said Francis coldly. "We could be called in for backup."

"That's never happened to me yet," declared Logan.

"It might," said Francis.

Logan looked at him. "What do you do with your free time?"

"Use it properly. I don't waste it on witless females and lift parties."

"I give up," sighed Logan. He grinned. "You know, Francis, I wouldn't be surprised to find little wires and cogs and springs under your skin…You're not quite human."

"I get my job done," said Francis stiffly.

"Sure. Sure you do," said Logan. "Forget what I said."

But, as he watched Francis walk out, Logan wondered: what the hell does he do with his free time?

"This one's dangerous," said Evans. "He's stolen a paravane and he's got a Fuser with him. I think we need backup."

Logan agreed. "Get on it, while I see if I can run him down."

"With a stick? Can you handle one?"

"I've ridden them before," said Logan. "They're much faster than a paravane. "

"Take care," said Evans, sprinting for a callbox.

Logan checked his ammopac. Full load. He could use a nitro on the runner's ship if he had to. He kicked the hoverstick into life, soaring up at a dizzy angle. Too much thrust. He throttled down a bit, gained full control, gradually increasing his airspeed.

The runner's paravane had been tracked at dead center on the Kansas/Missouri line—which meant if he cut through Greater KC Logan should intercept near the Jefferson Complex.