Logan Trilogy (38 page)

"The board tech mentioned he'd been staying with a sister," Logan said as they took a dropchute to the DS platform. "Know anything about her?"

"A little," said Francis. "Name's Jessica 6. No arrest history. Seems stable enough, but with a brother like Doyle you can never tell."

"She on red?"

"Right…due for Sleep anytime now. When she blacks they'll be watching her."

On the maze platform they boarded the waiting express vehicle. The canopy slid closed and the mazecar moved out, rapidly gaining tunnel speed.

The Indio platform, just over two hundred miles from DS Headquarters, was less than a minute's ride.

They emerged into the dry windless heat of a desert afternoon, into a smell of baked sand, of sunseared rock and cactus.

Francis squinted at the hot blue sky. A vulture rode the upper air currents in a long, lazy patrol.

"He's hunting, too," said Francis with a thin smile. "I figure well have better luck!"

A DS hovercat was waiting for them beyond the platform, glinting silver-blue in the shimmering heat.

This rugged little machine could navigate any type of desert terrain. Solar-powered, its metalloid skin was impervious to assault by any hand weapon; a Fuser charge, exploding along its surface, would leave no trace. And the cat was fast.

Francis popped the jumpdoor and they climbed inside.

"We should be able to get a fix on him," said Francis, working the cat's trackscreen. "He can't be too

far."

Logan was thinking of the other Doyle—of how he'd had the man in direct kill range but had not fired. It was the first time Logan had ever done such a thing, failing to use the Gun. It was the crack in his DS armor, the real beginning of his run for Sanctuary. In that earlier hunt, Doyle had died in Cathedral; the cubs had ripped him apart. But we were responsible, thought Logan; he was running from us when the cubs got him.

How Jess had hated him for her brother's death! Yet, without Doyle, he'd never have known her…

loved her…fought to keep her…

"Ah, there's our boy!" The triumphant voice of Francis erased Logan's thoughts. He glanced at the readout: a green dot was inching across the screen like a tiny electronic insect.

"I make him about five miles this side of Indian Wells," said Francis. "We'll come in through Spiker Wash. That'll put us right on him."

"What's he trying to do?"

"Stay alive." Francis grinned, engaging power. The cat hissed over the sand. "Maybe he figures to pick up a vehicle at the Wells." Francis leaned back; his Gun was unholstered, and he smoothed long fingers over its cool pearl handle. "All he'll pick up is a homer."

Something was coming.

Something tall and dark and powerful.

In the close heat of the rocks, the scorpion was motionless, sensing danger, tail raised to strike. It was female, had recently given birth to its young, and carried them in a brood pouch, carefully guarded. It would kill to survive.

A shadow crossed the rock. The scorpion tensed. A heavy boot heel smashed down, ending its life.

Doyle hated scorpions. As a boy, on this same desert, he'd been bit by one and had almost died of the virulent poison. Yet, basically, he respected them, as he respected the rattler and the lizard, as he respected all living things that fight back.

The desert itself he loved. It had always fascinated him with its paradoxes, its odd character, its subtle beauty. For Doyle 10, the desert retained its purity. It defied man's corruption. It was Doyle's private ocean—an easy-rolling sea of sand and rock and cactus, of smokewood and manzanita—and it was only natural, at the end, that he should return here. And this was the end for him. He knew it, accepted it. They were coming for him. His death lay in their Guns as a pearl in an oyster. The homer would find him. No rock could shelter him against it.

And what if he did reach the Wells? What if he could use the hoverstick he'd hidden there? The sky would not shelter him. He could not escape DS. Not on the ground, nor in the air, nor on the sea. The men of Deep Sleep would find him and destroy him for his terrible crime of refusing to accept death at twenty-one. What good was running?

Yet Doyle ran.

Under the sun-blazed sky, through thorn-spiked dry washes, along wind-eroded gullies, over baked clusters of rock and cactus, his lips puffed and bleeding, his clothing in tatters, hands broken-skinned and swollen—fighting to stay alive another hour, another minute, knowing he must die and crying I'll live!…knowing he must lose and crying I'll win!…running until he dropped heavily to his knees in the dry hot sand, until the breath in his lungs was fire, until he heard the buzzing whir of a hovercat that was…

Death.

"That's him!" shouted Francis, stopping the cat. "On his knees over there near the rocks." The harsh chuckle, the Gun in his hand. "Maybe he's praying to us, Logan! We'll soon be Gods…maybe he knows!"

"He's just exhausted," said Logan quietly. "He can't go on, is all."

"I was hoping he'd give us a fight, maybe try using that Fuser of his. Liven things up. After all, it's our last hunt." He sighed. "Too easy. Too damned easy."

Logan reluctantly left the sandcat, following Francis, his weapon still holstered. He didn't trust himself with it, not at this moment. He might just Gun Francis here and now, because the thought of his DS

partner sending a homer blistering into that poor kneeling wretch was almost more than Logan could stand.

"You want the shot?" asked Francis as Logan moved up beside him.

"No, it's yours, Francis…Your last official kill." It was difficult to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Fair enough, old friend." The gaunt man nodded. "I was just being generous."

Doyle pulled himself to his feet gasping, blood and salt sweat in his eyes. He rubbed at them. They wouldn't focus properly on the two advancing figures—heat-rippled shapes of black moving toward him across the hot sand.

The shapes had stopped. One of them held Something caught the sun, dazzling his eyes. Doyle blinked, squinted, trying to get it in focus.

Gun.

That's what it was. He's going to do it, Doyle. Oh, yes, he'll do it. He'll fire the homer at you and the thing will find you and the pain will be unbelievable and your flesh will burst and your nerves will fry and your body explode in bands of pain…

Don't let him do it to you, Doyle. Don't let him.

Don't.

"What's he doing?" asked Francis, bringing up the Gun.

Logan watched the man. "Inside his shirt. He's—"

"Fuser!" shouted Francis, dropping hard into the sand, pulling Logan down with him. The tall man's face was eager; sparks lived in his flat dark eyes. "By God, he's going to make a fight of it after all!"

But Francis was wrong.

One harsh sizzle of heat and Doyle toppled backward into the rocks, hands splayed, head a charred

husk on his neck.

The Fuser fell into the sand.

"Used it on himself," said Logan.

The two men walked over to him and looked down at the lifeless body. The flies were already at it.

"Damn," said Francis softly.

ONE MORE TIME

Standing by the Gunwall, at the end of the long gray corridor at DS, Logan unsnapped his holster and drew out the silver-barreled weapon. He weighed it in his hands.

The wall was waiting.

Every Sandman, at duty's end, was required to return his Gun. No exceptions. In his world, Logan had broken that rule, had taken a Gun with him when he ran—but here such an act was impossible.

In destroying the power behind Godbirth, he could well use such a potent weapon, but he knew he must accomplish his mission without it.

Logan replaced the weapon, snugging the heavy Gun back into its velvet wallnest. The panel closed.

The Gun was no longer his.

At least he hadn't been forced to use it on Doyle.

Francis was waiting on the steps that night when Logan exited DS Headquarters. Both wore citizen casuals. They had checked their uniforms and equipment and had filed their reports and now were free of duty. Free. A strange word in this world, thought Logan; a perversion of meaning. No one on this Earth was free.

Francis was in high spirits. "What about celebrating? I've got some Volney's at my unit. Vintage stuff.

And we can find girls in Arcade—make a night of it."

The Francis whom Logan had known never celebrated anything; usually it was Logan who asked his dour friend to party. The answer had always been no. Now the situation was reversed: Logan declined the offer.

"But why? By morning we'll have our official notification. This is a special occasion, Logan—a very

special occasion!"

Logan smiled. "It's been a long day," he said. "Leg's still bothering me some. I need to ease off, be alone."

"All right, friend," said Francis. "But I leave early tomorrow on freetime. Want to get in some diving—

so I won't be seeing you for a while."

Logan was suddenly concerned. "Where do we meet? For Godbirth, I mean."

"Thought you knew. Back here at DS, in exactly ten days. We leave from here with the others. The Chosen Ones."

"I'll be here." Logan nodded.

"In case you need to reach me," said the tall man, "here's my faxcode number. My unit will know where I am."

He handed a foilcard to Logan. "Happy freetime!"

"You too," said Logan.

"Ten days," said Francis, and walked off, whistling, into the darkness.

From the moment Doyle's image had materialized on the scanscreen, Logan knew that nothing could stop him from seeing Jessica. It would be a major risk. The aliens had specifically warned him not to attempt contact with her—and, because of her brother, she was on DS lists as a "possible subversive."

Thus, Logan had strong reasons for avoiding her, and he experienced self-anger at the risk he was taking. Just a week and a half from Godbirth and he was acting like the worst kind of fool.

But he couldn't stop himself.

He had checked Doyle's faxfile before leaving DS and had found Jessica's unit number—and now he was in a mazecar heading for the Beverly sector.

He rationalized the action. If DS did discover his visit, he could classify it under duty routine. As a prime hunter involved in her brother's death, he had the right to notify Jessica. This was often done by

Sandmen. A civic obligation. He could even strengthen his position by telling DS that since Jessica 6

was of doubtful status, he had decided to check her out, unofficially, for possible subversive activity.

Routine.

He just wanted to meet her, that was all: A brief meeting to satisfy his emotional desire to see her face, hear her voice…

Just one brief meeting.

The mazecar slotted into the Beverly platform and Logan rode a liftbelt to the street level.

This sector, built over the old, moneyed Beverly Hills—Bel-Air—Brentwood area, was a hub for merchantmen specializing in ultraluxury. Here, one could order custom-designed hovercraft for street and sky, or body jewels coded to the purchaser's individual skin chemistry, or bizarre robotic pets of all types (Take home a Tigon, half-tiger, half-lion! Buy yourself a Monkeybird!), or tri-dimensional home consoles programmed for total mythic/historic owner participation (Dance with Valentino!

Make love to Cleopatra! Match swords with Morgan the Pirate!).

Logan moved past the richly textured shops—pausing at one of them, a jewelmaker's window.

Displayed inside, a flame-blue throatclasp, delicately sculpted and overlaid with silver filigree… ..

Jess had worn one exactly like it! Identical to the clasp he'd taken to old Andar on the Bridge. He stared at it for a long moment, remembering…

And walked on.

Reaching Jessica's quadunit, Logan hesitated outside the entrance. One last chance to turn back, he told himself. One last chance to place reason and logic above emotion.

Don't go in, Logan!

He entered the building.

A hibelt took him to the third level, and although it was only a short walk to unit 3-11, the wide copper corridor seemed endless to Logan. He could barely contain his nervous excitement as he

reached Jessica's door.

The heat of his body activated the unit scanner. He waited.

Was she out? Or was she inside, peering at him through the scanner? Would she answer?

Then: "What is it you want?"

Her voice, reaching out into the corridor, the voice of the woman he loved, the mother of his new child. The voice, unmistakably Jessica's. But, of course, not hers at all.

"I—have news of your brother."

The door instantly petaled back, and she was there.

"Come in."

Numbly, Logan followed her into the unit.

The same! Everything the same: hands, eyes, lips…the way she cants her head a bit to the left as she walks…the suppleness of her body…the dark hair flowing along her back…even the splitsleeve robe she wore; Jess had one just like it!

Jess! Oh, Jess!

"I know you," she said, turning to face him, her eyes clear and steady on his. "You're Logan."

Her words stunned him. How could she know him? The aliens had told him that in this world the two of them had never met.

"Don't look so surprised," she said, smiling. "You're famous…the famous Logan 3, a DS Gunmaster…

Sandman with a top killscore. I've seen you on the tri-dims—but I never thought I'd have a chance to really meet you."

She nodded toward a foamchair near the window of the small neatly arranged unit. "Please…relax.

Can I get you anything?"

Logan settled into the chair, thrown off balance by her casualness. Chatting about tri-dims, offering me a drink—when I've just seen her brother die. She doesn't know that, of course. Still, I said I had news of him, and she may well suspect that he turned runner. Why isn't she questioning me about

him?

Jessica repeated her offer, and he nodded. Actually, he could use a drink. Steady him down. "Some Irish—if you have it."

"Black Irish it is," she said, smiling. "And I'll have one with you."