Logan Trilogy (39 page)

She dialed the wall, received the two drinks, gave him one, then sat down on a flowcouch next to him.

Calm and casual.

"Now…about my brother. You have news of Doyle?"

"Yes," he said, hesitating. "I thought I should—?"

"He's dead, isn't he?" she asked flatly.

"Yes," said Logan.

"Doyle told me he was going to run," she said, her tone devoid of shock or sadness. She looked steadily at Logan and asked without emotion, "Did you kill him?"

"No, but I was part of the team that hunted him," said Logan. "It was suicide. He'd taken a Fuser…and when he saw us coming—"

"Us?"

"Francis was on the hunt with me. We usually team together."

"I know," she said, leaning back into the couch to sip the whiskey. "I've heard of Francis. He's very efficient."

"Very," said Logan.

"Doyle was always such a fool. I told him not to run. Told him he had no chance. But, being a fool, he ran. He was like that. You could never talk sense to Doyle."

Cold, thought Logan, totally unmoved by her brother's death. She may look exactly like Jess, but this is another breed of cat. This woman has nothing of her tenderness, her compassion, her sensitivity…

Logan finished his drink and stood up. "Well, I'd better go. I just wanted you to know about your brother."

"Listen," she said, walking him to the door, "we're having a quad party tomorrow night. In Arcade, at the Hastings gallery. Care to come?"

He stared at her. How could she? With her brother dead—a party!

"Sorry," he said.

She put her hand lightly on his arm, and her touch was electric, startling. "Oh, do come, Logan. You'll have fun, I promise!"

She smiled at him radiantly. Jessica's smile.

And he found himself asking: "What time?"

She gave him a time and a location and he said yes, he'd be there, and she smiled again and he left the unit asking himself, why? Why did I agree to go? What possessed me to say I'd go?

She did. Jessica possessed you. You want to see her again. You must see her again. Despite everything.

Despite the stupidity of it, the risk of it.

In the maze, as the car swept through tunneled night, Logan saw her in his mind, clear and sharp and lovely.

She's not like you at all, Jess…but she is you, the only you I've got in this world. I could never love her as I love you. I don't even like her. But I'm drawn to her. A moth to flame.

One more time.

I'll see her one more time.

A GOOD CITIZEN

The Central Computer, at Angeles Complex, was housed in a mile-high tower of sunglass, its outer surface covered with an unending mosaic depicting the history of man from the earliest known records, millions of years ago, to the present age. The work had taken two decades to complete, and symbolized the computer's stored knowledge, the repository of man's wisdom, the sources from which each citizen of the Complex could partake—a great river of facts, images, and history, which flowed through Cencomp to feed the masses.

After his meeting with Jess, Logan spent most of the following day at Cencomp—determined to learn all he could about the upcoming ritual he was to undergo with Francis. He drew a complete blank.

Nothing about Godbirth.

Nothing about the Place of Miracles.

Nothing about Nirvana.

No faxsheets, statrecords, readouts, history tapes.

Nothing.

And when he questioned the computer as to why, he was told that such data was nonexistent.

"But it must exist!" argued Logan. "Godbirth exists!"

"The data you request is nonexistent," repeated the soft, neutered voice of Cencomp.

"What about all the Sandmen who have been selected for Godbirth?"

"They are nonexistent."

"The place of Miracles?"

"Nonexistent."

"Nirvana?"

"Nonexistent."

"The Gods!"

"Nonexistent."

Logan sat in the padded Questionchair, staring at the featureless computerwall. A tiny, glowing voice-cylinder halfway between floor and ceiling was the only visual contact with the immense powerhouse of stored data behind the wall.

He felt helpless, frustrated. And angry.

"I received official comp-notification of acceptance for Godbirth," Logan said, keeping his tone level. A display of temper would achieve nothing; displayed emotion brought no profit here.

"That is correct. You received notification."

Logan leaned forward, boring in. Logic. The computer could not refute logic. "How can I receive notification of a ritual that does not exist? Please explain that."

"It is not possible to render explanations relating to nonexistent data," said the calm computer-voice.

"But the notification exists!"

" 'The notification exists. That is correct. But the data relating to it is nonexistent."

"But if you admit sending me a—" Logan sighed, letting the sentence die.

"Your question is unclear. Please clarify or I cannot offer you a reply."

"Never mind," said Logan. "The question is canceled."

No wonder Francis didn't say much to him about Godbirth. Logan had assumed that Francis knew a great deal about the ritual, but obviously that assumption was incorrect.

He stood up to leave.

"We hope you have gained wisdom and satisfaction from your visit with us," said the computer-voice.

"Our services are always available to you, and you are always free to ask whatever questions may—"

It was still talking as Logan muttered an obscenity and left the chamber.

He had gained nothing here but frustration.

The dancer moved with hypnotic grace, weaving sinuous flame patterns through the crowd, creating a body-symphony in rippled yellow fire.

Logan inhaled her sharply erotic fragrance, released as flames slowly consumed the potent skin cosmetic she wore.

"Striking, isn't she?" asked Jessica, sitting close to him in the fiery dark.

"Yes, she's that, all right," agreed Logan, watching the dancer weave a flame ring around their table.

Her smile dazzled through a halo of fire-blazed blue.

"She seems to know you."

He nodded. "She's Phedra 12. We've had sex."

"She must be a marvelous lover," said Jessica. "Such exquisite body control."

Logan said nothing to this.

They were in the Hastings firegallery, and the partygoers around them were having a fine time, proud of netting the famous Logan 3 for their group. Society status symbol. Instant celebrity prize.

As Phedra danced away, deeper into the crowd, Jessica leaned close to Logan. Her eyes appraised him coolly. "You're not enjoying yourself much, are you?"

"I shouldn't be here."

"Tell me why. Don't you like me?" She pressed her right leg against his. "I thought you liked me."

Logan failed to respond. Jessica's blatant sexuality sickened him. He'd hunted down her brother and should be held responsible, in her eyes, for Doyle's violent death. Yet here she was, in a daring fullslash partysuit, preening to him, soliciting his lust, totally cold to what had happened to her brother. In a perverse sense, his part in Doyle's death seemed to make him more attractive to her.

It was all wrong. Distorted.

Coming here tonight had been painful for Logan. Moving through the pleasure-gorged crowds of Arcade, assaulted by the mad cacophony of lights and sounds and colors, he was struck anew by the horrible emptiness of it all. Pleasure now, and death waiting beyond the lights.

For Logan, Arcade encapsulated the basic sickness of this society—just as it had in his own world prior to the final destruction of the Thinker. Pleasure without freedom. Pleasure without hope. A mockery. A lure to dull the mind, to lead the citizen into Sleep…

"I'd better leave," said Logan. "I'm not much good at parties."

Jessica stood up. "All right, I'll go too. Will you take me back to my unit?"

Suddenly, abruptly, they moved together and she was in his arms. The clean scent of her shining hair reached him, the subtle perfume of her skin…With soft fingers, she touched his face, leaned to kiss him, her lips fierce and hot on his.

In Jessica's lifeunit, totally lost in one another's flesh, they made love into the dawn. Then, sated, they slept, skin to skin, as the morning sun tinted the sky over Angeles Complex in soft pastels.

Logan woke first, slipped quietly from the flowbed, dressed, and exited the unit.

On a pillow next to the sleeping woman he left a note:

Jessica:

I won't see you again. Don't try to contact me. This is over.

L.

And in the mazecar, heading back to his sector, he did not regret the harshness of the note. He knew that what he had done was perverted—making love to this woman while his own Jess, waiting with child, was lost to him across space on another world.

He would end this madness here and now. He should never have given in to his initial compulsion, should never have gone to see this second Jessica. Their lovemaking, however passionate, was a distortion of his love for Jess, and he was disgusted with his self-weakness.

Over. Done.

Ended.

When Logan walked into his lifeunit, three tall police officers were waiting for him, their bright lemon colored tunics contrasting with the dark solemnity of their faces.

"I'm Bracker—Federal Branch," said the tallest of them. His eyes were slate-colored, his thin lips unsmiling. "Are you Logan 3—1639?"

"You know I am." Logan met his measured gaze. "What do you want with me?"

"We have reason to believe that you are in violation of a prime citystate law," said the policeman.

"What law?"

"Possession and dissemination of a highly toxic and illegal substance."

"You'd better leave," said Logan tightly. "I'm with DS. We have immunity against this sort of harassment."

"DS immunity does not apply in this case," said Bracker.

"Who sent you here?"

"Never mind that. We're here."

Logan expelled angry breath. "I'd like to know the nature of this 'highly toxic' substance."

Bracker raised a finger—and one of his men dipped a hand into the upper pocket of Logan's zipjacket, extracting a small, wafer-thin white disc.

"DD-15," said Bracker, holding up the disc. "Unofficially known as Death Dust."

Logan was quite familiar with this drug. DD-15 was used exclusively in Medlab control work and was strictly forbidden to citizens, including DS operatives. It was potent and deadly.

"That's not mine," said Logan calmly. "It does not belong to me, and I have absolutely no idea where it came from."

"Naturally," said Bracker, smiling faintly. He nodded to the others. "Take him."

Logan did not resist. His hands were tapewired behind him, and he was led from the unit directly to a waiting police paravane outside the building.

The ride to Federal Headquarters was swift and silent.

The interrogation room smelled of fear. The air was hot and close. No vents or windows. The sour fearsweat of numberless accused citizens lingered here; it permeated the pores of the room, creating an oppressive atmosphere designed to inspire breakdown and confession.

Logan, in a holdchair, faced Bracker and his men—just as he had faced the aliens in the giant mothership. And with the same sense of helplessness. How could he prove his innocence? Someone had planted the Dust on him. Someone who wanted to hurt him, to place him in severe jeopardy.

Someone.

Phedra 12.

She stood in the room's open doorway, wearing a loose dun-brown monksrobe that obscured the extravagant curves of her body. Her face was scrubbed of makeup; she looked much younger, almost childlike. And there was mock sadness in her usually sensual eyes.

"I hate doing this to you, Logan, really I do," she said in a small, apologetic voice. "But I'm a good citizen. I've always been loyal to the system. I just couldn't let you do it."

"And what did I do, Phedra?" Logan asked.

"That stuff you were using…passing around…that awful stuff!" She shuddered.

"This is the man you saw in Arcade?" asked Bracker.

"Yes." She nodded. "Logan 3. He's famous. Everyone knows him. Before he began using…the drug…I was happy to be there, proud to dance for him."

"She's jealous," Logan snapped to the others in the room. He swung his eyes to hers, glaring. "Because I was with another woman. That's why you're doing this. Tell them the truth. Admit it!"

"No—I can't lie for you, Logan. Don't ask me to lie!" And she lowered her eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears.

A class act, thought Logan. Fast class all the way.

Bracker walked close to her. "The woman he was with," prompted the tall officer. "Tell us her name."

He smiled thinly. "For the record."

"Jessica 6," said Phedra softly.

"Right." Bracker nodded. His voice hardened: "Bring her in."

And Jessica was suddenly there in the room with Logan, looking stunned and shaken. Bracker led her to a holdchair and she sat down, a glazed expression on her face.

"I don't understand," she said. "Why am There?"

"Tell her why, Logan." Bracker smiled. "She shared the fun at Arcade. Now she's sharing this. Tell her why she's here."

"It's Phedra," said Logan bitterly. "She's been lying, trying to—"

"That's the woman! That's her!" said Phedra, overriding his words, pointing at Jessica. "She was there with him."

"And was she also using DD-15?"

"Yes." Phedra nodded. "She was taking it…passing it around to the others. The two of them they're both guilty!"

"You lie!" snapped Logan.

"No use bluffing," said the tall officer. "We not only have the disc we took from you but we ran a chemlab test on Jessica's hands. Traces of DD-15 under the nails, in the skin pores. No doubt of it."

Logan tried to stand, but the chair held him. His face was pale with anger. "That's not true! Your test is wrong!"

Was Bracker himself in on this? Logan wondered. Was he lying, too? Logan looked at Jessica, but she wouldn't meet his eyes; she stared ahead in shock.