Logos Run (16 page)

The heavily armed robots scattered in response to the combat variant’s orders even as the operative dismounted and handed his reins to Dyson. Then, starting with the nearest corpse, Shaz made a careful examination of each body. The task was gruesome, but necessary, in order to determine whether any of the AI’s escorts had been killed. The inspection was useful in another way, too, because after looking at the means by which the bandits had been dispatched, it quickly became apparent that Phan had been responsible for most of the kills. That meant the assassin was earning her pay—something that pleased him.

Dyson sat atop his animal with both eyes closed as a mantle of white continued to gather around his shoulders. Most of the spirit entities forced out of their bodies during the battle had chosen to depart the physical vibration by then, but one, a woman who identified herself as Mia Tova, still remained. She was confused, especially about the loss of her head, and wondered if that would present a problem in the spirit planes. The sensitive counseled the woman that it was within her power to adopt any appearance that she chose—and urged her to leave the scene for life in the higher realms. After a moment of hesitation, and in the company of a spirit she seemed to recognize, Tova departed.

That was when Dyson opened his eyes to discover that Shaz was standing a few feet away staring at him. The combat variant seemed to blur before rolling back into focus. “Are you with us?” the operative inquired. “Good. We’ll spend the night here. The metal men will take care of the angens. Our hosts left some stew simmering in a pot—so we might as well take advantage of it.”

The sensitive slid to the ground, handed both sets of reins over to one of the heavily cowled androids, and followed Shaz toward a stone hut. When he passed Tova’s snow-frosted head, the bandit’s deep-set eyes seemed to follow him. That was impossible, of course, but Dyson was careful not to disturb the bandit leader’s headless body as he stepped over it, and was grateful when the hut opened to receive him. Meanwhile, many miles away, a night slider howled. The sound seemed to float on the cold air before being echoed by other such creatures, as if to herald the full fall of darkness.

SIX

The road to Feda was long and hard. Especially during the
winter. Having emerged victorious from the confrontation with the bandits on the west side of the bridge, Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and Phan crossed the span ready to do battle again. Fortunately that wasn’t necessary since the holy men assigned to the eastern approach had either been chased away or killed. So the first night was spent there, within the relative comfort of two huts, while the snow continued to fall beyond the stone walls.

The storm had passed by the time a dimly seen sun rose in the east, but it was bitterly cold, and the angens complained loudly as they struggled to pull the heavily loaded cart up onto the road. Then, with Rebo, Norr, and Phan breaking trail for the animals, the huge disk-shaped wheels cut deep grooves into the virgin snow.

There was a long way to go, but Rebo managed to put that out of his mind, as his mount carried him up through low-lying hills, through a stand of bristle trees, and onto the plain beyond. It was slow work, but the runner had learned to accept such things over the years, and fell into a plodding reverie that lasted until the pale yellow sun hung high in the sky. Eventually, the group paused for what Hoggles referred to as “a brew-up” in the lee of the cart.

The hot caf not only tasted good but served to wash down the fry cakes that Norr made up each morning. They consisted of cooked cereal, dried fruit, and nuts. The cakes tasted better hot, but none of them wanted to go to the trouble of making a fire, so the rations were consumed cold. The sensitive noticed that Hoggles consumed six of them, Rebo ate two, and Phan barely nibbled at hers.

Once their stomachs were full, it was time to rotate the animals so that the team that had been harnessed to the cart had a chance to recuperate. As soon as that chore was complete, Hoggles whistled through his teeth, the single axle squealed, and the angens issued a series of throaty grunts as they made their way forward.

There wasn’t much traffic on the road, although tracks were visible from time to time, especially as they entered or left one of the tiny farming villages that crouched between protective hills. Most houses were low one-story affairs that were made of rammed earth and could withstand even the worst storms. Smoke dribbled from their chimneys, and the occasional mongrel gave chase as the group plodded past, but people were rarely seen. It was a rare stranger that brought something good to the farmers’ footsteps—so they had learned to be wary.

There were other sightings, too, some of which harkened back to ancient times, when gigantic machines rode gleamingrails, electric power jumped pylon to pylon, and powerful rivers were held captive behind canyon-spanning dams. Such artifacts weren’t operational of course, but often served as media for semiliterate antitechnic diatribes, a fact that struck Norr as ominous. Especially given the true nature of the coat she wore beneath the long poncho-style cloak.

But most of the scenery was simply monotonous. The road was an endless ribbon of crusty snow, the wind moaned like a lost soul, and time seemed to crawl by. Eventually, after what seemed like an eon but was only about twelve hours of riding, the foursome began to look for a place to spend the night. An inn would have been nice, but the only one they’d seen was two hours back, which left the travelers with no choice but to take advantage of whatever shelter they could find. In this case it was the ruins of what had once been a farm. What remained of the tumbledown house provided protection for the cart and animals—which left the humans to take up residence in the stone silo that stood next to the main structure. The presence of a rudimentary fire pit located at the center of the circular space suggested that the structure had been used for that purpose before. And, when Rebo volunteered to gather firewood, Norr offered to accompany him. Phan, who was occupied unpacking the pots and pans, watched from the corner of her eye.

A frigid breeze sought to find its way in through gaps in their clothing as the twosome emerged from cover. The half-frozen snow crunched under their boots as they circled the silo and followed a half-seen path down into an ancient orchard where fruit trees stood in patient rows, as if still waiting for the people who planted them to return. Some were dead, and their brittle branches made what sounded like pistol shots as Rebo bent them to the breaking point and was showered with ice crystals. Once a knee-high pile of wood had been accumulated, the runner and the sensitive stood side by side as they worked to reduce the long rough-barked limbs into more manageable lengths. Norr was the first to speak. “Jak . . .”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think of Phan?”

Rebo shrugged noncommittally. “The woman can fight . . . You’ve got to grant her that.”

“And I
do
,” the variant replied, as she broke a branch over her knee.

The runner gave Norr a sidelong glance. “So? What’s the problem?”

The sensitive paused. “I can’t prove it, but I think she’s lying.”

Rebo’s eyebrows rose. “Lying? About what?”

“I don’t know,” the variant confessed. “But the feeling is there.”

The runner nodded. “I trust your instincts, Lonni. You know that. . . . But you aren’t infallible.”

The conversation was headed where Norr had
feared
that it might go, and her chin trembled slightly. “And you believe this is one of those times?”

“I don’t know,” Rebo answered carefully. “But it’s possible. . . . First, why would Phan lie? What could she gain? But let’s say she
is
lying. . . . Chances are that the lies have nothing to do with us. Don’t forget that we lie constantly and make no apologies for doing so.”

Rebo’s explanation was
so
reasonable,
so
benign, that Norr felt silly. She forced a smile. “Don’t let this go to your head, but there are times when you’re right.”

“Right about
what
?” The voice came from behind them, and both whirled, only to find Phan standing a few feet away. Somehow, by a means not apparent, the other runner had been able to approach them without making a sound. But if the sensitive thought that was strange, it seemed as if Rebo didn’t, because the runner smiled. “Another pair of arms! Just what we need. . . . Here, have a bundle of kindling.”

Phan accepted the wood, but even though she smiled pleasantly, the colors that flowed around her were murky and dark. A fact that served to reactivate the sensitive’s concerns and made Norr suspicious all over again.

Having monitored the entire conversation from his position beneath Norr’s cloak, Logos took note of the sensitive’s suspicions regarding Phan and came to the conclusion that it would be a good idea to keep a nonexistent eye on the newcomer. Because if the female truly was something other than what she seemed, then her presence could very easily have something to do with
him
, a subject AI was always interested in.

There was no sunset as such, just a gradual diminution of light, as the threesome carried the firewood back to the silo. The night passed peacefully for the most part, although the angens stirred at one point, as if they were aware of something that the humans weren’t. And when morning came, and Rebo went out to look around, the runner saw what looked like human tracks in the snow. They appeared to originate up on the road and circled the ruins once before returning to the main thoroughfare. A local perhaps? Keeping an eye on the neighborhood? Or something more sinister? There was no way to know.

Thus began a series of long, almost identical days that varied only in terms of how much snow fell, slight variations in the scenery, and brief contacts with other travelers. Once, while checking their back trail from the top of a pass, Rebo saw six dots in the far distance. But the purpose of a road is to carry traffic, so there was no reason to be alarmed, or so it seemed to him.

Eventually, after the better part of a week had passed, the travelers came across the first of what would eventually turn out to be a series of recently used campsites. Not the single fire pit that a family or an itinerant tradesman might have huddled next to, but a large area of well-trampled snow, and the remains of no less than
three
fires. All of which suggested a party that consisted of fifteen or twenty people. But what
kind
of people? Nice people? Or bad people?

It was an unsettling development, and one that became even more worrisome later the next day when, having passed through some small villages, the group came upon a much larger campsite. An area large enough to accommodate up to a hundred people, who, if not under a single leader, had been on friendly terms with one another, judging from the remains of a communal kitchen and two sets of latrines.

“So,” Phan said, as she looked down from her mount. “What do you think?”

Having slid down off his mount, Rebo went over to the remains of the communal kitchen, knelt next to the fire pit, and blew into the gray ashes. Embers started to glow red, and a tiny wisp of smoke appeared. “I think we’re closing with a group of people,” Rebo said as he came to his feet. “One that continues to grow.”

Norr had been silent thus far, and her angen tossed its equine head as the variant opened her eyes. “A man was murdered here,” the sensitive intoned bleakly.

Phan was getting tired of the spook’s endless pronouncements and made a face. “What makes you think so?”

“He’s buried
there
,” Norr replied, and pointed to a mound of snow that was about fifteen feet away.

Phan was skeptical, and rather than simply take the variant’s word for what had occurred, got down off her mount. Her boots made a squeaking sound as Phan made her way over to the pile of snow, fell to her knees, and scraped at the snow. The assassin felt her left hand make contact with something solid, so she scooped more of the white stuff out of the way and was startled by what she saw. A man
had
been buried there. That bothered Phan. If Norr could “see” things like that—then what else could the spook perceive?

But the question went unanswered as Norr felt Lysander invade her body, tried to fend the spirit entity off, and failed. The voice that came out of her mouth was deep and hoarse. “You have only to look at the man’s lips,” the technologist intoned, “to see the price paid for heresy.”

Rebo had heard the unnatural voice and seen the same wide-eyed expression on Norr’s face before. He shook his head disgustedly. “It’s Lysander . . . Here we go again.”

Though not familiar with Lysander, Phan had seen Dyson channel Kane and understood the nature of what was taking place. She peered at the dead man’s face.

“What do you see?” Rebo wanted to know, and fumbled for his glasses.

“Somebody sewed his lips together,” Phan replied, as she eyed the puckered flesh.

“And
that
,” Lysander continued, “was the price he paid for speaking on behalf of technology. You must be careful, because the antitechnics would lay waste to entire villages to destroy that which you bear toward its home.”

There it was, confirmation that the people Phan had been assigned to escort actually had the device that Shaz lusted after, something the assassin had been forced to accept on faith up until that point. But Phan wasn’t supposed to be aware of Logos, so she forced a frown and came to her feet. “What is he, she, or it talking about anyway?”

Rebo swore silently. That was just one of the problems associated with working for a dead client. The bastard not only had a big mouth—but a talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. “You’ve seen Lonni’s vibro blade— the antitechnics would pitch a fit if they caught wind of it.”