Logos Run (18 page)

“That’s simple,” Hoggles replied confidently. “He’s here, isn’t he? Even though he’s
losing
money rather than making it.”

Suddenly Norr knew that the man sitting next to her was present for much the same reason and felt a deep pang of regret, not to mention guilt, and a sort of sisterly affection. “And there’s one more thing,” Hoggles added. “I don’t know what transpired between the two of you—but it’s my guess that Phan was part of it. I don’t trust her Lonni—and you shouldn’t, either.”

Norr remembered Rebo’s apology, followed by her harsh words, and the
bang
as the door slammed closed. The runner wasn’t entirely innocent, she knew that, but he wasn’t entirely guilty either. Not according to Hoggles—and not according to the voice inside her. The one she should have been listening to all along. “You are a good friend, Bo. . . . A
very
good friend, and I’m fortunate.”

The heavy blushed beet red, felt his heart leap at the praise, and turned toward the road ahead. Meanwhile, having monitored the entire conversation from beneath Norr’s blanket Logos processed the computer equivalent of a human sigh. If there was anything more boring than human mating rituals, he couldn’t imagine what it was. But at least the biologicals were in motion, which meant
he
was in motion, which was the only thing that really mattered.

When darkness fell, the travelers found themselves be
tween villages and therefore sought shelter within the rough embrace of four roofless walls. With nothing to protect them from the possibility of snow, Hoggles worked to stretch a canvas tarpaulin over the encampment while Phan busied herself at the cook fire. The other two went looking for firewood and were gone for quite a while. Longer than required to collect the amount of fuel they returned with. A fact that pleased Hoggles and annoyed Phan.

And, after everyone awoke the next morning, Phan found herself relegated to riding on the cart next to Hoggles while both the runner and the sensitive rode ahead. A sure sign that previously broken fences had been mended. Which was just as well, because it was less than an hour later when the group topped a rise and found themselves looking down on the Army of God. It was a relatively large group consisting of at least three hundred people. They were kneeling at that particular moment, heads bowed as a man dressed in a tattered robe stood atop an ice-encrusted rock and delivered the morning sermon.

There was no reason to be surprised, since the travelers had been following along behind the larger group for more than a week by then, but Rebo was taken aback by the size of the mob below, and the fact that a detachment of what looked like heavy cavalry had been sent up the hill to intercept them. Brightly colored banners snapped in the breeze as mismatched mounts snorted what looked like puffs of steam and clods of half-frozen muck shot from under their iron-shod hooves.

Norr turned to Rebo. “Return to the cart . . . Hide your guns and tell Phan to do the same. I’ll try to stall them.”

The runner nodded, jerked the angen’s head around, and kicked the animal’s barrel-shaped sides. He was gone two seconds later.

“Logos,” Norr said, as she eyed the oncoming riders. “Can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you,” the AI replied testily. “I’m not deaf!”

“Then pay attention,” the sensitive instructed curtly.

“I’m looking at an army of antitechnic fanatics. They’re going to be all around us soon—and they would like nothing more than to rip you apart. So keep quiet until I say you can speak. Even if that takes a week or more. Understood?”

It was probably Norr’s imagination, but the sensitive thought that the computer sounded resentful. “Understood.”

The riders were close by then, thundering up over the rise, their swords, spears, and battle-axes plain to see. Norr smiled in what she hoped was a disarming manner. “Good morning!”

There was a mad clatter of metal and a good deal of snorting as both riders and mounts circled around her. One of the warriors, a gaunt-looking man dressed in homemade armor, nodded politely. “Greetings . . . We ride for the Army of God. Do you carry the pestilence? Or are you clean?”

Norr frowned. “The pestilence? I don’t understand.”

“Technology,” the rider answered sternly. “Meaning those items listed in the Book of Abominations.”

“No,” the sensitive answered. “At least I don’t think so.”

“Take care, woman,” the man cautioned grimly. “Ignorance is no excuse. . . . And if you’re hiding something— the diviner will surely find it.”

Norr didn’t know who or what the “diviner” was, but wasn’t about to tell the rider about Logos, the guns,
or
her vibro blade. “Yes, I mean
no
, we aren’t carrying any proscribed items.”

“Good,” the man responded loftily. “Come that you might become one with the Army of God! The rector welcomes all who burn with holy passion and live to battle the pestilence.”

Norr forced a smile. “Yes, well, I’m not sure how much time we can spend with the army—but thank you for the invitation.”

Rebo had arrived by that time, along with the cart, and felt utterly defenseless knowing that
his
guns, not to mention Phan’s, were hidden under the cart’s bench-style seat. But there was nothing that the runner and his companions could do but follow the religious fanatics down into the valley below.

The church service had ended, and the faithful were streaming up toward the road, as the off-world travelers were escorted into the campsite. Norr noticed that most of the antitechnics were dressed in little more than rags, that many were so malnourished as to appear starved, and that some lay on makeshift litters. Still others, including most of the older children, were bent under the weight of heavy packs.

It was a pitiful sight, and one that Rebo was still struggling to deal with, when a group of cudgel-wielding acolytes stepped out to bar the way. Like the cavalry, they were better fed than the rest, which suggested a hierarchy of some sort. “Halt!” one of the men ordered pompously. “The rector would speak with you.”

“You must dismount,” one of the riders added helpfully. “Or pay for your arrogance.”

Both Rebo and Norr got down from their angens, only to have the reins snatched out of their hands as the man known as the rector appeared. He was at least seven feet tall. A rarity during an age when most A-strain males stood about five-foot-ten. But if the holy man’s height was intimidating, so were his broad forehead, hooked nose, and thin, nearly nonexistent lips. Worse, from Norr’s perspective, was the force of his personality, which would have rolled in to supplant her own had she allowed it to do so.

The sensitive staggered under the psychic assault, threw up a protective barrier, and struggled to stand her ground. That was when the sensitive realized that while a filthy robe concealed most of the rector’s long angular body, his feet were bare and blue from the cold. A sign of penitence perhaps? Of otherworldliness? There was no way to know. The rector sketched the letter “A” into the air. “Blessings be upon you my children. Where are you from?”

Rebo remembered the way people turned out to stone the shuttle back in New Wimmura and knew that some sort of cover story was required. Consistent with lessons learned while growing up inside the guild, the runner stuck to the truth to the extent that was possible. “From New Wimmura, holy one. I’m a runner with a message for a merchant in Feda. This woman is my wife, Citizen Hoggles hopes to find work there, and Citizen Phan was engaged to guard our humble belongings.”

The rector’s gaze shifted to Phan. “You’re an assassin?”

Phan inclined her head. There wasn’t much on Derius or any other planet that frightened her, yet this man did. “Yes, holy one.”

“Are you carrying any breech-loaded firearms?”

Phan thought about the revolvers hidden aboard the cart and wondered if it would have been better to dispose of them. But it was too late for that, so she brought her head up, and looked the rector in the eyes. “No, holy one.”

“We will see about that,” the rector replied cynically. “It has been my experience that members of your profession have a special affinity for proscribed technology—some of which is so cunningly disguised that only an extensive search will uncover it.”

Norr thought about the AI, as well as the vibro blade hidden inside her wooden staff, and wondered if the rector had the means to detect such things. The holy man clearly
thought
he did as he sent one of the acolytes to fetch “the diviner.” In the meantime the rector had transferred his attention to Norr. “You interest me,” the holy man said. “Why would a sensitive marry a norm?”

“I fell in love with the
man
,” Norr replied honestly. “Not the body. . . . Besides, sensitives are a moody lot, and one is enough for any household.”

The comment was intended as a joke, but the rector nodded, as if well aware of how moody sensitives could be, and was about to follow up on the matter when the diviner arrived. She was about eight years old, dressed in the remains of an expensive party dress, and armed with a forked stick. The rector’s hard, angular face softened at the sight of her. “Hello, my dear,” he said softly. “How are you feeling? Better? That’s wonderful. . . . Now, if you’re up to it, please check to see if these people should be allowed to join our flock.”

Of course none of the travelers
wanted
to join the rector’s shabby flock, but couldn’t say so, as the serious-looking youngster waved the Y-shaped divining rod at them. “It will dip if one of you is carrying the pestilence,” the rector warned confidently, as the little girl pointed the tree branch at Norr.

Rebo had never been one to ignore the role that supernatural objects could play in everyday life, so when the stick came into alignment with the computer hidden beneath Norr’s cloak, the runner half expected the stick to dip. But it didn’t, and their luck held even as the child waved her stick at the cart and the weapons hidden on it. And, such was the rector’s trust in her that no further inspection was required. The holy man produced what might have been a smile. “Welcome to the Army of God!” he proclaimed enthusiastically, and sketched another “A” into the air. “Come, my dear . . . We must take our place at the head of the column lest progress be slowed.”

And with that the man with the bloody feet boosted the little girl up onto his broad shoulders and walked away. The acolytes and the cavalry followed. Rebo waited until the antitechnics were well out of earshot before shaking his head in amazement. “That is one crazy bastard.”

Norr discovered that she had been holding her breath. It felt good to let it go. “That’s an understatement. Something tells me that we were fortunate . . . But will our luck hold?”

The next thirty hours were like an episode in a surreal
dream. Two hours after being absorbed by the Army of God, Rebo found himself slogging through the half-frozen muck while three raggedy moppets sat atop what had once been
his
angen. Meanwhile, about twenty feet to the rear, Norr had transformed the cart into an ambulance. Now, in addition to the group’s steadily dwindling supply of food, the conveyance carried a couple of stretchers and half a dozen children. As for the other angens, they were “on loan” to the rector’s cavalry, which was extremely unlikely to return them.

So, with no choice but to walk, time seemed to slow as the wintry landscape inched by. There weren’t many rest breaks, but when one was declared, the flock was given only minutes in which to take care of their personal needs before the cudgel-carrying acolytes began to round them up. Then, with their knees buried in the cold-wet snow, the Army of God was required to listen as the rector read passages from a “history” that described how the people of Old Wimmura worshiped technology during the reign of Emperor Hios and were subsequently punished by God’s righteous thunder.

Lysander attempted to take over Norr’s body during one such episode so that he could counter what he saw as the rector’s lies. But rather than allow him to do so the sensitive removed her belt and proceeded to whip her back with it— knowing that the pain would be sufficient to keep the entity at bay. The act caused some consternation at first, but was soon emulated by the more pious members of the assemblage, thereby adding still another element to the strange, half-real day.

Finally, exhausted by a fifteen-mile march under difficult circumstances, the flock descended upon an isolated house just before nightfall and “borrowed” everything the farm family had, including their food, animals, and personal possessions. The latter were of particular interest to the acolytes, who spent most of the evening squabbling over a few bits of gold.

Although Rebo, Norr, Hoggles, and Phan had been forced to surrender the cart by then, along with what remained of their food, the travelers had managed to recover their personal belongings, including Norr’s staff, plus all the firearms, which were now kept wrapped within their bedrolls. That was the good news. The bad news was that each time the foursome attempted to meet, and thereby agree on an escape plan, an acolyte would materialize among them and call upon the group to pray, gather firewood, or dig a latrine.

The result was that by the time the second day had dawned, and the bowls of watery porridge had been consumed, the off-worlders were still trapped within the Army of God. What comfort there was stemmed from the fact they remained on the road to Feda and were making progress toward their ultimate goal.

By midmorning the sky had begun to darken, and snowflakes began to twirl down out of the heavens, as the flock took temporary possession of a rocky promontory that looked out over a canyon and the white ribbon that twisted along the bottom of it. The army scattered as people sought to relieve themselves, or gnawed on cold rations, as Rebo peered down into the abyss.
Would the ice-covered river take one to Feda
? he wondered. If so, the runner thought that it might represent an alternative to the road, and the Army of God.