Logos Run (37 page)

“However, unbeknownst to the degenerate freaks, three steam-powered ironclads are nearing completion about twenty miles inland from Esperance. Within days, a week at most, we can bring those ships west by rail. Then, before the phibs can stop us, we will set sail for Buru. What do you think of
that
?”

Planning was best of course, but Tepho was grateful whenever good luck came his way, and he smiled crookedly as he spoke. “I think you’re brilliant.”

The water at the center of the council chamber was chest deep, which made it difficult to walk around, but allowed the phib politicians to sit half-supported by the water, float on their backs, or, in the case of those who felt the need to move about, swim out into the deep end and tread water.

In the meantime, Mayor Pontho and representatives from the other city-states were seated on a stage above the deep end, where they were three hours and twenty minutes into a discussion of whether the city of Shimmer would be left to tackle Arbuk’s forces alone or would receive assistance from the other communities. The subject was rather controversial because the other mayors, who were understandably reluctant to upset the delicate status quo, had their doubts regarding the entire notion of star gates and wanted to know what was in it for them and their constituencies.

Rebo, who had been forced to remain immersed in the water while waiting for the seemingly endless debate to end, was busy looking at his pruny hands when Pontho finally called his name. Norr, who was half-floating beside him, had to jab the runner in the ribs in order to get his attention. “Jak . . . she called your name!”

The phibs watched in amusement as Rebo churned his way across the deep end of the chamber to a set of stairs that led up onto the stage. The runner was wearing a pair of cutoffs, but still felt naked as he padded across the platform and left a trail of wet footprints to mark his progress.

There were nine mayors, including Pontho, and all had seats at the oval table. None wore anything more elaborate than a genital pouch, and some were completely naked. Five of the politicians were female, which meant that four were male, all of whom appeared to be older rather than younger. There was a raised bench on which guests could sit, but the norm chose to stand. “It’s my pleasure to introduce Jak Rebo,” Pontho said. “Some of you have expressed concerns where Lord Arbuk’s new ironclads are concerned. They are by all reports powerful vessels that could interfere with an attack on Buru. . . . However, thanks to military expertise acquired on other planets, Citizen Rebo is ready with a plan that could neutralize the threat. Citizen Rebo?”

Rebo didn’t have any military expertise, not really, but knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to say that. So, with all eyes upon him, the runner proceeded to outline his plan. “As you know, Mayor Pontho’s agents report that three steam-powered warships are presently being constructed about twenty miles inland from the coastal city of Esperance, and will be ready within a matter of days.”

That was the projectionist’s cue, and the map appeared on the ceiling, where those who were floating on their backs could see it, as well as on all three of the walls around the stage. But unlike the maps used ashore, this one ignored all but the most important roads to focus on the capillary-like network of streams and rivers that fed the oceans.

A pistol-shaped electronic pointer had been left for Rebo’s use. After pointing the device at the wall, the runner pressed the firing stud and was immediately rewarded with a red dot. It slid up to the point where the name ESPERANCE marked a large bay. And there, flowing into the harbor, was a narrow finger of blue. “This is the Otero River,” the off-worlder said. “What I propose to do is lead a party of raiders upstream, march a mile overland to the point where the ironclads are being constructed, and destroy them
before
the locals can transport them to Esperance. Then, with the steamships out of the way, we can attack Buru.”

It was a simple plan, but still worthy of another hour’s debate, and Rebo was back in the water floating on his back when the final decision was made. A finding that ultimately had more to do with a widely shared desire to destroy Arbuk’s warships than any particular enthusiasm for the off-worlders, their talking snake, or the system of star gates they were so obsessed with. “Thank you,” Pontho said sincerely, as the results of the unanimous vote were announced. “You won’t be sorry.”

Rebo wasn’t so sure about that, but hoped it was true, and let his hand stray to the good luck amulet that he wore around his neck. Except that the object wasn’t there, and hadn’t been for some time, even though he was going to need it more than ever.

Norr, who knew the runner pretty well by then, and could “see” the doubts that swirled around Rebo, took his hand in hers. Nothing was said, and nothing needed to be. The end of the journey was near, and if they could survive the trials ahead, a much more pleasant journey was about to begin.

Inu Harluck was drunk, or had been, back before he stumbled out of the Evil Eye tavern, entered the adjacent stable, and passed out. It was a blissful state, and one that the fisherman-pirate preferred to remain in for as long as possible, which made the pain that much more annoying. But there was no escaping it, so Harluck was forced to surface and open his eyes.

Shaz saw the man’s eyelids flutter, uttered a grunt of satisfaction, and removed the knife tip from the local’s neck. A single drop of blood welled up to mark the point where the surface of the drunk’s skin had been broken. “It’s time to wake up,” the combat variant said contemptuously. “There’s money to be made.”

What little light there was emanated from a lantern that was hanging a good ten feet away. So, as the fisherman looked upward, and saw the man-shaped image shimmer, he began to flail his arms and kick with his legs in a futile attempt to escape what could only be a spirit. A murdered phib, perhaps, returned from the depths, ready to cut his throat. But when Phan threw a full bucket of water in his face, Harluck’s head began to clear. “Who are you people?” the pirate spluttered. “And why pick on me? I ain’t done nothin’ to you.”

“No,” Shaz agreed, “you haven’t. But this is your lucky day. . . . We want to hire you, your crew, and your boat. Not the cutter—but the sailboat. The one you stole from the phibs.”

“I
didn’t
steal it,” the local objected hotly, “I found her. Empty she was, just drifting, pretty as you please.”

“That’s not what your brother-in-law told us,” the combat variant responded. “But save it for the local constable. We don’t care how you came into possession of the boat. What we
do
care about is an early start. So stand up, pull yourself together, and round up your crew.”

Harluck stood, made a futile attempt to brush some of the filth off his clothes, and looked from one person to the other. He had scraggly hair, furtive eyes, and a pointy chin. “I don’t believe I caught your names.”

“I’m Shaz,” the variant replied, “and this is Phan.”

“Well, Citizen Shaz,” the fisherman said officiously, “my services don’t come cheap.”

“No,” Shaz agreed sardonically, “I’m sure they don’t. This coin was minted elsewhere, but it’s solid gold and worth more than you would normally make in a year.”

Lanternlight reflected off the crono as it arced through the air. Harluck intercepted the gold piece and weighed the object in the palm of a callused hand, before running a cracked nail across the face of a man who had been dead for more than two hundred years. Then, not having detected any lead, the pirate tucked the coin away. “So what kind of contraband are you smuggling?” he wanted to know. “And where are we headed?”

“There isn’t any contraband,” Shaz replied evenly. “As for our destination, that’s the island of Buru.”

The pirate turned pale. “Buru? No, way! The phibs will kill us.”

“Maybe,” the combat variant allowed. “But that’s the chance we take.”

Harluck looked from one hard face to the other. “What if I say ‘no’?”

“Then
I’ll
kill you,” Phan replied cheerfully. “Take your pick!”

Both of the strangers thought that was funny and laughed out loud. Harluck wanted to run, but knew they would catch him, and cursed his miserable luck. Because even though the gold coin lay heavy in his pocket—there wasn’t much chance that he would live to spend it.

Viewed from water level, out in the bay, the city of Esperance glittered like a necklace of diamonds laid across a piece of black velvet. It was nighttime, and had been for hours by then, but most of the city’s residents were still up and blissfully unaware of the raiders who had already penetrated their defenses. Fortunately for them, the sleek web-fingered commandos had no designs on the city itself. Their goal lay twenty miles upriver, where a short hike would take them to the village of Prost, where three warships rested on specially made rail cars, waiting for their trip to the sea. Like young people everywhere, the phib warriors were eager to begin the journey.

But Rebo felt different. Unlike the genetically engineered phibs, and in spite of the skin-suit they had given him to wear, the runner was cold. More than that he was tired. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the powered sled on which his body rested, Rebo knew he would never have made it that far. Now, as he and his commandos lay doggo among the swells, a team of scouts were probing the point where the Otero emptied into the bay. The mouth of the river was sure to be guarded, or so it seemed to Rebo, so he wasn’t especially surprised when a bright-eyed phib arrived to tell him as much. What little light there was emanated from the city beyond—and both men rose and fell with the swells. “They have a net stretched across the Otero,” the youngster whispered. “And guards on both banks. It would be easy to kill the pigs though . . . just give the word.”

“No,” Rebo said emphatically. “No killing. . . . Not unless absolutely forced to do so. The bodies would be discovered—and the norms would rush to protect the ships.”

“Then what should we do?” the scout wanted to know.

“Stay in the water,” the runner instructed. “And cut two holes in the net. Keep them small, no larger than a sled, and mark them with radio beepers. Then, once everything is ready, let me know.”

The youngster said, “Yes, sir!” and sank below the surface.

Then, as Rebo and the rest of his raiders continued to bob up and down, a light detached itself from those that lined the shore and gradually grew brighter. That was accompanied by the rhythmic
splash-creak
of oars and the low rumble of conversation. A noncom surfaced next to the runner, whispered, “Guard boat!” and hooked his thumb downward.

The runner nodded, took the rubber mouthpiece between his teeth, and goosed the sled’s electric motor. It purred softly as short wings cut into the water, and the sled slid beneath the waves. Because he didn’t have gills, Rebo was forced to rely on oxygen stored within the cylindrical sled, and had already grown used to the metallic taste. The tiny instrument panel in front of him glowed green, and once the submersible was about fifteen feet under the surface, the runner leveled out. Other green lights could be seen to the right and left, but none was bright enough to be visible from above, as the guard boat passed over their heads.

Fifteen long minutes passed after that—a near eternity in which there was plenty of time to wonder whether the scouts had been discovered, the alarm had been given, and the entire plan revealed. Time, too, in which to wonder how much oxygen he had left and feel the relentless cold creep into his bones. But finally, with the surety of someone who had practiced underwater navigation his entire life, the scout appeared out of the gloom. And, at the young man’s urging, Rebo directed the sled upward.

There was a feeling of relief as the city’s slightly blurred lights appeared, because even though it was dangerous on the surface, it felt good to be in his rightful element again. The scout had extremely white teeth, and they appeared to glow in the strange half-light. “We’re ready, sir!” he proclaimed. “Follow me.”

So Rebo followed, and it wasn’t long before the lights grew brighter, and were split by a canyon of darkness where the river entered the bay. The entire force slid beneath the waves at that point, formed two columns, and was subsequently guided upriver by a combination of low-frequency voice commands, homing beacons, and watchful scouts, one of whom was there to shepherd the runner through one of two holes in the net. The passage was anticlimactic in a way, since it had taken so much effort to prepare for the moment, yet nothing went awry.

Once upstream of the net and the guards, things began to change. The water was fresh, there was a strong current to contend with, and lots of obstacles. Having scraped a bridge support, and come close to colliding with a boulder, Rebo tucked in behind one of the more experienced phibs. Then, by following the noncom’s glowing ankle bracelets, the norm made his way up the first section of the river without further incident.

But it wasn’t long before the commandos encountered the first of what would prove to be a number of challenges. The face of the dam stood at least fifteen feet high, which meant the raiders would have to climb it and hoist their sleds up after them. Strong though the amphibians were, even they couldn’t swim twenty miles upstream and still have sufficient energy for what lay ahead.

Fortunately, there weren’t any guards other than the mill keeper’s dog, which barked twice, then collapsed with a sling-launched spear through its throat. The body was hidden, and guards were posted even as specially fabricated swing arms were deployed. It wasn’t long before the first sled was lifted onto the top of the dam and more followed.

Eager for something to do, and cognizant of how important it was to set an example, Rebo took charge of the crew that was working to drop the newly arrived sleds into the lake that lay pent-up behind the dam. Then, as the final units were hoisted up and over, the moon began to rise. Except that the runner knew that the half-seen orb wasn’t a moon, at least not a natural one, which meant he was looking at Socket. Rebo wondered if Norr could see it but thought that was doubtful since the sensitive was in Shimmer.