Runner (39 page)

“Have a seat,” Posa said, as she gestured toward the single guest chair. “You and I are going to have a nice little chat about the sensitive and the item she took from you. Who knows? Maybe
I
can recover it. If I do, perhaps that will be sufficient to get me out of this hellhole.”

The very thought of Posa's recovering the gate seed and using it to gain the approval denied him was enough to make the blood pound in Kane's head. The operative looked down at his hands. They had been bound, but
in front of him,
in order to facilitate his trip to the men's room. That was a mistake and one he planned to take advantage of.

Kane stepped up to the desk as if preparing to sit down, raised both hands over his head, and brought them down as fast as he could. Clenched fists connected with the station chief's skull. The blow stunned Posa, who fell forward, and threw her hands down in order to brace herself. The operative took advantage of the opportunity to head butt her, saw his opponent fall backward, and knew she was out of it.

There was a guard, but he held his fire out of fear that a bullet might strike his boss, and rushed to grapple with the prisoner. When Kane turned it was with Posa's double-edged letter opener clutched in his right hand. The guard came to a stop, or attempted to, but the effort came too late.
The knifelike instrument went deep into his chest; he gave a little sigh, and collapsed in a heap.

Fortunately for Kane none of the battle had generated much in the way of sound, which meant that the rest of the staff weren't aware of what had just taken place, or the danger they were in. That was about to change, however, as Kane took the guard's weapon, plus Posa's, and all the ammo he could find.

Then, his pockets heavy with the gold coins that he had looted from the station chief's safe, the operative took the time necessary to garrote Posa with her own belt, prior to going room to room with a pistol in each hand. The unsuspecting staff members fell like targets on a combat range. Once the shuttle had come and gone, the people posted at the spaceport would return to find a nasty surprise waiting for them.

Satisfied that all of those who could testify against him were dead, and confident that he could blame the slaughter on Norr, Kane entered the decontamination chamber. The sensitive had gone to Etu, so he would too. Once on the planet he would find the bitch, kill her, and recover the gate seed. Then, with the device in hand, the operative could return to Anafa. Yes, there would be questions, but nothing speaks louder than success. Water soaked his clothes, and his stomach felt queasy, but Kane didn't care. He was alive, and even though his quarry remained a few steps ahead of him, he would soon catch up with her.

The Planet Etu

It was hot inside the flour-sack hood, not to mention claustrophobic and humiliating. Norr's vision was restricted to what two small slits allowed her to see. That, combined
with the dust that found its way up under the hood, and the endless jerk-jerk-jerk of the leg shackles threatened to drive the sensitive insane.

The obvious solution was to hire or buy some sort of angen-drawn cart, so the entire group could ride, but the countryside was alive with displaced city folk, so transportation was in short supply. So, if the travelers wanted to reach the spaceport at Overa in time to board the next ship, they would have to walk.

Rebo thought conditions would improve once they put the city of Epano behind them, but Norr wasn't so sure. Variants were just another category of personal property on Etu, and since rural areas tend to be
more
conservative than urban centers, the sensitive figured that things weren't likely to get any better out in the country. And that raised some frightening possibilities. What if someone saw through their charade and turned all four of them in to the authorities? Or, what if something happened to Rebo? Or, the shuttle never arrived? Doubts plagued the sensitive, and time seemed to slow as she shuffled through each weary mile.

By that time the boulevard they had followed out of Epano had degenerated into a two-lane highway, which morphed into a single set of deep ruts served by occasional pull-outs. Occasional stretches of ancient duracrete and some sturdy bridges hinted at glories past, but such artifacts were rare. For the most part the road simply followed the path of least resistance as it wound its way between softly rounded hills, crossed rivers at the point where the water was shallowest, and meandered between small farms and vast estates.

It was easy going really, or would have been, had it not been for the misery that the variants were subjected to. Rebo was worried about them,
very
worried, but there
wasn't much he could do about it. Not considering that it wasn't unusual to pass a pair of matched slaves laboring between the traces of a cart loaded with angen manure, or to see a variant pulling a plow in a nearby field, or to be passed by a norm mounted high on a heavy's back.

And sensitives were no better off. Most were used as household help, but the hooded figures could be seen escorting children to school and working in the fields as well. Chances were that their other talents were being put to use, but privately, and for the exclusive benefit of their owners. The fact that the variants had clearly been enslaved for a long time, yet continued to have distinguishing traits, suggested an enforced breeding program—a horrible thought and one that caused Rebo to shudder.

Unpleasant though the society around them was, the weather had been relatively mild, with only the occasional rain shower to interrupt long, mostly sunny days. The foursome made good time as a result, covering about fifteen miles per day, as the dirt road led them through a series of rural villages.

The routine was pretty much the same from day to day. Get up early, fix a light breakfast, and hit the road. Food for lunch and dinner, as well as the next breakfast, was purchased at the first village they came to. Lunch was consumed by a stream if possible, far enough off the road that passersby wouldn't be able to see that the variants had been allowed to remove their shackles and hoods, or the fact that their supposed owner was breaking bread with them.

Later, after the sun had dissolved into a red-orange smear on the western horizon, the foursome sought a safe spot to camp. But such places were sometimes hard to find, and there were nights when it wasn't safe to have a fire, forcing them to eat cold food. Lee made use of the discomfort an
opportunity to exert mindful control over his physical body, but it made the rest miserable, especially Norr, who missed her hot tea.

But the days passed, and as they did, things started to change. There was more traffic on the road, the villages were closer together, and files of brightly uniformed angen-mounted cavalry passed from time to time. These were all signs that a city lay ahead, which according to Rebo's scribe-drawn map, was called Citro. And, judging from the speed at which they were walking, it was clear that it would be necessary to stay the night. A none-too-pleasant prospect, especially where the variants were concerned, since it didn't take a genius to realize that they wouldn't be allowed to occupy the same quarters that Rebo and Lee would.

There was nothing Norr could do about the situation, however, so the sensitive did the best she could to put the matter out of her mind as the foursome made their way across a wooden bridge, past a group of bored-looking soldiers, and entered the city of Citro. It showed no signs of earthquake damage—and was clearly less prosperous than Epano had been prior to the temblor. Raw sewage ran along both sides of the unpaved streets. No structures stood more than two stories tall, and with the exception of old ground cars that had been converted into farm wagons, there were no signs of ancient technology. Laundry flapped from lines strung between buildings, children carried buckets of water home from public wells, and piles of rotting garbage marked major intersections.

Rebo sought directions from a street vendor, gave the woman a copper by way of thanks, and led the group to a hostelry that claimed to be the finest hotel in Citro. The runner might have been more impressed had it not been for
the pile of angen manure out front, the trail of mud that led up the wooden stairs to the entrance, or the somewhat threadbare doorman who waited to greet them. But, shabby or not, the employee wore an invisible cloak of superiority, which could be seen in the way he looked down his nose at the road-weary travelers. “Yes? How can I help you?”

“We wish to stay the night,” Rebo replied evenly, trying his best to sound like the merchant that he was pretending to be. Not rich, but successful, even if the rigors of the road had left him and his party looking a bit disheveled.

“I see,” the doorman said, as if doing Rebo a favor. “You and the boy may proceed to the front desk. I'll have one of the stable hands take the slaves around back.”

“I want them fed and given a chance to bathe,” Rebo insisted. “They're starting to smell.”

“As are
you,
” the doorman thought to himself, but nodded and blew a tin whistle. A ratty-looking twelve-year-old appeared a few moments later. He was armed with a whip, and judging from the look on his thin little face, was eternally on the lookout for an opportunity to use it. The runner had collected the keys for the shackles earlier that morning. He frowned as he handed them to the boy. “If I find whip marks on my property,
you're
the one who will wear the next set of stripes.”

That, as it turned out, was exactly the sort of motivation that the youngster understood. He nodded sullenly and ordered the variants down into the street. Norr paused long enough to shrug her pack off, remove the cloth-wrapped object inside, and hand it to Rebo. “Here, master . . . This will be safer with you.”

The runner knew what was in the package and nodded as he accepted the spherical gate seed. He wanted to take Norr
in his arms but couldn't. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “I want to get an early start tomorrow—so make sure that you're ready.”

Norr said, “Yes, master,” and was led away. Hoggles, chains rattling, followed behind. The sensitive, her vision restricted by the hood, followed the boy through a narrow passageway and into a muddy courtyard where a cluster of children were busy washing a droopy-eared angen. Beyond them a low one-story building could be seen. It boasted two openings. The first, which was located at the south end of the structure, was large enough to accommodate animals. The second, which gave access to the north end of the building, was smaller and clearly intended for people. And it was through that entrance that the variants were led.

Light filtered into the reception area via four panes of thick glass. There was a counter, some rusty ring bolts that had been set into the mud-smeared floor, and the air was thick with the rank odor of the angens stabled next door. An armed guard sat on a tall stool in one corner, a potbellied stove squatted in another, and the woman in charge was protected by a crudely constructed counter. She wore a kerchief on her head, a long baggy dress, and a pair of wooden clogs. They made a rapping sound as she moved out into the center of the room. “The showers will open in two hours, dinner will be served an hour after than, and the lights go out at nine,” she said curtly. “Behave yourselves, and everything will be fine. Cause trouble and you'll be sorry. Any questions? No? Good. It's been my experience that it's the troublemakers who like to ask questions. Males go in
there,
” the norm said as she pointed at a sturdy door, “and females go in
there
.”

Norr was forced to wait while the norm unlocked the door to the male barracks so that Hoggles could enter. Then,
once the door had been secured, it was the sensitive's turn as the woman clumped from one side of the reception area to the other. The handmade key rattled as it was inserted into its hole, there was a loud
click-clack
as the lock turned, and the squeal of unoiled metal as the door swung open.

As Norr shuffled into the long narrow room she saw that rows of heavy-duty beds lined two of the four walls. A much-abused table ran down the center of the room. It was flanked by a dozen mismatched chairs, four of which were occupied by female sensitives. A couple of heavies sat beyond, their hands locked together, as they struggled to determine who was strongest. Both females had biceps the size of Norr's thighs—and neither broke eye contact with the other as the newcomer entered.

The door swung closed with a decisive
thud,
the key rattled in the lock, and Norr was on her own. “So,” a voice said at the sensitive's elbow, “what have we here?”

Norr was about to answer when the hood was jerked up off her head and the fifth sensitive made her presence known. “Hello, my name is Riba,” the variant said cheerfully. Though a good deal older than Norr, the woman had the same big eyes, high cheekbones, and narrow face.

“Hmmm,” Riba said, as she circled Norr. “I sense something strange here.”

That seemed to serve as an invitation for the others to examine the young woman as well. And not just examine, but
probe,
as only sensitives can. It had been a long time since the variant had been in the same room with another sensitive, much less
five
of them, and she had nearly forgotten what such an experience was like. The heavies were oblivious to the way in which auras flared, energy seethed, and unusual things began to happen. A cut on Norr's left arm was miraculously healed, her pack seemed to float off her
shoulders, and strains of ethereal music could be heard floating through the air.