Runner (9 page)

Rebo looked, saw three coins, and raised an eyebrow. “You were gambling?”

“I was playing a game,” Lee extemporized. “And I won!”

“You won
this
time,” the runner countered. “But I predict next time will be different. Once they hook you your luck will start to fade.”

Lee didn't want to believe it, but deep down he knew that Rebo was probably correct and sought to change the subject. “So what's the plan for today? Wait! Don't tell me, let me guess. You're going to sit around and watch the paint fade.”

“No,” Rebo replied as he poked the fire. “I have something a little more challenging in mind for today. Here, read this.”

The runner handed the piece of parchment to Lee and saw the boy's eyes widen as he read the message. “They plan to kill you! I know who they are . . . They watch me all the time.”

“Which is why you're going to stick around camp for a while,” Rebo put in. “Now that they're committed to a fight, they may try to take you hostage.”

“So, what should we do?” the boy inquired eagerly. “Build some defenses?”

“No, I have something else in mind,” the runner responded. “And I need your help.”

Lee felt something expand inside his chest. “Of course!” he said enthusiastically. “Tell me what I should do.”

The conversation continued for about five minutes before the boy fumbled around in one of their packs, slipped a package into a pocket, and grabbed hold of the water
bucket. None of which struck Tal, Hol's brother, as especially noteworthy. He had been watching the man called Rebo ever since one of his cronies had thrown the bolt. The whole idea was to scare the runner, prevent him from getting enough sleep, and attack when he was weak. Everybody agreed that the equivalent of two or three days without rest would be sufficient to wear him down. That's when Hol would be avenged.

Tal took pleasure in the thought and was still lingering over it, when a series of what he thought were gunshots went off behind him. The would-be killer dived for the deck, rolled onto his back, and looked for the source of the noise. “They were firecrackers!” one of his fellow employees said from a hiding place nearby. “The boy set them off!”

The boy? Tal scrambled to his feet, peered toward the distant fire, and felt something cold trickle into his veins. The runner was gone!

The quick series of explosions brought Norr up out of a
sound sleep only to discover that she was in deep trouble. The metal man loomed above her. What looked like a silver snake launched itself from a commodious sleeve, landed on her chest, and sought her throat. The sensitive grabbed the object and tried to fend it off, but the device was too strong. Within a matter of seconds the synthetic serpent had wrapped itself around Norr's throat and swallowed its own tail.

As the metallic noose tightened, it became difficult to breathe, and the sensitive's lips and fingernails had already started to turn blue when the robot said something in the universal mech language, and the steel loop loosened slightly.

“Why are you doing this?” Norr demanded, still tugging at the collar. “Remove this thing!”

Frac's eyes lit up just as they had while exploring the ship, only the beams of light converged this time, and a picture formed in midair. The image was that of a man with blond hair, fair skin, and cold blue eyes. They seemed to stare straight through her. When he spoke the sound originated from the robot. “Greetings, Citizen Norr. My name is Jevan Kane. Please allow me to apologize for curtailing your freedom, but for reasons known only to him, the founder of the organization I represent has chosen to make himself heard through you alone. Once you and my representative arrive on Pooz you will be taken to our local headquarters, where you will allow Milos Lysander to manifest through you. You can participate in this process voluntarily, and be paid for your time, or do so under duress. The choice is yours.”

“Really?” Norr inquired hopefully. “Then tell this freak to remove the thing that's wrapped around my neck. Once we reach Pooz I'll be glad to bring what's his name through—especially if you pay me.” The last part was a lie, because if the man with the blond hair was stupid enough to let her go, the sensitive planned to destroy Frac and run like hell.

But the effort to deceive Kane was a waste of time because the holo had been prerecorded, the operative couldn't hear her, and there was nothing left to look at beyond a few motes of twirling light.

“I don't like it up here,” Frac said flatly, as his head swiveled back and forth. “Collect your belongings. We leave in five minutes.”

Norr tried to think of a way out of it, but she had been transformed into a slave, and slaves have no choice but to do as they are told.

Though not the best place in the hold, the blue-and-white-striped
tent had been erected on one of the better sites and was quite comfortable on the inside. So much so that the merchant named Dom Fermo rarely left it, preferring to loll within, nibble on tidbits from his well-stocked larder, and enjoy the attentions of his teenaged clerk. A winsome boy, who though not especially skilled at the arts of love, more than made up for that shortcoming with a wealth of enthusiasm.

The two of them were resting, and communicating with each other in whispers, when the point of a knife penetrated the back wall of the tent, and there was a gentle ripping sound as the razor-sharp blade sliced down through the water-resistant fabric. Fermo had turned toward the sound, and was still in the process of preparing to shout, when Rebo stepped through the four-foot-long slit. The runner pointed the Crosser at the merchant, held a finger to his lips, and made his way across the cushion-strewn floor to the point where a striped curtain blocked the entrance. “Call your employees,” Rebo demanded. “
All
of them. Or maybe you'd like to take a bullet. You decide.”

Fermo had full, somewhat sensuous lips. They suddenly felt dry. He ran the tip of his tongue over them. “You won't hurt me? You promise?”

“I won't hurt you,” Rebo agreed. “Now call them in.”

The merchant lifted a bell. It rang once, twice, and three times, thereby signaling all of his employees to enter. And, as luck would have it, they were only twenty feet from the tent still discussing the firecracker incident when the summons was heard. They entered the tent one after another and stood with their backs to Rebo. The one called Tal noticed
that his employer looked especially pale, and was about to ask about his health, when the runner fired his handgun. There were three consecutive reports and each bullet found its mark. Tal felt something knock his left leg out from under him, discovered he was on the floor, and grabbed his thigh. The others were rolling around right next to him. The sound of the gunshots was still fading away when the teenager started to cry and Fermo raised a pair of pudgy hands. “You promised you wouldn't hurt me!”

“And I didn't,” Rebo replied. “Now here's the deal . . . I think you'll find that all three slugs went through flesh without touching bone. Assuming that you and the boy slap dressings on those wounds quickly enough, and apply some pressure, the bleeding will stop. Then, so long as you keep their wounds clean, these lads should be up and around by the time the ship enters orbit around Pooz.”

“But
why?
” Fermo wanted to know. “Why did you attack us?”

Up until that point the runner had assumed that the merchant had been behind the threatening note, but it appeared that he'd been wrong. The employees had been acting on their own. Not that it made much difference. “Because of this,” Rebo replied, tossing the parchment-wrapped bolt into the merchant's lap. “I have to sleep once in a while, and I figured a few bullet holes would slow your servants down. Now, remember what I said about those dressings, or they'll bleed to death right here.”

Rebo brushed the curtain aside, backed through the resulting opening, and disappeared. Fermo sat there for a moment with his mouth hanging open, before turning to the boy and subjecting him to a frown. “You heard the man! Make some dressings. The worthless fools are bleeding on my carpet!”

All of his fellow passengers had heard the rapid-fire series of gunshots but none would meet Rebo's eyes as he wound his way back to the point where Lee was supposed to be guarding their campsite. Only the boy wasn't there.

The runner frowned and took a long slow look around. Lee knew he was supposed to stay close, especially now. That suggested that someone had seen an opportunity to grab the boy and taken it. But there were no signs of foul play, and everything looked as it should have, so maybe not.

But assumptions could be dangerous, and the runner decided to consult his neighbors. Perhaps they had seen something, or if not, would agree to keep an eye on his belongings while he was absent. Especially in return for a gunar or two. Rebo paused to slide a fresh clip into the Crosser, put a bullet in the chamber, and slid the other magazine into a pocket. Then, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, the runner went a-calling.

Ancient machinery whirred as the lift carried them upward,
and numbers flickered on the readout high above Lee's head. “How much farther?” the boy inquired. “You said ten minutes. My father will be worried.”

“We're almost there,” Wama replied soothingly. “Wait until you see it! The compartment contains hundreds of plants all grown together. It's a jungle! You can bring your father. Think how impressed he will be! Don't tell anyone else, though, or they'll come and ruin it.”

Lee listened to the happy babble, but wasn't satisfied by it, and still felt uneasy as the lift jerked to a stop and the monk took his hand. “Come on!” Wama said cheerfully. “We'll take a quick look and go right back.”

The air was different from thick acrid fug that filled the hold. It was warmer for one thing—and so heavy with
moisture that Lee wondered if it might rain. And Lee had to admit that it
was
a wondrous place. Huge branches bore even larger leaves that arched out to touch each other. And the thick undergrowth pushed in from all sides to caress Lee's shoulders. “You were correct, Brother Wama. There
is
a jungle on the ship. But I'm supposed to be guarding the campsite, and my father will be angry.”

“No problem,” Wama assured Lee as he took hold of the boy's arm. “See that bright red flower? Hand me your knife and I'll cut it off for you. It will make a nice present for your father.”

Rebo didn't strike Lee as a person who spent much time looking at flowers, but it would have been rude to say “No,” so he removed the knife from its sheath and gave it to the monk handle first.

Wama accepted the blade, smiled a crooked smile, and spoke in Tilisi. “This brings me no pleasure, little brother. But the
real
Nom Maa is already on his way to the city of CaCanth—and there is no room for an imposter. Rest assured that I will free you from your body quickly, thereby sparing you unnecessary pain, and speeding you on your way.”

Suddenly Lee understood the full extent of the errors he had made and felt a deep sense of shame. He answered in the same language.
“No!”

Wama heard the word and felt the boy stomp on his largely unprotected foot at the same time. The monk let go of the imposter's arm, realized his mistake, and saw the youngster dash into the jungle. Wama swore, slashed at an intervening vine, and plunged in after him. A relay clicked somewhere—and it started to rain.

Rebo felt an empty gnawing sensation in the pit of his
stomach. He figured that the better part of half an hour had
passed, and what had originally been a sense of mild concern had been transformed into out-and-out fear. Someone had taken the boy, he felt sure of it, but the question was who? His initial inquiries had come up negative, and now, as the runner approached a neighboring campsite, the young couple who occupied it looked worried. The male said something to his wife, who picked up a homemade spear. Her husband was armed with a double-barreled flintlock pistol that he wore thrust through his wide leather belt. In spite of the fact that the design was hundreds of thousands of years old, the weapon itself was of recent manufacture and potentially dangerous. Conscious of that Rebo held his hands palms out and chest high. “Sorry to bother you . . . I'm looking for my son. He's been gone for quite a while now, and I'm worried about him.”

The woman's expression seemed to soften somewhat. She knew the boy, everyone did, and liked him. “Yes, as a matter of fact I did. He and Brother Wama left quite a while ago. I don't know where they were going, but I'm sure he's safe.”

Rebo had seen the monk around, noticed that he belonged to the red hat sect, and therefore assumed that he was okay. That assumption looked stupid now, and the runner silently cursed himself for his own stupidity as he thanked the couple for their help and turned away. All he could do was keep asking, and keep looking, in hopes that a miracle would occur. And a miracle
did
occur, although it didn't look like a miracle at first, and the runner didn't recognize it as such.

Frac gave Norr a shove, and the sensitive, who was burdened
by her supplies, nearly fell. The snakelike collar was tight,
very
tight, and squeezed her neck from time to time as if to remind her of its presence.