Runner (40 page)

Norr was a very self-contained person, but she also missed her own kind, so the unexpected “conversation” if that was what it could be called, both frightened and thrilled her. “You are correct,” the oldest sensitive observed. “She has something to hide all right.”

“Yes!” another put in excitedly. “He's tall, a bit dangerous, and uh-oh! He's a norm!”

“That's bad,” a third agreed somberly. “But there's more . . . The lass has
another
man in her life as well. He lives in the spirit planes and was her father once. He's
here
and wants to speak.”

“Oh, goody! Bring him through!” the fourth sensitive insisted. “We could use some entertainment.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea” Riba said doubtfully. “You know the rules . . . What if the heavies turn us in? The norms would burn us alive.”

The arm-wrestling contest had ended by then and the heavies were listening. “You have nothing to fear from us,” the female to Norr's left said stolidly. “Freaks side with freaks . . . that's what I say.”

“Fair enough,” Riba replied. “So how 'bout it, honey? The man wants to talk to you . . . Are you willing to listen?”

Lysander had been trying to break through for days by then, but it was dangerous to enter a trance on Etu, and Norr had been too tired by the time dinner was over. Now, surrounded by her own kind, she felt tempted. “Okay,” she said tentatively, “but I'd like to sit down.”

Riba said, “Of course, dearie,” and led her to the table. “This is Pru, Kama, Tris, and Nina.” Norr said hello to each, took a chair, and waited to see what would happen. It turned out that Tris was the one who had been elected to
bring the spirit through. Not simply for Norr's benefit, but because Tris was known to have a very special talent, one that the others were eager to witness.

The woman named Riba eyed the heavies. “Would one of you be willing to guard the door? Thank you. Stall if someone attempts to open it.”

Silence descended over the room as the sensitives came together under Riba's direction to gather the energy that a full materialization was going to require. Now, seated directly across from Tris, Norr saw that the other woman's eyes had been removed leaving her sockets horribly empty. It was a precaution that some of the more superstitious slave owners took to protect themselves from the evil eye, an imaginary threat that many believed to be real.

Even the heavies could feel the change that followed as something caused the hairs on the back of their arms to stand straight up, all of the available light was sucked into the center of the room, and the air above the table started to glow.

Then, as if attracted to an unseen form by means of spiritual magnetism, the light began to coalesce. The man's head, like the rest of his body, was slightly transparent. It turned from side to side, as if the spirit was unsure of his surroundings. And this time, rather than communicate through human vocal cords as he had in the past, Lysander spoke via an ectoplasmic voice box. “Who are these people?” the discarnate demanded hoarsely. “And what do they want of me?”

“They're friends of mine,” Norr responded, “and they don't want anything of you.”

“Tell them to leave,” Lysander said arrogantly. “My words are for your ears only.”

“Sorry,” the sensitive replied, “but we're locked in . . . So, say your piece or leave me alone.”

Lysander struggled to bring the physical plane into focus, but much to his frustration, the luminescent green blobs remained just as they were. Norr's words seemed to come from a long ways off. The scientist didn't like the situation but was determined to get his message through. “Logos is on Etu. Seek him among those who flock to Mount Pama. That's all I can say.”

The sensitive was about to ask where Mount Pama was—when the heavy who had agreed to guard the door put her ear to the barrier. “Someone's coming!” she whispered urgently. Then, having raised her voice, she yelled, “Hey! Can anyone hear me? I feel sick.”

The general effect was to cause the person outside to pause and consider what had been said before slipping the big handmade key into the lock. That gave Tris just enough time to break contact with the spirit world and exit her trance. As she did Lysander's image wavered, turned to what looked like smoke, and disappeared.

The door swung open, and the guard appeared. He held a shotgun in his hands and was clearly ready for trouble. But, with no evidence of malfeasance to be seen there was nothing he could do except frown at them. “Which one of you answers to the name Kama? You do? Then come on out . . . Your mistress is ready to leave. Now, which one of you is sick?”

The heavy who had been guarding the door raised her hand. “Go lie down,” the guard instructed. “Once the vet is finished with the angens he'll take a look at you.”

Attachments were discouraged, and slaves weren't allowed to display their emotions lest they intentionally or unintentionally generate sympathy for themselves, so there were no good-byes as Kama pulled the black hood down over her head and stepped out of the room. “So,” Riba
demanded, once the door had closed, “what did you make of your message? Who is Logos? And why would a slave make the pilgrimage to Mount Pama?”

Norr shrugged. “I have no idea . . . Let me know if you figure it out.”

Riba didn't believe the newcomer, but she had some secrets of her own and couldn't blame Norr for keeping the information to herself. Etu was a dangerous place, especially for those with paranormal talents, and silence was the only defense that the slaves had.

Pala's lungs felt as though they were fire, and the wounds
on her hips were bleeding from the most recent application of the norm's spurs, as the heavy trotted up the heavily rutted road and entered the village of Kaya. A trio of mangy dogs darted out and nipped at her heels until one of the men seated in front of the feed store whistled them back. Kane said, “Whoa!” and jerked on the reins. Pala felt the leather bit hit the corners of her mouth and came to a stop. She stood chest heaving as the off-worlder placed his boots against her lower back, pushed the sling-saddle away from her body, and dropped to the ground. He had purchased her in the slave market in Epano and ridden her hard. Pala had come to hate the man called Kane and, if given the chance, planned to kill him.

The operative, who was under no illusions regarding the way that his mount felt about him, took the time required to shackle the variant's feet together prior to climbing the wooden stairs that led up to the general store. The heavy could run if she chose to, but not very far, and only if she wanted a beating. His spurs jingled as Kane entered the one-story building and peered into the cluttered gloom. Like any general store this one carried a wide variety of
items including food, hardware, and clothing. A single ray of sunshine slanted in through the front window. Dust motes orbited around his head as the off-worlder stepped in to claim it. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

“There's no need to shout,” an irritated voice responded. “I'm right here.”

Kane gave an involuntary start as a man in a long gray apron materialized in front of him. It seemed that the local had been there from the start, hidden among the things he hoped to sell. The operative forced a smile. “Sorry about that. I'm looking for a friend of mine . . . A man with dark hair, a little boy, and a couple of slaves. They would have passed through within the last few days. Have you seen them?”

The storekeeper had two days' worth of stubble on his pointy chin. It made a rasping sound as he ran his spatulate fingers across it. “Maybe, and maybe not.”

Kane recognized the response for what it was and withdrew a coin from his vest pocket. It found an open palm. “Here, perhaps this will aid your memory.”

The merchant weighed the coin in his hand, and ran a grimy thumbnail over the shiny metal, before finally tucking it away. “Yes,” the local allowed phlegmatically, “there was such a group. They bought some food from me. That was two days ago.”

“Tell me about the slaves,” Kane demanded, “or return my money.”

The storekeeper didn't like the implication and frowned resentfully. “There was a female sensitive and a male heavy.”

“Good,” the operative said approvingly. “Now, which way did they go?”

“Toward Mount Pama,” the local answered. “Like all the pilgrims do.”

Kane nodded. “Thank you. I need bread, meat, and tea. Enough to last me and my heavy for a day. Please hurry.”

The merchant bustled about, gave the stranger what he had requested, and charged him the extra 10 percent that he levied on all strangers. Having followed the norm out into the street, where a tired-looking slave waited, the shopkeeper watched the blond man mount up and ride off. An obscene gesture sent the pilgrim on his way. The men sitting in front of the feed store laughed, their dogs lolled in the sun, and shopkeeper went back inside. A squadron of buzz bugs followed behind. The day wore on.

The sun had been up for little more than an hour, and a
layer of early-morning mist still floated just above the ground, as the foursome topped a rise and paused to look at Mount Pama. Though too tall to be properly classified as a hill, the softly rounded elevation didn't make much of a mountain, not to Rebo's thinking at least. No, what made the geological feature remarkable was the manner in which it appeared to have been plopped down at the center of an otherwise barren plain. That, and the ribbon of people that already snaked their way up around the mountain's flanks, inching their way toward the summit.

“Look at that!” Hoggles exclaimed. “There must be hundreds of them! How will we find Logos in the crowd?”

“He's an
it,
and we don't even know what
it
looks like,” Rebo commented sourly.

Thanks to a pair of really hideous glasses, and the skillful application of the makeup Rebo had purchased during their stay in Citro, the sensitive had been transformed into a homely norm. She no longer had to wear shackles as a result, but Hoggles did, and they rattled as he moved. “That's
true,” Norr agreed thoughtfully, “but I have a feeling that we'll know him when we see him.”

“No offense,” Rebo replied, “but I don't find much comfort in that. And remember, the
real
goal is to reach Overa, and the spaceship. One day, that's all we can afford to spend on this nonsense, so use it wisely.”

Subsequent to Lysander's appearance in the female slave quarters back in Citro, the adults had spent a good deal of time discussing whether to go along with the discarnate's request or ignore it. The runner saw no reason to humor the cantankerous spirit, but Norr and Hoggles believed that the group should find Logos, for use as leverage if nothing else. Finally, having been filibustered, Rebo gave in. But Lee didn't care about the right or wrong of it. He couldn't wait to find out why thousands of people would travel for weeks to visit the top of a mountain. “Come on!” the ten-year-old urged. “Let's get going!”

The better part of an hour had passed before the foursome arrived at the bottom of the mountain and the settlement there. Hundreds of tents had been pitched in the surrounding area, which when combined with all manner of pilgrims, slaves, vendors, and hundreds of angens made for a colorful but chaotic mix.

By that time Rebo had noticed that most of the people making their way toward the foot of the trail were young couples. And it wasn't long before a man dressed in a spotless white robe moved to block their way. “That will be ten gunars,” he said. “Payable in advance.”

Rebo, who had started to run low on expense money by then, grumbled as he opened his purse. “Is that ten for each person? Or does that cover the four of us?”

“The oracle's readings are intended for couples,” the
attendant said condescendingly. “The admission charge covers both of you. The boy and the slave must remain here.”

Though mystified by the process, and reluctant to part company with Lee, the runner had no choice but to acquiesce. He paid the fee and received two small tiles in return. The ceramic squares had been inscribed with mysterious symbols and dangled from leather thongs. Rebo passed one over the sensitive's head and let if fall against her chest. Each tile was clearly intended to function as both a receipt and a memento. The question was why?

In the meantime Lee had succumbed to attachment and therefore resentment. He wanted to visit the top of the mountain in the worst possible way, and try as he might, had thus far been unable to accept the fact that he wouldn't be allowed to accompany the adults. He was still sulking, and feeling guilty about it, when the twosome began the uphill climb. Hoggles made a show out of sniffing the air. “Come on, son . . . I smell food. We'll eat while they climb! What do you say?”

Lee was almost always hungry, and the smell of grilled food, plus the opportunity to eat without being required to build a fire, fetch water, or wash up afterward proved to be irresistible. He nodded, took hold of the leash that was attached to the heavy's harness, and led the variant toward the collection of huts that had been established to provide the pilgrims with food, necessaries, and useless trinkets.