Runner by William C. Dietz Page B

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.”
    â€œWe’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 withmoisture 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.”
    â€œNo 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 hadpassed, 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 . . .