Logan's Search Read Online Free PDF Page A

planet.

    Logan crossed the yard, a reserve area for DS trainees. A dozen of them, wearing opaque headshields, were engaged in Blind Combat, led by a flat faced instructor who displayed open disgust as he slammed one young trainee after another into the dirt.
    “Concentrate!” he lashed at them. “Determine my approach angle from the sound of my boots. Runner at night won’t give you warning. Cut your throat from behind. Strangle on your own blood! No second chance then—so concentrate now!”
    As he watched, Logan was suddenly aware of a faint scraping sound behind him, but before he could turn he was dumped into the yard, belly down.
    A dry chuckle above him. “Concentrate, Logan, concentrate!”
    “Damn you, Francis!”
    Logan stood up, brushing sand from his tunic. He glared at the tall, thin man in black. The eyes were darker than midnight, mocking and steady in the narrow, lean-cheeked face. These eyes missed nothing. Unblinking, penetrating, they measured Logan with a glint of cold humor.
    “You’re not going to score so well today if you don’t sharpen up,” said Francis as they began walking toward the Huntarea. “You might have figured I’d try for a bodythrow. You know me well enough.”
    “Yes,” said Logan tightly, “I know you.” Then he forced a lighter tone into his voice. “You do enjoy your little games.”
    “Not a game,” said the tall man. His dark eyes were serious. “If I’d been a runner you might be dead right now.”
    “But I’m alive,” said Logan flatly. “And I can handle runners. I do it well.” “I do it better,” wolf-grinned Francis. “I always have.”
    The smug projection of superiority from Francis steeled Logan, made him determined to excel in their area workout. He was supremely skilled with a Gun, was a master of body combat, and refused to be intimidated by his rival’s vaunted prowess.
    Silently, each wholly intent on the trials to come, they traversed a long, brightly illumined slot tunnel and emerged into the main hunt arena.
    Covering several square miles, the entire area had been constructed under a vast glasite dome in which every type and degree of weather could be expertly simulated; here, too, all combat conditions, however rigorous, could be duplicated.
    The test ground was split into two branching sections. One route led right, twisting through spiked brushweed and snaretraps; the second route snaked left, across a man-made swamp. The terrain in both was equally treacherous, and the android runners were equally dangerous. No DS man had been killed in a workout, but injuries were common, some of them severe. Logan could not afford to be seriously injured; it might delay Godbirth—and there must be no delays. They stood at the crossway.
    “Your choice,” said Francis. “Right or left.”
    “Left,” said Logan.
    “See you on the other side.” Francis grinned, moving swiftly for the high brush.
    Logan felt confident as he set off along the left attack trail. The DS Huntarea in his world was very similar, yet familiarity was not a factor in this contest. There was no way to anticipate what lay ahead, since each route was regularly reprogrammed. You never knew when sudden fog might blind you, or when an artificial sun would dazzle blindingly from the domed sky, or when thick darkness might descend to throw you off balance, make you vulnerable.
    The first attack came with shocking swiftness: a male android runner, dropping from a tree onto Logan’s back. He had a buzzblade, and if he could drive the blade into Logan’s body in a vital flesh area Logan’s “kill” would be reversed. No skin penetration, no blood, but the contact point would be registered. For Logan, a negative encounter. Each negative encounter would cancel three simkills on the final score.
    But Logan easily loop-rolled the runner over his shoulder and broke the robot’s neck with a single down-chopping blow. Simkill: score 1.
    Four hours of this.
    Miles of swamp and