by E. C. Tubb
"Dulet and Wendling? Not intimately."
"They recently inherited and formed an alliance. The basic plan was for mutual aid in the event of any attack but Sylvia relies on intuition and Jeanne is basically a gambler. If they ever had to face real pressure they would crack apart." He paused, waiting for her comment, adding, as she remained silent, "A thought, my dear, one to bear in mind. When the giants get hungry we small people must take what steps we can."
Such as exchanging information-but how could she be sure it was genuine? Her own assessment of the two women did not match Prador's; Sylvia operated on a basis of related pressures and Jeanne on minimized risk. If she gambled at all it was with a healthy appreciation of the odds.
She said, "Did you know that Ashen was trying to extend his holdings to the north?" A lie and one she elaborated as he leaned a little closer. "Lobel let it slip," she improvised. "He overheard him talking to Chargel in the baths. A whisper-but you know how tricky the acoustics can be. If true it could mean they are plotting to attack Arment or Barracola."
Or even Rham Kalova himself, a fact obvious but which she didn't mention. The art of a lie lay in its misdirection.
"Ashen," mused Prador. "And Chargel? An unlikely combination but one with all the more potential for danger because of that. Thank you, my dear. Bear in mind what I said about Sylvia and Jeanne."
A smile and he was gone, pressing among the others gathered at the assembly to garner what scraps of information he could. Lies for the most part, diversions, deceptions but a cunning and clever man could make use of them all. Building fabric from what was left unsaid, from what was emphasized and what was contradicted. Was Prador that clever?
If so why wasn't he at the upper table with the Maximus?
Fiona glanced to where Kalova stood with a small circle of intimates and sycophants. A man proud of his victories and confident of his strength; too obviously scornful of those he bested and too indifferent to their anxiety and pain. Correo-how must the man feel at this moment? Grard for whom every moment must be a waking nightmare. Bulem whom Prador hadn't mentioned but who now stood poised on a razor's edge. Herself.
The golden fluid stung her throat as she emptied the glass but still the taste of fear remained.
"My lords and ladies!" Arment's voice cut across the babble in the assembly chamber. "Take your places if you please!"
She was seated lower than before, a fact anticipated but still far from pleasant, and, too, she was conscious of the attitude of her new companions. To see another brought low was always a pleasure to those with small holdings; a consolation to their own limitations. As she waited to be served Fiona kept her eyes on the high table.
Arment was seated next to Kalova; one of the twenty entitled to be at the board presided over by the Maximus himself. The rest were placed in positions of relative importance; Prador was higher than herself as was Myra Lancing, Reed, Lobel even higher than before. Status gained by the holdings he had wrested from her as the price of his aid; the first had been only the beginning. How many others?
She looked around, a stupid gesture, for her own display would give her the facts, but it was copied by others at the low tables. There would have to be twelve dozen at least; the Gross had to be maintained, but how many more? The usual six? Five? Less?
Toying with her meal she wondered what the situation would be if someone should make an error. Should holders be diminished below the Gross a vacancy would exist to be filled by any who chose to challenge a holder. Who would such a one pick? Arment? She studied him where he sat, smiling, a scrap of meat speared on a lifted fork. Nils was young, strong, ruthless in his determination. Helm? Older but with the same basic savagery as the rest. None would be easy and none would be so foolish as to create a vacancy.
"My lady?" An attendant shattered her musing. He stood at her side, a salver of sweet pastry balanced on one hand, serving tongs in the other. Her soiled plate had been deftly removed to be replaced by another. "An eclair, my lady? Honey cake? Chocolate sponge?"
She followed the movement of the tongs, indifferent as to the selection, nodding as the instrument came to rest over a heap of crusted pastry dusted with colored glitters.
"A wise choice, my dear." The man seated on her left nodded his approval. He was twice her age with a mouth like a trap and eyes to match. "Enriched flours, a high-protein filling, a decoration containing essential vitamins. A good foundation for the rest of the assembly."
"But fattening." The woman to Fiona's right added her comment. "Like most nice things. But you can afford it, my dear." Her eyes held envy as they studied the trim figure graced with well-formed curves. "Lynne Oldrant," she said, introducing herself. "And you are Fiona Velen. You've met Cran with his good advice but, for once, it's worth listening to. The only way to bear the Maximus's platitudes is to get half-drunk and then you risk spoiling the rest of the evening." She stabbed at her own confection, lifted a portion, ate, swallowed, shook her head. "Pleasure tonight and sweat tomorrow-but what else is life?"
Wine followed the cakes, new vintages together with potent spirits and, the tables cleared, the assembly waited for the address. As always Kalova chose to stretch the moment, maintaining tension while he raked them with his eyes, enjoying his power to the full even as he assessed what he saw, the resentment he knew existed.
Fiona yawned when he finally rose.
The address, like the meal, the assembly itself was an empty ritual born in the days when real blood had attended real battles and feuds needed to be avoided by the sharing of meat and wine. Hard days in which hard men had fought and won a place on a hard world. Things on which the Maximus touched as he sent his voice to echo from the groined roof, adding comments of his own, the need for peace, the desire for stability and tranquility, his conviction that no personal enmities existed or could exist in the social order.
Lynne Oldrant sighed her relief when he sat.
"Thank God that's over! You there! Some more brandy!" As the attendant obeyed she added, to Fiona, "We must get to know each other better. The baths, tomorrow? I'll need a massage in any case. We can talk and, maybe, make a few plans."
The usual intrigues or something more? Fiona had felt the searching impact of the other's eyes and a shared bath was often the prelude to closer intimacies. Yet to be curt in her refusal would be to arouse enmity and lose a potential advantage.
"I'll have to check," she said. "Could I call you?"
"Of course." Lynne glanced at the high table, at Kalova where he sat. "When's the old fool going to summon the entertainers?"
The noise was the worst part. The light was bad with its blinding, searing intensity but the sound was beyond mere physical irritation. Crouched against the raft Dumarest could feel its battering despite the protective suit, the muffles shielding his ears. A force transmitted through the rock itself to pound at cell and tissue, to threaten the delicate capillaries and membranes. Energy which could rupture the cortex and induce insanity and death.
He had seen it happen on scattered battlefields when mercenaries had fought with savage viciousness but no battle he had ever known could approach the present situation. Now the hills fought the skies with dancing lightning the prelude to the massed volley of multiple cannon, echoes blasting from hill to hill, caught, magnified, sent in pulsing shock waves which ripped stone to acrid powder and fuming vapors. Fury which vented itself and moved on to tear at other hills, crumble other peaks.
Beside him Vardoon lifted a fumbling hand to the helmet, the line linking them with direct communication.
"Earl?"
"What is it?"
"Just checking. Should we work on the raft now?"
The landing had torn the fabric, damaging some of the antigrav units and leaving a path of torn metal. The damage was less serious than it seemed but to effect repairs meant unloading the vehicle, tilting it, partially dismantling the structure. Work hard enough at any time, made even more difficult while wearing the suits.
Dumar
est said, "Well leave it until after dawn."
"And waste the night?"
"We need to rest," said Dumarest patiently. "To eat and arrange the gear. To work now would mean using lights and making mistakes."
Explanations should have been unnecessary but he sensed Vardoon needed reassurance. The fury of the storm had unnerved him, reminded him of other, uglier incidents, perhaps, sent him to crouch morose and silent in the protection of his suit. Protection which proved itself as again lightning illuminated the cave and thunder crashed to send shock waves to fret the rim and shower grit from the roof.
Dumarest felt the jar and heard Vardoon's sudden intake of breath before noise drowned all else. Until the area fell into a relative quiescence there was nothing to do but sit and wait and, while waiting, think of what to do and how to do it. Plans already made and decisions already taken but both liable to be affected by altered circumstances. The storm could last too long. Rock could yield to send massed tons of stone to engulf them and bury them alive.
Bad thoughts and best not dwelt on. If it happened there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Dumarest forced himself to relax, watching the flicker of lightning beyond the mouth of the cave, the dancing chiaroscuros touching raft and rock and splintered walls. All over the sprawling range of hills the charged air would be venting stored energy in coruscating flashes. The hills and the crevasses between them, the small plateau, the terraces and winding ledges. The residue of once-tremendous mountains which had challenged the sky and the sun it contained. A challenge accepted when the world had moved closer to its primary, lost as the solar furnace had powered ceaseless attrition.
Sacaweena, a world of ocean and ranging hills and a narrow expanse of habitable land. One which held a fortune in golden pearls.
The pearls swelled before him to glint and glow with subtle attraction. A golden promise of wealth and the power it gave. Orbs which spun and took on the likeness of planets each with the same face, the same alluring hue. Blue the color of hope, of cloudless skies, of the world on which he had been born and for which he searched. Earth. Lost and forgotten Earth. Waiting for him somewhere in space… somewhere in darkness… waiting… waiting…
Dumarest jerked awake, conscious he had been dozing, drifting into sleep, sitting motionless while he tried to discover the reason for his abrupt awareness. Beyond the mouth of the cave the distant flashes of lightning cast an intermittent fire, the dancing patterns of light and shadow duller than before. A lull or movement of the storm had brought a relative peace to the local area.
Why had he awakened?
Before him the bulk of the raft was as before. At his side Vardoon stirred, a muttered snoring coming over the telephone wire connecting them. Shape, sound and movement assessed and dismissed even as recognized. They had not woken him, had not created the prickle of trepidation now touching his spine; the primitive warning of danger he had learned never to ignore.
Cautiously he lifted his knees, drawing back his feet and resting his weight on the soles. A move designed to yield quick mobility. One which woke Vardoon.
"Earl?" His voice was leveled by control. "Earl?"
"Something. It could be trouble."
"Closer."
"I don't know. I-"
Dumarest broke off as the glare from outside returned, died, flashed again. Blazes of illumination created a stroboscopic effect, freezing all motion in a series of isolated frames. The raft. The mouth of the cave. The thing now moving from the rear.
It was flat and thin, ringed with spindle legs, fronted with lifted claws, mandibles, faceted eyes. The rear tapered into a vicious, whip-like tail tipped with cruel barbs. A bug adapted to its environment, able to slip through narrow cracks in its search for prey, attracted to the men by the scent of exuded perspiration: the animal odor carried on their protective clothing, vented through the filters as they breathed.
Water in an arid waste.
Food to fuel its eight-foot body.
"God!" Vardoon heaved, froze as Dumarest clamped a hand on his arm. "It's a civas, Earl. Those claws could cut us apart. That tail's like a spear and club combined. And it can move fast when it has to."
If it wanted to. If it intended to attack. A doubt resolved in the next flash when Dumarest saw it had come closer, was fronting them, was poised for action.
"Guns." Dumarest snapped the command. "Get the guns!"
The wire connecting them tore free as Vardoon lunged toward the raft, the bales it contained. As he tore at the fastenings Dumarest rose, moved away from him, the stone he had scooped from the floor lifting, hurtling at the creature as it stood undecided which man to attack first.
The blow did little more than scratch the chitin of the carapace but accomplished what Dumarest intended. He darted toward the rear of the cave as the thing spun and lunged toward him, one claw snapping inches behind a thigh, the whip of the tail thrumming through the air to slash the air where he had stood seconds before.
Muted thunder rolled, drowned the sound of scuttling limbs, the following glow of lightning revealing the creature too close for comfort. It stood at the mouth of a narrowing passage leading from the rear of the cave, one it had followed from some distant lair. A space shrinking to less than two feet in width. Even if he could squeeze into it Dumarest would find no safety. To climb the walls would offer even less; the effort to maintain his hold offering him as easy meat to the mandibles and claws. To attack was the only real defense, to occupy its attention while Vardoon found the guns. But locked in the suit Dumarest was weaponless, his knife beyond reach. All that was left to him was his speed and brains.
The former he used to dodge a sudden attack, the second to find a weapon and method of attack.
The cave held nothing but natural stone: rocks on the floor, fragments jutting from the walls, shards hanging like spears from the roof. Dumarest stooped, found a pair of rocks, rose with one in each hand. The first hit one of the faceted eyes, driving deep to release a flood of oozing jelly. The second slammed against the joint of the claw uplifted to protect the remaining eye. Even as it left his hand he was running, springing high to land on the back of the creature, jumping again to reach the pendulous shard of pointed stone hanging from the roof above. The stone took his weight, swayed as he kicked, snapped above his hands to let him fall, armed with the yard-long fragment.
Blue-white fire blazed as he hit the ground, rolling as echoes blasted around him, rising with dazzled eyes to see the nightmare shape rear to tower high, mandibles reaching, the tail swinging to slam against his leg, to rip at the tough fabric and bruise the flesh beneath. A blow which almost broke the bone.
Where was Vardoon?
The question was answered as Dumarest hopped to one side, the shard lifted, swinging as he used it like a club to strike again at the joint of the claw. Chitin yielded as it struck, the creature retreating, retreating farther as spots appeared on the carapace; neat holes releasing green ichor.
Man-made thunder echoed that from beyond the cave.
"Earl!" Vardoon had opened his helmet, his shout echoing as he eased his finger off the trigger. "Earl! Here!"
A gun like the one he carried, thrown for Dumarest to catch as again the scarred man opened fire. A hail of slugs which scored the carapace, whined off rock, sent dust and chips spraying from the edges of the narrow fissure as the creature scuttled for cover and safety.
"That's enough!" Dumarest caught Vardoon by the arm, lifted the muzzle of the gun. "It's gone. Quit wasting ammunition."
"Gone?" Vardoon was sweating, eyes wild, narrowed against the salt-sting of running droplets. Beads of perspiration rested thickly on ridges of tissue. "You sure, Earl?"
"I'm sure." Dumarest opened his own helmet and smelled the stench of burned explosives, the acrid, insect reek the predator had left behind. "What did you call it? A civas?"
"Filthy creatures. They'll eat a man alive given the chance. Suck his blood until he's dry and chew on the rest." Vardoon's hand shook as he wiped
his face, sweat staining the back of his glove. "The damned thing would have fed well if it hadn't been for you."
Dumarest said, "We'd better take turns standing guard, in take the first watch."
To stand as the other slept, to walk about the cave to ease his bruised leg, to watch and check what he saw, to look at the mouth of the cavern and see the flashes lessen and the night surrender to the first touch of dawn.
Against the wall the panel of the relay was almost static; the changes registered small and of little effect as to present holdings. A time of quiescence when those who had been hurt took time to reassess their positions and those who had gained relished their victory. Even so the display held an artistic beauty; rare and precious metals combined to give a pleasing grace, although the art was wasted on Zao who appreciated only functional efficiency.
Now, seated at his desk, he studied the message relayed by the lights.
Unsuspected currents had damaged the undersea crop of edible weed in the lower northwestern decant. The holder of the sector would need to be wary. Tidal flows had enriched the shore of the far eastern region; a gain as the other was a loss. Lightning had struck a commune in the Mondera Farmlands with a high loss of life. Impressed workers who had no real value; Zao knew the Cyclan would have dealt with the problem they presented in a far more efficient manner. Conditioning, adaptation and elimination would have ended it and been more merciful in the long term. A side effect of no interest to those who would have induced it; mercy, like other emotions, had no place in a calculated scheme of existence.
How best to utilize the presented data?
The changes were too small, he decided. The events could be manipulated but needed greater impact to be fully utilized. Small gains would not interest the present elite and others would lack the necessary reserves for a confrontation. The prediction of a period of stasis at this time was high; in the order of eighty-nine percent. High enough to reassure Kalova if he was concerned as to his safety.
At the touch of a button the face of his acolyte appeared on the screen of the communicator.
