by E. C. Tubb
Child of Earth
( Dumarest - 33 )
E. C. Tubb
E. C. Tubb
Child of Earth
CHAPTER ONE
Somewhere a woman screamed in torment her voice rising in a shriek of savage hatred at the forces of the universe that had devastated her life; a cry of helpless frustration, anger and seething despair. To soar in a long, nerve-scraping ululation then to break, to drop into a moaning susurration as she cradled the ravaged body of her child, to stare bleakly at the ruin of her home, the slumped corpses of her slaughtered dead, the end of a familiar life.
Sounds Dumarest had heard before on a scatter of worlds that had fallen victim to the arrogance and ambition of petty rulers. The burning, bloodshed and butchery dispensed by mercenary forces interested in nothing but victory, reward and self-preservation.
He moved and the screaming vanished. There had been no woman only the impact of wind transmitted through the hull against which his head had rested. The sounds inducing memories and latent images conjured from the recesses of his mind. Near-dreams of other places, other times. Reminders of things best forgotten. Of events impossible to forget.
Another rose to dominate his vision.
A face, hard, mad, bearing the stamp of corrupt degeneration. One still young yet seared with the acid of sadistic indulgence. The hair was a thick roach adorned with flecks of ribbon, scraps of filigree, the gleam of gems. The eyebrows were thick, the mouth a gash, the teeth filed into points. All carmine with blood smeared over the writhing curlicues of paint that masked and distorted the visage beneath. Only the eyes seemed alive, ringed with darkness, usually narrowed; now wide with terror as the blade rose before him to rest its point against his cheek.
He writhed, fighting the hand clamped around his throat, the fingers digging against nerve and artery. A grip his clawing fingers failed to break as the desperate violence of an up-thrusting knee wasted itself on air and the column of a thigh. Things Dumarest ignored as he guided the knife up and over the cheek the skin parting beneath the edge to form a long, shallow wound. One welling blood as the blade halted with the point pressed against the inner corner of the eye.
Before him the lips parted, the man fighting to talk, to plead or beg, but the grip on his throat kept him silent.
Only his eyes could speak and they showed nothing but the horror of knowing what was to come. A horror which lasted a long moment then the knife thrust forward, twisting, the eye spurting from its socket to lie on the bloodied cheek, the blade driving on and into the brain, to twist, to drag free coated with grey and red as the dead man fell from the opened hand.
Air, gusting from his lungs, made a sound like the agonized sighing of wind.
Dumarest reared upright on the cot, feeling the sweat dewing his face, the heat prickling his skin. The air vas thick, tainted, various sounds blending to form a teasing susurration. But there was no painted visage with a snarling mouth and eyes belonging to something less than human. That was a memory from his distant past. An act that had needed to be done. He had no regret but wished the dying sigh had sounded less like the sough of wind. He’d had enough of wind.
Enough of fighting and killing and the need to do both. He looked at the cabin he was in, the soiled surface, the dirt and mess. The common elements of Lowtown, but while this was not a normal refuge for the poverty-stricken, other things made it a true comparison. Those within it were lost, sick, stranded, desperate and, above all, dangerous.
Dumarest swung his legs over the edge of the cot and sat, elbows on his knees, face cradled in his hands. For too long he had walked the razor-edge of danger, surrounded by those who hated him and wanted him dead. He was tense, jumpy, tired, mind and muscles clogged with the poisons of fatigue.
His skin burned with the prickling of danger and, no matter which way he turned, he could see no escape from the trap that held him close.
He tensed as a scrabbling sound came from the external passage. He rose as something scraped at the door of the cabin, reaching it, tearing it open with his left hand, grabbing at the shape standing outside as his right hand lifted the knife snatched from his boot.
“Earl! For God’s sake!”
It was Chagal, his face old, lined, sagging with fatigue in the light outside. Fatigue and more than a little fear as he recoiled from the weapon threatening his life. The diffused glow caught the blade and haloed it with a nacreous brilliance. One that vanished as Dumarest lowered the knife and slipped it into his boot. Had Chagal been an assailant he would have died.
“Earl-”
“What is it?”
“There’s something you should see.” Chagal entered the cabin and slumped down on the cot. He touched his throat, looking at his fingers, the smear of blood from a tiny wound.
“A hell of a greeting.”
“I had a bad dream.”
“And reacted instinctively to anticipated danger.” Chagal nodded. “Your nerves are too tense. You’re too much on edge. You could have killed me.”
“I recognized you.”
“I was lucky. But what if I had been someone else? A woman seeking a little consolation, perhaps, or a man bringing a suggestion or a warning? You would have killed without hesitation.” Chagal looked at his smeared fingers. “I can’t blame you. You’re in a hell of a situation, but I’ve got something which should help.” He produced a small bottle, “I haven’t forgotten everything I’ve learned.” He undid the cap, filled it with the contents of the phial. “Here!” He proffered it, shrugged as Dumarest made no effort to take it, swallowed it himself. “Just a mixture of a few things to reduce toxic levels and give a temporary boost. The equivalent of a good sleep and rest. It will do you no harm. I swear it.”
A genuine promise but one he had heard too often before. In the sweat-tainted air of the waiting rooms in which contenders readied themselves for combat. The touts eager to ply their wares; the magic compounds which they claimed would guarantee victory. Most were rubbish, some were poisons to ensure defeat, no fighter in his right mind would entertain them. But this was no arena and the doctor wasn’t a tout. Dumarest watched as the cap was refilled, took it, swallowed and felt the warm taste of syrup and a tang as of vinegar fill his mouth and throat.
“Another?” The doctor lifted the phial. “You look as if you could use it.”
“Later, maybe.” Dumarest felt the chemicals the liquid had carried begin to take effect. “This thing you mentioned. The one I should see. Trouble?”
Chagal shrugged. “What else? It’s been with us ever since we left Kaldar. We should be used to it by now. If something can go wrong it will.”
“And too often does.” Dumarest stood upright, his head barely clearing the curved metal which had once been the hull of a ship. “When are you going to tell me something new?”
“When it happens.”
“But it hasn’t happened yet.” Dumarest blinked, aware that he was stating the obvious. Chagal’s potion had been stronger than he thought. “And now?”
“We go outside.”
Dumarest halted as they left the shelter. Nothing had changed. All was as it had been before and, as he looked around, he felt again the helpless anger of disappointment and broken expectations. This was his home world. He had crossed the galaxy to find it. He had fought and killed and, in a crippled vessel, had finally made it. Had survived the crash to enjoy his victory only to taste the acrid dust of defeat. For nothing was as he had expected it would be.
There should have been soft breezes scented with entrancing perfumes, the soothing warmth of a golden sun, lakes of wine and mountains of grain, trees adorned with fruit and bud and flower, shrubs bearing a profusion of glittering gems. Herbs and spices to provide freedom from pain, a
return to youthful zest, an end of aging and decay. Salves and ointments and natural fungi to cure all physical ills. For this was Earth, the planet of legend, the paradise for which all yearned and hungered to find. The world of joy and beauty and riches beyond the wildest dreams.
Instead there was nothing but a barren waste of sterile whiteness formed of ice and snow and stinging motes drifting in the freezing winds. Ghost-shapes that reared to fall, to stream over the endless plain, to rear again, to adopt new configurations of unremitting hostility. A hell that had its full share of anguish, pain, despair and death.
Yet, even so, there was beauty. Ice had crusted to form filigrees of crystalline splendor to mask the shattered metal and distorted lines of the wreck with an elfin grace. Beauty which Dumarest ignored as he stared down into a shallow dell, at the figures it contained, the body sprawled before them.
“Tazima Osborn,” said Chagal as they neared the group. “She was on watch last night. She was found like this shortly after dawn.”
Dumarest dropped to his knees beside the dead woman.
Alive she had been hard, arrogant, a typical product of the Kaldari. Now she was nothing but an empty shell. The doctor had loosened her clothing but there were no signs of injury. She could have been asleep, her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. A gust of wind brought a numbing chill and he rose, turning as a man standing to one side screamed in sudden, demented rage.
“Easy, Earl.” Chagal touched his arm before Dumarest could respond. “That’s Hiam Zack. He and Tazima were close. They were on watch together. I think he blames himself.”
And now voiced his anger at the lack of a target for his hate. He spun as Dumarest stepped close, his eyes wild, foam on his lips, one hand snatching at the weapon in his belt.
“She’s dead! You killed her!”
“No, Hiam,” snapped Chagal. “You know that isn’t true! Earl isn’t to blame!”
“Like hell he isn’t! He bought us here, didn’t he? Fed us promises and lies. Caused us to be attacked and wrecked. Killed most of us-why is he still alive?”
“Calm down,” said the doctor. “You can’t blame anyone for Tazima’s death. Tell us what happened.” His voice rose in sudden warning as the man snatched the weapon from his belt. “No! Earl-”
Dumarest had anticipated the attack. Even as the gun lifted he had closed the distance between them, had seized the barrel and had twisted the weapon from Hiam’s grasp. He struck with his open hand, knocking the man down and bruising his cheek with the mark of his palm. An insulting blow, one normally used to chastise an annoying youngster or an irritating servant. One now used to show contempt.
He said, coldly, “If you want to challenge me we’ll do it in the Kaldari fashion. Or do you only have the guts to shoot an unarmed man in the back?” He paused, waiting, seeing the change in the other’s eyes, the subtle shift of lessening rage. “Tell me what happened. You’re armed in case an animal should attack. Did you see an animal?”
Hiam shook his head.
“It was a clear night. You should have been able to see anything around. Are you certain there was no threat? Why should Tazima have moved so far from the vessel?” Dumarest waited then snapped, “Damn you man! Answer me!”
“She heard something.” Hiam was sullen, reluctant to shame the dead. “Sounds coming from this way. Voices, she said. I listened but all I could hear was a faint rustling. It must have been the wind driving the snow but she wouldn’t accept that. She was convinced she heard voices. That someone was out there. We argued about it then I took a wide turn around the wreck in case it was an animal. I couldn’t find her when I returned. Later, when it grew light, I went looking. There she was.” He glanced at the sprawled figure. “What killed her?”
“The cold,” said Chagal. “Hypothermia. That and delusion. She probably walked out here and sat and listened to those voices she mentioned. Waited for whatever she thought was making them to come to her.
“The Shining Ones,” said Hiam. “She talked about them. Some of the others believe they’re out there. The Guardians of Earth who will rescue us.” His laugh held bitterness. “Earth! We were fools! There’s no truth in the legends. The whole damned thing was lies. Soon we’ll all be dead!”
Chagal stumbled on the way back to the wreck. He caught Dumarest’s arm to steady himself then stood and watched as the others passed bearing the woman’s body for burial. His eyes were bleak as he looked over the landscape, at the bulk of the wreck. From a point behind it a missile lanced into the sky to explode creating noise and smoke in an effort to attract attention.
“We landed badly,” he said. “The captain chose the wrong place.”
“He had little choice,” reminded Dumarest. “He did his best and died trying.” As too many others had died. Others hadn’t been as lucky. He looked at the doctor. “You’ve had time to make up your mind. Have you decided?”
“Have I a choice?”
“Not if you hope to survive.”
“Pass out the injured.” Chagal had no illusions about what had to be done. “I know you’re right and I admit there is no other choice. But how do you think the rest will take it?”
“Need they know?”
“You’re talking about murder.”
“I’m talking about survival.” Dumarest was blunt. “We’ve already waited too long, We’re low on provisions, missiles, everything. The weather could worsen. If we stay cooped up there will be fights, duels, murder and suicide. There is the possibility of disease. We can’t count on rescue. We’ve got to pick a direction and get going. Carry what we can and move as fast as we can. That cuts out litters and bearers and slow progress. We can’t afford to waste strength and resources on those as good as dead. And we can’t waste any more time.”
“Logic,” said Chagal bleakly. “Damn it, Earl, I know you’re right but I wish to hell you weren’t.”
He swore as they entered the shelter. Someone had daubed crude designs on a bulkhead; a skull, an hourglass, a wrecked vessel, the figure of a man wearing grey. Symbols Dumarest found easy to understand. The wreck was the shelter, the man himself, the hourglass and skull a clear warning that, for him, time was running out.
“This is wrong!” Chagal voiced his anger. “What’s the matter with the fools? Are they all as bad as Hiam? You didn’t cause the crash. It wasn’t your fault. All you did was to guide us to Earth as you promised.”
To where the Cyclan had been waiting, their vessel, their missiles, the death which had decimated the compliment and wrecked the ship. The landing had taken further toll.
“I’ll take care of this,” said Chagal. “It’s time this stupidity was put to rest.”
“No.” Dumarest caught the doctor’s arm. His only ally and one he couldn’t afford to lose and those inside had to be faced on their own terms. Persuaded in their own language. The only one they understood. “Leave this to me.”
Deliberately he kicked open the door and stepped into the compartment. The air was in sharp contrast to that outside bearing the stench of sweat, urine, feces, blood, pus from suppurating wounds, dirt from unwashed flesh and clothing. To one side figures lay on trestles. Others sat at crude tables, some mending their garments, others playing dice or cards. The glowing grill of a heater provided warmth.
A haven fashioned from the wreck of the ship that had once traversed the void between the stars. Now the home of those who had hoped for so much and ended with so little.
Dumarest stared at them, conscious of watching eyes, the hostility that added to the taint of the air as did hate and fear. They were of the Kaldari. He was with them but not of them. An outsider. Alone. An easy target on which to vent their frustration.
He said, “In case you are interested Tazima Osborn died in the night. Her friends are burying her.”
A man shrugged from where he sat at a table. “So?”
“I understood the Kaldari honored their dead. I thought you’d like to salute her passing.” Dumarest paused. “One ot
her thing. Someone’s decorated the bulkhead. I’d like to know who is responsible?”
“Does it matter?” The same man sneered. Losh Gorin, a troublemaker. A flamboyant bully with a hard face bearing a livid scar who should have been on duty at the exit but had been absent. “We all agree on the way we feel. You cheated us. Sold us a lying story so as to get your own way. You and that harlot you slept with. You deserve all you get.”
“Is that why you deserted your post at the portal? Ice had jammed it. How did you expect those outside to get into the shelter without help from inside?” Dumarest stepped forward, grabbed the man’s hand, turned it so as to display the smears of color on the fingers. “So you were the artist. Haven’t you the guts to challenge me? Then I challenge you!”
The Kaldari way. If Gorin backed down he would be branded a coward and lose all respect. Dumarest had beaten him at his own game.
“Damn you!” Gorin tore free his hand and reared to his feet. “No one cheats the Kaldari. It’s time you learned that.”
He lunged forward, confident of his strength and agility, the support of his own kind.
Dumarest met his rush. As a fist lunged towards his face he backed and stepped to one side. His left hand rose, the fingers and palm bent at a right angle to the arm, the heel of the hand smashing like a hammer upwards against Gorin’s nose. He felt cartilage yield, bone shatter to be driven upwards along the nasal passages into the sinus and the brain. Even as blood spouted his right hand was moving towards the throat, fingers folded, the knuckles forming a blunted spear that hit and crushed the larynx.
Gorin fell. Chagal knelt beside him then rose, shaking his head.
A man said, incredulously, “He’s dead?”
“That’s right.”
“Dead from a punch?”
“From a loose mouth,” snapped the doctor. “For refusing to accept discipline. For insulting a decent woman. For taking on more than he could handle. As we all are.”
