World of Promise dot-23

by E. C. Tubb

  "You know," she said. "Damn you, man, you know too much. Who else would have seen through my subterfuge? Would have guessed at the drugs he'd been given? The conditioning? Guessed and known what to do to free himself of both. That's why you ran and kept on running, wasn't it? Risked your life for no obvious reason, killed, climbed, faced death on the roof." Lifting her glass she said, "Earl, I drink to a most unusual man!"

  As she lowered the glass he said, quietly, "The teleths?"

  "Armand's madness or a part of it. Yes, Earl, he wanted to give me telepathic ability. Instead all I gained was the power to make others respond to me in a protective manner. They saw me as an object of tender affection-even when I turned into a monster that attribute remained. With the help of art, as you called it, I managed to mask my real appearance."

  Her manner now seemed incredible. Had he really held her naked in his arms? Kissed her? Felt the overwhelming tide of passion, the ecstasy he had known on Podesta? Had it been real or merely the product of hypnotic suggestion as he lay drugged on the couch, arms clutching the air, perhaps, his orgasm collected in a flask as she won sperm to add to her stores.

  "Earl?"

  "Nothing." He shook his head, remembering her ability, wondering as to its depth. "You spoke of Armand's madness. Did your father-"

  "My creator," she interrupted. "I call him a parent for convenience only. The only one I had. He constructed the chromosome pattern, did what needed to be done and, when the attempt proved viable, turned me over to the care of an artificial womb. The first, he hoped, of endless millions, all cloned from my body. The reason I had to be female. The perfect woman as he saw perfection. The Supreme Mother of the human race." Her laughter rose, harsh, brittle. "The fool! He wanted to turn back the clock and breed the creatures he swore must have inhabited Earth."

  "You-"

  "I'm the result of his lunacy. He had the dream but I inherited the nightmare. Can you imagine what it is to be like this? To know that things can only get worse? It isn't a disease, you understand. Not a cancer which can be cut or burned away. It's a natural part of me as the color of your hair is of you, the color of your eyes. In ten years time it will have spread. In twenty I will be twice the bulk I am now and the epidermis will begin to harden. A decade later and I will be locked in a prison of inflexible living tissue. And then what? Shall I metamorphose into something even more strange and horrible?"

  Dumarest said, "Did Armand intend that? For you to develop wings, for example?"

  "If he did he didn't tell me."

  "His papers? Surely he must have kept records. If you had the original pattern wouldn't it give you a clue?"

  "Do you think I haven't checked? The man was insane and believed in legends. The records show a pattern but how can I be certain it's mine?"

  "You could check," he urged. "The original could be among Armand's private papers." And they would be in the library if anywhere at all. If he could get to them, the books and records stored in the room, to find the secret he had come to learn and then to leave while there was still time-if there was still time. Dumarest said, "It would be a beginning. If nothing else it could resolve a doubt. Try, Charisse-what have you to lose?"

  He had expected an argument, instead he gained immediate cooperation. Setting down her glass, she moved to where her wig and gems lay gleaming on the floor. Stooping she donned them, careless of his presence, making small adjustments by touch. When she turned to face him again lights winked from her throat and hair, gleams which drew his eyes from the parody of her face. Even as he watched that face seemed to blur, to take on softer, more endearing lines-illusion backed by telepathic projection.

  He looked at the gun in her hand, the bare floor where it had lain.

  "A mistake, Earl," she said. "Not your first, but it's probably your last. Move and I'll burn your legs off at the knees."

  The table was at his side, the glass of untouched wine resting on it like a lambent gem. It crashed to shatter in a pool of liquid as Dumarest upended the heavy board.

  From behind it he said, "Remember, Charisse, the Cyclan won't pay you for a corpse."

  The snout of the laser wavered, dropped from where it had aimed at his upper body. To carry out her threat the woman would have to burn through the wood and with such a lightweight weapon that would take time. Time for him to take action of his own. Yet should he move, expose his legs, she would fire.

  A mistake as she had said; he should have remembered the gun, but he had been too eager to get to the library, to find the secret it could contain. But why had she threatened him at all? The answer lay in the hand she lifted to her face, the fingers touching the ornate wig. He had stripped her of defenses, exposing her true appearance and humbling her pride. To her, now, revenge would be sweet.

  "Help," he said, talking to distract her attention, to ease the tension he felt mounting between them. If it rose too high not even her promised reward would keep her from closing her finger on the release. "They promised to help you. Is that why you contacted them?"

  "Clever," she said. "You're too damned clever, but not this time. I didn't contact them, they got in touch with me. After Podesta when I'd taken what I wanted from you and was out in space. They thought you were riding with me and offered to buy you. A good price, Earl, too good for what you seemed to be and I became curious. What made you so special? You are fast and strong and intelligent but why should the Cyclan be interested in that? So I came after you."

  To Ascelius and what else?

  Dumarest was certain but it did not harm to talk, to continue easing the tension and so gain a measure of greater safety. Against an ordinary woman he would have taken a chance if there had been no other way, snatching out his knife and throwing it and trusting to speed and luck that it would strike home before the gun could be fired or, if fired, badly aimed. But Charisse had a degree of telepathic ability, enough to warn her of imminent danger, and she was almost hysterical with released fury. He saw the tautness of the skin over her knuckle, the white rim around the irises of her eyes. Anger blazing, barely contained, obvious despite the illusion.

  He said, "And now you have me, Charisse. What did they offer? What do you hope to gain?"

  "So much, Earl. So very much." Even the thought of it brought a degree of calm. The finger eased a little and the eyes lost some of their wild fixity. "The full resources of their laboratories to isolate and cure the malfunction built into my chromosome pattern. Money to enable me to continue my own research."

  "Together with a few technicians to reside here with you to guide that research," he said. "The advice of the Cyclan at all times free of charge. Correct?"

  "And if it is?"

  "You'll become a servant of the Cyclan, Charisse. It will be inevitable. Within a few years you'll be totally dependent on them for your income if nothing else. And, always, they'll dangle the carrot of a final cure before your eyes." Dumarest took a step toward the edge of the table. Given time and a short enough distance he would make a rush to snatch the gun from her hand. Risking a burn for the sake of escape from the trap she had constructed. "But no cure will ever be discovered and you must know it. Don't be a fool, woman! Don't sell yourself for a lie! A promise which can't be kept!"

  "Move again and I'll ruin your face." The laser rose to aim at his eyes. "I know where to hit, Earl, how deep to burn."

  And how to heal should the need arise. Did she know that, to the Cyclan, only his brain was of value? The knowledge he held within it? The secret which they hunted as he sought to find the coordinates of Earth?

  He said, "We could make a deal. Work to our mutual advantage. There is no need for you to hand me over to the Cyclan at all. In fact it would be a mistake. As you guessed, I'm valuable to them, and once you know why you'll have something to bargain with. They'll give you all you want and on your own terms. You tell them nothing until they deliver your cure. A new face," he urged. "An end to pretense. No more hiding behind a veil of illusion. No more fear of what is to come
. Trust me, Charisse. Trust me."

  The gun wavered a little, began to lower, the finger growing slack on the trigger as she digested his offer. He could almost read her mind, the computations she was making. To lie, promise him anything in order to learn why he was so valuable, then to lock him away as insurance while she made her arrangements with the Cyclan. A mouse dealing with a cat but she needn't know that. In the meantime he would make his own chances.

  Dumarest tensed, ready to make his rush should she prove stubborn, to snatch at the weapon and negate its threat. Once that had been done he would promise anything to gain access to the library and the precious papers it would contain.

  His plans shattered as brilliance winked from a point behind him. The guide beam of a laser accompanied by the burning shaft of raw energy which touched the woman's wrist, to spear it, to send her weapon falling as it cauterized the wound it had made.

  Dumarest turned, hand freezing as he saw the tall figure, the aimed laser, the glow of scarlet and the gleam of the hated seal on the breast of the robe. The face which rose like a skull above the thrown-back cowl.

  From where she stood the woman said, "Okos! Why did you fire? There was no need!"

  The cyber from Ascelius-a man insane.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was beauty in madness. A burning, brilliant devastation of old restrictions and hampering patterns of thought. An opening of new dimensions of awareness and the appreciation of a vaster scope of achievement. Often while rising from rapport with those gifted brains in central intelligence he had experienced the ultimate in mental intoxication. An ecstasy he had never dreamed existed or could possibly exist. Even now he wasn't sure why, of all the servants of the Cyclan, he should have been chosen.

  And yet it seemed so clear.

  Despite their awesome intelligence the assembled brains depended on the use of men to execute their desires. Gifted men, trained, specially selected, but men just the same. And men held an ingrained weakness. Even the best must fall far short of the aspirations of those they were dedicated to serve. For long ages they had waited, hoping that their servants would rise to their needs and now, finally, they had decided to act.

  The brains with whom he had been in direct contact. That part of central intelligence which had tested him and found him not wanting. Unhampered by established tradition. Unrestricted by artificial barriers.

  Elge was wrong. The newly elected Cyber Prime was too cautious and, impatient, the brains had chosen him to take his place. Okos, Cyber Prime-the words had a ring like the throb of bells. And it could be done so easily. With the brains aiding him, no, showing him the need, all had become clear. Dumarest on Podesta. His prediction as to his movements- everything which had followed, all proved he should be the ultimate master. And now, aside from minor details, all was accomplished.

  "You will remove the knife." Okos gestured with the laser. "Your left hand, first finger and thumb only, let it fall."

  An inward glow as the man obeyed. As all would obey once he was the Cyber Prime. And soon, now. Soon.

  "The woman is hurt," said Dumarest. "May I attend her?" A request he knew would be refused; one made only to gain her friendship. "No? Some wine, then? May I give her some wine?"

  Poison to dull the intellect-why were these lesser beings such fools? Yet that same folly made them easy to manipulate. Greed and personal satisfaction and indifference to the welfare of others. A multitude would only be as strong as one. Cattle for harvesting-labor to build the new universe.

  How clear it all was!

  "Wine," said Dumarest. Then, to the woman, "You see how concerned your friends are about you? That shot could have taken off your hand. He could just as easily have sent it into your brain. Ask him why he didn't?"

  Okos looked at her as she obeyed. "To kill you would be a waste. I may still require your assistance."

  "And you hope to get it?" Her voice rose. "You scarlet swine I'll see you rot first!"

  "To refuse aid will gain you nothing."

  "I want only what you promised. The cure and-"

  "The cure will be given you when it is discovered. The rest also as we agreed. I do not lie. The Cyclan does not lie." The tone was the careful modulation of all cybers but the words carried a chill. "Further argument is an illogical waste of time."

  Was he alone? Dumarest looked around the chamber seeing nothing but a narrow panel, open, through which the cyber had come. Had the guards who had chased him worked for him or the woman? Why had the cyber fired?

  The answers to those questions could mean life or death.

  Dumarest looked at the tall figure, the face, the eyes, the set of the mouth. All cybers looked gaunt and all radiated the aura of protoplasmic robots, but Okos was unusual. A man who seemed to be gloating over some secret joy-and no cyber could experience physical pleasure. The joy of achievement, then, of having made a successful capture, but why was he alone? Knowing his movements as Okos had known, it would have been simple to have taken him on Podesta. Yet he had been allowed to escape. Apparently escape-but why?

  Madness had to be the answer.

  Insanity as defined by a cyber.

  The touch of human ambition and greed.

  A guess but the only logical answer if the known facts were to fit. An unsuspected weakness in the man's character had revealed its flaw under the pressure of staggering opportunity.

  Dumarest said, "Charisse, do you know why the Cyclan consider me to be so valuable? Would you like me to tell you?"

  "Silence." Okos lifted the laser. "You will remain silent."

  "I have a secret," continued Dumarest. "One stolen from a Cyclan laboratory a long time ago. A biological chain consisting of fifteen units which enables an intelligence to-"

  Smoke rose from the table beneath the touch of the laser's beam. It sent more smoke rising an inch from Dumarest's boot.

  "You will remain silent or I will burn your vocal chords," said Okos. "The woman must not be told."

  "Why not? What harm can it do? You will kill her anyway."

  "Kill me?" Charisse lifted her arm, stared at the blackened wound, then at the cyber. "Okos! You promised!"

  "You will not be harmed if he keeps silent."

  "Look at your wrist if you believe that," said Dumarest. "His token of friendship. Do you know why he burned you? Ask him. He'll tell you it was because he feared you might fire and kill me. Or fire and kill him if we had made a deal. As he would still fire if I told him we had. Shall I prove it?"

  "No!" She looked again at her wrist. "No!"

  She believed him and Dumarest knew he had managed to drive a wedge into their mutual trust. Knew too that he held her life in his hand. Two words would do it. All he need say to the cyber was. "She knows."

  Okos would do the rest.

  But how to get rid of the cyber in turn?

  Dumarest had the advantage of being physically safe as far as a threat to his life was concerned. His value lay in what he knew; the correct sequence of the fifteen units forming the affinity twin. The biological entity which enabled the dominant partner to take over the mind and body of a subjective host. Literally to become that host. With it Charisse could live and act and love and feel and be a young and lovely girl. The reflection she would see in her mirror would be that of the selected host.

  Cybers could become the rulers of worlds and knit them into the common plan.

  Okos could become the Cyber Prime.

  That was the chance he had seen and taken-there could be no other explanation for his actions. The Cyclan had contacted Charisse. After learning he was not aboard why hadn't they concentrated on Podesta?

  "I directed them to Quen," said Okos when Dumarest bluntly put the question, "The predictions were of almost equal probability that you could be on there or Ascelius."

  And, as he hadn't been reported on Ascelius, they had directed their agents to look elsewhere. But Okos had known and had chosen to retain his knowledge.

  The madness which woul
d save him.

  Dumarest said, "The coincidence of Charisse's ship? Arranged, I assume?"

  "There was no coincidence. From the moment you set foot on Ascelius you were under constant observation. Used, hunted, driven like the animal you are to take the path I chose. It suited my plans to allow you freedom of movement until it was time to end the farce."

  "The time in jail," said Dumarest. "Held while you waited for Charisse to arrive. Followed then attacked so as to be rescued." He added, bleakly, "Did Myra Favre have to die?"

  An answer he knew; one way or another she had been doomed. Had she not fallen the wine would have killed her and the end would have been the same. He felt a renewed anger against the Cyclan, the organization which treated people as if they were pieces to be moved on a board. Things devoid of needs or feelings. Expendable pawns used in a game of conquest.

  He controlled his anger-if he were to live he needed to be calm.

  He looked at the woman. The illusion had slipped a little, the pain of her wound taking priority so that her face looked softened as if made of wax. A potential ally and the only one he had. But how to win her aid?

  Okos provided the answer. He stepped forward, tall, arrogant, conscious of his power. Already the universe was his. Eyes, deep-sunken beneath ridged brows, stared with a burning intensity.

  "You will arrange transportation," he told the woman. "I shall also need restraints and medication. Your own vessel will serve."

  "A servant," said Dumarest. "Too bad, Charisse, but I did warn you."

  "It is a privilege to serve the Cyclan," said Okos. "Obey if you hope for reward."

  "And keep hoping." Dumarest moved to lean casually against the upended table. "What's the matter with your own acolytes, Okos? Did they turn against you when they realized you'd gone mad?" A guess but a good one and he tensed, gambling enough sanity remained for Okos to hold his fire. A risk taken and a gamble won and he was sure now the cyber was alone. "He needs you, Charisse," he said. "But once he's got what he asked for he'll kill you. If you don't realize that you're a fool. I suggest you do something about it."