by E. C. Tubb
Lifting the laser from its holster Dumarest aimed, fired, fired again, a third time. High above, the figure halted and began to work desperately at one leg. The first shot had missed, the second barely touching, the third burning flesh and perforating the suit. If the man was to live he had to seal the fabric and, with his leg injured, he could no longer reach the eye.
Static buzzed in his speakers as Dumarest moved on. Sharp bursts followed by others, signals from the enemy who, like the defenders, were using scrambled communication. Dumarest sprawled on the surface resting his helmet against the metal. Small sounds vibrated in his ears; noise transmitted by the solid medium. He heard a scrape, a cough, the sound of a metallic tapping. These clues guided him to where a man crouched behind a riveted protrusion. A guard who, too late, realized he was no longer alone.
"Move and you die!" Dumarest had touched his helmet to the other's, his voice carried by direct conduction. "How many of you are there?"
A burst of static came from his speakers, halting as he dug the muzzle of the laser deep into the suit and the flesh it enclosed.
"Just answer my question."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Someone short of patience. You want to talk or nurse broken elbows?"
"You're all mouth," sneered the man. "You haven't the guts."
"Try me." Dumarest waited then, as the man exploded into sudden action, moved back away from the swinging arm, lunging forward to lift the laser and send it smashing against the faceplate of the helmet. The blow starred the transparency but did not wholly break it. He heard the guard cry out as, again, their helmets touched. "Forget the elbows. Maybe you'd like to breathe vacuum instead."
"For God's sake, no!" The man lifted gloved hands to protect the damaged area. "I'm leaking air! Please, mister! You've done enough!"
"Then talk!"
"Yes. Just as soon as I've fixed this. Let me stick a seal over it and I'll tell you all you want to know."
"You'll tell me now. How many of you are there? Fifteen? Is that all?" The figure made sense. "Who is in command? Vellani? Contact him. Tell him I want to parley. Open channel. And I want him here. Warn him if he tries anything I'll burn the lot of you. Do it-then fix that helmet."
Vellani came within minutes, a bulky shape, huge in an armored suit. Starlight shone in reflected glimmers from mirrored plates protecting the joints and vital organs. The faceplate was opaqued so that he loomed like a robot against the stars. He came accompanied by three others who took up positions around the area.
"You want to parley," he said without preamble. His voice was deep, booming from the speakers. "All right, let's get on with it. I'll accept unconditional surrender." Dumarest said, "I was thinking of the reverse."
"A comedian. I've every one of your men marked and mine are ready. A word and you'll lead nothing but cold meat. In three minutes or less I'll be through the skin and into Zabul. That's my hand-what's yours?"
"Strong enough to know you're bluffing."
"Maybe." Vellani stepped nearer. To the guard who had stuck a transparent wafer over his faceplate he said, "Get back with the others. Maybe later you'll wish this character had finished the job."
"I did what I intended," said Dumarest. "You want to parley or waste time?"
"You don't sound right," mused Vellani. "You talk too strong for a local. You a stranger?"
"Maybe."
"You could be the one I came for. In that case you've saved me work and time." His hand lifted, the laser it held aiming at Dumarest's knee. "You've got guts so I'm giving you a choice. Be smart and cooperate and you'll stay in one piece. Act dumb and I'll turn you into a basket case. Arms off at the elbows, legs off at the knees. We'll seal the suit so you won't lose too much air and the beam will cauterize the wounds. I'll give you ten seconds to decide."
"How long have you commanded a combat team?"
"What?"
"Not long, I guess," said Dumarest. "Only a tyro would give an opponent that much warning. Ten seconds! I could kill you in the first two."
"And die yourself."
"Maybe, but what good would that do you?" Dumarest turned to look at the others standing close. "Or you? Open fire and you'll go down in a barrage. Do you think I'm stupid enough to call a parley without taking precautions?"
One of the men shifted uneasily. He said, "He's got a point, Jarl. And those locals could be trigger-happy."
"They're watching you now," said Dumarest. "Each of you is sighted in their guns. You'd do damage, sure, but you'd pay for it. Want a demonstration?"
From the speakers a voice said, "Give it to them, Commander! Spill their guts! They killed Lars Kunel!"
"Silence! Who is that talking?" Dumarest frowned trying to remember the voice. "Kirek? Is that Captain Kirek?"
"That's right, Commander. If you're turning soft I'm not. How about it, lads? Let's get the swine! Fire!"
"No, you fools! No!"
Dumarest lunged forward as he shouted, catching the bulky figure of Vellani at the waist, knocking him down as laser fire blazed around them. Beams hit and were reflected back from mirrored armor, searing the plates and protrusions of Zabul. Some hit more vulnerable targets.
A guard screamed as heat seared his faceplate and burned out his eyes. Another spun, blood spraying from his perforated suit. The third, faster, dropped, cursing, the weapon he held blasting a hail of missiles at suited figures who had risen to fire. Defenders who slumped or went twisting into space beneath the impact of hammering slugs.
"You bastard!" Vellani heaved to free himself. "You tricked us!"
"No," snapped Dumarest. "I played it straight and you know it. They've mutinied!"
Running wild beneath the surge of novel emotions, intoxicated with the power of their weapons, burning to avenge the death of a friend. A hysterical mob, firing, missing, dying as more experienced fighters fired in turn. "The pod!" screamed Kirek. "Get the pod!" Half the beams missed even so large a target. Half the rest did nothing but burn holes in the thin but rigid envelope. Of the rest some pitted the surface, a few came close to the invaders, one reached a heap of supplies waiting to be moved from the pod.
Explosives together with a mass of thermal paste, uncrated, primed, ready for use. The concentrated energy expanded into a ravening cloud as the laser triggered the reaction.
CHAPTER SIX
Dumarest stirred, tasting blood, conscious of the ache in his head, the dull agony of his left arm. He blinked, clearing his vision of residual glare, remembering the surge of transmitted vibration, the crashing impact of debris against his body and the back of his helmet. An impact which had slammed the faceplate hard against the surface. Listening to the gush of air, he felt the transparency, finding it uncracked. The air loss was due to another cause and he found it-a jagged rip beneath his left shoulder. A place almost impossible to reach with his one good arm.
Rolling he pressed the rip hard against the surface, blocking the flow while he stripped an adhesive wafer from the pack on his thigh. A lift and with an effort which sent blood roaring in his ears he managed to partially block the escape of air. Another wafer and the gushing roar eased a little. A third, spread on the surface over which he rolled, made the best repair he could manage.
Not good enough.
Too much air had gushed from his tanks as the regulator had tried to maintain internal pressure. Now, like a savage eye, the warning light was flashing from the gauge in his helmet.
"Attention all Corpsmen," he said into the radio. "Report!"
He heard nothing but the empty wash of static. Trying to contact the technicians produced the same result; the blow which had sent him to the verge of oblivion had damaged the radio. Rising, Dumarest looked around.
The pod had vanished, the equipment which had stood around it, the men working on the skin. The scintillating fury of the thermal paste was now nothing but a tenuous mass of dispersing vapor high in space where it had been blown by the rush of escaping air as it had burned through to th
e inner compartments.
Vellani was dead. He lay sprawled on the metal, his blank visor turned up toward the stars, face hidden beneath the opacity. But there was no need to see his face-the long, jagged shard of metal which had penetrated his suit despite the armor told its own story. The crude spear had smashed through heart and lungs to transfix the man as if he'd been an insect on a pin.
Had Dumarest been on the other side of the man it would be he now lying dead. Luck-for Vellani all of it bad.
Within his helmet the flashing red light steadied to erupt in a final warning glow. The last dregs of air had been fed from his tanks and Dumarest knew his life was now measured in minutes. He felt cold and could still hear a faint hiss, but this was not the comforting sound from the regulator but the lethal note of escaping air. To survive he had to reach a lock and get inside.
He turned, swaying, trying to orient himself. The lock he had used to reach the surface lay far back below the near horizon. Too far to travel in his present condition. There had to be another, closer, but where?
Dumarest sucked air into his lungs, held it while he forced himself to concentrate. His left arm hung limp at his side, broken or numbed, and the taste of blood in his mouth had grown stronger. Details he ignored as he scanned the area, aligning it with data culled from maps and charts. The nearest lock was over to his right below the curve of the surface. He must reach it or die.
Dumarest swung his right hand behind him, caught his left wrist and dragged the useless arm up and across his back. The soft hiss of escaping air faded as the constriction pressed against the rent. Carefully he stepped forward, stooping low, fighting the temptation to run.
To race was to lose-extra exertion would use up the remaining oxygen too fast. Yet to go too slowly was to invite destruction. If he tried to spring he could break free of the gravity zone to die helplessly in the void. Yet to crawl was to waste the seconds remaining.
Remembering Kunel, Dumarest began to lope.
It was a trick the surface worker had known and had used to run to his death. Now there was no enemy waiting with a gun but, equally, there was no body of experience on which to call. He had to lope, remaining low, not moving too fast yet using all the energy he could spare to throw himself over the surface toward the lock which spelled safety. Moving faster than a walk yet slower than a run, he fought to maintain his balance, to conserve his air, to remain alert as oxygen lack began to dull his mind and distort his judgment.
The lock rose before him, a cylindrical protuberance which swung against the backdrop of stars and blurred to take on the shape and form of a soaring pinnacle rising at an incredible distance over an endless plain. As illusion which yielded to another as Dumarest tripped to land heavily, pain stabbing from his arm, darkness edging his vision. Before him the cowled shape which the lock had become raised a hand to beckon, to turn into a crouching predator, to become a spined and wavering shape set in an eternity of sand.
Delirium. Hallucinations born in a tormented brain as he rose to forge on, feeling the pain from his bitten cheek, the taste of fresh blood mingling with that of old.
Again Dumarest fell, releasing the grip on his left wrist and feeling the sudden chill as air gushed from the opened vent, a signal which triggered the innate determination to survive which motivated his being. Rising, lungs burning, a red tide rising to tinge the universe with the hue of blood, he staggered forward into the embrace of the lock. A moment later he slammed his hand against the control, feeling the movement, falling forward as he was rotated into the inner compartment.
To fall, retching for air, as hands tore the helmet from his head.
"Commander!" Medwin stared at him, eyes wide, face shocked. "I thought you were dead!"
"Here!" A surface technician, more practical, thrust a mask beneath Dumarest's face. "Breathe deep, Commander. Deeply, now."
Life returned with the rush of pure oxygen and with it the pain. His arm, the bitten cheek, the throbbing in his head, the raw agony of his lungs. Dumarest coughed, spat blood, swallowed more.
The technician said, "You're going down to medical, Commander. You've sucked vacuum and those lungs need treatment."
"Later." Dumarest looked at Medwin. "What are you doing here, Captain? Get some men and go out searching. Your comrades could need you."
"They're dead, Commander. All dead."
"You can't be sure of that." Dumarest sucked more oxygen into his lungs, the gas seeming to be acid boiling within his chest. Pain sharpened his tone. "I wasn't. Others could be lying out there this minute. Hurt. Waiting for help. Get out there, damn you! Get out and look!"
"Steady, Commander." The technician adjusted the flow of oxygen. "Just take things easy."
"Use the radio," snapped Dumarest. "Men could have been thrown into the void when the fireball was blasted from the surface. Count heads. I want every man accounted for. Bring them all inside. Understand? All of them."
Medwin said, dubiously, "The enemy too?"
"All of them!"
"Better do it," said the technician. Then, to Dumarest, "All right, Commander. Let's get you down to the infirmary."
Sneh Thome finished checking the dressing and, straightening, said, "You were lucky, Earl. A damned sight luckier than most."
"Tell me."
"Those young fools didn't stand a chance. They went out there and most of them stayed. A few made it back and some managed to stay unhurt. The rest-" He broke off, his gesture expressive. "Soldiers," he added bitterly. "The glory of war."
"There is no glory in war," said Dumarest. "There's only death and pain and destruction. But those men weren't soldiers. They weren't fools either. They had the guts to go out and do what had to be done to protect your nice, snug little world. Did Alva Kirek make it back?"
"No. Not alive if that's what you mean. Did you have a special interest in him?"
Alive he would have been arrested, charged, tried and executed for having incited the mutiny which had created such havoc. Dead he was no longer a problem Dumarest had to deal with.
Rearing upright in the bed he threw his legs over the edge and looked at his arm. The bicep was bulky with a transparent dressing.
"The bone was broken," explained Thorne. "I've fixed it and you've been under slow time-three weeks subjective-so if you feel hungry you know why. You can use the arm if you want to, but it would be best to use a sling for a while." He gestured to where it lay together with Dumarest's clothing. "You also had concussion and vacuum-burned lungs. That pure oxygen must have burned like hell. Well, it's all fixed now and you can leave when you want." He added bitterly. "Leave to spread your infection."
"Meaning?"
"I spoke of it before, remember? You're like a virus. What you touch turns bad. You encourage violence. Those young men who died out there. The ones who came back more dead than alive. If you hadn't been here would it have happened?"
Dumarest said softly, "If you had never been born could you ever die?"
"What has that to do with it?"
"Things are what they are. Life isn't gentle. Did you think it was?"
"No," admitted Thorne. "And I know what you're getting at. Althea told me and, as a medical man, I must agree. The process of life is a continual act of violence, but does that mean man has to kill man?"
"If it is in order to defend himself-yes."
"But-"
"You blame me for those who died," said Dumarest. "You should blame yourselves. They were raw, untrained, totally unused to combat. I did what I could but it wasn't enough. Faced with cold reality they lost their heads and paid the penalty. That's what life is all about. The survival of the fittest. You win or you lose. You live or you die."
"Kill or be killed," snapped Thorne. "Is that it?"
"An organism must protect itself."
"Or fall prey to another." Thorne shook his head. "Man, you don't belong here. You preach the law of the jungle."
The jungle the race had never left. Which accompanied every man a
nd woman all the days of their lives no matter where they lived or how. The basic rule of survival, ignored, spelled extinction.
Dumarest rose and dressed and lingered for a moment before stepping from the room. Outside Althea was waiting, her eyes widening as she saw the sling supporting his left arm.
"It's nothing." He smiled so as to relieve her anxiety. "Just a little soreness. What's been happening?"
"Too much." Her face was drawn, fatigue creasing the soft skin around her eyes. "The committee has been in session for hours and there have been urgent matters to attend to. Volodya has taken over, a virtual dictator-on the grounds of necessity, he claimed. Brandt was with him as were Lijert and Stanton. Prideaux objected but was beaten at the vote when Towitsch sided with Volodya. So there it is." The gesture of her hands was one of defeat. "It's been a long day, Earl."
Hours which for him had been weeks, but he had been resting drugged and unconscious, fed by artificial means while she had had to face the opposition alone.
Dumarest said, "What of the Corps?"
"I don't know."
"The men who went outside with me? What is the position?" Thorne could have lied. "I know Medwin is alive but who else?"
She said, "You had five teams each of a dozen men and each with its own captain. Of the five Medwin and Quiley are still alive though Quiley was hurt. Of the men eighteen returned alive and a dozen of them are injured. Half will be lucky to make it."
Those losses had to have an adverse effect on morale. No wonder Thorne had been so bitter. Dumarest said, "What of the others?"
"The enemy? None were found alive."
Or if alive had not lived long. That was a possibility but Dumarest discounted it; the Terridae were too gentle for ruthless murder. "Their bodies?"
They were down near the reclamation plant, stretched in a ragged line, stripped of their suits and looking like broken and discarded dolls. A half-dozen of them, more than Dumarest had expected. Hard-faced men bearing a common stamp. Mercenaries, trading in war, selling their skills and obedience to any willing to pay. Vellani lay to the far end, his hair cropped to form a dark cap over a peaked skull. His face was broad, the mouth cruel, a scar running over one cheek. A proud man who wore his name blazoned on the black and gold of his uniform. A wolf and the leader of wolves.
