by Tubb, E. C.
Zander. Dumarest froze in obedience. A hand tore the cap from his head.
“Earl? Where’s Dorph?” The engineer snarled as Dumarest told him. “Walked away? Threatened you? Took off while he was safe. The bastard! He won’t be safe for long!”
“What’s happening? Zander! Tell me!”
“Something you won’t like hearing.” The engineer loosened his grasp and Dumarest turned to face him. The man’s face was drawn, marred by an ugly bruise on the left cheek. A trail of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
“What’s happened? You’ve been in a fight.”
“Did you see the cyber?”
“Yes. On the way out.”
“With Dorph.” Zander’s voice thickened. “The bastard! It all adds up. He was in a hurry, right? Eager to go about his own business?”
“Yes.”
“He would be. Damn him! He—” The engineer snarled his impatience as a pair of guards sauntered towards them. “This is no place to talk. Let’s find somewhere private.”
A tavern with a low roof and thick, acrid, smoke-filled air. A rough place with furniture to match. One catering to field-workers, transients, those with too much time and too little money. A slattern bought wine and stained beakers. She waited to be paid, studying them both before moving away to serve others.
“Here!” Zander poured wine and pushed a beaker towards Dumarest. “Pick it up. Pretend to drink. That slut is still watching.” As Dumarest obeyed, the engineer continued, “Things have turned bad. The captain’s dead, Raistar too. I left them both, after you’d gone and tried to find Jesso. I heard talk and—”
“The captain is dead?”
“As I told you.” Zander gulped some of his wine. “Bazan, Raistar and from what I heard you can add Jesso to the list. They caught up with us. Someone helped them to do it.”
Dumarest thought of the captain and felt an aching sense of loss.
“How?” he said. “Why?”
“Listen,” said Zander, “and try to understand. When you found us we were somewhere we shouldn’t have been. We’d taken a gamble on making a quick profit and lost. It was a mistake. Now we are paying for it.”
Dumarest said, “You stole the ship?”
“You could call it that.” Zander drank more wine. “We decided to operate as a free-trader and managed to scrape a living by carrying cheap cargos for low profit. We were living on borrowed time.” Again he gulped at the wine. “Taste the stuff,” he urged. “That bitch is still watching. I don’t want her to get too curious.”
The wine was rough, raw, thick with floating particles. Dumarest spat the little he had taken back into the beaker.
“Now the owners have caught up?”
“Someone has. After I’d heard about Jesso I returned to the ship. A stranger was waiting. He tried to kill me.” Zander touched his cheek, coughed, looked at the blood staining his hand. “He had taken care of the captain and Raistar, maybe Jesso too. The entire crew gone aside from me and Dorph.”
“And me?”
“No, Earl, not you. You were never crew Never listed as such. Stay clear and you’ll be safe.”
“Dorph knows.”
“Too much. I think he betrayed us. That’s why he insisted you wear a cap matching his own. You dress alike and are much the same size. It would be easy to take you for him. Kill you instead of him.” He coughed again and fought for breath. “Did you get the drugs you were after?”
“You’re hurt, Zander. Let me get help.”
“Forget it. Just give me what you collected from the apothecary.” The engineer studied the items. “Antibiotics, sedatives, salves, inhalants, pain-killers, slowtime—” He lifted the small containers and shook a half-dozen painkillers into his palm. Swallowing them he said, “This should hold me. I’ll keep the slowtime. Take the rest. They might be worth something.” Abruptly he added, “Goodbye, Earl.”
“Goodbye?”
“We’re parting company. I’ve something to do and I don’t want you involved. Don’t return to the field. Don’t even ask about the ship. Just go and keep going. Here.” Zander put coins on the table. “It isn’t much but it’s all I have. Now go and keep moving.”
Dumarest said, “Don’t talk rubbish! If you’re hurt I want to help.”
“You can’t.” The engineer’s face twisted in pain. “I’m bleeding inside. Dying. You’re on your own. Now get the hell away from me.” Zander rose and staggered and clutched at the table for support. A moment which betrayed his weakness, then he straightened and raised the phial of slowtime to his lips.
“Take care, Earl. Now I’m going to fix Dorph and then take care of the captain. Move, boy! Move!”
The night had turned savage with sharp winds carrying the bite of stinging vapor and noxious gasses. Things ignored as he moved down the streets away from the field, obeying Zander’s instructions because he could think of no better alternative. Overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that the comfort and security he had enjoyed was over, that those he had known as family and friends had gone, vanished as the engineer had vanished when he had taken the slowtime. But Zander hadn’t died. He had simply jerked into an accelerated state of existence in which, for him, time had slowed so that minutes became hours and he could walk safe and unseen through lurking dangers. To find the man who had betrayed them. To kill him. To close his mouth before he could do more damage and then to destroy the ship and the dead it contained.
To create a pyre in which he also would perish.
It blossomed as he reached an intersection; wide avenues crossing to create an open circular area ringed with the glow of accumulated lanterns casting an assortment of vibrant hues embracing the entire spectrum of the universe.
Glows which faded in the sudden burst of searing brilliance from the field to become smears set against drab stone and stained concrete, moldering bricks and cracked flags. In the brilliance scattered figures stood out in sharp relief and clumps of vegetation dotting the central area took on the visage of carved ebony in intricate array.
As the searing brilliance died the gusting wind carried more than the rustle of stirring leaves.
“There! I saw him! There facing Eastlane! Let’s get him!”
The voice of a predator scenting an easy prey. One accompanied by the thud of racing boots and, hearing them, Dumarest ran across the intersection, aiming for a patch of scrub that marred the smooth contours of the area. Reaching it he halted, crouching so as to hide in its shadow. Listening he heard only the sough of the wind.
He had seen guards in the glare of the pyre but to call for their aid would be to invite attention and, if they chose to ignore him, he would have betrayed his position. If he froze, waiting, those after him might tire of the hunt. Or, knowing the area better than he, they might even now be creeping forward to take him unawares.
He reached out, hands flat, fingers and palms searching for stones. He found nothing but grit and loam. He gathered a handful of each and crouched, staring at the hues now again staining the buildings, watching for a silhouette to break their pattern.
Too late he heard the crunch of dirt beneath a boot.
“Well, now, what have we here?” The voice held the purr of a sadistic beast. “A smart little runner—but not smart enough. On your feet, scum! Stand so we can see you!”
The impact of a boot emphasized the command. It slammed into his side with brutal force, turning him to sprawl on his back, arms spread, legs bent at the knees. Above him a figure stood with shadowed menace.
“Up, I said! On your feet! Move!”
Again the boot, the flare of agony from his side, the sick feeling of helplessness, the mounting terror. He was a victim, the prey of a sadistic psychopath. A bully who took pleasure in tormenting the helpless.
Dumarest moved, rolling, shifting his legs so as to gain mobility, his hands emptying, pressing against the ground as he used the muscles of back and shoulders to lift his weight. Pain made it hard and he guessed at broken ribs.
He cried out as the boot lifted and swung towards him.
“No! Don’t!”
“So you’ve got a voice. That’s nice. Let us hear more of it.” The boot again this time slamming into his side. “Talk, scum! Talk!”
Talk and be kicked to death for a joke, a momentary thrill, or stay silent and receive the same treatment. Either way he couldn’t win. Yet if he didn’t win he would die.
“I’ve got stuff,” he panted. “Drugs. Kick and you’ll break the containers. You want them you can have them.”
“Drugs?”
“That’s right. Enough for you both.” Dumarest looked to see if his assailant was alone. He’d given the impression that he had company but, like the threats and intimidation, that could have been a part of the ritual. “Here!” He swung back to rest on his heels as he delved into his tunic.
“Not so fast! What you got in there? A gun? A knife?”
“Nothing. Just these—” He broke off as the boot swung towards his face, catching it at toe and heel, twisting it outwards from the body, rising as the man cursed then, thrown off-balance, fell backwards.
And screamed as Dumarest slammed his own boot into his groin. Screamed again at a second kick then fell silent as his larynx pulped beneath a third blow.
“Hold it!” A harsh voice rapped the command from beyond the vegetation. “Halt or I shoot!”
“Save your breath.” His companion hawked and spat. “We’ll get him another time. Let’s see what he was up to.”
Dumarest dropped before the two men came into sight. Guards from their equipment and uniforms. Flashlights illuminated the scene focusing on Dumarest as he groaned.
“What the hell’s been going on here?” One stooped over the limp figure of the predator lying to one side. “Dead. Throat-blow by the look of it. Did you do it?” He glared at Dumarest. “Come on, talk, was it you?”
“No.” Dumarest blinked in the glow of the flashlight. “I’m not too sure what happened. I was with him,” he pointed at the sprawled figure. “We were talking. Then a man came along and hit me. I think he ran away.”
“The one we heard,” said the other guard. “He must have been lurking in the bushes waiting for someone to pass by. This one couldn’t have done it. Hell, he’s only a kid. So the man who ran was on the prowl or knew the dead man. He knocked hell out of the kid then when the dead man tried to protect him he went berserk.”
“Maybe.” His companion wasn’t as certain. “What were you doing here, anyway?” he said to Dumarest. “Where were you going?”
“I was looking. Someone told me there was a place where I could get something to eat and stay the night.”
“And this guy offered to take you there? Is that it?” The guard grunted as Dumarest nodded. “I’d say you’ve been lucky. You hurt bad?”
“Bruises. I can manage.”
“You got a home? Family? No?” The guard turned away the beam of his flashlight. His companion was examining the dead man. “Anything?”
“Maybe. What are we going to do about the kid?”
“We should take him in, make out a report, get him checked for injuries.”
“He says he’s only bruised.” Leaving the sprawled corpse the guard leaned towards Dumarest. “That’s right, isn’t it boy? Just a few bruises?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you don’t need medical attention and a lot of questions. We can all do without trouble, right? If you need shelter and food there’s a place down that street over there.” He pointed. “They’re monks. They belong to a church.”
“How far is it?”
“Not far. You should make it in fifteen minutes.”
It took over an hour.
CHAPTER SIX
Along time,” mused Shandaha. “When you are hurt and in pain and unsure as to your destination. Yet luck, it seems, was with you. No further attacks,” he explained. “Another predator would have found you easy prey.”
“As you would know,” said Dumarest.
“As I surmise.”
“Surmise?” Dumarest was sharp. “I don’t understand. You were with me, riding my memories, living my life. Every step I took you took also.”
Steps of agony as shattered bone grated against bone, lacerating internal tissues, tearing at his lungs, filling his mouth with blood. The boots the thug had worn had been tipped with metal and had created internal damage which turned his legs to water, filled his vision with swirling mists and flashing darts of pain. Every motion had needed greater effort, each step become a greater challenge. At times the desire to simply stop and sink to the ground had become almost overwhelming.
“The guards were obviously intent on robbing the dead man and you were an inconvenience.” Shandaha poured wine into goblets, shimmering purple into twisted skeins of convoluted crystal. “You must have guessed that and so masked your true condition. Had you not done so they would probably have killed you. Another victim of local violence—who would have cared?”
Dumarest lifted his goblet and looked at the wine. The surface shimmered with eye-catching brilliance, the innate glow accentuated by the transmitted motion of his hand. He sipped and tasted a sweet succulence carrying the hint of delicate spices and, abruptly, was again lurching an agonized path down a deserted street towards an unknown destination. A memory, nota relived incident, and he carefully set down the goblet on a table made of gold and amber.
He said, “You were with me. You sent me back!”
“And so should have felt everything you suffered, everything you felt.” Shandaha sipped at his wine, savoring it, smiling over the ornamented rim of the goblet. “I could have done that and would have done had it been desirable. I chose to do otherwise.”
“Why? Would you care to enlighten me?”
“Chagal has given you the answer. Did the good doctor not liken himself to a book? His mind, your mind, something to be read? And if you grow bored with a book do you not turn the pages?”
“Skip the boring parts? Close the volume?”
“Exactly. A minute of agony is enough—what more is to be learned or enjoyed by extending the suffering?”
“What point in leaving me to experience it alone?”
“An oversight. One I regret, but let us not linger over trivial detail.” Shandaha set down his goblet. “I am curious as to the actions of your late engineer. The situation he revealed to you of which you had no suspicion. Yet exactly how much do you know? Did the captain and the others really die? Was your vessel destroyed? Are you convinced the Cyclan were, in some way, involved with what happened?”
“You were with me. You know.”
“Only what you learned from Zander. He could have told you anything, made up any story he chose. You can’t even be certain he died.”
Dumarest made no comment, remembering the pyre, the searing light of destruction, the events which had followed. Looking at Shandaha he was reminded of the clump of vegetation behind which he had hidden. Like his host it had resembled ebony fashioned in intricate array but there the likeness ceased for where it had stood bare and vulnerable in the open Shandaha was far from that.
“Earl?”
“If you cannot trust my memories then why bother reliving them?”
“For amusement as you are aware. But I have already proved that some of your memories are suspect. Let us continue. After your journey, which obviously ended in success, what happened?”
Things Shandaha would have known had he continued to share in the relived life. Instead he had withdrawn leaving Dumarest to suffer the anguish alone. Pain, fear and agony he would have preferred to forget.
“I reached the church and the monks took me in. Without their help I would have died.”
Even with it he almost had. He sat, remembering, seeing again the crumbling building that formed the local church, the robed monks who had dedicated their lives to an ideal. Men who lived in poverty, wearing rough homespun and sandals, bearing chipped bowls as they begged for alms. The
y had eased his pain, kept him warm and fed and nursed him back to health. He had given them what he had and, when fit, had worked as best he could in order to repay their kindness.
“Charity,” said Shandaha. “From those dealing in superstition. How did you escape contamination?”
“There was neither contamination or superstition. The Church of Universal Brotherhood is a potent force for good throughout the galaxy. The monks have dedicated their lives to giving help and easing the torment of those in need.”
“So they would have you believe.”
“So I have seen.” Dumarest studied his host wondering ifhis attitude was genuine or a pretence. Another ploy leading to some conclusion that would reveal his failure in the realm of logic. A continuation of the elaborate game of which he seemed to be a part. “The universe is rotten with poverty and disease. The monks offer counsel, advice, medical aid and what goods and comfort they can provide.”
“In return for an unquestioning belief in their deity. For total obedience to their dictates.”
“The monks make no demands. There is no ritualized worship. Just the basic teaching that if all could be brought to recognize the truth of the credo—there, but for the grace of God, go I—the millennium will have arrived.”
“God?”
“Fate. Destiny. Luck. Chance—call it what you choose,” snapped Dumarest. “Maybe there is a supreme being somewhere in the universe, the original creator and, for convenience, we call it God.”
“And you?”
Dumarest made no answer, sitting, remembering a tall gaunt figure in a shabby homespun robe, sandals on callused feet, scarred hands twisted with arthritis and torments endured when he was young. Brother Edom, a kind and gentle man. One who maintained a warmth and depth of compassion which Dumarest had found hard to understand.
“Think of God as a concept,” he had said. “As a word symbolizing a whole. A total of goodness, perhaps. Of tolerance. Of kindness. Of compassion. Or as a friend, an elder brother or a trusted companion. As a protector or a loving, forgiving, father. Or simply as someone or something always better than we are, for all of us fall into error. Or sin if you prefer to call it that. Acts done with deliberate intent or from unthinking ignorance. Deeds that cause hurt to others yielding physical, mental or emotional distress. Sometimes the guilt of doing such deeds is too much to bear and so the perpetrator seeks forgiveness. Absolution.”
