‘Your surmise is completely unjustified,’ she told him. Then she made an aside to Estru. ‘Better call Captain Wilce.’
But before he could do anything Wilce’s own voice came through his earphones. ‘Is anything happening out there? We are being surrounded by Sovyan militia. They have some heavy equipment.’
Sarkisov spoke again. ‘Well, in any case we must take you to a place of safety. There has been a large cyborg attack and there is fighting nearby.’
‘We are sorry to hear it. But we would prefer to withdraw to our ship,’ Amara said coldly.
‘Out of the question. Follow me, please.’
Estru replied to Wilce, ‘We have trouble too, Captain. I think we are being arrested on suspicion of being cyborg spies. We need a rescue party.’
‘Very well.’ Wilce’s tone was clipped and efficient. ‘We’ll pull you out.’
With astonishing speed, four more Sovyans now jetted in to assist Sarkisov. It was useless to try to escape the towering metalloids; compliantly Amara and Estru obeyed Sarkisov’s order and rose from the surface of the asteroid, to be escorted at high velocity on a winding path through the shining rubble.
The journey lasted several minutes, until finally there loomed ahead of them one of the few wholly artificial structures Estru had seen in the rings. It was a huge metal dodecahedron, drifting among the rocks like a giant shimmering diatom, all of two hundred yards in diameter. Suit-men flitted through a single huge portal, reminding Estru of the entrance to a beehive.
He heard Captain Wilce again. ‘I’m sorry, but we’re having trouble getting a party to you. We are under attack ourselves. What’s your situation?’
‘We are approaching a big artificial asteroid,’ Estru told him. ‘Can you see it?’
‘Yes, we have been tracking you. Are you in any immediate danger?’
‘It’s hard to say how decided the Sovyans’ conclusions about us are. It seems the rings have just come under cyborg attack, which has made them edgy.’
‘Understandable. Keep me informed.’
They passed into the dodecahedron. Estru examined the interior with some interest. It was constructed on some complicated open-plan system. From the peripheral walls jutted a maze of metal screens, but the central space, across which Sovyans soared to and fro, was left undivided apart from being criss-crossed by slender retaining girders. Estru found the place impressive.
Now their guards were herding them through the peripheral maze until they arrived at a meshed and gridded cage. For a moment Estru heard Captain Wilce beginning to speak to him again, then he and Amara were both pushed roughly into the cage and the gate closed behind.
He became aware of a sudden deadness in his transceiver.
They were in a Faraday cage, blocking them off from all radio communication.
Up until now Estru had not really been able to think of the Sovyans as anything more than truncated, rather pathetic human beings huddling inside their protective metal encasements. When he had coined the word ‘metalloid’ it had been as a disparaging joke. But the suit-men’s swift and unhesitating actions had changed all that. Suddenly they seemed more capable and intelligent than his prejudices had formerly allowed him to admit. They had become what Amara had always said they were: a new species, wholly at harmony with their own nature.
One small detail during the journey to the dodecahedron had struck him with particular force – the way the antennae arrays surrounding the suit-men’s heads and shoulders automatically shifted and turned as they darted unerringly through the rock fields. It was such a natural movement, yet completely non-human. The Sovyans really had adopted a new form of physical existence.
Yet in a purely technical sense the suits were not even particularly sophisticated. Ziodean technicians could have produced a version half the size and twice as efficient. Still, for their purpose they were fully effective. The biological and the technical parts of the new entity functioned as a unit. Oxygen was required to be imbibed only once every thirty hours, and then only to top up the reserve tank since the suit was able to split exhaled carbon dioxide. ‘Biofood’, a thick fluid whose waste content was minimal, was taken once in ten hours. ‘Technofood’ consisted of a small amount of lubricating oil and energy for the electrical systems, which came from an isotope battery replaced every fifty days and a solar cell back-up.
For the next half-hour Estru and Amara kept themselves busy, adding notes to their running commentaries on everything they saw. The scene put Estru more and more in mind of a beehive – and the Sovyans reminded him particularly of the bullet-bees found on his home planet of Migrat.
He could not deduce the purpose of the dodecahedral building. It contained a great deal of machinery which was being evacuated through the exit as time went on, and the numbers of suit-men in it also decreased. It could, he thought, be a military centre. He reflected that the Sovyans had suffered these attacks for centuries, and presumably knew how to deal with them. The assault would no doubt be followed by a retaliatory raid on Shoji – though the suit-men, being unable to land on the enemy planet, could do little more than bombard its surface.
At length Estru and Amara ran out of remarks to put on record, and still no rescue party arrived from the Callan. They looked at one another. Estru knew that, though she tried not to show it, Amara was even more scared than he was.
‘What do you think’s happened?’ she said hesitantly.
‘I dread to think.’
‘Could the Callan …’
‘Have been captured? It’s possible. But don’t write us off too soon. We haven’t been waiting all that long. Maybe it’s taking Wilce a bit of time to extricate himself.’
‘It will be really awful if—’ she began, and then a gasp of shock caused Estru to look the way her helmet was facing.
One of the dodecahedron’s pentagonal walls was bursting inwards. Through the imploding rent, accompanied by the icy light of the rings, floated a dozen space-rafts crammed with cyborg warriors.
What followed was horrifying. Only a few Sovyans remained in the dodecahedron. The cyborgs swarmed throughout the structure, hunting them down and slaughtering them in a frenetic orgy. The suit-men were shot, burned, battered to junk with huge hammers. They fought back as best they could, occasionally blowing pale bodies to shreds with rocket-driven shells, but they were outnumbered and their situation was hopeless.
The ferocity of it all terrified the two Ziodeans, floating in their cage in frozen fascination. Then a moan of fright escaped Amara as one of the rafts drifted slowly by them only a few yards away.
The gowned figure they had encountered a week earlier stood on the raft. Leisurely the cyborg gangster abbot turned his body to look them over, his cowl thrown back, his face, with its bizarre mouth and black eyes, appearing cruel, supercilious, amused. Estru felt like a hypnotized rabbit.
The yakusa bonze was gross. The loose gown was open and drawn aside so that he could rest his puffy hands on the pommels of two huge curved swords which were thrust into a sash-like belt, to which also were clipped dozens of appurtenances. Swelling over the belt was a vast belly, corrugated and metal-studded.
A semi-circular plate of gold apparently bisected his brain and jutted out from the skull, each half of which sported its own control turret. The psychological implications of that division intrigued Estru, but he had no time to think about it. He felt only relief when the warrior abbot turned away from them, his attention taken by something else.
A captured Sovyan was being goaded across the dodecahedron by jerking cyborgs. The bonze floated up from his raft and went out to his meet his enemy, drawing the two great swords with a swift, vigorous motion.
His divided brain clearly did not detract from his physical prowess. A normal man, in normal gravity, would have needed two hands to control just one of those unwieldy blades, but the bonze, a sword in each hand, executed a dazzling series of movements, using each weapon to counterbalance the torque of the other. Then the shimmerin
g blades whirled like propellers as he fell to destroying the suit-man, slicing through the metal body with astonishing ease. In less than a minute the Sovyan had been hacked to pieces and his gruesome wreckage drifted through the void.
It was impossible not to feel the tribal energy of the exulting cyborgs as the abbot turned his back on the scene, his twin swords smeared with blood and oil, and again approached the Faraday cage.
In panic Amara and Estru retreated to the far side of their prison. The incredible swordblades flashed, hacking their way through the meshed gridwork. A tumult of Japanese babble burst through the Ziodeans’ earphones the instant the wires were scythed away. Then more of the creatures joined in, tearing the cage apart and reaching for its contents. The hysterical babble became deafening.
Then, at that moment, the whole dodecahedron seemed to implode. A great gap was riven in the side of the building. Shrieking hoarsely, the cyborgs turned to face the new threat.
The bulky shape of the Callan was visible hovering beyond the shattered wall. Driveboats were steering themselves into the dodecahedron, firing on the cyborgs and picking them off in dozens. Captain Wilce’s promised rescue party had arrived at last.
Amara patted her frizzled, purple-dyed hair into place. Though badly shaken, she was rapidly recovering her composure.
‘You certainly took your time,’ she chided in a carefully controlled voice.
Knowing how close a thing it had been, Captain Wilce was not inclined to take the reproof as a joke. ‘It was the best we could do,’ he said gravely. ‘We had some nasty moments. The Sovyans managed to do us a bit of damage, I’m afraid. As a matter of fact the arrival of the cyborgs took them off our backs and enabled us to get to you.’
The explorer ship had withdrawn from Domashnabaza. Through the bridge’s observation dome they could see the ring system a couple of million miles away, arcing through space like a rainbow. Wilce, his back to the view, was stuffing herbs into a smoking tube. ‘We’ve spoiled our welcome all round one way and another, I reckon,’ he said equably. ‘It might even be our brush with the cyborg raft that brought on this onslaught. What are your ideas now, Amara?’
‘We’ll move on,’ she said shortly. ‘We’ve collected enough data here to be going on with. It wouldn’t be very easy getting more, anyway. The defence problem, as you point out, Captain.’
She laughed nervously. As they had left she had seen the cyborgs sacking what might have been a nursery or a hospital.
Estru had been gazing at the rings. He turned to her. ‘Before we move shall I release Verednyev?’
Amara frowned. ‘Eh? What for?’
He shrugged. ‘I presume it was our intention eventually.’
‘Well you presume wrong,’ she snapped. ‘These people are nothing but savages, cyborg and Sovyans alike. We’ve right to collect specimens where it bears on the security of Ziode. I want him for study, do you hear? He stays with us!’ She barely refrained from stamping her foot.
Resigned, Estru shrugged again.
Captain Wilce issued orders. The Callan moved into the interstellar velocity bracket. In minutes they had left behind the tiny, dark, forsaken planetary system where, against all the odds, man had survived, and set themselves to go probing yet farther along the Tzist Arm.
7
It must be admitted that the psychology of Caeanic Man differs substantially from that of Ziodean Man. Caeanic culture has performed the extraordinary feat of projecting its consciousness entirely into exterior forms. The upbringing of a Caeanic, indeed the whole of his social training, conditions his mind to respond in a chameleon-like manner to the adornments he dons. A naked Caeanic is a mental blank, like a man without limbs or a man paralysed, and he almost never allows himself to be so discommoded. For all occasions there are suitable garments; sleeping, taking a bath, fornicating, even childbirth. In normal circumstances it is never necessary for him to see his naked form, and if he does it is a private glimpse devoid of self-image.
A Caeanic, even an educated Caeanic, will be amused if a foreigner should suggest to him that his dependence on raiment is a cultural weakness. To him the benefits of the Art of Attire are self-evident. He will point out that these personality assists with which he invests himself are donned entirely by choice, and give him a greater command over his own mind than is possessed by the average Ziodean, who is subject to all kinds of uncontrollable moods and deficiencies.
Arth Matt-Helver, Travels in the Tzist Arm
‘Just look at that guy! He’s riding on a cloud!’
Castor’s eyes glittered enviously as he read the newscast. The cast sheet showed a picture of a social function at the manse of an important Directorate minister. Among those raising their glasses to toast the minister, plain as day, was Peder Forbarth, outshining everyone, even the minister, as a paragon of elegance, of charm and grooming. By some photographic accident he, not the government supremo, seemed somehow to be the object of the occasion.
Mast sat wearing a pale heliotrope frock-coat and a cyan chemise. He glanced at the picture, eyebrows raised in affected unconcern, as Castor brought it over to him.
‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ Castor said in a gruff voice. ‘A creep like that, making out like he was some sort of genius. How does he do it, boss?’
Mast sniffed delicately. Castor’s revelation was not news to him. Anyone who paid even cursory attention to Gridira’s social columns – as Mast did – might have noticed that a new star had appeared in the firmament: Peder Forbarth, successful entrepreneur (and so far as could be judged, legitimate to boot) and fast-rising socialite, a man who had found the path to fortune and fame and was travelling it at speed. Lesser socialites, to whose gossip Mast was also occasionally privy, even rumoured that Forbarth could be in line for one of the much coveted posts in the Directorate’s Economic Co-ordination Network, a loosely-knit organization of great power, where the opportunities for self-aggrandisement were not far short of enormous.
And all in the space of less than a year! Mast did not successfully hide from himself the thought that he would have done better to continue cultivating his relationship with the one-time sartorial.
‘It’s never a good idea to get too close to the government,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Did Grawn go for my food?’
‘Yeah,’ answered Castor vaguely, still studying the picture. They were in Mast’s own apartment in Rata, a reasonably opulent district of Gridira. The apartment was tastefully appointed, though a little flamboyant, perhaps, and of sufficient size for his needs – not too spacious but large enough so that he did not feel cramped.
Mast also rented a room in the cellar of the same building for the use of Castor and Grawn. Every day he allowed them up to spend a short time with him, so that he could keep an eye on them.
Grawn entered bearing a covered tray.
‘Ah!’ said Mast with gusto, uncovering the tray. He began to eat fried pork balls with centres of chilled pineapple, garnished with sautéed purple legumes. He washed the meal down with swigs of plum wine. Meanwhile Castor, to his faint annoyance, was loudly advertising Peder Forbarth’s new career to Grawn.
When he had finished eating Mast pushed aside the tray, swallowed the last of the wine in the carafe and wiped his mouth with neat dabs of a napkin. He turned to face his sidekicks.
‘I’ll tell you how he does it,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s that suit.’
Grawn’s face became a ludicrously ugly picture of puzzlement as he squinted again at the newscast sheet. ‘The suit he’s wearing?’
‘That’s the suit he got off the Caeanic ship,’ Castor said.
‘That’s right,’ Mast concurred. ‘The suit I let him have when we were on our way home from Kyre. He owes everything to that suit.’ He snorted contemptuously, gesturing to the sheet with a limp hand. ‘Remember the creep? He could never have made the grade in a high-class setting like that. He’d have been falling all over the tables. It’s the suit that does it.’ He became thoughtful.
‘This suit can,’ Mast explained. ‘The Caeanics have some secret skill when it comes to making clothes. They can make you a changed man, make you become something you’re not, give you new abilities. All Caeanic clothes have that quality to some degree. This suit,’ he added, ‘is obviously something special. Whoever owns it becomes rich and famous, that’s clear.’
‘Caeanic clothes can be that good?’ Grawn exclaimed. ‘But that’s magic, boss!’ He laughed in glee. ‘A magic suit!’
‘Science,’ Mast corrected with condescending patience. ‘It’s a particular science that Caeanics have. Like hypnotism.’
‘You should never have given it to him, boss,’ Castor said reprovingly.
‘Hm. Perhaps not.’ Forbarth, Mast reflected – not for the first time – had evidently tricked him. He must have known there was something special about the suit, but he had said nothing so as to keep it for himself. No wonder he had been so willing to pull out.
‘Well?’ Castor looked at Mast challengingly, his repaired eyes glittering more brightly, as they always did when he was excited. He also had jumped to the obvious conclusion. ‘That punk robbed us! That suit should be ours!’
‘I can see it on you now, boss!’ Grawn crowed, as if in congratulation. ‘You’d look great in it!’
‘Then maybe we could start moving again,’ Castor continued earnestly, hunching his shoulders forward. There was something snake-like, almost predatory, in the way he was importuning Mast.
‘Are you calling me ineffectual?’ Mast retorted.
‘You said yourself, that suit gives Forbarth the edge over everybody. Okay, so maybe it hypnotizes everybody around him or something. I’ve heard of stranger things. We could use some of that. If we sit around like this much longer we’ll be broke.’
The Garments of Caean Page 10
