Haven of Darkness dot-16

by E. C. Tubb

  Yet, even so, he was aware and alert enough to be suspicious. Dumarest he would have recognized and taken immediate action. The navigator was just a part of the ship. A man who, perhaps, had been summoned by his master for consultation. And one obviously under the influence of quick-time.

  It was far from easy. Dumarest stood, immobile, his eyes open, the balls stinging with the need of moisture. His chest ached and his lungs craved air as he waited, not trusting his reflexes, knowing only that he was weak and ill and must kill without mistake or hesitation.

  Kill without mercy. Kill to be safe. Kill to survive.

  The acolyte reached the cabin, frowned at the open door, halted as he glanced inside.

  "Master!"

  He spun as Dumarest moved, the action alone being enough to trigger his alarm. The thin sliver of steel aimed at his throat slashed across the face instead, ripping a furrow from the ear and through an eye, blinding, sending blood to pour over the cheek.

  A wound which would have caused a normal youth to scream with pain, to back, to be thrown off-guard.

  Dumarest grunted as he came in to the attack, one hand lifted, the other snatching at the weapon. The thin blade was almost useless; without weight or balance, too fragile to stab it was good only to slash. Shallow wounds which could hurt but not kill. And to a servant of the Cyclan pain was a stranger.

  Dodging the blade he lifted his hand, the laser firing, chipped paint flaring on the cabin wall as, throwing himself down, Dumarest avoided the beam. He rolled as the acolyte fired again, feeling the burn as it hit his left thigh, feeling too the cloth of the scarlet robe spread over the dead body on the floor.

  The cyber whom the acolyte didn't know was dead. His master whom he was sworn to protect with his life. To fire again was to risk hitting the sprawled figure: It was, better to wait, to back a little, weapon ready in case of need but aimed safely away.

  "The knife," he said. "Drop it." Then, as Dumarest obeyed. "Now up on your feet. Up."

  Dumarest fumbled, moved, hands gripping the cyber's dead arm, fingers questing for the laser beneath the wide sleeve. He found it, found the trigger, turning the entire arm towards the acolyte in a grotesque gesture from the dead, as too late, the youth recognized the truth.

  He swayed a little, his remaining eye turning into a charred hole in the contours of his face, blood masking his cheek, dripping, falling as he fell to coat the floor with a liquid crimson.

  A pool of blood which grew as Dumarest's own wound pumped away his life.

  He ripped away the material from the injured thigh, thrust a thumb above the wound where the great artery pulsed and, with the remaining hand and his teeth, ripped a strip of fabric from the cyber's robe. Knotted, twisted into place, it made a crude but efficient tourniquet. Rising, Dumarest staggered and almost fell.

  It wasn't just the wound. The beam had missed the bone and he had stanched the blood, but too much had been lost already and he was too weak. His heart pounded like a bursting engine and the lights appeared to dim as he fought for air. The tips of his fingers felt cold and, he knew, death was close.

  Too close and too soon. He fought it, gritting his teeth, concentrating on the single act of breathing and, slowly, the immediate danger passed.

  Only the impossible remained.

  The dead had to be disposed of, the cabin cleaned and other matters taken care of. It would need strength and time-but now, at least, he had won some time.

  Time in which to clean himself and don fresh clothing. To force himself to drink three cups of basic. To search the medical kit for appropriate drugs.

  Fatshan looked up from his console as Dumarest entered the engine room. He scowled. "What do you want?"

  "To apologize." Dumarest held out a bottle and a pair of glasses. "I was a fool and I'm making no excuses but, at times, I don't know which way to turn. I'm dying and we both know it. I haven't a friend in the universe aside from you. Let's drink to old times."

  "You're crazy!"

  "Yes. I'm not arguing. I deserve all you want to hand out. But, for now, let's drink to the past." Dumarest poured neat brandy into the glasses. "To health and happiness. To the next world." A pause then, "To death and what comes after."

  "Cut it out!" Fatshan glared over the rim of his glass. "Your toasts give me the creeps at times. Death'll come when it's ready, until then let's enjoy life."

  "I'll drink to that!"

  Dumarest lifted his glass, watched as the other swallowed the contents of his own at a gulp. Refilling the container he handed it back, coughed, wiped his lips and sipped at his brandy.

  As it touched his lips the engineer sighed and collapsed, a victim of the drug Dumarest had given him. He would sleep for a while, wake with a sense of well-being and, while he slept, the field was clear in which to work.

  Dumarest fired a charge of neutralizer into his bloodstream and felt the surge and pulse of a disturbed metabolism threaten his awareness. Too free a use of the drugs was dangerous but he had no choice. To risk the side effects was a gamble he had to take.

  Back in the cabin nothing had changed. He took the youth first, rolling the body on to a sheet, fastening it, rising to grip the corners and drag it down the passage into the engine room and through into the hold. A port took it, rotating so as to hurl it into the void. The cyber followed, his extra weight robbing Dumarest of strength so that he leaned against a crate, sweat dripping to stain the wood.

  Cleaning the cabin came next, swabs soaked in blood added to a pile and all thrown out to join the corpses.

  The keys of the manacles had been on the acolyte. Dumarest used them to free his body. His knife, boots and tunic were in the place he'd suspected and he dressed the limp figure. Again using the sheet he dragged it down to the cargo hold.

  A way to escape. To beat the Cyclan. The only way.

  The lid of a crate lifted to reveal a mass of objects wrapped in plastic; stubby machine rifles thickly protected with grease. Dumarest weighed one in his hand, replaced it and resealed the crate. Another, differently marked, revealed bags containing seeds, tubers, fibrous masses, jelly-like pastes-all relatively light and bulky. Half of them went through the port into the void.

  Into the space they'd taken he heaved his limp and unconscious body.

  The effort almost killed him so that, for a long time, he leaned against the crate, gasping, fighting for breath, feeling as if his heart had burst and had drenched his guts with blood. Drugs helped, lessening the pain as he fired them into his throat, more followed to give a brief span of false energy for which he would pay later.

  But it was almost over.

  He studied the crate when it was sealed. No trace could be seen of it ever having been opened. No one would have reason to look.

  No one-now that the cyber was dead.

  And now, at last, he could rest. To go to his cabin, to lie on the bunk, to watch as the ceiling dimmed and to drift into an endless sea of confused memories all shattered as Fatshan came bursting into the cabin.

  He had a cup of basic in his hand, the thick liquid laced with brandy and, as Dumarest sipped, he talked.

  "The craziest thing. Gone-the lot of them. Not a trace. Not even of the acolyte. The Old Man and me went Middle and searched the ship all over. Nothing."

  Dumarest said, "Slow down. What are you talking about?" He frowned as the engineer explained. "Vanished? You mean they've all vanished?"

  "Yes."

  "But how? An emergency sac?"

  "None are missing and, anyway, who in their right mind would bale out unless they had to?" Fatshan rubbed at his scalp. "I've been in space over thirty years and I've never bumped into anything like this. I can't see how it could have happened. I just can't."

  "But it did?"

  "It did." The engineer shook his head. "I'm not joking, but it's crazy."

  "A fight," said Dumarest. "The prisoner, Dumarest, could have broken free somehow and killed the cyber. He could have been dragging him to the port when the acoly
te found him. They had a fight and, somehow, all went through the port."

  "You believe that?"

  "Maybe the acolyte killed Dumarest and was evicted as a punishment. Then the cyber, unable to admit failure, followed." Then, as the engineer dubiously shook his head, he snapped, "How the hell do I know what happened? I'm guessing, I'll admit it, but do you have a better explanation?"

  "No," admitted Fatshan. "And neither does the captain."

  He was in the salon, pacing the floor, frowning, kicking at the table as he passed. His frown deepened as he saw Dumarest enter with the engineer. Deliberately he sniffed at the air.

  "Brandy. I've told you before about drinking on duty."

  "I didn't think I was on duty," said Dumarest. "The cyber had taken over. You and he didn't need me-or so I understood. Anyway, what's the harm in a drink?"

  "He needs it, Captain." The engineer coughed. "His trouble, you know. It's been bad lately."

  Erylin grunted. He was more honest than the engineer. A navigator was of use only while he could navigate.

  "You know what's happened?" He grunted again as Dumarest nodded. "You saw nothing? No, I thought not. They must have switched to Middle. I've checked the medical kit and drugs are missing."

  "I know." Dumarest met the captain's glare. "I took them."

  "All of them?"

  "Some pain killers. Something to help me get to sleep."

  "And I was in the control room. Which leaves you, Fatshan."

  "I saw nothing," said the engineer. "Nothing at all."

  "Which means they must have left the ship from an upper port. Well, to hell with it. They're gone. The thing now is what are we going to do about it?" Erylin looked at them, waiting. "Well?"

  "A cyber and his acolyte," said Fatshan slowly. "The Cyclan won't like it."

  "That helps a lot," sneered the captain. "Chagney?"

  "If we report it they'll hold us for questioning. They'll take the ship apart and us with it. They'll never believe we had nothing to do with those men vanishing. I can't believe it myself."

  "So?"

  Dumarest shrugged. "You're the boss, Captain. But if it was me I'd just keep quiet about it."

  "Say nothing?" Fatshan scrubbed at his scalp. "Can we get away with it?"

  "We don't know what happened so there's nothing we can tell anyone. We could even be blamed. We certainly aren't going to get paid. A long, wasted journey with nothing but trouble at the end of it. What trader in his right mind wants that?" Dumarest glanced from one to the other knowing he had won. But the decision had to be the captain's. He added, "I'm only making a suggestion, but there's something else to think of. We're carrying cargo. If we hope to stay in business we'd better deliver it. Later, if you want, we can report what's happened."

  "The cargo!" Erylin snapped his fingers, relieved at having found the excuse he needed. "That's right. We have a duty to the shippers. We can't be blamed for fulfilling our contract but we'll be taken for pirates if we don't. We'll have to alter course back to Zakym."

  And a load would be waiting for transport to another world and from there another and then still more. He would never report the disappearances and neither would the engineer. Even if questioned they could only say that three men had vanished into space and it was doubtful if they would ever be found.

  Dumarest felt his knees sag and he stumbled and almost fell against the table. His wound had begun to burn and throb, a wound he would have to disguise until the end. But, to do it, he needed help. Erylin frowned as, straightening, he made his way to the store and drew out a bottle.

  "Keep a clear head," he snapped. "I want you to plot the course-correction."

  The computer would help and the change must be simple. The captain could handle it and Dumarest knew enough about the workings of ships to make a good pretense. Drink and pain, drugs and the ravages of disease would account for the errors he would make.

  Now he had something to celebrate.

  Lifting the bottle he jerked free the cork and filled his mouth with brandy. He felt the burn of neat spirit against his mouth, the fire which spread down his throat to catch at his lungs and, within seconds, doubled in a paroxysm which tore at his lungs.

  "You're mad," said Erylin coldly when Dumarest finally straightened from the bout of coughing. "You can't take that kind of punishment."

  "I need it."

  "The brandy? You fool! It will kill you!"

  "I know." Dumarest looked at the ravaged face reflected in the curved glass. "I know."

  Chapter Ten

  The wind that morning was from the north, a strong, refreshing breeze which caught at the mane of her hair and lifted it, sending it streaming like an ebon flag barred with silver. A proud sight, thought Roland as he watched her ride from the courtyard. Proud and stubborn and more than a little willful. Any other would long ago have made her choice, uniting the Family with another, extending the joint holdings and content to do little else but breed children.

  Perhaps, if she had been less unusual, he would have been a happier man.

  Beyond the gate the road ran straight and clear, a line which ran towards the town to the south and Ellman's Rest to the north. She headed into the wind, reveling in the blast of it against her face, the tug of it at her hair. The day had broken well but the suns were merging in the sky and, when she came in sight of the mound of shattered stone surmounted by the gnarled and twisted tree, she was not surprised to see a figure standing at its foot, another swinging from the topmost branches.

  He had died when she'd been a child and had seen him on a morning ride. Her nurse had hurried her away and, later, she had listened to the gossip and learned the story. A herdsman, obviously insane, had taken his life with the aid of a belt looped around his throat. A thwarted lover, so the gossips whispered, who had stolen so as to buy what was denied. Caught, he had escaped before due punishment could be administered and, trapped by approaching darkness, had ended his existence.

  It could have been the truth-now she could find out.

  Agius Keturlan smiled at her as she dismounted. His face was as wrinkled as ever, as sere as it had been when he had died, but his eyes twinkled as they had done when he had carried her whooping on his shoulders.

  "Lavinia, my dear. You are looking well."

  "And you, Agius." Her eyes lifted to the swinging shape. "Better than he does."

  "An unfortunate."

  "A coward."

  Gently he shook his head. "Don't be too harsh, my dear. Not all of us can be as strong as you are. How can we tell what torments assailed him? Have you never yearned for love?"

  Her blush was answer enough and she turned to adjust her saddle, unwilling to betray more. When she turned again the dangling figure was gone, only the sough of wind stirring the branches.

  Only Keturlan remained and she wondered why Charles had not appeared. Why, when she needed him, he remained absent.

  The old man said, abruptly, "You are worried, Lavinia. Don't trouble to deny it. It is in your face, the way you stand, the way you walk. Are things not going well?" He grew solemn as she told him of her fears. "Gydapen is a good man in many respects. You could do worse."

  "But to be forced?"

  "Can any of us be truly free?" His hand lifted before she could answer, a finger pointing towards the swaying branches. "Was that poor fool free? Did he have a choice? Or was he nothing more than the victim of circumstance? We shall never know. But some things we have learned and among them is the realization that not always can we dictate the path we must follow. Can your mount decide? Does it tug, at times, at the rein? Is it a coward because it obeys?"

  "Then you advise me to marry Gydapen?" He smiled and made no answer and, irritated, she looked away towards the loom of the Iron Mountains. Charles would have given her an answer. He would have laughed and joked and made light of the whole thing and she would have been eased and free of the necessity of making a choice.

  Was that why he hadn't come?

  T
he animal snorted and pawed the dirt and, after she had soothed it, the old man had gone.

  Glancing at the sky she decided against continuing the ride. The day was against it, better to stay at home and settle outstanding details or, better still, to go into town. There could be fresh news of the ship if nothing else. It was overdue -surely now it must arrive soon?

  Roland came towards her as she dismounted. His face was anxious.

  "Lavinia! Is anything wrong?"

  "No. I decided against riding."

  "I'm glad." His relief was obvious. "You ride too much alone."

  "There is nothing to fear."

  "Perhaps." He knew better than to remind her of past escapes. "But the day is against it."

  As it was against everything. Shadowy figures stood in secluded corners, vanishing as if made of smoke when approached; old retainers of little interest to any other than their kindred. The place was full of them, men and women who had worked and served and died and were now nothing but vague memories.

  Irritably Lavinia shook her head. A hot bath would help and it would follow her usual custom to wash away the grime of riding, but now it was a duty and not a pleasure. But, as she dried herself, welcome news came. "The ship? At last?"

  "It landed a short while ago, my lady." The maid was pleased to deliver the information. "The agent reported your cargo among its load." Her reserve broke a little, familiarity verging on contempt for ancient traditions. "Will there be new gowns? New gems? French perfumes? My lady, if-"

  "Enough!"

  "My lady!" The girl's eyes lowered in respect, but she could not be blamed. New garments meant the old ones discarded and, for her, a chance to wear expensive finery. "My lady?"

  It would be cruel to keep her in suspense. "I didn't order new gowns," said Lavinia mildly. "Instead there will be a variety of fabrics together with a host of patterns. We shall make our own gowns in the future, and in time, develop our own fashions."