Angado

Chapter Eleven

Avro screamed; a shout which illuminated the shadows of his sleeping mind. A challenge hurled at the wind, the sky, the male hovering before him on spread wings. An aggressor, young, ambitious, fired by the biological need to perpetuate his genes. One screaming his intent as Avro screamed his warning but knowing, even as he screamed, that this time it wouldn't be enough. And to strike first was half the victory.

Wind gusted around him as he launched himself from the peak with a thrum of wings. Pinions which threshed the air as he fought to gain height, to turn, to hurl himself at the challenger, arms extended, fingers spread, feet lifted to deal a devastating kick. One which missed as the other twirled aside, to kick in turn, to register a blow which sent Avro spinning.

Whirling as he was attacked again with feet and hands, toes and fingers ripping at his wings, adding to the strain they already fought to overcome.

The penalty of age when the body grew too gross and the great pectorals, the deltoids, began to weaken. A time when lift was slower, agility less, vulnerability a growing menace.

The moment of truth for an angel who refused to yield his nest, his women, his position in the community.

A thing Avro knew from the instinct buried in the body and brain of the host he dominated as he knew that to fold his wings and fall would be to signal his peaceful withdrawal from the conflict. An act which would save his life and leave him to fly alone as long as his wings would carry him. To join the flock of other aging males who had been forced to yield to younger blood. Tolerated and even cared for as long as they recognized the victor's right.

But Avro was too new to this body and its way of life. Too entranced by the novelty of emotion and conditioned by the subtle knowledge that, for him, death in this body would not mean extinction. So he fought until the blood ran from a dozen wounds and his wings were in tatters. Fighting on until he began to fall, to continue to fall despite his struggles, wheeling in circles to the rocks below, the wheeling becoming a tumble, a drop, a sickening plunge to the jagged teeth waiting to smash out his life.

An impact which was the hammer-blow of extinction, filling his eyes with a flash of vivid light.

One which lingered as he jerked upright on his bed to sit, fighting for air, hands clasped over his eyes.

"Master!" Byrne calling from beyond the door attracted by his screaming. Concerned by it also; it was becoming too frequent. "Master?"

"All is well." Avro lowered his hands. "Enter."

He stood upright as the acolyte came into the room his face masked, hands steady. The chamber was as it had been when he'd retired for the sleep which should have refreshed him but had not. And the pressure at the back of his skull seemed to have grown worse.

To the aide he said, "You have something to report?"

"Nothing positive, Master."

"Have the electroencephalograph scans arrived from the ship?"

"They are on your desk, Master."

"That will be all."

"Yes, Master."

Avro stared after the aide as Byrne bowed and made his way through the door. Insubordination was out of the question: an aide was trained to obey, but obedience could be tinged with more than a desire to please. Had his use of the title been all it seemed? Normally to address a cyber as "Master" was a recognition of superiority and an admission of dependency but overuse could make its own point. One of accusation or even of contempt. Had Byrne, by what could be regarded as zealous courtesy, shown his disquiet?

He was a spy, of course, as Tupou was a spy, as all acolytes were spies. Eyes and ears to see and listen and a mouth to report. Had he told Ishaq of the screaming? Had the cyber reported the incidents to Central Intelligence? Had he received secret orders in turn to watch and assess and, if necessary, to restrain his nominal superior?

Avro lifted his hands and pressed them against the back of his skull. Why had Marie ordered Ishaq to join him? Why had rapport altered so strangely? Why did he so constantly dream of his life as an angel?

What was happening to him?

Part of the answer was in the electroencephalograph scans sent from the ship.

Seated at the desk Avro studied them, checking one against the other with quick efficiency. The variations were minor but unmistakable and when combined with other records from other examinations left no doubt. Even so he double-checked before leaning back to stare at the tinted panes of the window.

They were diamond-shaped, made of various hues, the sunlight streaming through them forming a tessellation of mauve, orange, red, blue, amber, emerald which flowed over the floor, the desk, the scattered papers on the surface. A transient beauty which Avro ignored as he stared at the window, the sun, the endless expanse of the dried sea bed beneath it. On it men and machines crawled in a constant search for nodules of manganese and other valuable minerals. The only source of wealth on the world and one controlled by a combine who had reason to be generous to the Cyclan.

Janda, a world as hostile as Velor, was set in the mathematical center of a sphere in which Dumarest would be found if he was still alive.

Closing his eyes Avro saw it again; the open grave, the metallic sheen which broke into rippling motion, the fretted bone revealed as the insects scuttled from their feeding place. Dumarest or some other? How to be sure?

Yet on the answer depended his life.

Avro glanced at the scans, again conscious of the pressure within his skull. One not born of imagination but of harsh reality. The Homochon elements grafted within his brain showed unmistakable signs of change. Normally quiescent until stimulated by the Samatachazi formulae they lay incorporated in the cranial tissue; a sub-species of reactive life akin to a beneficent growth which enhanced telepathic contact and made rapport possible. Now, those within his brain were growing.

Swelling like a bomb which would rip his skull wide open.

He would be dead long before that could happen and insane long before he was dead. His only hope was to have his brain removed from its bony casing and placed in a vat forming part of Central Intelligence. There the Homochon elements could grow as they normally did once the transfer had been made and his intelligence would not be affected. But, to gain the final reward, he must redeem his past failure and capture Dumarest.

Find him, capture him and deliver him to Marie. And do it before it was too late.

Angado said, "Home, Earl. Lychen where I was born. Now I'm back I wondered why I ever left."

He wore soft fabrics touched with vibrant color; reds overlaid with green trimmed with gold piping. A costume which once had suited the languid dilettante he had been but which now no longer belonged to the lean body and hard face. Something he spotted in the reflection carried by the window before which he stood and he turned, smiling, arms lifted in a gesture of greeting.

"Cousin! How wonderful to see you! In truth there were times when I thought we should never meet again. I was desolate as I am sure you would have been at the concept. Have you wine? A comfit? Something to ease the endless burden of this tiresome round?" His arms fell, his tone hardening as he looked at Dumarest. "Well?"

"Is that how you used to talk?"

"To Perotto and his cronies? At times, yes. It amused me to see their contempt."

"Is that all?"

"No," admitted Angado. "The spoiled sons of rich families tend to act the fool until it is no longer acting. To go into raptures over a trifle, to swear vengeance on a slight, to vow undying fealty to a friend-" He shook his head in disgust. "How little they know of real values. You've taught me a lot, Earl."

Dumarest said, dryly, "I hope enough for you to stay alive."

"I'll be careful." Angado spun in an elaborate pirouette. "A fool left Lychen and a fool has returned. One concerned about his finances and for no other reason. He'll be apologetic, gracious, swearing it's all a mistake and promising retribution- but I'll remember Yuanka."

"And remember a man can smile and murder as he smiles."

"I shan't forget." Angado hesitated then said, "There's a lot I shan't forget, Earl. I-"

"You don't owe me."

"I can't agree. If it hadn't been for you I'd be stuck on Yuanka."

"If it hadn't been for you I'd be dead." Dumarest rose from the deep chair in which he'd been sitting. "We each helped the other. The slate's clean."

"But your money!"

"What good is money to a dead man?"

Dumarest moved from the chair and crossed the room to stand as Angado had done before the window. It gave on a wild and rugged scene; bleak rocks, cracks, slimed stone the whole dominated by the sheet of water which dropped from above so close it seemed it could be touched. A waterfall of stupendous proportions falling to the floor of the chasm far below. Mist filled the crevice, hiding the upthrust teeth of stone with shifting rainbows, clouds of drifting spume. The roar of the impact was the deep, prolonged note of an organ.

One muted by the treble glazing, absorbent padding, the very shape of the rocks molded with cunning skill to reflect and minimize the noise.

"My grandfather built this, Earl." Angado had come to stand at Dumarest's side, his voice quiet, brooding. "I think he wanted to leave his mark and chose to build a challenge against nature itself. Beauty turned on beauty to enhance the total effect. At times, standing on the balcony, I've felt what he must have done. The utter insignificance of a man when compared to the universe. How futile all our striving seems. We're like rats fighting to garner corn we'll never be able to eat. Denying others for the sake of greed and, in the end, what does it all amount to?"

Dumarest said, "How many know that I'm here?"

"Does it matter?"

"How many?"

"A few. Servants, of course, and some others. Those of the ship would have talked and to deny your existence would have been stupid. You're a friend. Someone I met while traveling." Angado's eyes were direct. "In my circles it is considered impolite to be too curious about such associations. You'll be safe here, Earl."

"Why do you say that?"

"You talked. Back on Yuanka when you'd been sedated prior to treatment you said enough for me to know you were looking for something and something was looking for you. My guess is you're afraid of the Cyclan." Angado paused then, when Dumarest made no comment, added, "It's your business, Earl, but as I said you're safe here. Just eat and sleep and laze around and leave the worrying to me."

"Thanks."

"Forget it. We're friends, aren't we?" Angado frowned as he noticed the time. "It's getting late and I don't want to offend my hostess. Wynne is a wonderful person but can be too punctilious at times. I'd like to take you with me, Earl, but it's better left for another time. I can learn more from her if we're alone."

"She might think the same."

"She might," Angado agreed. "But I'm no longer the man she used to know."

He left with a lift of his arm, smiling, his step light as if already he was fitting into his part. One which might delude those who had known him if they didn't look too close. Alone Dumarest roamed the apartment. It was large, a collection of rooms adorned with various works of art; carved blocks of crystal, vases shaped in erotic patterns, tapestries depicting scenes of bizarre fantasy. Decoration reflecting the imagination of the man who had built a cave in the side of a cliff simply to stare at a moving sheet of water.

Seen from the balcony it was awesome. Dumarest felt the wind of its passing, the moisture from it which dewed his face, heard the deep, sonorous note from its impact against the rocks far below. A hypnotic sound as the water itself held a dangerous attraction. The fall seemed static; a curtain made of shimmering crystal, adorned with transient gleams of reflected light. Beauty which masked the power of it, the crushing, destroying force born of relentless gravitation.

Leaning against the rail Dumarest looked below. A master-mason had cut away the rock to leave the balcony suspended over the chasm and he stared at the roiling mist rising from the depths. At night the mist was illuminated with colored glows but was now a mass of white and gray, twisting, turning, rising like innumerable fountains. Hands which reached and arms which invited and he felt the attraction of it, the urge to throw himself over the rail into its embrace.

An impulse he resisted, stepping back to lean his shoulders against the wall as he looked upward at the summit of the fall. No rock had been allowed to remain to break the smooth outward curve, one enhanced by skilled adaptation, and Dumarest appreciated the artistry behind the concept. Here was nature as it should be, complete, perfect, a living example of a poem or a piece of music. Art in its purest form with all irritations carefully erased. An ideal-nature was not and could never be like that. As no life could be all harmony. As no death could be a gentle release.

Dumarest had met death too often; the small death when he had ridden Low, lying doped, frozen and ninety percent dead in caskets designed for the transportation of beasts. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. Another kind of death, more traumatic, when the host-bodies he had occupied when using the affinity-twin had ceased to exist. Real, physical death softened only by the knowledge that it was only the body which was dying and not himself. Yet the pain had been real, the fear, the helpless terror of an organism that struggled to survive.

And he had met death beneath Abo's knife.

A death as real as any he would ever know for the agony had been present, the bleak realization of final extinction, the oblivion into which he had fallen. A darkness which had encompassed the universe and no death, no matter how exotic, could do more. Only the prelude could be extended but when death came, it came, and for him it had come on a small world in a dirty ring circled by avid, hungry faces eager for the spectacle he provided.

But did the dead ever dream?

Looking at the waterfall Dumarest remembered the dream he had had, or had it been a vision? A sea as wide and vast as any ocean could ever be. A sun which had drawn vapor from it, to condense into droplets, to fall as scattered rain on hills and plains and mountains. To be lifted again, to fall, to end in rivers which returned to the sea. A cycle repeated endlessly for all time.

Did the ocean care what happened to its substance? Did the drop of rain know from where it had come and to where it must go?

Was conscious life nothing but a temporary awareness of individuality?

A shadow touched Dumarest and he felt a sudden chill, one vanishing as the cloud which had covered the sun moved on beneath the pressure of wind. An incident which broke his introspection and he straightened with a sudden resolve. There had been too much thought of dying-now he needed to find life.

And it was time to look for the person on Lychen he most wanted to find.

An elevator rose from the apartment to the upper surface, one circled by spiral stairs which he used for the sake of exercise. A long climb which sapped at his weakened reserves and Dumarest sat on a bench as he surveyed the area. To one side sprawled a hotel holiday complex; something of recent construction that, he guessed, would never have been allowed by Angado's grandfather. Lawns surrounded it dotted with flower beds set in a riot of vivid colors. A long observation walk reached out over the head of the falls invisible from below. The body of massive timbers supported a mesh of lighter beams forming a protective barrier. Rags surmounting the structure streamed in the wind.

A breeze which carried a fluttering scrap of paper to rest against his boot.

"Please, sir, may I have my drawing?"

She was about eleven, tall, well-made, with strong white teeth showing between generous lips. A girl now solemn though the hazel eyes held the hint of laughter, her round face stamped with determination. She wore a long striped dress bound with a wide sash at the waist, the ends falling on her left side to a point below the knee. In her left hand she held a sketching pad and a sheaf of pens.

"My drawing, please."

"May I look at it?" Dumarest stooped to grasp it, holding it until she nodded. "Did you do this all by yourself?"

"Yes."

It was an animal, brightly colored as no real beast could ever be; the body red, the snout green, the tail blue to match the paws. A creature of fantasy yet in true proportion, the colors blending to form a pleasing whole.

"That's Ven," she said. "He's a sort of mole but I like Ert better, he's a bear."

Dumarest looked at the pad she held out for his inspection. Again the creature was colored in bright hues and was standing upright like a man. Another creature of fantasy and, like the first, it bore the stamp of a real talent.

"May I?" Taking the pad he turned the sheets, pausing as he saw a round, pitted, silver disc. One in close proximity to a circle bearing a cross, A drawing which could have depicted a moon-and the crossed circle was a symbol of Earth. "Did you think of this all by yourself?"

"Of course. I intend to be an artist when I grow up and an artist must be able to compose a picture."

"I'm sorry." Dumarest forced himself to be casual. "I meant did you see these designs anywhere? In an old book, perhaps? A painting?" Hope died as she shook her head. "Are you sure?"

"We haven't any old books. Mummy says they smell. Grandfather has some but he keeps them locked away." She held out her hand. "May I have my pad now, please."

"Of course." Dumarest closed it and looked at the cover. "No name?"

"Of course I have a name. Everyone has a name. I am Claire Jane Harbottle. My pad, please." Taking it she said, "You don't look well. You should walk around and get the air. My nanny says it is very healthy on the platform. Goodbye, now."

She ran off with a rustle of fabric, a girl oddly demure in formal garments, yet full of life and vitality. She would make her mark if her talent was allowed to flower and, if nothing else, she had given him good advice.

Dumarest rose and wandered between the flower beds as he followed a sweeping path which would bring him back to the observation platform. The wind stung his eyes, gusting, the flags streaming to fall and hang in limp abandon, to flutter again in varied hues, to droop and hang again. An odd pattern for such a place and Dumarest wondered at the vagary. A thought swallowed by another of far greater importance.

Had the girl merely dreamed up the notion of a pitted sphere and a circle barred by a cross or had she actually seen them somewhere? A decoration of a nursery wall, a painting, an illustration in a book-something seen and forgotten to rise to the forefront of her mind when triggered by the need of artistic expression. If so her grandfather could be of help- but would Lychen hold two people who could solve his problem? Did both know how to find Earth?

A stone turned beneath his foot and he stumbled, catching his balance, annoyed at his lack of attention. He had wandered among a collection of statues, tall figures simply clad and wearing haughty and disdainful expressions. Some had been adorned with flowers, others with cruder additions many displaying a ribald sense of humor. They fell behind as Dumarest lengthened his stride and headed toward the platform. If the girl was still around he wanted to learn more from her. Or from the person she would be with.

He heard the scream as he reached the foot of the ramp, a high shriek followed by words.

"Claire! Come back, Claire! For God's sake, child, come back!"

Wind had caught a picture, wafting it to catch against an upper timber and with grim determination she was going after it. Dumarest saw the small shape climbing doggedly up the framework, to grab at the paper, to miss as it blew to a farther point. To grab again as the flags stirred and wind blasted in a sudden gust.

One which thrust at the exposed shape, catching the striped dress, billowing it, using it as a sail to push the small figure off its perch.

To send it toppling from the framework into the air, the sweep of the waterfall, the long drop to the rocks below.

Dumarest moved as the woman screamed again, this time in horror, not warning. He stooped, hand lifting weighted with his knife, eyes judging time and distance, the movement of the sash over the timbers. His arm swept in a wide circle, steel glittering as it left his hand, thudding broadwise through the sash and into the wood beneath. A spike which held her suspended, twisting in the wind which caught her hair, her dress, the sash around her waist. Before it could slip free Dumarest had the girl cradled in his arms.