Child of Earth

CHAPTER THREE

Shandaha said, “You had a most unusual upbringing, Earl. Not all childhoods are the same. Some can be far more distressing and dangerous than others.”

“As mine was.”

“Not necessarily. You doubt it?” Shandaha leaned forward in his chair, eyes intent. “You think that because a child is not beaten then it must be happy? No childhood is ever that. Each child is vulnerable, ignorant, dependant on the whims of others. Living in a cage designed with the best of intentions but illustrating the world of adults not that of a child. It can be fed, clothed, housed in comfort yet denied the simple things that give simple pleasures. And worse-the mind warped, the imagination stifled, rules and regulations imposed which, in themselves, form a prison.”

“And I had the freedom to run, to hunt, to freeze, to starve.” Dumarest was bitter. “I thought you would have found it entertaining?”

“I found it interesting. Your memories are excellent. This was the first time you had killed another human. In effect it was a rite of passage. One that affected you and altered your outlook on life. A venting of all the fear, anger and terror that powered the force of your decision. A gamble for your life that yielded pleasure when you had won. You did feel pleasure.”

“You would know.”

“It was present,” insisted Shandaha. “The enjoyment at the elimination of a threat. Of a battle won. An emotion touched by relief. Also you learned something.”

Dumarest said, drily, “That to kill is easy if you have no choice.”

“Exactly.” Shandaha leaned a little closer. “But not all learn it. Chagal, for example, he lacks the courage to apply his knowledge in times of crisis.”

“You are being unfair. He has sworn an oath to protect and preserve life. A conditioning not easy to throw aside.”

“Perhaps, but it hampers his ability to survive.” Shandaha dismissed the subject. “Enough of the doctor. There is something else. A puzzle I find intriguing.” Pausing he added, “Would you oblige me by pouring us both some wine.”

An order couched in politeness but one Dumarest knew his host expected to be obeyed. Would the commands increase until he would be forced to make a choice? Another facet of the complex game in which he seemed to be a part.

He studied Shandaha as he poured the wine. He looked as he had before but now they sat alone in a chamber resembling the interior of a bubble. The walls were smooth, unbroken, shimmering with a soft golden luminescence. Aside from their chairs the room was empty but for a low table bearing goblets and wine. Emerald wine holding within its sparkling depths the taste of mint, the warmth of summer, the freshness of glacial ice.

Dumarest sipped then leaned back and closed his eyes, seeing again the red and grey pulp of the shattered skull. Feeling again the emotions he had experienced and which Shandaha had mentioned. Fear and hate, yes, with fear predominant, but pleasure? Had he felt pleasure?

If so had he been no different from the man he had killed? The woman he had robbed?

“Dreaming, Earl?”

“No, just thinking.” Dumarest opened his eyes. “You’ve made me curious. You mentioned a puzzle. Is it about my childhood?”

“You should never have had it.”

“I agree. No one should. But I did.”

“Here on Earth?”

“Yes.”

“That is the puzzle.” Shandaha sipped at his wine. Green fire shone from the elaborate pattern engraved in the crystal. “No such band of barbaric savages would have been permitted to exist. From what we both experienced you were in a harsh and barren area. One warm during the day but bitterly cold at night. Such conditions would match those to be found in a desert set on a high plateau. You and your people would have had to hide your existence. Remain secret. I know of no domain where that would be possible.”

“You were with me in my mind,” said Dumarest. “You experienced all that had happened to me at that particular time. I was a child on Earth. You know that.”

For answer Shandaha dipped his finger into his goblet and scrawled a series of patches on the table.

“Areas,” he said. “Once they would have been called villages, parishes, sees, counties, states, nations, empires. Now they are domains. Each has its owner. None would allow those you claim to be your people to exist.”

“I know what a domain is,” snapped Dumarest. “Are you saying I lied?”

“No. You could not have lied. That is what makes the puzzle so intriguing. Your people could not have existed yet, for you, obviously, they did. You have memories of them.”

“So do you,” reminded Dumarest. “I think you place too great a trust in the capabilities of those owning the domains. The one responsible could simply have ignored those people. Or be conducting an experiment. Or simply be unaware they existed at all.”

“That is not possible.”

“Why not?” said Dumarest. “We waited a long time for you to find us after we’d crashed and we did our best to attract attention. Did you know we were there? Making us wait? Denying us rescue? If we had landed in a different place, suffered less damage, we would have moved from the site. You need never have discovered us.” He added, bitterly, “If we’d known you intended to eliminate us we’d have made damned sure of it.”

“I did what I did because it had to be done. Chagal has given you the explanation.”

“He told me what you had instructed him to tell me. I’ve no proof. Is there any? Bodies I could examine?” Dumarest paused, waiting, examining the design engraved on the surface of his goblet. One of complex, interwoven circles, creating the illusion of movement and depth. “No,” he continued as Shandaha remained silent. “There are no bodies. There wouldn’t be. The explanations are too neatly convincing. Those you found were diseased and had to be incinerated. They could not be tolerated. Cured. Given care and the opportunity to survive. As you say those I knew as a child would never have been tolerated. They were certainly never fed, clothed, housed or given any medical attention.”

“Nor destroyed,” reminded Shandaha. “Perhaps because they never existed.”

“That’s nonsense!”

“Perhaps. I suggest you think about it.” Shandaha sipped at his wine. “Earl, let us not argue. There is another matter I wish to clarify. I think you will agree that Nada and Delise are both desirable women yet neither seems to attract you. Do you pine for another? Nadine, perhaps?”

“Did Chagal tell you of her?” Dumarest was bitter. “Did he also mention that she is dead?”

“Dead and preserved in the ice. But her basic cellular matter is available. I could create an identical copy of the woman you lost. If you wish it will be done.”

Dumarest remembered Nadine’s softness, her warmth, the comfort she had given him, the companionship. It would be good to hold her again, to listen to her voice, her arguments, her laughter. To ease her fears and give her comfort. To have her at his side. To be as one. Things that could never be.

He said. “You promise what you cannot deliver. A body, yes, but not a mind fashioned and molded by years of experience, hurt, hope, distrust, fear. It would be nothing but a shell. A toy that would only remind me of her loss. What you can do is resolve the puzzle of my childhood. Another incident?”

“If that is what you want.”

“I need to know.”

“I understand, but repetition will serve no useful purpose. It is best to move on. To the time when you left the planet. Recall the incident.” Shandaha reached out and touched Dumarest’s hand. “Now!”

It was something he had never seen before. A slim, rounded construction pointed at the sky. One bearing symbols equally strange to which he gave no more than a glance his attention concentrated on the ramp leading from the ground to an open port. Nowhere could he see or hear signs of life.

For a long moment he hesitated then, as the wind stung his flesh with the chill of approaching night, he darted forward, mounted the ramp and dived into the chamber beyond. A compartment filled with bales and boxes, containers like coffins resting in the centre. Odd things to find in an odd building but he had no time to examine them. The sound of footsteps and coughing warned of the approach of others and he hid, watching, as they entered the compartment.

Two men, wearing clothing almost identical in color and style, neither bearing weapons. One older, larger than the other, dark stains marring his hands and cheeks who coughed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and swore as he saw the trace of blood.

“That damned stuff Dorph’s been feeding me isn’t working. I’ve still got something eating at my lungs.”

“Drugs take time to work,” said the other. “You’re loaded with antibiotics, there’s nothing more Dorph can do. But you engineers are all the same. You have no patience. No toleration. You want things to work and work at once. Here.” He produced a bottle from behind a heap of bales. “Take a slug of this then we’ll get to work. I checked the cargo earlier so all we have to do is raise the ramp and seal the hold.”

“You don’t need me, Jesso. That’s handler’s work.”

“You got something else to do?” The smaller man snatched back the bottle and took a gulp. He spat, cursing.

“This is too raw. It will taste better with some basic. I’ll get us some from the dispenser while you wind up the ramp.”

“After we’ve wound up the ramp,” corrected the big man. “I’m only here to help, remember?”

He moved towards the port and stood looking outside as the other crossed to where a spigot sprouted from the wall. A thick liquid streamed from it as he pressed a control and half-filled a container. He topped it with what was in the bottle, stirred it, sipped, nodded, tipped half into a second cup that he handed to the big man.

“This will hit the spot. Better than Dorph’s tablets.” He glanced at the open port. “What’s it like out there?”

“The same as it’s been all along. Cold, deserted, a barren waste. Now it’s growing dark.” The engineer gulped at his cup. “Let’s seal up and get the hell out of here.”

Out of the compartment, away from where Dumarest crouched, shivering, fighting the hunger eating at his belly. Crossing to the spigot he did as the smaller of the two men had done. The liquid was thick, sweet with an appetizing tartness, emitting a tantalizing odor. He sipped at it then gulped it down. His stomach relayed messages of gratitude. He helped himself to more and then more. Bloated he returned to his hiding place and snuggled against a yielding bale.

Asleep, he didn’t notice the sudden movement of the compartment. Feel the change in orientation as the vessel lifted towards the stars. Unaware that he was traversing the void until, inevitably, he was discovered.

Captain Bazan Deralta had an old, lined face with tufted eyebrows and a pinched nose set above a firm mouth and prominent jaw. His skin was creped, mottled and pouched beneath the eyes. Thin hair graced a rounded skull. His hands toyed with a small, rounded disc of polished stone.

“Your name, boy?” He nodded as it was given. “Well, Earl, so you decided to become a stowaway. Why did you do it?”

Dumarest knew he needed to be polite.

“I didn’t intend to, sir. I’d never seen a ship before. I thought it a building and I was desperate for shelter. I took the open port to be a door and the ship as some kind of barn. That’s the truth, sir. I swear it!”

“Did you know we’d left the planet?”

“No, sir.”

“Even so you made a mistake, boy. A bad one.” The captain leaned forward in his chair, eyes and face serious. “A bigger mistake than I think you realize. It is my duty to punish you for having broken the regulations. Stowaways can’t be tolerated. They aren’t invited and they aren’t welcome. They can be dangerous. When found they are dumped as unwanted cargo.” The captain paused. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

“No, sir.”

“It is my duty to evict you into space. Now do you understand?”

“I’m not sure, sir. What is space?”

“You don’t know?” The captain shrugged. “No, why should you. You’ve never seen a ship before. Never left your planet. Space is a vacuum, boy. A vast emptiness devoid of air. It cannot support life as we know it. Are you afraid?”

“Of dying? Yes, sir.”

“Of course you are. To taste the void is not a pleasant way to die. Especially for the young and you are how old? Ten? Eleven?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes what? Ten or eleven?”

“Eleven sir, I think. Or I could be twelve.”

“Aren’t you sure?”

“No, sir.” Dumarest looked at the captain. “Does it matter?”

“It should. Earth!” The captain spat the word. “You poor little bastard.”

“Sir?”

“Forget it. I meant no insult. You’ve no family, of course. No kin. No one to care for you. Nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep. What the hell could you lose by stowing away? How were you to know you were committing suicide?”

Dumarest remained silent, watching the hands as they toyed with the stone, sensing the man’s doubt, his indecision.

“What am I to do with you?” muttered Bazan. “Kill you, a boy? Toss you into the void because you acted from ignorance? Dump you like excreta into space because you were desperate for shelter? Were you born for such an end? Was anyone? Damn it! What to do?”

The stone slipped as he passed it from one hand to another, bounced on a knee and dropped to the deck. Dumarest caught it just before it landed. It was carved in the shape of a woman depicted with her knees drawn to her chin, head, back, buttocks and limbs blending in a smooth, continuous curve. The figure was worn with much handling.

“Sir!” He handed it to the captain then saw the expression on the lined face. “Sir?”

“Do you always move as fast as that?”

“It was falling and I didn’t want it to get broken.”

“So you saw it begin to fall, lunged forward, stooped and snatched it before it could hit the deck.” The captain tossed the carving into the air, caught it, caressed it with the ball of his thumb and tucked it into a pocket. “Quick thinking, boy. Can you read?”

“Yes, sir. A little. An old man taught me in exchange for food.” He added, “He had some books but those who killed him burned them for fuel.”

“They murdered him?”

“They thought he had things of value!”

“I see.” The captain drew in his breath. “You’ve had a hell of a life. But it could change. Are you willing to work hard? To learn?” As Dumarest nodded he added, “Damn it! I’ll take a chance! You can work your passage. Ride with us as crew. It will be a restricted life and it won’t be easy. But, at least, you won’t starve. Report to Dorph, the steward. You’ll find him in the salon.”

Shandaha said, “So that was the beginning. Was it a happy time?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

“I’d prefer you to tell me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“From an ignorant and frightened boy who couldn’t even recognize a ship when he saw one you have progressed far. Far enough, surely, to recognize the advisability of cooperation. I ask you again. Was it a happy time?”

Dumarest remained silent, taking his time. There had been none of the previous ritual. No soothing drink or attached electrodes sprouting from an electronic machine. Both had been unnecessary, direct contact had been enough. Why had Shandaha chosen to reveal that facet of his power? Why, now, was he displaying impatience, the hint of a threat? Nothing seemed to have changed. The man and the room was as he remembered, the chairs, the table, the decanter glowing with emerald wine. Deliberately he filled two goblets and handed one to his host.

Lifting his own he said, “To harmony.”

“I asked a question, Earl. Answer it.”

Dumarest caught the hint of impatience that, too easily, could lead to anger. Even so he drank then, lowering the goblet, stared directly at his host.

“No, it was not a happy time. Not at first. The steward had a sadistic bent and enjoyed describing to me exactly what happened to those evicted into space. What would happen to me if I crossed him in any way. My eyes bulging from their sockets. The lungs spewing from by chest to hang like balloons from my mouth. The ruptured skin. The boiling blood. The ghastly pain.”

“He lied.” Shandaha sipped at his wine. “That is not how men die in the void.”

“I know that now. I didn’t then.”

Dumarest drew in his breath, remembering another time, another place when he had faced the frigid, mindnumbing vastness of the universe. A thing he had been forced to do; an experience he would never forget.

Shandaha, watching him, said, “The others?”

“Weren’t as bad but they were bored and I provided amusement. They teased me. I know now it was little more than a form of hazing. A ritual inflicted on most apprentices and novices. Cruel but basically harmless. But I was a boy, ignorant as you reminded me, helpless, insecure, terrified. No, it was not a happy time.”

“And then?”

“Most of what I did was to clean. The salon, cabins, the steward’s domain. Then I expanded into that of the handler, to the caskets in the hold, the hold itself. Zander was the engineer. One day he asked me to help him. He was busy with the generator and wanted it cleaned and checked for corrosion. Signs of failing insulation or extended wear. Basically it was routine maintenance. We talked as we worked, him telling me what to do and me doing it. Dorph, the steward„came in while we were at it. He didn’t like me helping the engineer. There was an argument that grew ugly. The captain intervened. After that things weren’t as bad.”

“You had made a friend.” Shandaha sipped more wine. “Did he teach you about engines?”

Dumarest leaned back, remembering the talk of components, the physics governing the establishment of the Erhaft field, the need for care, the danger if the field should collapse. A peril he had known and remembered too well.

“The engineer,” mused Shandaha. “The navigator too.”

“Yes.”

“The steward? No, he would not have been friendly. Yet what could he teach you aside from some basic first aid? Some medical techniques, perhaps. The use of a hypogun. The loan of a book on anatomy. How to attend to the needs of passengers. To prepare basic and simple meals. The handler? No. He could teach you even less.”

“You seem to have a tendency to underrate the abilities of others,” said Dumarest. “As you did Chagal. Because he hesitated to kill does not make him weak. Any fool can kill. It takes skill, knowledge, care and understanding to keep the sick alive and restore them to health. It also takes skill to keep a ship happy, the passengers content. The handler was a mine of information.”

“How could he be?”

Dumarest extended his hand. “Touch me and learn!”

“No. Tell me!”

Another command and one to be obeyed but Dumarest took his time doing it. Deliberately he concentrated on the past, searching his memories, seeing again the wizened face of the handler, the gleam of humor in Jesso’s eyes.

“Mostly the handler is in charge of the hold,” he explained. “He has to check the cargo, stack and restrain it and make sure the weight is evenly distributed. The caskets need regular maintenance and operating them is the handler’s responsibility. He also has to monitor those wanting to ride Low. He collects the passage money and does his best to make sure those wanting to travel are healthy enough to make it. No blame if they don’t but you can do without the clearing up.”

“Routine work,” said Shandaha. “Anyone of average intelligence could handle it. Is that all he taught you?”

“No.” Dumarest paused then added, “As I said it takes a special skill to keep a ship and passengers happy. Sometimes the steward has it or sometimes a specialist is hired. On the ship I was on, Jesso, the handler had it. He worked in the salon, at the table, entertaining the passengers. Gambling,” he explained. “Usually with cards. He was good at it.”

“And he taught you?”

“Yes.”

“A man of unusual talents.”

One who had been a friend. Dumarest saw his face, heard his voice, watched his hands as they moved over the table deftly manipulating the cards. Beginning with the basics, enjoying teaching a willing pupil, demonstrating the only safe way to cut a deck by drawing out the middle, setting it on the top, then cutting and stacking the cards.

The beginning of grueling lessons to gain hard-learned skill and hard-won ability. To know how to recognize markings, top and bottom dealings, forcing and hiding. How to read other players. To tell the genuine from the false. To sense a bluff.

To recognize a manipulator. A cheat. A sensitive. A coward.

Dumarest blinked and stared at a familiar room, goblets holding the dregs of lambent wine, the decanter glowing with emerald luminescence. The remembered face dissolved into the mists of time. A personal memory divorced from Shandaha’s influence. Yet it had seemed as real as if he had stepped back in time, as the goblet seemed real, the table, the room, the face and figure of his host.

“Interesting,” said Shandaha. “You seem to have had a most unusual education. One that has given you a variety of peculiar ideas.”

“About peculiar situations? Peculiar people?” Dumarest reached for his goblet, lifted it, studied the wine it held then drank and set down the empty container. “People like you, perhaps? I think you read my mind and didn’t like what you found. I didn’t think you would. Did you also learn that, aside from recognizing cheats and liars, I was also taught how to make a man betray himself?” Pausing he added, “A man-or a thing.”

“You go too far!”

“How far is too far?” Dumarest was blunt. “This is your game, Shandaha. Your rules-if there are any rules at all. Are we in an arena? Are you waiting for my attack? Poised to parry and attack in turn? Is this what it’s all about?”

“Chagal explained-”

“The doctor is not himself. You claim only to want entertainment by experiencing my memories. If we are to play then let the game be fair. You know I cannot lie yet you insist that what I remember could not have happened. So was it all a dream? Is it still a dream? Is all this merely an illusion.”

A question unanswered. Instead Shandaha said, “Oblige me, Earl, be so good as to pour us both more wine.” He waited until the goblets were full. “Why do you think your memories displease me?”

“Perhaps not my memories. Perhaps simply the truth.”

Dumarest waited until his host had sipped the wine, then lifted his goblet and drank and wondered if what he tasted was what the glass contained. “I once knew a woman who, when a young child, was sold to a religious order. She was fed and clothed and housed and was convinced she had lived a life of sublime luxury. The truth was the very reverse. The clothing was rags, the food rubbish, the shelter bleak. She had been conditioned, hypnotized, programmed to believe in a created illusion. Have I?”

“I have not lied to you.”

But if he had not lied he could still have hidden the truth. Dumarest remembered an incident in which to have told the bare truth would have cost him his life and to have lied the same. He had survived by treading the thin semantic path between truth and falsehood.

He said, “What is a lie? Would you believe I have the ability to walk on water? I assure you that I speak the simple truth.”

“Water,” said Shandaha. “You play a game, Earl. All can walk on water-if that water is ice. Your point?”

“Apparent lies can be the truth. Truth made an apparent lie. As apparent logic can be manipulated to prove anything you want.”

“If we syllogise,” agreed Shandaha. “To form a logical argument using three propositions; two premises and a conclusion that follows necessarily from them. As you have just demonstrated. Men can walk on ice. Ice is frozen water. Therefore men can walk on water. You wish to give another example?”

“A cat has one tail more than ‘no cat’. No cat has nine tails. Therefore a cat has ten tails.” Dumarest added, “I assume you can recognize the flaw in that particular syllogism?”

“A test, Earl?” Shandaha sipped at his wine. “The term ‘no cat’ has been used in different contexts to gain a false conclusion. Clarify the premises and the falsity is made apparent. If we choose to syllogise it is essential that the two premises be accurate if the conclusion is to hold any value. I assume you know that. I also assume that you have a reason for raising the subject. I hardly think that you can have a strong interest in what, basically, is an intellectual game?”

Dumarest said, “One game is much like another. The object is, simply, to win. How to win can be a variable.” He added, “I assume my memories no longer entertain you.”

“No, Earl. Bore me a little, perhaps, as Chagal’s did. Childhood can be a barren time though yours, I admit, is stranger than most. Perhaps a little too strange. Memories can become distorted, laced with wishful thinking, dreams and illusions induced by hardship and deprivation. Later events could help to fashion a blend of truth and imagination born of reality and hallucination.”

“You are saying?”

“I offer you a suggestion. I have claimed that your experiences could not belong to your early years on this planet. You insist they did. But was it this planet at all? How can you be positive that you were born on Earth?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Think about it, Earl. We have spoken of syllogisms. Don’t fall into the common error of those who need to believe so strongly they deny the existence of negative proof.”

“Such as?”

“Earth is a harsh world,” said Shandaha. “You were born on a harsh world. Therefore you were born on Earth. Is that what gives you such conviction?”

“I have memories.”

“You were very young.”

“Old enough to remember,” insisted Dumarest. He felt the familiar prickle of his skin that warned of the proximity of danger. Shandaha was too confident, too assured-a gambler certain he held the winning hand. But what game was he playing? “The moon. The terrain all scarred and torn by ancient wars. The scattered ruins of bygone ages. Damn it, man! I remember!”

“Yes,” said Shandaha. “So you claim. Now tell me, Earl how far did you ever travel from your village?”

“What?” Dumarest frowned, thinking, remembering. His host did not wait for an answer.

“A young boy. Physically weak, barefoot and forced to cover rough terrain. Five miles out and the same back? A full day’s effort. You agree?”

“So?”

“In total, assuming your people stayed in the same area and that you took a different route every day, you would have covered an area of less than a hundred square miles. In that area you claim to have seen the scars of ancient wars and the scattered remains of bygone civilizations. You claim that Earth, the planet of your birth, is so scarred. Am I correct?”

Dumarest said, stubbornly, “I know what I remember.”

“That is the puzzle.” Shandaha lifted the decanter, filled the goblets, handed one to Dumarest. The act of a gracious winner. “The terrain all scarred and torn by ancient wars. The scattered ruins. How could you have seen them, Earl? Such things could only be seen from space and you didn’t even know what space was. So how could you describe what you had never seen?”

He smiled over the rim of his goblet. The winner of a game that Dumarest, as yet, knew nothing about.