Eye of the Zodiac

Chapter Five

The room was small, warmly intimate, filled with trifles and soft furnishings; a stuffed animal with glassy eyes, a faded bunch of flowers, a box which chimed when opened. The bed was a frilled oasis of hedonistic comfort, the pillows edged with lace, the sheets scented with floral perfumes. A carved idol nodded over a plume of incense, a gilded clock registered the passing hours.

Dumarest stretched, remembering the night, the warm, demanding heat of the woman, the almost savage intensity of her embrace. A thing of need, not affection, though he suspected that affection could come and turn into love. On her side, not his. He could afford no hampering chains.

"Earl, awake yet?"

She came from the bathroom, smiling, radiant. The thin material of the robe she wore did nothing to hide the swell of hips and thighs, the liquid movement of her breasts. She stooped and kissed him, her lips lingering, his own body responding to her proximity. A hunger as pressing as her own, a need as intense.

Later, lying side by side, they talked.

"You're nice," she said. "Gentle. A lot of men think they have to be rough. I guess they reckon they have to prove something, but not you." The tip of her finger traced the scars on his chest. "Knives?"

"Yes."

"In the ring?" She didn't wait for his nod. "A fighter. I guessed as much. You have the look, the walk. Why do men do it, Earl? For kicks? For money? To stand and slash at someone with a naked blade, to get cut in turn, crippled or killed. And for what?"

For the titivation of a jaded crowd, men and women hungry for the sight of blood and pain, reveling in the vicarious danger. Lying back on the scented pillows, Dumarest could see them as he had too often before. A ring of faces, more animal than human, leaning forward from the gilded balconies of arenas, edging the square of a ring, shouting, screaming, filling the air with the scent of feral anticipation.

And, always, there was the fear, the taint mixed with the smell of sweat and oil and blood. The knowledge that a slip, a single error, a momentary delay and death would come carried on a naked blade.

"Why, Earl?" she insisted. "Why did you fight?"

"For money."

"Just that?" Her finger ran over his naked body drifting, caressing. "A man like you could get it in other ways. A rich woman needing a plaything, a man needing a guard. No?"

"No."

"Why not, Earl? You don't want to feed off a woman, right? And to be a guard is to take orders. I don't think you'd like to do that, take orders, I mean. But if you had the chance to be your own boss? To own your own business?"

He said, dryly, "Such as a stall in a market?"

"It's a living."

"For you, maybe. Not for me."

"Not good enough for you?" Her voice hardened a little. "Both the stall and me, perhaps? Is that it, Earl?"

"Is that what you think?"

"Then tell me I'm wrong," she demanded. "Tell me!"

"A stall selling succulent meats," he said bleakly. "Endless food-can you guess what that means to a traveler? I've known men who ate insects in order to stay alive, grass, slime, the droppings of birds. And a woman like yourself-a gift to any man walking under any sun."

"But not you, Earl." Reaching out she rested her fingers on his lips. "Don't argue, I know, you have to keep moving. Traveling, going from world to world, always drifting, never settling down. Why, Earl? What makes you do it?"

He said, "I'm looking for something. A planet called Earth."

"Earth?" He heard her sharp inhalation, the note of incredulity when next she spoke. "You must be joking. No world has that name."

"One does."

"But-Earth?"

"It's an old world," he said, his eyes on the ceiling, the cracks it contained. "The surface is scarred and torn by ancient wars. A great moon hangs in the sky and the stars are few at night. It's a real place, despite what legends say. I know, I was born there."

"And you want to go back?"

"Yes."

"Then why can't you? If you left it, you must know where it lies?"

"I was young," he said. "A scared and hungry boy. I stowed away on a ship and was luckier than I deserved. The captain could have evicted me. Instead, he allowed me to work my passage. I stayed with him until he died, then moved on."

Ship after ship, journey after journey, and each taking him closer to the Center where stars were close and habitable worlds thick. Moving on until even the name of Earth had been forgotten. The coordinates unregistered, unknown.

And then the search, the endless seeming quest, the hunt for clues. Earth existed, he knew it. One day, with luck, he would find it. One day.

"Earl." Her hands were gentle as they touched his forehead, his cheek. The caress a mother would give to a child, soothing, comforting. "Just don't worry about it, darling."

She thought he was deluded, maybe a little disturbed, a man following an empty dream. An impression he was content to leave.

"When will you set about making the arrangements for me to get on the field?"

"Later." She stretched beside him, muscles bunching, rounding the contours of her thighs, accentuating her torso, narrowing her waist. "Earl?"

The idol nodded, smiling as the clock ticked on, murdering the day.

* * * * *

The rendezvous was at dusk down by the wharves, in a small hut which held the stench of rotting fish, brine, the musty odor of nets. Dumarest was cautious as he approached. The woman could be genuine, but her contact have other ideas. Twice he scouted the area and then, satisfied he was not being followed, ducked through the narrow door. Stepping immediately to one side, his eyes were wide as he searched the inner gloom.

"You Dumarest?"

The voice came from one side, a harsh rasp which echoed from the rafters, the roof which half-filled one side of the hut. As Dumarest answered a light flared, settled to a glow. A lantern fed by rancid oil, fuming, adding to the smell. In its light, he could see a tall thin man with narrowed eyes and a mouth pulled upward by a scar into a perpetual sneer.

"Elmar Shem," he said. "We have a mutual friend, right?"

"Maybe."

"You're careful, I like that. Well, mister, if the price is right we can do business. What do you offer me to get on the field?"

"Unseen?"

"That's the deal. How much?

"Fifty."

"Too bad, mister, someone's been wasting my time."

"And another fifty when we part." Dumarest stepped forward towards the lamp, the table on which it stood. "A hundred total. Easy money for little work."

Shem sucked in his breath. He wore a faded uniform with tarnished braid. A checker at the field who owed the woman a favor and, so she'd claimed, could be trusted. Dumarest wasn't so sure.

"Well?"

"It's low," Shem complained. "They've got the field sewed up real tight. Every man is scrutinized and every load searched. God knows what they want you for, but it has to be something big."

"Me? Are they looking for me?"

"You fit the description." Shem hesitated. "There's even talk of a reward for the man who turns you in."

"From whom? Evron?"

"Well-"

"You're lying," snapped Dumarest. "And even if you're not, it's none of my concern. Evron's after me. He could be watching the gate and I don't want to be shot in the back as I pass through. Now, do we make a deal or not?"

"A hundred?"

"That's what I said."

"Then that's what it'll have to be." Shem produced a bottle, poured, handed Dumarest a glass. "Drink to seal the bargain?"

Dumarest lifted the glass, pressed it to his closed lips, watching Shem's eyes. They lifted, flickered, fell again.

"How many ships are on the field?"

"Five-you want specifications?"

"No. Are more expected soon?"

"Two should arrive at dawn, another three before nightfall. We're pretty busy at the moment."

Good news, if ships were due to arrive then others must be ready to leave. Cargo vessels ferrying processed metals, others with loads of contract-workers, still more with imported staples. The workings made a ceaseless demand on men and machine replacements, explosives and tools-all which had to be fetched in from nearby worlds.

Dumarest said, "How are you going to work it?"

"I'm in charge of a bunch of workers. I'll get you a set of dungarees, you change, join the bunch and walk in with us. I can vouch for you, and arrange for a man to fall out so you can replace him. It won't be easy, but if we pick the right time it can be managed. I'll need the advance now."

Dumarest said, casually, "I've seen the gate. They check each man individually. How are you going to get over that?"

"I told you, they trust me. Hell, man, you want me to help you or not?"

"I'll think about it. See you here this time tomorrow?"

"Hell, no!" Shem lifted his voice. "Evron!"

Dumarest smashed aside the lamp. It fell on a mass of wadded nets, bursting, sending tongues of flame over the oiled strands. A thread of gun fire spat from the roofed section, the report of the pistol muffled, a vicious cough, splinters flying as lead slammed into the table. Shem cried out, falling backwards, the victim of bad aiming. Dumarest crouched, his shoulder against a wall, the pale frame of the door to one side. From the burnings nets rose a thick cloud of rancid smoke.

"Muld! The fire! We'll be burned alive!"

"Shut up, watch the door, shoot if he tries to escape." The voice was a feral purr. "Crell, Van, you drop from the back and go around the sides. Move!"

A trap, baited and primed. Only his instinctive caution had saved him from the closing jaws. But he still had to get out.

Dumarest tensed, pressed against the wooden planks at his side, felt something yield a little. Reaching out he found something hard and round, a float for one of the nets. He threw it to the far side of the hut, rising as it left his hand, throwing his full weight against the planking as it fell.

Wood splintered, nails yielding with a harsh squeal, smoke following him through the opening as he lunged outside. Something tore at his scalp to send blood over his cheek, and a giant's hammer slammed at his left heel.

Then he was out, running, dodging as a figure rose before him, one arm lifted, aiming, the hand heavy with the weight of a gun.

A hand which fell beneath the upward slash of his knife, the figure staggering, screaming, trying to quench the fountain of blood gushing from the stump of his wrist.

Dumarest stooped, snatched up the discarded weapon, tore the severed hand from the butt and, lifting it, closed his finger on the trigger. Three shots aimed low and in a tight fan. Three bullets a little higher, the second echoed by a shriek, the sound of a falling body.

Evron's snarling voice. "Back, you fools, he's armed!"

Dumarest turned. The man with the severed hand was leaning against a bollard, his face ghastly in the thickening dust, a crimson pool at his feet. Beyond him men came running, fishermen intent on saving their nets, boathooks and gaffs held in their hands. A near-mob who would not be gentle. Past the hut, leading to a ridge and a road, ran a narrow path.

Dumarest raced towards it, almost fell, regained his balance as bullets hit the dirt inches from his feet. Quickly he emptied the gun at the burning hut, threw it aside and headed for the road. A ditch lay on the other side and he ducked into it, crouching low, a blur among the vegetation which almost filled the narrow gully.

From above came the sound of running feet and panting breath.

"A set up," the voice was bitter. "Crell dead and Van without a hand. Shem-"

"To hell with Shem!" The feral purr was savage. "He should have handled it different, instead he must have aroused suspicion. Get the raft. He's got to be around here somewhere. We'll lift and drift. Move!"

"Why bother?" The third voice was cynical. "He'll go back to the woman. All we have to do is to get there first and wait."

"The woman." Evron chuckled. "Sure, why didn't I think of that? Good thinking, Latush. We'll meet with her and have a party."

Three of them, close, lost in anticipation of lust and bestiality. Within minutes they would be airborne and out of reach. Dumarest could wait until they had gone, make his own way to the field and do his best to elude the watchers.

But the woman had been kind. He rose, moving silently, a shadow among other shadows, seeing the three silhouettes dim against the sky. Two facing each other, a third moving away down the road, obviously to collect the raft. His hand dipped, rose, lifted with the knife, moved forward to send the steel slamming into the exposed back. As the man fell he sprang up onto the road and lunged forward, hands stiffened, blunt axes which lifted and fell.

Latush died first, his neck broken as he turned, eyes glazed as he fell. Evron was luckier. With the instinct of a rat he dodged, one hand clawing at his belt, mouth opening to shout or plead.

Dumarest hit him, bone snapping beneath his hand, the reaching hand falling from the belt. He struck again and blood spouted from the pulped nose.

"For God's sake!" Evron backed, his broken arm swinging, the other lifted in mute appeal. "You can't kill me, man! You can't!"

"A party," said Dumarest thickly. "Enjoy it you swine-in hell!"

He stabbed, the tips of his fingers crushing the larynx then, as Evron doubled; chopped at the base of the neck.

Like a crushed toad the man slumped, dying, vomiting blood.

"Hey!" A voice called from beside the smoldering hut. "There's a dead man here. God, look at the blood!"

"Here's another, shot. What's been going on?"

Murder, violence and sudden death. Execution dealt to those who deserved it. A threat eliminated and something gained. Money and a raft, the wealth they carried on them, the vehicle parked nearby. Dumarest could use both.

* * * * *

"Earl!" Ayantel stared from her open door, her eyes shocked. "God, man, you look like hell!"

Blood which had dried in ugly smears, dirt and slime on his clothing and boots, his hands begrimed, his hair a mess. He could have washed in the sea, but it would have risked too much. Instead he had flown high in the raft, looking, waiting, dropping down to the roof of her apartment, lashing the raft firmly before climbing down to a window, then her landing.

He said, quickly, "Let me in."

"You hurt?" Her voice was tense as she closed the door after him.

"No, but I could use a bath."

"A bath and a drink, by the look of it. What happened?" Her lips tensed as he answered. "Shem, the bastard! He sold you out. Me too. Earl, if Evron-"

"He won't."

"But-"

"Evron is dead. I dumped him and two of his boys into the sea." Dumarest dropped the bag he had carried slung around his neck by a belt. "You don't have to worry about him, Ayantel. Not now, or ever again. Now, where's that drink?"

It was good and he relished it, before stepping fully dressed under the shower, rubbing the dirt and blood from his clothing, the mess from his boots. Stripping, he bathed as the woman dried his gear. Aside from the lacerations on his scalp, he was unharmed. The bullet which had hit his boot had done no more than tear the heel.

Clean, drying himself on a fluffy towel, he rejoined the woman, pouring himself another drink.

"So Shem set you up," she said. "I'm sorry, Earl. I thought I could trust him."

"Am I blaming you?"

"No, but you have the right." She poised the knife, remembering the traces of blood it had carried, the smears. "How many?"

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know, Earl." Her hand tightened around the hilt as he told her what had happened. "You were lucky," she said. "No, clever. You guessed that they would be waiting. What tipped you off?"

"Shem offered me a drink, but he didn't join me. The stuff was drugged. And he couldn't keep his eyes from the roof. When I questioned him he had the wrong answers. As for the rest, forget it, it's over."

"Easy to say," she said, "not easy to do. You could have been killed. A wasted night, all for nothing."

"No," he corrected. "Not for nothing."

The bag lay where he had dropped it. Opened, it revealed wallets, rings, heavy-banded chronometers-the loot he had collected from the dead. Quickly he sorted it. Evron, as most of his breed, had liked to carry a fat roll. His aides had emulated him.

"This is for you." He handed a wad of cash to the woman. "I'll take the jewelery-you don't want to risk having it traced."

"No." She shook her head as she stared at the money. "No, Earl, I haven't earned it. I don't deserve it."

"Wrong on both counts," he said curtly. "You have and you will. Can you fly a raft?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I've got one on the roof. Now listen, this is what I want you to do."

She frowned as he explained. "Now?"

"Now." Before the alarm could be given, the authorities begin to investigate. And before the cyber, sitting like a gaunt red spider in his web, could learn new facts with which to build a prediction to gain him high rewards, and the Cyclan could get what they wanted most of all.

The secret which had been stolen from one of their hidden laboratories. The correct sequence in which the fifteen molecular units needed to be joined, in order to create the affinity twin.

Kalin had passed it on to him, the girl with the flame-red hair Earl would never forget. Brasque had stolen it, destroying the records, dying in turn to keep it safe. Fifteen biological molecular units, the last reversed to determine dominant or submissive characteristics.

An artificial symbiote which, when injected into the bloodstream, nestled at the base of the cortex and took control of the entire nervous and sensory systems. The brain containing the dominant half would take over the body of the host. Literally take over. Each move, every touch, all sound and sight and taste, all would be transmitted. In effect, it gave an old man the power to become young again in a new, virile body. A body he would keep until it was destroyed, or his own died.

It would give the Cyclan the galaxy to use as a plaything.

The mind of a cyber would reside in each and every ruler and person of consequence. They would be helpless marionettes moving to the dictates of their masters. Slaves of the designs of those who wore the scarlet robes.

They knew of the secret and would discover it in time. But too much time, the possible combinations ran into millions, was needed to test them all. Even at the rate of one every second, it would take four thousand years.

Dumarest could cut that time down to a handful of hours. Once they had him they could probe his brain, learn what they needed to know, advance their domination like a red stain spread on the stars.

"Earl?"

He blinked, conscious that he had fallen into a reverie, hovered on the brink of sleep. Standing, he looked at the woman. She wore a casual gown, a flower in her hair, too much paint on her face. The scent of her perfume was overpowering.

"Is this what you wanted, Earl?"

"Yes." He gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "Make no mistake, girl. My life is in your hands now. You know what to do?"

"I know."

"Good." He turned, picked up the bottle of brandy, spilled the contents over her hair, her shoulders, her gown. "Then let's go."