Incident on Ath

Chapter Two

Her name was Sardia del Naeem and she lived in a small and luxurious apartment set on the slope of a hill in an area graced with flowering trees. A safe and protected place but not her home. That was on Tonge and she had come to Juba on business. Things she told Dumarest when preparing him a drink. Vanishing into the bathroom when he took it not so much, he guessed to remove the grime of the day as to lave away the recent contact with vileness.

"Earl!" Her voice rose above the gush of the shower. "When you said those men could have been after food-did you mean it?"

"Yes."

"Literally?" The roar of water died, her voice loud and strained in the contrasting silence. "To hunt and kill their own kind as if they hunted an animal?"

He said dryly, "Have you no slums on Tonge?"

"Slums, yes, but-"

"No desperate? No starving?"

"Perhaps, but nothing like the Maze. Surely it is unique."

"No." Dumarest sipped at his drink and tasted ice and astringent bitterness. "Take a world like this and you have a place like the Maze. One with the same or a different name but one holding the same dangers. Fools go into them for amusement. The wise stay well away."

"As I should have done?"

"Yes."

"And you, Earl?"

"I was on my way to the field."

"And so saved my life." There was a click as the shower door opened. "And now, Earl, please pour me a drink."

She stepped from the bathroom as he turned, the tall glass in his hand, and they stood facing each other in the warm intimacy of the chamber. She had changed, the fuzz of hair tamed now to rest in a thick, glistening tress of shimmering jet over one rounded shoulder, the strands held by a coil of gem-set gold. Her face was oval, the eyes pools of limpid brown fringed with a fan of lashes, her skin the hue of sun-kissed olives, a brownness which held the depth of chocolate, of creamed coffee, of leaves turning from russet to umber.

Her nostrils were flared a little, matching the fullness of the lips in betraying sensuality, the eyes enigmatic beneath their upswept brows. Her ears were small, the chin smoothly rounded, the neck a column of grace.

Beneath a simple gown of multicolored silk her figure held the ripeness of maturity.

A woman no longer young but one who moved with the grace of a trained dancer. One who smiled as she took the proffered glass then sobered as she stared with frank appraisal at her guest.

Taller than she was by almost a head, his body hard and firm beneath the long-sleeved, high-collared tunic he wore, the smooth grey plastic marred now by minute stains. His face was hard, lines and planes presenting a mask of iron determination, the mouth alone touched with sensitivity yet one which could easily become cruel. A man who had long since learned to live alone, to rely on no one but himself.

Would he, if starving, eat what came to hand?

"My lady, is the drink not to your liking?"

"Of course." She blinked and sipped aware of the path her thoughts had taken. One guided by his presence, the aura of masculinity he radiated and to which she felt herself respond. "Help yourself to another drink if you want."

She watched as he crossed to the table and added ice and water to the glass in his hand. It was hard to remember that only a short while ago he had killed; that the stains on his tunic and matching pants were dried blood, that the knife riding in one of the knee-high boots had cut and slashed and hurtled through the air to sink into yielding flesh. A knife fighter, she decided, such men knew better than to stab, and yet such men did not throw their blades. To do so would be to disarm themselves and, should the throw miss, death would be inevitable.

She said, as their eyes met, "You said you were on your way to the field. To join your ship?"

"To find one."

"To book passage?" Then, as he nodded, she added, "But why go through the Maze?"

"A shortcut." A lie, but it would serve and there was no need to explain that, in the winding streets, anyone following could be thrown off his trail. If anyone had been following. "And you?" He frowned as she told him. "To look for a man? In the Maze? At night?"

"I was stupid," she admitted. "But I was impatient to see him and I was armed and thought I could take care of myself."

"And?"

"I got lost in the alleys. I asked a man for directions-the small one called Feld. He said something obscene and touched me." Her free hand rose to her breasts. "I stepped back and drew the laser but he laughed and came toward me. I dodged and someone knocked the gun from my hand. The big man, I think. Then I ran."

And would have died had Dumarest not saved her.

He said, "You made a mistake. Once you drew the laser you should have used it."

"Killed without warning?"

"Why warn if you intend to kill? Why draw a weapon if you don't intend to use it?"

Simple rules and ones which, perhaps, governed his life, but she was used to a more gentle environment. Like a tamed dog she had bared her teeth hoping the sight would protect her, unwilling and unable to do more. A pathetic defense and useless against the predators she had met.

The things they could have done to her.

Ice tinkled in the glass as she emptied it with convulsive swallows, searching for the anodyne the alcohol would provide, meeting Dumarest's eyes as she lowered the container.

"It's over," he said quietly. "All over. Now you can forget it."

Men dead, blood spraying, the touch of claws at her throat. The thought of what could have happened-forget it?

Numbing she took the refilled glass Dumarest handed to her and drank and lowered it half-empty and then took a deep, shuddering breath. Was she a girl to be so afraid? A young and silly creature finding refuge in hysteria? Amil had died in her arms after his greatest performance, his heart bursting beneath the strain, blood seeping from between his lips, marring their last kiss. And Verecunda, after the leap, when she had fallen so badly and all had heard the ghastly splinter of bone- no, she was not a child!

Dumarest said, "Better now?"

"You think I am weak?"

"No, a woman who is human."

"A fool?"

"A person." He set down his own glass. "Is there anything I can do for you before I leave."

"Leave?"

He said, patiently, "You are home now. Safe. Take something if you must but don't dwell on the past. It's over. Finished. Just forget it."

"You keep saying that. Do you think it so easy?"

"No," he admitted. "But sometimes it needs to be done." Then, as she made no comment, he added, "Do you need medical assistance? The shock-"

"Is one I can handle. She inhaled, inflating her chest, automatically throwing back her shoulders and tightening her stomach. Rising on her points she spun in a graceful pirouette then crossed the floor to where a cube glowed in kaleidoscopic shimmers. As she touched it the shifting rainbows stilled and music softly filled the air.

"Poisanard's Suite," she said. "You know it?"

"No."

"It's quite recent, the last thing he ever did. He composed it a month before he died. Some say that it holds the sum total of his life, but I disagree. He was too boisterous for that. He lived and, having lived, moved on. The music holds what is to come not what has gone. Listen and you will appreciate what I mean."

Listen for how long? And, while listening, what would he lose? From the window Dumarest could see the distant field, the ring of lights around the perimeter fence bright against the clouded sky. Even as he watched a ship lifted, seeming to hang poised for a moment, a shimmering bubble which darted upward wreathed in its Erhaft field, to dwindle, to vanish as it drove into space.

A ship he had missed because a woman had chosen to walk into danger.

A passage lost because of a coincidental meeting.

It had to be that. There had been no way of telling which route he would take or the time he would take it. The woman, as far as he could tell, was genuine and there had been nothing contrived about the way those who had accosted her had died.

His eyes shifted focus, looked at her reflection on the pane, the smooth, olive features, the eyes which looked into distance and not at his back. An intelligent woman-too intelligent to risk walking the Maze at night unless driven by a desperate need. Or perhaps she was simply ignorant-Tonge was not Juba and those accustomed to gentle worlds found it hard to accept the savagery normal on harsher planets.

Without turning he said, "What are you?"

"A dancer."

"A what?"

"A dancer. Ballet. On Tonge I was the prima ballerina of the Corps Mantage. You have seen ballet? You know something of it? A harsh discipline, Earl, and endless exercise. It takes skill and stamina and suppleness. It takes time and dedication. And then-" She shrugged and gestured, hands fluttering like pale moths against the pane. "I grew old. It is as simple as that."

"And came to Juba." He turned and stared into her eyes. "To dance?"

"To deal. When you are old in ballet, Earl, you are finished. Continue too long and bones grow brittle, sinews lose their elasticity and applause turns into derision. Now I deal in works of art. With luck fortunes can be made."

"How?"

"Not by finding rare and costly treasures, Earl, though that, too, at times. No, the thing is to find an artist who has yet to be appreciated. To buy his work cheap and then to sell it dear. To hold it, build his reputation, to display it, have it enhanced by select critical praise, then to cash in on the created demand."

"To rob," said Dumarest. "To pay the artist a pittance and then to make a pile. And you call the Maze a jungle?"

"It isn't the same," she protested. "A work of art is valueless until it has found a buyer. And once the artist is known he will get his reward. Once he is known," she added bitterly. "Once he is found. That's why I was in the Maze. To find a man who might know a man who-but why go on? It's hopeless."

"The prima ballerina of the Corps Mantage," said Dumarest softly. "Yet once you were a small girl leaning on a barre and trying to stand on your points. Did you think it was hopeless then? A waste of time even to try?"

"This is different. Have you ever looked for a needle in a haystack?"

Looked and was looking, but he said nothing of his search for the world of his birth.

"You must have clues, Sardia. The artist, for instance, you must have samples of his work. It is a man?"

"I don't know, Earl. It could be a man or a woman but I think it likely to be a man. A matter of instinct, I'll admit, and I could be wrong." Rising from where she sat she stilled the music and poured them both fresh drinks. Handing a glass to Dumarest she continued, "I'm following a rainbow and hoping for a pot of gold. Some paintings were offered to a gallery on Tonge and I was fortunate enough to be the one approached. I was an associate, but never mind that, the thing is I recognized the genius of their creator. Naturally I wanted to know more but the vendor could only tell me he'd bought them from a man on Juba. Someone here, in this city, who owns a shop close to the field. I saw him and he claimed ignorance of the origin of the paintings. I tried a little bribery and gained the address of a man who worked for the dealer at times. He lives in the Maze. I went to find him-the rest you know."

"How long have you been on Juba?"

"A couple of weeks. This place is rented. Why?"

"Two weeks. Did it take you that long to find the local dealer?"

"He was away and it took time to check him out. I had to scour the galleries and find out what I could before I approached him."

"And?"

"He admitted nothing, but that's normal, he'd want to retain his source of supply. Naturally I was casual in my approach. I acted the part of a tourist looking for an interesting souvenir. Luckily he had two parts of a triptych and I asked for the address of the artist so as to obtain the third. He wouldn't give it to me. The artist, naturally, wasn't the one I am looking for but it shows the man's caution. I'd hoped to learn more from his assistant."

And had failed and had almost lost her life and lacked the courage to try again. But Dumarest?

She said thoughtfully, "You could help me, Earl."

"No."

"Please." His refusal increased her desire to gain his aid. "I need you to help me. All it will take is a little time. You are accustomed to dealing with men like the dealer. He will respect you. And once we find the artist I promise you will not regret it. A share of what I make. A third of the clear profit."

"No."

"How much then? A half? A half of all we make, Earl. Equal partnership. I'll advance all expenses which will later be deducted." Hesitating, she added, "This agreement to be for the first items obtained. I-why do you smile?"

"As a dancer, Sardia, you make a good dealer."

"I am a dealer, and when you work for the Corps Mantage you learn to keep your wits about you. A deal, Earl?"

"No."

"But why not? Can't you spare the time? Don't you trust me?" Her voice hardened a little. "Is that it? Do you think I've been feeding you a pack of lies."

"Not lies, Sardia. But perhaps a dream."

"The coordinates of the world of solid treasure. The clue to a fabulous fortune. The whereabouts of Bonanza, maybe, or El Dorado, or Jackpot, Avalon or even Earth. I've heard them ail before. Men who try to cash in on ignorance or greed or who try to buy favors with a list of figures. Fools for trying it and bigger fools for thinking others can be so gullible. But I'm not trying to sell you a legend, Earl. Not the location of some mythical planet. My artist is real and I can prove it!" She vanished into a room which held a bed, reappeared holding a canvas which she thrust toward him. "Here!"

The painting was that of a child crying, and the artist had caught all the pain and torment of the universe in the young and innocent face.

"It's good," said Dumarest.

"Good? It's superb! Look at it, damn you! Look at it!"

A thing of ten by twenty inches, the background dark, the central figure luminated by a glowing, mottled ball. The child dressed in a nondescript gown so that it could have been of either sex. The face round, the eyes luminous, liquid with tears which fell over the cheeks, the little hands clenched, one holding a thorned rose, the other a tattered thing of rag and buttons. A doll which had given pleasure as the flower had given pain. On the hand gripping it, touches of red showed where blood had seeped from wounds caused by the thorns. Pleasure and pain-the summation of existence.

"Look at the detail," whispered the woman. "Study it. You can see every thread, every stitch, every grain of the sand on which the child is sitting. You can almost smell the scent of the rose. You can almost feel the pain of the thorns. Look at it, sink into it, feel it-Earl, feel it, man! Feel it!"

And, suddenly, he was a child again sitting on a harsh and barren slope with the bitter wind stinging his eyes and filling them with tears, while, in his hand, the small creature he had caught squirmed and wriggled and fought for its life as he was fighting for his. The lizard he would shortly eat, biting it, chewing, swallowing it raw. Life dying to maintain life. Savagery beneath the moon.

The moon?

"Earl!" The woman touched his hand. "Earl?"

He ignored her, eyes focused on the mottled ball illuminating the crying child. A rough, pitted, scarred and cratered orb depicted with the same painstaking detail as the garment, the sand, the doll, the rose and the thorn. A ball which bore the semblance of a skull. One he had seen before.

"Earl?" Sardia's fingers were warm against his own. "Earl, is anything wrong?"

Again he ignored her, lifting the painting, tilting it, his eyes hungry as they examined the silvery ball. A full moon. A familiar sight.

The moon he had seen when a child on earth.

There was money on Juba. The minerals torn from far below the surface, shipped, provided a steady stream of wealth reflected in the luxurious appointments of the houses set high on the hills but those who owned the most displayed it the' least. On Juba only the children were close to the Cyclan.

Cyber Hine studied them as he stood behind the door leading to the classroom. The one-way glass gave him a clear view and he watched with calm detachment as Necho turned in his seat to whisper to Baaras behind, to Ceram at one side. A restless boy and yet one who showed promise. A useful addition if his questing nature could be brought under control and, in any case, a future supporter of the institution which now gave him food, accommodation and education. A debt which, later, he would repay.

"Master!" The acolyte was looking at him and Hine examined the smooth face for any sign of disrespect. A man older than himself, one who had failed to reach the required degree as yet, but one who would continue to try and continue to serve. "It is time, Master," he said. "The pupils are waiting."

And could wait and would wait should he so decide, but Hine was aware of his recently enhanced status and the fact that, in a sense, he was on probation. How he acted, how he conducted himself, all were of importance to future advancement and the acolyte, as was proper, would report as to his attitude.

A nod and the door was opened, the whispers dying as the tall figure in the scarlet robe swept into the room to take his place on the podium. From his elevated position Hine stared at the class, his face impassive, his shaven head adding to his skull-like appearance. A cyber was never fat; excess tissue was wasteful in terms of energy consumption and proof that the diet was ill-balanced in relation to need. Food was fuel, the body a mechanism to house the brain, the brain itself the seat of the all-important intelligence. What impaired the efficiency of the mind was bad, what aided it was good-a dictum which determined how a cyber was dressed, how he lived, even the very temperature of his environment.

"You will pay attention," said Hine. "During this session we shall be concerned with logical extrapolation of sequences. On the screen before you will be flashed a picture consisting of twenty-three shapes. From the others shown at the foot of the panel you must select the one which belongs to the set of twenty-four. Commence."

A simple exercise but one designed both to stimulate the mind and to signal potential material for higher and more selective training. It was followed by others, each a little harder than those previously given, the inbuilt desk computer keeping the scores. It was low and Hine pressed a button on the master panel to scramble and repeat the sequence on the same basic level as before but with different images.

"A warning," said Hine, his voice maintaining its even modulation: a tone devoid of any irritant factors.

"If you fail this time then an electric shock will be given. The intensity will increase in ratio to continued failure."

A whip to drive them to better effort and the reward of food later for those who passed a determined level. Hine sat, light reflecting from the design on the breast of his scarlet robe, the Seal of the Cyclan which, in time, some of those now studying could wear. Would wear if previous experience was of any value. Must wear if the Cyclan was to expand and survive.

Sitting, watching, his face impassive Hine remembered his own past and training. The sons of the wealthy and influential, while educated, were rarely selected to wear the scarlet robe. There was no need; conditioned, they would serve the aims of the Cyclan when it came to them to adopt the trappings of power. Others, those with ambitious parents, had their minds sharpened and their sympathies directed so that they, too, became invisible extensions of the vast organization. From the poor, the desperate, the hungry, came those who sought to rule the entire galaxy. The cybers who wore the scarlet robe. The living machines of flesh and blood dedicated to the pursuit of total and absolute domination of all living things in the universe.

Servants of the Cyclan of which Hine was one. He had been starving, covered with sores, rotten with a wasting disease and willing to do anything for a bowl of soup or a crust of bread. Insanity had driven him to attempt to steal from a cyber, careless of the dire penalties which all knew befell those caught. And he had been caught-even now he could remember the terror which had engulfed him at the thought of being turned into a living horror, his limbs distorted, amputated, grafted into new positions on his body so that he would walk backward and upside down-fears born of whispers which peopled the unknown with nightmare. Instead he had been washed and fed and tested. And healed and taught and tested. And watched and probed and tested again and again by those for whom such work was a specialty. Food had become something to be taken without enjoyment and without thought as to its source. Emotions were to be controlled, diminished, negated. The mind was paramount at all times at any cost. The body was a machine.

Of his class some vanished without explanation. Others were punished with merciless application. A few reached a desired proficiency.

At puberty he was operated on; an adjustment to the cortex which took from him the ability to feel emotion. Never would he know hate or love, hope or fear, joy or despair. Freed of the hampering effect of such disturbing afflictions he could concentrate solely on the expansion of his mind and the trained talent he possessed. One which gave the Cyclan its awesome power.

"Necho, come here." The boy had scored high. Now Hine gestured to the shapes lying before him. "One is different from the others. Which?"

A boy, awed, would spend long minutes looking for the difference which he couldn't see, too timid to accuse his master of deception. Another would find a difference where none existed; doubting his own judgment.

Necho said, "Master, they are the same."

Silently Hine reached out and turned the pieces over. One held an indentation.

"Master, I thought-"

"You assumed," corrected Hine. "You did not listen or, listening, you failed to understand. Twelve strokes of the birch will impress the lesson on your memory. That and going foodless to bed."

A harsh punishment, but a good tool needed to be tempered. One day, perhaps, the boy would become an acolyte and even be elevated to a cyber. Once accepted, there was no limit as to how high he could rise. Given time he could become the Cyber Prime himself and certainly, if proven worthy, he would end as a unit of Central Intelligence.

As would all who wore the Seal.

The reward of a lifetime of service when, the body failing, the brain would be removed from the skull and immersed in a vat of nutrient fluids. There, in series with countless others, it would live on, aware, conscious, working to solve problem after problem until the smallest secret and the largest had been made clear. Until all things were united into a common whole.

The aim and object of the Cyclan.

Higher in the building Cyber Buis sat neither brooding nor permitting himself the indulgence of memory. Such things were the natural irritations of youth, and between himself and Hine stretched half a century of dedicated effort. Time enough for him to have climbed to the summit of the Cyclan on Juba and more than time for him to have sharpened his talent to the fine point of keenness which gave its own reward in terms of mental achievement. The only true pleasure any cyber could know aside from the heady intoxication of communication with Central Intelligence.

A time when the engrafted Homochon elements would be stimulated by the Samatachazi formulae and mental contact achieved with the tremendous complex lying at the heart of the headquarters of the Cyclan. A form of near-instantaneous mental transmission which bridged the gulf between the stars and made all cybers basically one.

But such communication was used only as a necessity aside from the regular schedules and there was other work to be done. Buis glanced at the sheaf of reports lying on his desk, flipping papers as each was scanned, its content assessed, correlated, intermeshed, with the whole. Others would have filtered the data but still the sheaf was thick, for who could ever be certain that some minor detail, some apparent trifle might not hold the key to a far more complex situation.

A button sank beneath his finger as Buis spoke into a recorder.

"Action on report 354782. Manufacture of synthetic drug HXT 239Z to be discontinued. Hints to be spread of mutations discovered in Jelman's Sickness. New drug HXT 5Y to be introduced as a substitute for that withdrawn."

At double the price and the bankruptcy of the plant packaging the discontinued compound. Another would get the contract and the Cyclan would gain not only wealth but a grateful client. And, as a bonus, a lesson would have been taught to those who opposed accepting the services of the Cyclan and the advice the cybers gave.

A small victory, perhaps, but battles were won because of small victories and, with the battles, the war.

Another sheet, a decision, another, a momentary hesitation as Buis assimilated the information it contained. Data apparently unrelated to another problem but facts which filled a gap. Mentally he reviewed the situation, building from a known base, extrapolating the logical sequence of events, selecting those of the highest order of probability and arriving at a prediction which was as certain as anything could be in a universe afflicted by unknown factors.

His talent, the ability of every cyber, the skill of being able to take a handful of facts and, from them, extrapolate what most likely would take place. The service offered to those in high places where decisions needed to be made. To those in industry who had to gain knowledge of market trends. To politicians and rulers and those who aspired to power. The subtle, unseen, hidden power which guided the destiny of worlds as if they had been puppets on a string.

More sheets, scanned, put by; situations which could wait, others developing as planned, items of no relevant interest Then one which caught his attention.

Into a communicator Buis said, "Mharle, with reference to report 382534. A client requesting computer time at the Cha'Nang Institute. One concerned with spectroscopic determination."

A moment then, "I have it. In view of the general directive I judged it best to refer the matter to you."

"As you should. The report gives no name."

"None was given."

"Elaborate."

"It was a simple inquiry as to available computer time as appertaining to a stellar search to match an existing spectrogram. The information given was, of necessity, of a general nature such as cost per minute of use of installation and the probability of narrowing the search by eliminating obviously unsuitable stars. The usual fee for such initial inquiries was paid. The inquiry was not unusual in the light of the commerce attached to Juba. Only the general directive made it significant."

"No name? No address?"

"No."

"And, of course, no description? As I expected." Buis's voice carried no hint of irritation but mentally he made a note to reassess Mharle's standing. The man had overlooked the obvious. While it was true that a port with heavy traffic could expect such inquiries yet they would originate from shipping companies or from captains owning their own vessels. Neither would make idle investigations. And neither would fail to have registered their names so as to offset the initial fee against the cost of any later search.

A civilian then, one cautiously feeling his way, content to pay for limited information.

One caught by the general directive which had been designed to do just that.

No, not caught, not yet. One isolated and centered in aroused interest. A target. Quarry to be hunted down.

"Master?" Mharle was waiting.

"Have men wait at the Cha'Nang Institute. Continuous surveillance. If anyone makes similar inquiries have them followed and, if they attempt to leave the city, apprehended. Use any force necessary but, under no circumstances is the life of the subject to be endangered. Set a similar watch at the field. Description as on directive ED 201. Orders as above. Apprehend but do not endanger. And, Mharle-do not fail."

Buis looked at his hand as it fell from the button of the communicator. It was thin, thickly veined, the skin mottled, the fingers claw-like with age. A long life and a busy one in which he had served the Cyclan with every cell of his being. And now, at the end-he watched as his hand closed as if gripping something of inestimable value.

Dumarest on Juba!

It had to be Dumarest. A man, making such an inquiry, taking such precautions-who else could it be?

One who had, somehow, slipped through the net set to catch him after his whereabouts had been determined on a distant world. The attempt made there to gain information as to the whereabouts of a certain star repeated here. The same interest in the spectrum of a forgotten sun. The man the Cyclan searched for. The man they needed to find.

The secret they had to regain.

Leaning back Buis closed his eyes, reliving the time when, in communication with Central Intelligence, all had been made clear to him. A discovery stolen from a secret laboratory of the Cyclan and passed on to Dumarest. The affinity twin which could give one mind the power to enter the body of a prepared host and dominate it. To become that actual person. To feel and see and walk and talk and live in a new body. A means to dominate the rich and powerful, to use them with cyber minds controlling their bodies, to extend the rule and power of the Cyclan to every inhabited star.

A universe held in a molecular chain of fifteen bio-chemical units, one of which, reversed, determined the subjective or dominant characteristics. The biochemical units were known. What the affinity twin could do had been demonstrated.

But the correct order in which the fifteen units had to be assembled was the secret Dumarest carried in his brain.

One which would be rediscovered given time-but the possible combinations ran into millions. If a chain could be formed and tested every second, still it would take millennia to test them all. Endless years which the capture of one man could save.

Dumarest!

Buis opened his eyes and looked at his hand now closed tighter than before. Dumarest was on Juba-he was certain of it. It was only a matter of time before he was found.