Nectar of Heaven

Chapter Six

Fatigue rode with Fiona despite the pills she had taken and it was hard to keep her shoulders straight, to smile and nod at banal greetings, to wear a cloak of assurance and pretend a satisfaction she could not feel, and that was all the more false now that the euphoria of combat had died to reveal the harsh reality.

"A near thing, my dear." Lobel, smiling, garish in bright hues too young for his seamed and cunning face, lifted a hand in greeting. "Too near for comfort but you handled it well."

"I won, Lobel."

"You survived," he corrected. "For that you are to be congratulated. The next time-" His shrug was expressive.

"The next time I shall regain all I have lost and more."

"Of course."

"And then you will need to come begging for my aid."

"Which I am sure you will not refuse." His smile was devoid of warmth; a grimace which bared teeth and gums in the semblance of a snarl. "Friends must stick together, my dear. Ah! I see Helm has arrived."

Fiona glared at his retreating back then smoothed her face before others could witness her anger. Lobel was no worse than most and she would do better to make friends than provide meat for enemies, Reed? No, he was bearing the marks of his bartering and what could you gain from a loser? Vanderburg? He stood talking to Myra Lancing, a tall, slim woman neat in red and black, who had raised her status more by accident than design and Fiona wondered what plots they might be hatching. From the far side of the table Prador caught her eye, smiled, lifted his glass as if in a toast.

A gesture she returned with her own.

"Bad times," he said as he joined her. "If it hadn't been for you taking the pressure, Fiona, I'd be ruined by now. Another drink?" He replaced her glass with one filled with a golden fluid. "Correo's out, did you know? Grard won't be able to withstand the slightest pressure and is looking for allies. Sylvia and Jeanne-you know them?"

"Dulet and Wendling? Not intimately."

"They recently inherited and formed an alliance. The basic plan was for mutual aid in the event of any attack but Sylvia relies on intuition and Jeanne is basically a gambler. If they ever had to face real pressure they would crack apart." He paused, waiting for her comment, adding, as she remained silent, "A thought, my dear, one to bear in mind. When the giants get hungry we small people must take what steps we can."

Such as exchanging information-but how could she be sure it was genuine? Her own assessment of the two women did not match Prador's; Sylvia operated on a basis of related pressures and Jeanne on minimized risk. If she gambled at all it was with a healthy appreciation of the odds.

She said, "Did you know that Ashen was trying to extend his holdings to the north?" A lie and one she elaborated as he leaned a little closer. "Lobel let it slip," she improvised. "He overheard him talking to Chargel in the baths. A whisper-but you know how tricky the acoustics can be. If true it could mean they are plotting to attack Arment or Barracola."

Or even Rham Kalova himself, a fact obvious but which she didn't mention. The art of a lie lay in its misdirection.

"Ashen," mused Prador. "And Chargel? An unlikely combination but one with all the more potential for danger because of that. Thank you, my dear. Bear in mind what I said about Sylvia and Jeanne."

A smile and he was gone, pressing among the others gathered at the assembly to garner what scraps of information he could. Lies for the most part, diversions, deceptions but a cunning and clever man could make use of them all. Building fabric from what was left unsaid, from what was emphasized and what was contradicted. Was Prador that clever?

If so why wasn't he at the upper table with the Maximus?

Fiona glanced to where Kalova stood with a small circle of intimates and sycophants. A man proud of his victories and confident of his strength; too obviously scornful of those he bested and too indifferent to their anxiety and pain. Correo-how must the man feel at this moment? Grard for whom every moment must be a waking nightmare. Bulem whom Prador hadn't mentioned but who now stood poised on a razor's edge. Herself.

The golden fluid stung her throat as she emptied the glass but still the taste of fear remained.

"My lords and ladies!" Arment's voice cut across the babble in the assembly chamber. "Take your places if you please!"

She was seated lower than before, a fact anticipated but still far from pleasant, and, too, she was conscious of the attitude of her new companions. To see another brought low was always a pleasure to those with small holdings; a consolation to their own limitations. As she waited to be served Fiona kept her eyes on the high table.

Arment was seated next to Kalova; one of the twenty entitled to be at the board presided over by the Maximus himself. The rest were placed in positions of relative importance; Prador was higher than herself as was Myra Lancing, Reed, Lobel even higher than before. Status gained by the holdings he had wrested from her as the price of his aid; the first had been only the beginning. How many others?

She looked around, a stupid gesture, for her own display would give her the facts, but it was copied by others at the low tables. There would have to be twelve dozen at least; the Gross had to be maintained, but how many more? The usual six? Five? Less?

Toying with her meal she wondered what the situation would be if someone should make an error. Should holders be diminished below the Gross a vacancy would exist to be filled by any who chose to challenge a holder. Who would such a one pick? Arment? She studied him where he sat, smiling, a scrap of meat speared on a lifted fork. Nils was young, strong, ruthless in his determination. Helm? Older but with the same basic savagery as the rest. None would be easy and none would be so foolish as to create a vacancy.

"My lady?" An attendant shattered her musing. He stood at her side, a salver of sweet pastry balanced on one hand, serving tongs in the other. Her soiled plate had been deftly removed to be replaced by another. "An eclair, my lady? Honey cake? Chocolate sponge?"

She followed the movement of the tongs, indifferent as to the selection, nodding as the instrument came to rest over a heap of crusted pastry dusted with colored glitters.

"A wise choice, my dear." The man seated on her left nodded his approval. He was twice her age with a mouth like a trap and eyes to match. "Enriched flours, a high-protein filling, a decoration containing essential vitamins. A good foundation for the rest of the assembly."

"But fattening." The woman to Fiona's right added her comment. "Like most nice things. But you can afford it, my dear." Her eyes held envy as they studied the trim figure graced with well-formed curves. "Lynne Oldrant," she said, introducing herself. "And you are Fiona Velen. You've met Cran with his good advice but, for once, it's worth listening to. The only way to bear the Maximus's platitudes is to get half-drunk and then you risk spoiling the rest of the evening." She stabbed at her own confection, lifted a portion, ate, swallowed, shook her head. "Pleasure tonight and sweat tomorrow-but what else is life?"

Wine followed the cakes, new vintages together with potent spirits and, the tables cleared, the assembly waited for the address. As always Kalova chose to stretch the moment, maintaining tension while he raked them with his eyes, enjoying his power to the full even as he assessed what he saw, the resentment he knew existed.

Fiona yawned when he finally rose.

The address, like the meal, the assembly itself was an empty ritual born in the days when real blood had attended real battles and feuds needed to be avoided by the sharing of meat and wine. Hard days in which hard men had fought and won a place on a hard world. Things on which the Maximus touched as he sent his voice to echo from the groined roof, adding comments of his own, the need for peace, the desire for stability and tranquility, his conviction that no personal enmities existed or could exist in the social order.

Lynne Oldrant sighed her relief when he sat.

"Thank God that's over! You there! Some more brandy!" As the attendant obeyed she added, to Fiona, "We must get to know each other better. The baths, tomorrow? I'll need a massage in any case. We can talk and, maybe, make a few plans."

The usual intrigues or something more? Fiona had felt the searching impact of the other's eyes and a shared bath was often the prelude to closer intimacies. Yet to be curt in her refusal would be to arouse enmity and lose a potential advantage.

"I'll have to check," she said. "Could I call you?"

"Of course." Lynne glanced at the high table, at Kalova where he sat. "When's the old fool going to summon the entertainers?"

The noise was the worst part. The light was bad with its blinding, searing intensity but the sound was beyond mere physical irritation. Crouched against the raft Dumarest could feel its battering despite the protective suit, the muffles shielding his ears. A force transmitted through the rock itself to pound at cell and tissue, to threaten the delicate capillaries and membranes. Energy which could rupture the cortex and induce insanity and death.

He had seen it happen on scattered battlefields when mercenaries had fought with savage viciousness but no battle he had ever known could approach the present situation. Now the hills fought the skies with dancing lightning the prelude to the massed volley of multiple cannon, echoes blasting from hill to hill, caught, magnified, sent in pulsing shock waves which ripped stone to acrid powder and fuming vapors. Fury which vented itself and moved on to tear at other hills, crumble other peaks.

Beside him Vardoon lifted a fumbling hand to the helmet, the line linking them with direct communication.

"Earl?"

"What is it?"

"Just checking. Should we work on the raft now?"

The landing had torn the fabric, damaging some of the antigrav units and leaving a path of torn metal. The damage was less serious than it seemed but to effect repairs meant unloading the vehicle, tilting it, partially dismantling the structure. Work hard enough at any time, made even more difficult while wearing the suits.

Dumarest said, "Well leave it until after dawn."

"And waste the night?"

"We need to rest," said Dumarest patiently. "To eat and arrange the gear. To work now would mean using lights and making mistakes."

Explanations should have been unnecessary but he sensed Vardoon needed reassurance. The fury of the storm had unnerved him, reminded him of other, uglier incidents, perhaps, sent him to crouch morose and silent in the protection of his suit. Protection which proved itself as again lightning illuminated the cave and thunder crashed to send shock waves to fret the rim and shower grit from the roof.

Dumarest felt the jar and heard Vardoon's sudden intake of breath before noise drowned all else. Until the area fell into a relative quiescence there was nothing to do but sit and wait and, while waiting, think of what to do and how to do it. Plans already made and decisions already taken but both liable to be affected by altered circumstances. The storm could last too long. Rock could yield to send massed tons of stone to engulf them and bury them alive.

Bad thoughts and best not dwelt on. If it happened there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Dumarest forced himself to relax, watching the flicker of lightning beyond the mouth of the cave, the dancing chiaroscuros touching raft and rock and splintered walls. All over the sprawling range of hills the charged air would be venting stored energy in coruscating flashes. The hills and the crevasses between them, the small plateau, the terraces and winding ledges. The residue of once-tremendous mountains which had challenged the sky and the sun it contained. A challenge accepted when the world had moved closer to its primary, lost as the solar furnace had powered ceaseless attrition.

Sacaweena, a world of ocean and ranging hills and a narrow expanse of habitable land. One which held a fortune in golden pearls.

The pearls swelled before him to glint and glow with subtle attraction. A golden promise of wealth and the power it gave. Orbs which spun and took on the likeness of planets each with the same face, the same alluring hue. Blue the color of hope, of cloudless skies, of the world on which he had been born and for which he searched. Earth. Lost and forgotten Earth. Waiting for him somewhere in space… somewhere in darkness… waiting… waiting…

Dumarest jerked awake, conscious he had been dozing, drifting into sleep, sitting motionless while he tried to discover the reason for his abrupt awareness. Beyond the mouth of the cave the distant flashes of lightning cast an intermittent fire, the dancing patterns of light and shadow duller than before. A lull or movement of the storm had brought a relative peace to the local area.

Why had he awakened?

Before him the bulk of the raft was as before. At his side Vardoon stirred, a muttered snoring coming over the telephone wire connecting them. Shape, sound and movement assessed and dismissed even as recognized. They had not woken him, had not created the prickle of trepidation now touching his spine; the primitive warning of danger he had learned never to ignore.

Cautiously he lifted his knees, drawing back his feet and resting his weight on the soles. A move designed to yield quick mobility. One which woke Vardoon.

"Earl?" His voice was leveled by control. "Earl?"

"Something. It could be trouble."

"Closer."

"I don't know. I-"

Dumarest broke off as the glare from outside returned, died, flashed again. Blazes of illumination created a stroboscopic effect, freezing all motion in a series of isolated frames. The raft. The mouth of the cave. The thing now moving from the rear.

It was flat and thin, ringed with spindle legs, fronted with lifted claws, mandibles, faceted eyes. The rear tapered into a vicious, whip-like tail tipped with cruel barbs. A bug adapted to its environment, able to slip through narrow cracks in its search for prey, attracted to the men by the scent of exuded perspiration: the animal odor carried on their protective clothing, vented through the filters as they breathed.

Water in an arid waste.

Food to fuel its eight-foot body.

"God!" Vardoon heaved, froze as Dumarest clamped a hand on his arm. "It's a civas, Earl. Those claws could cut us apart. That tail's like a spear and club combined. And it can move fast when it has to."

If it wanted to. If it intended to attack. A doubt resolved in the next flash when Dumarest saw it had come closer, was fronting them, was poised for action.

"Guns." Dumarest snapped the command. "Get the guns!"

The wire connecting them tore free as Vardoon lunged toward the raft, the bales it contained. As he tore at the fastenings Dumarest rose, moved away from him, the stone he had scooped from the floor lifting, hurtling at the creature as it stood undecided which man to attack first.

The blow did little more than scratch the chitin of the carapace but accomplished what Dumarest intended. He darted toward the rear of the cave as the thing spun and lunged toward him, one claw snapping inches behind a thigh, the whip of the tail thrumming through the air to slash the air where he had stood seconds before.

Muted thunder rolled, drowned the sound of scuttling limbs, the following glow of lightning revealing the creature too close for comfort. It stood at the mouth of a narrowing passage leading from the rear of the cave, one it had followed from some distant lair. A space shrinking to less than two feet in width. Even if he could squeeze into it Dumarest would find no safety. To climb the walls would offer even less; the effort to maintain his hold offering him as easy meat to the mandibles and claws. To attack was the only real defense, to occupy its attention while Vardoon found the guns. But locked in the suit Dumarest was weaponless, his knife beyond reach. All that was left to him was his speed and brains.

The former he used to dodge a sudden attack, the second to find a weapon and method of attack.

The cave held nothing but natural stone: rocks on the floor, fragments jutting from the walls, shards hanging like spears from the roof. Dumarest stooped, found a pair of rocks, rose with one in each hand. The first hit one of the faceted eyes, driving deep to release a flood of oozing jelly. The second slammed against the joint of the claw uplifted to protect the remaining eye. Even as it left his hand he was running, springing high to land on the back of the creature, jumping again to reach the pendulous shard of pointed stone hanging from the roof above. The stone took his weight, swayed as he kicked, snapped above his hands to let him fall, armed with the yard-long fragment.

Blue-white fire blazed as he hit the ground, rolling as echoes blasted around him, rising with dazzled eyes to see the nightmare shape rear to tower high, mandibles reaching, the tail swinging to slam against his leg, to rip at the tough fabric and bruise the flesh beneath. A blow which almost broke the bone.

Where was Vardoon?

The question was answered as Dumarest hopped to one side, the shard lifted, swinging as he used it like a club to strike again at the joint of the claw. Chitin yielded as it struck, the creature retreating, retreating farther as spots appeared on the carapace; neat holes releasing green ichor.

Man-made thunder echoed that from beyond the cave.

"Earl!" Vardoon had opened his helmet, his shout echoing as he eased his finger off the trigger. "Earl! Here!"

A gun like the one he carried, thrown for Dumarest to catch as again the scarred man opened fire. A hail of slugs which scored the carapace, whined off rock, sent dust and chips spraying from the edges of the narrow fissure as the creature scuttled for cover and safety.

"That's enough!" Dumarest caught Vardoon by the arm, lifted the muzzle of the gun. "It's gone. Quit wasting ammunition."

"Gone?" Vardoon was sweating, eyes wild, narrowed against the salt-sting of running droplets. Beads of perspiration rested thickly on ridges of tissue. "You sure, Earl?"

"I'm sure." Dumarest opened his own helmet and smelled the stench of burned explosives, the acrid, insect reek the predator had left behind. "What did you call it? A civas?"

"Filthy creatures. They'll eat a man alive given the chance. Suck his blood until he's dry and chew on the rest." Vardoon's hand shook as he wiped his face, sweat staining the back of his glove. "The damned thing would have fed well if it hadn't been for you."

Dumarest said, "We'd better take turns standing guard, in take the first watch."

To stand as the other slept, to walk about the cave to ease his bruised leg, to watch and check what he saw, to look at the mouth of the cavern and see the flashes lessen and the night surrender to the first touch of dawn.

Against the wall the panel of the relay was almost static; the changes registered small and of little effect as to present holdings. A time of quiescence when those who had been hurt took time to reassess their positions and those who had gained relished their victory. Even so the display held an artistic beauty; rare and precious metals combined to give a pleasing grace, although the art was wasted on Zao who appreciated only functional efficiency.

Now, seated at his desk, he studied the message relayed by the lights.

Unsuspected currents had damaged the undersea crop of edible weed in the lower northwestern decant. The holder of the sector would need to be wary. Tidal flows had enriched the shore of the far eastern region; a gain as the other was a loss. Lightning had struck a commune in the Mondera Farmlands with a high loss of life. Impressed workers who had no real value; Zao knew the Cyclan would have dealt with the problem they presented in a far more efficient manner. Conditioning, adaptation and elimination would have ended it and been more merciful in the long term. A side effect of no interest to those who would have induced it; mercy, like other emotions, had no place in a calculated scheme of existence.

How best to utilize the presented data?

The changes were too small, he decided. The events could be manipulated but needed greater impact to be fully utilized. Small gains would not interest the present elite and others would lack the necessary reserves for a confrontation. The prediction of a period of stasis at this time was high; in the order of eighty-nine percent. High enough to reassure Kalova if he was concerned as to his safety.

At the touch of a button the face of his acolyte appeared on the screen of the communicator.

"Master?"

"Bring me all relevant data accumulated since my last assessment."

A test and one he was sure Risan would pass. All data was relevant but much of it could be condensed and evaluated prior to presentation. A necessity on worlds of high technology and vast habitations but here more of an exercise. Sacaweena was small, limited, the flow of data minimal in comparison to other planets. The reason why he had but a single acolyte.

"Master!" Risan bowed after placing the sheaf of papers on the desk before Zao. A tall, thin young man eager to pass his final tests and become a cyber with acolytes of his own.

Zao studied the papers as he left.

The data was set in chronological order, neatly subdivided, bare facts for the most part with attendant detail if a point needed further illumination. Sheets which rippled in his hands, pausing as he checked, moving on as he scanned with trained observation. Much was as he'd anticipated; scraps of gossip gathered from the baths, the gymnasium, the small parties at which hosts entertained selected guests. Information gathered and passed on by informants and spies. Other data; Bulem's threats, Reed's boasting, and application from Myra Lancing for his services. This request he refused though he would keep it in mind. Should Kalova become too independent it might serve the Cyclan's interest for another to become Maximus, but the woman would not be a good alternative. Even so, her eagerness would make her amicable and so a useful tool which could be used to manipulate another.

A list of reports from the undersea installations.

More from the Quale Consortium.

An oddity.

Zao halted the movement of the papers and studied the report. Licenses issued to two prospectors to inspect the Quale holdings in search of valuable ores. A common enough practice; a fee gathered and an investigation made at no cost to the holder. But how often were such licenses issued?

A check gave the answer and he sensed an inconsistency. People wishing to waste their time and money on such a search were rare to the point of nonexistence. Strangers, then, new arrivals-the date confirmed the probability. Had they been checked?

The routine patrol report confirmed they had. Two men together with a raft and other equipment had been spotted on land belonging to the Consortium. Their licenses had been in order. They had shown knowledge of ores and geology.

Why should such men be interested in worthless land?

Zao reached for the communicator. To Risan he said, "Bring me detailed maps of the area mentioned in report K57. Ask the officer commanding the patrol to report to me here personally as soon as possible."

Chan Kline came within the hour; eager to extend every courtesy to someone so close to the Maximus. A lieutenant, smart in his uniform of brown and olive, the crimson insignia of rank bright on breast and shoulders. A man young enough to be ambitious, old enough to be wise.

He nodded as he read the report. "Yes, sir, these are the facts. I thought it odd that men should want to prospect that area and paid them a visit. They seemed genuine enough. I tested them and the response was positive."

"Explain." Zao listened, said, "When you made the remark about shale did both correct you or only one?"

"One. The man with the scarred face. The other made no comment."

From reasons of ignorance or contempt? Or had there been no need? The latter, Zao decided, the officer had been too superficial in his examination but could hardly be blamed for that. The fact he had checked at all was proof of his efficiency.

"Their names?" The report had lacked that detail. Zao tensed as he heard the answer. "Vardoon and Dumarest? Are you sure? Describe them."

Kline obeyed, adding, "They probably arrived on the last ship to land here. Do you want me to check on them in town?"

Zao made no immediate answer. Dumarest on Sacaweena? It seemed incredible and yet nothing was beyond the bounds of probability. Nothing-including a name which could be copied and an appearance which could be deceptive. On a matter of such importance there must be no doubt.

"Sir?" Kline broke the silence. "The check?"

"That will not be necessary." The past was dead and could do no more than add confirmation to established fact. And time, now, must not be wasted. Zao said, "Those men must be found and held without delay. You will be in charge of the operation. Gather every available raft and man and search until they are found. If it is necessary for you to progress beyond the Consortium lands do not hesitate; I will arrange for all needed permission. As I will arrange for your rank to be changed to that of captain. Find them and you will become a major."

High and rapid promotion for success and Kline could guess the penalty of failure. Ignominy-but he would not fail.

"One other point," said Zao. "A matter of prime importance which you must impress on all under your command. Those men are to be taken but not harmed. You understand? Use only the minimum amount of force required. Should they be killed or badly hurt you will answer for it."

A complication and there was another. Kline said, "You spoke of extending the search if necessary. To the north?"

"You object?"

"No, but others might and the Maximus will protest."

"The men are your concern but I assure you all permissions will be obtained. I shall be with Rham Kalova before you reach the hills." The cyber touched the map, his finger tracing ragged outlines. "Start the search here and extend rafts in line from here to here. Use a grid pattern and overlap individual areas. Use infrared detectors if you have them to locate the men by their radiated body heat. Keep me informed of your progress."

Kline said, "And you will give me a signed order authorizing the operation?"

"Of course. Now please waste no more time."

Zao returned to the map, as, saluting, the officer left. Seated, he studied the depicted terrain; the harsh ground of the Quale Consortium, the wilderness reaching north to the hills, the hills themselves. An area filled with wild guesses, assumptions, speculations. Even photographs taken from space could not be relied on-each storm changed detail, triggered violent changes.

An inferno in which the most glittering prize the Cyclan could hope to win could be hopelessly lost.