Technos

Chapter Twelve

It had been a prediction of a high order of probability, and Ruen was not surprised when the acolyte announced Dek Brekla. He came into the room, tense, wary, his eyes glancing from the scarlet figure of the cyber to the package lying on a low table. Ruen remained silent as the acolyte brought the guest a glass of wine. Brekla sipped and nodded.

"Nice," he said. "A good vintage."

Ruen wouldn't have known. To him food and drink were fuel for the mechanism of his body, tasteless substances which kept it operating at an optimum level of efficiency. The wine was kept merely for use by the Technarch and as an offering to guests.

Brekla finished his wine. "I want to talk to you, cyber. Can I be sure as to your discretion?"

His voice was strained, hurried, in direct contrast to Ruen's even modulation.

"You can, my lord."

"You can predict the course of events. I want you to make such a prediction for me. If Vargas were to die what are the chances of my becoming Technarch?" He frowned as Ruen remained silent. "Well? Why don't you answer?"

"Such a prediction is not easy to make, my lord. There are factors which must be taken into consideration and of which I have no present knowledge. The council, while sundered, still remains a viable entity and could unite against you. There could be a question as to the loyalty of your men." Ruen paused then added, "And Vargas is not yet dead. Much can happen in the immediate future to alter the present pattern of potential probabilities."

"Assume the Technarch was to die within the next few hours. What then?"

Ruen said, "Would you care for more wine, my lord?"

"More wine?" Brekla looked at his glass and then at the tall figure of the cyber. "You digress. Why won't you reply to my question?"

"The services of the Cyclan are not given freely to all, my lord. The fees are paid by the Technarch."

"And if I were he?"

Ruen bowed. "In such a case I would cooperate to the full, my lord."

The prediction had materialized just as he'd anticipated and its success brought the only pleasure the cyber could ever know. And yet it had been an elementary problem based on the emotional weakness of greed. Brekla was ambitious and so transparently obvious. He had been given a position of power and wanted more. It could be wise to let him have it. The mounting irrationality of Vargas's behavior was reaching a climax. Already his paranoia had spread to include distrust of the cyber.

"Of course, my lord," said Ruen, "we could, perhaps, reach a compromise. My aid in return for yours."

"You have it," said Brekla quickly. "What is it you want?"

"The man Dumarest."

"The stranger?" Brekla frowned. "Is that all?"

"Yes, my lord. Place him into my hands and I will advise you as to the steps you must take to achieve your ambition." It was a request the cyber had already made to the Technarch and Vargas had abruptly refused. Brekla would not.

"Dumarest," he mused. "He was questioned. You know that?"

"I know it."

Then he was placed in a cell. "You know that also?"

"Yes, my lord. It should not be hard for you to arrange his release. The probability of his attempting to escape is ninety-three percent and so it would be wise to render him unconscious before the cell is opened."

"Your information is out of date." Brekla enjoyed his momentary triumph. "He did escape."

"And was recaptured," said Ruen evenly. "That was inevitable if the Technarch had taken elementary precautions."

"You underestimate the man." Brekla was curious. What possible interest could the cyber have in Dumarest? That he was valuable to the Cyclan was obvious, but why? His restless mind probed the question. Perhaps it would be better for him not to rely on Ruen; if he could act alone he would be free of any obligations.

"The probability of you becoming the new Technarch is thirty-eight percent," said Ruen, as if he had read the other's mind. "That is if you operate alone. If you take advantage of my services the probability will rise to the order of ninety-one point seven. Now tell me about Dumarest. He was recaptured?"

"Finally, yes." Brekla recognized the threat and the promise. "He managed to get from the cell into the hospital. An adjoining chamber in which equipment was kept. Yendhal had it filled with anesthetic gas, and when Dumarest was unconscious, he was taken. The woman who must have aided him had vanished."

"A woman cannot escape from a closed room. It was closed?"

"Yes."

"And guarded?"

"It was watched all the time. Only the man was found." Brekla added, "The door opened once and closed immediately. No one came out. The guards swear to it."

"They were wrong, my lord. It was then the woman must have escaped. There can be no other explanation for her absence." Ruen did not elaborate. The woman was unimportant and could be ignored. Dumarest was another matter. But with Brekla's help he would no longer be a problem. "Can you bring Dumarest to me now?"

"No. Vargas has him safe." Brekla anticipated the cyber's question. "He is going to put him through the labyrinth."

* * *

Vargas stared fretfully at the screen and demanded impatiently, "Why doesn't he get on with it? What's he waiting for? Did you give him full instructions?"

Yendhal was soothing. "Of course, sire. But as yet we have not given him the signal to commence."

"Why not?"

"I am checking his external responses with electronic scanners, sire. The intensity of sweat, heat and emitted odor. The last is most interesting. As you know, an odor is actually minute particles which are translated into smell by a receptive organ. Emotions have recognizable odors. A dog will attack a man in fear and run from one in anger. Dumarest is experiencing neither."

Vargas was thoughtful. "He is not afraid?"

"Not as far as I can determine, sire. His temperature has risen a little but that is to be expected. The human metabolism being a heat mechanism will ready itself for action by consuming more fuel and thus gaining greater energy. He is not sweating which means that he is conserving that energy for later use. He is not afraid which means that he will be that much more efficient. There is a trace of resentment which is natural in any thinking organism forced to operate according to unwelcome dictates." Yendhal pressed a button and watched a flicker of lights. "The labyrinth is fully prepared. I have kept the programming exactly as before but it can, if necessary, be changed according to need."

He was too eager, thought Vargas, too quick to propose changing the system. Was he afraid that a deception might be discovered? Had Yendhal set the dangers too high in order to maintain his position, failing all subjects so as to keep him in suspense?

"There will be no change. I want everything exactly as it has been before."

"As you wish, sire."

"I do wish." Vargas leaned toward the screen and operated a control. "Dumarest, listen to what I say. It is the Technarch who speaks." He saw the small figure lift its head to scan the ceiling, turn to stare at the doors facing the small chamber. "At the signal you will pass through the door as you have been told. Within lie various hazards. Pass them all and you will be given a free pardon, money and passage from Technos. Speak if you understand."

"Go to hell," said Dumarest.

Vargas was a liar and was a fool to imagine that his lies would be believed. And Dumarest had no reason to pander to the inflated ego of the Technarch. He had been treated like a wild animal. Now, completely naked, he faced unknown dangers with his life the penalty for failure. He was in no mood to be polite.

Waiting, he scanned the room. Why were there so many doors? For the purpose of the experiment one should be enough. Were they to delude? To confuse? Or was it simply that this compartment had been built at the junction of many passages and that communication between them was still important?

He dropped, resting his ear against the floor, listening to soft vibrations. A muted thud, a scrape, the dull, repetitious beat of a mechanical heart. The room must be far underground, for the sounds he heard were the pumps of the ventilation system and the movements of attendant guards.

As he rose the light flashed red.

"He isn't going through the door," said Vargas. Anger thickened his voice and made it ugly. "If he refuses to obey I will have him flayed alive."

"He obeys, sire. He is merely being cautious." Yendhal lifted his hand, ready to reset the clock timing the experiment. "Already he is displaying a strong sense of survival. For all he knows danger could threaten from behind."

All the doors other than the designated panel were locked. Dumarest opened it, flung it wide and sprang aside. After a moment he dropped and thrust his head through the opening. The room was empty, a small compartment tapering in the shape of a wedge, the roof curved as if part of a tunnel. Again he listened to the sound of distant pumps and, faintly, caught the whir of fans.

The labyrinth, then, must be within the ventilation system, built in the colossal pipes and hidden from all without specialized knowledge. The special laboratories and operating theaters, too; no wonder Elaine hadn't known about them.

Rising, he turned and headed toward the remaining door.

It opened on a passage three feet wide, curving away to the right, the left blocked by a wall covered with long, pointed spikes. They were set close together, the entire surface a vicious bristle. Dumarest examined them, touching the points and feeling the burr of tiny barbs, the slight discoloration of the metal. A nerve poison, he guessed, an added inducement to stay away from the wall. Turning, he looked the other way. The passage was eight feet high, floor and walls covered with a tessellated design of red and yellow. The roof was luminous and cast a soft, shadowless glow. The curve swung sharply to the left, as if he stood in the hollow rim of a wheel.

He sprang forward as something touched his shoulders, stinging with sharp agony. The spiked wall was moving forward, silent, already beyond the edge of the door. It moved faster as he watched so that he had to back, finally turning again to face the empty passage.

It would contain mechanical traps, snares, devices which would maim or kill. The purpose of the wall was obviously to keep him moving, the spikes to prevent him clinging somehow to the surface. Yet the passage could not be totally impassable, if so there would be no point to the test.

The wall touched him again.

Dumarest ran down the passage. He ran at top speed, feet making a soft slapping noise against the floor, his eyes darting from side to side, every sense taut as he sought for danger. A less determined man would have moved as slowly as the wall allowed, trying to discern hidden traps, becoming confused with doubt and mounting fears. Dumarest was gambling the speed of his body against mechanical delay.

He felt the floor sink a trifle, saw a panel gape and something lash through the air. Behind him came a vicious crack. A whip perhaps? It was possible but he wasted no time on speculation. The sharpness of the curve and the speed of his progress threw him against the right hand wall. It sprouted tendrils, thick strands covered with a gooey slime, catching and hampering his body. He twisted, not touching the snares, moving so as to throw one against the other, creating a tangle from which he jerked free as the wall approached.

It reached the place, moved on, the tendrils sheared from the side of the passage falling to mound in a ball at the foot of the wall. Dumarest ran on.

The curve had grown sharper and he guessed that he was in a spiral, running through a passage curved in on itself. A section of the floor dropped ahead, moving to one side and revealing the gleam of serrated metal teeth far below. From the roof fell a rope. He jumped, caught it, swung himself back and forth over the pit, let go when he had gained momentum enough to reach the far side. The rope fell into the opening, the floor returned, the wall moved relentlessly on.

Dumarest raced ahead of it, gaining time, his brain working with lightning thought. As yet the traps had been simple tests of intelligence, dangerous to a dull intellect but basically easy to avoid. There would have to be others of a different nature. From around the curve came a clang of metal and a deep-throated snarl.

Bars had dropped across the passage. Before them paced a slavering beast. Doglike but with the fangs of a wolf, it glared at Dumarest with savage eyes. Drugged, probably, its natural ferocity enhanced by chemical stimulants, starved and desperate. It crouched, tail lashing, preparing itself to spring. Dumarest was on it before it could leave the ground, his left hand catching the loose skin beneath the snarling jaws, the stiffened blade of his right smashing down through fur, skin, fat and the vertebrae beneath.

Releasing the dead animal, he sprang to the bars blocking the passage. They were an inch thick, close-set and apparently immobile. Turning, he studied the approach of the spiked wall. It seemed to be traveling faster. Swarming up the bars he tested the roof and found it solid. To either side the walls were the same. Dropping he sent his hands over the floor and found a thin crack running to either side. As the spikes of the wall neared his chest the crack widened, the floor swinging down and sending him plummeting into shadows.

He fell ten feet and rose at once, eyes strained against the dimness. He stood in a tiny compartment from which ran two passages. As in the curved one above, they were lit by a dim glow from the roof. He chose the right, running down it until halted by a blank wall. Returning he headed down the other, pausing as it branched, head tilted to catch the slightest sound. From the left came the soft tinkle of water, from the right the gusting sigh of wind. Without hesitation he chose the right-hand passage, running down it past branching openings, turning right again as he reached a junction.

He was in a maze, he realized, a compact labyrinth of blocked passages and blind turns, probably adjustable by remote control and the entire system filled with various dangers.

A labyrinth he had to penetrate in order to save his life.