The Coming Event

CHAPTER TEN

The hold was silent save for the gushing whisper of air from his tanks, Ysanne's voice echoing urgently from the speakers.

"Earl! Earl, answer me! Is anything wrong? I heard odd noises. Earl!"

"Nothing's wrong." She had caught the sounds of combat carried via the diaphragms. He hurried on before she could demand explanations. "Everything's under control here. Can you move the Moira to make direct contact?"

"Maybe, but it wouldn't be wise. That storm I mentioned is building up into something serious. Direct contact means we increase our united mass and invite energy condensation."

"Do what you can. I want things easy for transfer."

"People? Goods?" A pause, then, "How's the generator?"

He left that question unanswered as he doffed the suit. Slashed, it was useless and if the air was contaminated he had already been exposed. Drawing his knife he stepped to where the swordsman lay sprawled and kicked aside the fallen blade. Thirty inches of polished steel, curved like the stamen of a flower, the hilt a continuation of the blade, made of wood elaborately carved. The guard was small, ornate, and from the pommel hung a tassel of yellow silk.

A weapon favored by the Akita of Sardo-had the Galya come from there?

Dumarest rested his left foot on the man's right wrist and, stopping over the figure, used the point of his knife to open an artery. The blood barely welled from the shallow gash, lying dark and turgid in the wound. A sure sign of death; that was a precaution, as had been his silence as to the condition of the generator. If Ysanne knew it had blown and was useless she might be tempted to leave him and run-take the Moira to a close world, sell it and live soft on the proceeds. Twice as soft if Craig was disposed of.

"Earl!" Her voice called from the speakers of the discarded helmet. "Earl, answer me, damn you! Earl!"

The voice faded as he made his way back up the corridor, ears strained, body alert, and he halted to lean against a door. This cabin was empty but showed signs of hasty evacuation; clothing scattered, some rings and vials of perfume lying on the floor. One had broken and the air held the memory of a cloying scent.

In the next cabin he entered lay the body of a man.

He was dressed like the swordsman in an ornate robe, the condition immaculate, the long hair braided and wound in a topknot pierced with a spine of polished wood. His thin hands rested on his chest, the fingers gripping a sword which was the twin to the other. Cosmetics had turned his face into a snarling mask of bestial fury, but beneath the paint it was unravaged.

Next to him, on a small table, rested an empty glass containing the dregs of wine and a locket graced with a familiar symbol. Dumarest looked at the grinning skull, at the glass, then at the dead man. Suicide, but the painted face showed it was not chosen because of any personal sense of disgrace. The man had armed himself, painted himself for war-and had died to combat enemies untouchable on a physical plane.

The rest of the cabins were deserted or locked as was the salon, the control rooms. Dumarest returned to the hold and picked up one of the metal bars. Back at the salon he rammed it between the door and the jamb, heaved, stepped back as it yielded.

At the table sat a ring of statues.

Men and women frozen in the midst of a game, cards in their fingers, chips scattered on the baize. An old woman, gems on her gnarled fingers, cosmetics on her raddled cheeks. A younger woman at her side, hard-faced, hair cropped, dressed in a quilted tunic, pants, calf-high boots. Two others who could have been attendants. A man who had the appearance of a trader. Another who wore the robe of a monk.

The monk sat at the end of the table, cowl thrown back to reveal a face thin but not austere, as if he had seen too much of the harsh side of life; the poverty and deprivation, the disease, the hunger, the despair which stalked all worlds like a corroding miasma. A man who believed in a simple credo and was dedicated to a life of personal sacrifice, he wore no gems; ornaments could buy food for the hungry. He had no pride; that was a luxury beggars could not afford. He had nothing but the conviction that, one day, when all men could look at each other and say, "There, but for the grace of God, go I!" the millennium would have arrived.

He would never live to see it; men bred too fast and spread too quickly, but he would continue to do what he could to ease suffering where he found it. He and his fellows formed the Church of Universal Brotherhood.

Neither he nor the others had looked up when Dumarest had broken open the door. Lost in the magic of quick time, their metabolism slowed to far below normal, they had barely registered the incident. For them normal minutes were but seconds and before they could even see him he had gone.

At the control room Dumarest lifted the bar then, pausing, again tried the door. This time it swung open and he looked into the dim interior lit with the glow of signal lights, the blaze of stars from the screens.

In one of them the Moira loomed close, Ysanne's voice coming from a speaker, edged with sharp impatience.

"Respond, damn you! Calling the Galya! Calling the Galya! Signal if you can hear! Respond!"

Dumarest moved forward and touched a button. "All right, Ysanne, contact established."

"Earl! What-"

"Have Craig come over with a spare suit to collect what he needs." Alone she could never handle the Moira. "I'm in the control room with the captain." Dumarest looked inquiringly at the figure seated in the big chair. "Captain Andre Batrun. We're about to discuss terms of rescue."

Batrun was old, his face lined, his hair a neat crop of silver. He had spent his life in the cold reaches between the stars and now, ripe with experience, faced total ruin.

"Life," he mused. "What is it worth? Without it you have nothing, so, therefore, it must be worth all you possess."

He found this philosophy less than comforting and he took a pinch of snuff from an ornate box and dusted a few grains of the brown powder from his impeccable uniform. Watching him, Dumarest could guess his thoughts.

"Let's talk of salvage," he said. "Your generator is ruined and without it the Galya is useless. Which leaves your cargo and whatever else can be transferred."

"Agreed." Batrun made a small gesture. "I am not a man to expect another to burn atoms, break his journey and take risks for nothing. But I carry passengers and some of the cargo is theirs."

To be forfeited with all else they possessed if Dumarest insisted and they hoped for rescue. These details could be settled later; now he was curious as to what had happened.

"Madness," said Batrun. "Bad luck and, from what happened, sabotage. I'm carrying the Matriarch Su Posta and her party to Jourdan and we had trouble from the beginning. My handler fell sick with an infection which affected his brain and he ran amok. Three died before he could be restrained; then he broke free and headed for the generator. God knows what he intended but, apparently, he tried to open the casing and it blew." He nodded as he saw Dumarest's frown. "I agree. It shouldn't have done that and the only explanation I can think of is that it was booby-trapped in some way, perhaps with a device coupled to a timer which would have done the same job. He anticipated it, that's all."

"And?"

"What can you do when your ship is drifting?" Batrun took a pinch of snuff. "Each make their own arrangements."

Some to die quick and clean by their own hand. Others to settle into a routine, facing extinction as all creatures faced it-the only real difference being the sharpened awareness of time.

"The Akita?"

"A part of the matriarch's retinue. Bodyguards. The one who attacked you had been caught in the fringe of the blast when the generator went."

His flesh reacting to wild radiations, swelling in grotesque cancerous growths, the brain itself distorted to fill the universe with inimical foes.

Dumarest said, "He thought he was being transformed into something wonderful. Well, now, maybe he is. Have you men to help with the transfer?"

"The steward and second engineer. The matriarch might let you use some of her people."

Su Posta was no longer a statue. The drug had been neutralized and she and the others now lived on normal time. She looked up as Dumarest entered her cabin, her eyes hard, imperious. When she spoke her voice held the arrogance of one long accustomed to implicit obedience.

"How long will it be before we are on our way?"

"Not long, my lady."

"That is not answering the question!"

He said quietly, "There are matters to be attended to and details to be arranged. I assure you that-"

"You will be paid," she snapped. "I do not wish to haggle."

"How many are in your retinue?"

"Myself, my granddaughter, two attendants, her governess and, yes, you can include the monk." Her voice took on a new asperity. "Are you intending to charge by the head?"

"I was thinking of transfer. We cannot make direct contact and so will have to transship in sacs. There is nothing to worry about but it can be a little frightening to those inexperienced. A child, say, or-"

"An old woman?"

"Yes, my lady. Some old women."

"But I am not one of them." The concept was almost amusing. She, the Matriarch of Jourdan, afraid! "The governess will accompany my granddaughter, I shall travel alone. The rest can make their own arrangements." Her gesture dismissed them as being of no importance. "Where are you bound?" She did not wait for an answer. "You will take us to Jourdan."

"Perhaps, my lady."

She blinked at his answer and stared at him with sharpened interest. Tall, hard-the way she had liked her men when younger. How she still liked them even if only to look at and keep warm old memories. Figures which held the attribute she so admired, the determination of purpose which was her own strength. But even admiration had to yield to the necessity of being obeyed.

She said, bluntly, "That was an order."

Dumarest was equally blunt. "One you are in no position to give. I command the Moira."

"Must I remind you who I am?"

"I know who you are, my lady. I also know what you are at this present time."

"A person at your mercy, it seems." Her tone was bitter. "Have you come to gloat?"

"I came to ask the use of some of your people to help in the transfer." He added, "The quicker it's done the sooner we can be on our way."

"To Jourdan." It was not a question. "Take me to Jourdan and you will be highly rewarded." Her eyes, deep-set, cold, watchful as those of a snake, searched his face. "Very highly rewarded. You have my word on that."

"Thank you, my lady," said Dumarest. "But I'd prefer it in writing."

Batrun's engineer was a woman, Olga Wenzer, short, brown, her hair grizzled. She watched Craig's deft movements and nodded, recognizing his ability and taking second place.

To Dumarest she said, "I can fill in if needed but you've got a good man there. How about a handler or a steward?"

"Shandhar is carrying on as that."

"A handler, then. Ben's a good steward." She added, "I guess he's glad of the berth. I know I would be."

"I can't pay you."

"You already have. We'd be dead if it weren't for you. A handler, then?"

Dumarest nodded and watched as she walked away to take up her duties. A new member of the crew and a new responsibility to add to the rest. Batrun and the steward and the passengers. One came running toward him as he headed toward the control room; a small bundle of furious energy which threw herself at him to be caught up in his arms and lifted high.

"Lucita!" Her governess shook her head in mock reproof as Dumarest tossed the little girl and set her squealing with laughter. "You spoil her, Earl. The future Matriarch of Jourdan should not be spoiled."

"She's young," said Dumarest. "And very beautiful." This last to the girl herself. "Will you make a good ruler? One who is kind and generous and who knows the meaning of mercy? Of course you will. Hungry? Then why not go and find Olga and ask her to ask Ben to find you something nice to eat? Want to go?"

She nodded, beaming.

"Then go!" He set her on her feet and watched her as she raced away and turned to see the governess looking at him with a strange expression. "Something wrong?"

"No. No it's just that-" She broke off, shaking her head. "You surprise me a little. I would never have thought you to love children."

"Why not?"

Because he looked too hard, too self-centered and because he commanded a ship which was too like a slaver for coincidence. Helga, the girl's bodyguard, relayed these facts and she should know. And yet, remembering how he had won Lucita's heart, she began to have doubts.

Batrun was in the control room, Ysanne at his side. Together they checked the instruments, while in the screens the bulk of the Galya drifted away, driven by the reaction of air released from its tanks. The hull shimmered with spots and twinkles of brightness; a growing scintillation which held a fascinating beauty but which warned of mounting danger.

"The nexus is centering," said Ysanne. "The hulls are acting as magnets and the potential is nearing the lower critical level. If we're going we'd better get started."

Batrun said, "We need to plot a course which will avoid the nexus but take advantage of the peripheral swirl. Can you cut in analogue filters?"

"Sure." Ysanne reached for the controls. "There!"

Space changed, became a thing of streaming colors, stabbing shafts and waves of brilliance. Energy, invisible to the eye, translated into visual light. Glowing masses which moved to coalesce and form nodes and swirls and peaks of wild forces. Radiation, particles of atoms, small furies which accumulated to equal the potential energy contained in a sun.

Dangers swept away from planetary systems by the solar wind, gathering in interstellar space to form a series of destructive hazards.

Dumarest said, "Captain!"

"What is it?" Batrun turned then, remembering, shook his head. "I'm sorry. Old habits die hard. I'm not the captain."

"You could be. I've spoken to the others about it. Ysanne and Craig share partnership with me-you may have heard about it." Ysanne's nod confirmed he had. "You've lost your command but you could get another if you're interested. Are you?"

A question put out of courtesy and Batrun could appreciate the consideration. Few captains survived the loss of a command-death was cleaner than to hang about fields after berths which didn't exist. He was too old to hope for a ship, too poor to buy a part in one, too proud to beg.

"Equal shares," said Dumarest. "And I'm not being generous. You'll earn it-and there's a condition."

"To find Earth," said Batrun. "I know." His eyes moved to the woman. "And after?"

"Does it matter?"

"To me-no." Batrun took snuff, his hand shaking a little as he lifted the powder to his nostrils. "I'd go to hell for the sake of a command. You see, I am honest."

And skilled, as he demonstrated after he had taken his place in the big chair, hands moving as if to caress the padding as he settled in his new environment.

"Engineer?" He listened to Craig's report on the generator. "Navigator?"

"Course selected for Jourdan, Captain." Ysanne matched his formality. "Three-stage flight pattern. First to operate within five seconds from activation."

"Check. Mark!"

Dumarest watched, counting, the blue cocoon of the Erhaft field appearing to envelop them in its protective shimmer as, in the screens, the Galya suddenly crumpled to twisted ruin.