The Coming Event

CHAPTER TWO

In the dream a woman was laughing, a girl with a helmet of golden hair which hugged a face with strong bones, jaw and cheeks and eyebrows all denoting a stubborn strength. The eyes were blue and the mouth thinner than it should have been but the hands she held up before her were those of an artist.

"Look at this, Earl!" The hands moved to pick up a painting and he stared at the depiction of a young boy with thick curly hair and a mouth like a pouting rosebud. A mute he had once known.

"And this!" A portrait of a man sitting at a window staring at distant hills. He was dressed all in grey with the hilt of a knife riding above his right boot and the mark of a killer stamped in the set of mouth and eyes.

"And this!" An old crone seated on a box adorned with esoteric symbols.

"And these! These, damn you! These!"

She thrust out hands that were crushed and broken, blood oozing from ripped nails, more from ruptured ligaments, wrists puckered with gaping mouths of agony.

"Earl! Earl!"

The voice faded, ending in a blaze of white then returning again in a tone not belonging to the woman standing at his side.

"Earl! What is wrong? You were screaming, crying out." Pausing, Althea Hesford added, "You sounded almost like a woman."

The dream woman had been Carina Davaranch whom he had taken and used with the magic of the affinity twin. To send her to torture and final death. Did a ghost remember? Could the dead mourn the broken hands which made it impossible to paint?

"Earl?"

"It's nothing." Dumarest reared to sit upright in the bed. "A dream. A nightmare. It isn't important."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, closing his eyes, seeing again the face framed in the helmet of golden hair. He had dominated her mind and she had died and he had returned to his own body-had a part of her returned with him?

"The Council is meeting," said Althea. "I came to warn you. I thought you'd need time to prepare. And I thought you'd like this."

She had brought a tray containing a pot of tisane together with small cakes, some spiced, others with the flavor and consistency of ground nuts. Dumarest poured a cup of tisane and sat nursing it, inhaling the fragrant steam as he waited for it to cool.

Sitting down beside him, Althea said, "It isn't going to be easy, Earl. The young want you to lead them but the Elders are against it. If we could force a vote I think you'd win, but a full referendum will take time to arrange and delay could cost you the advantage."

Politics-the curse of civilization. Dumarest tasted the tisane and found it cool enough to swallow. It filled his mouth and stomach with a scented warmness and, rising, he headed into the bathroom to shower. Dried, he returned to the bedroom and dressed. Althea watched him with wide-spaced, luminous green eyes, the copper mane of her hair accentuating the delicate pallor of her face. She wore gold, a high-necked gown which fell to below her knees and was caught at the waist with a belt of heavy links. Against the fabric the contours of breasts and hips were sharply delineated. The skirt, slit at one side, revealed the long curves of her thigh at every second step.

A lovely woman but she had never known the tribulations of a normal world.

"Earl!" She barred his passage as he headed toward the door. "Good luck, darling."

Her kiss held a smoldering passion, which he had shared in the past and would share again, but now Dumarest had more urgent matters to attend to. Outside he turned left and moved down a spacious corridor to a flight of stairs. At its foot a group of young people saluted him. Some he recognized. One, Medwin, he knew well.

"We're with you, Earl," Medwin said. "If you want help just ask for it. If it needs force to kick the Council into action we can provide it."

"Guide us to the Event, Earl!" called another. "Lead us to Earth!"

Earth was the paradise they dreamed of, the world of eternal peace and happiness where all things would be given for the asking, the place of floating cities and soaring towers of crystal and benign Shining Ones, of pools into which the old and ugly could bathe to become young and beautiful. A planet of fantasy, fabricated by dreams, composed of eternal longings; it had never existed but they would never believe that. They, all of the Terridae, longed for the Event-the time when they would find Earth, the imagined heaven.

And they were convinced Dumarest could take them to it.

A conviction he'd helped to foster, for here, in the Archives and in the minds of those now dreaming in their caskets, must surely lie the clues he needed to find the planet of his birth.

There was no day in Zabul, no night; the collection of empty hulls and constructed spaces all united into an airtight whole circled no sun. Illumination came from artificial sources; a blue-white glow rich in ultraviolet coupled with warm reds and oranges which gave the illusion of sunrises and sunsets. Only in private chambers was it ever wholly dark. And, everywhere, on walls and ceilings and inset into floors, was the depiction of life in all its forms.

Those in the council chamber were of fish; the denizens of watery deeps together with rocks and weed and convoluted shells. The walls themselves, carefully shaped and painted, resembled an undersea dome. Those sitting at the table seemed as cold as the water itself; old, sere, bitter with eyes like fragments of yellowed ice. These were the Elders of the Terridae, the Council of Zabul, and studying them, Dumarest was aware of a change. The last time he had stood before them they had been his judges-now they had been judged, weighed in the balance and found wanting.

Urich Volodya had held the scales.

He stepped forward as Dumarest glanced toward him, tall, conscious of his power but knowing better than to display it. Volodya had recognized his opportunity and seized it, using Dumarest and his claim to gain the support of the young. He now made his position clear.

"Earl Dumarest, given the opportunity will you guide the Terridae to Earth?"

"The opportunity and the means-yes."

"Your needs?"

"Access to all records. The power to question all of the Terridae. The right to requisition all necessary labor and material."

Volodya said dryly, "Is that all? It seems you ask to become a dictator."

"If you want a man to do a task it is pointless to deny him the means to do it. I suggest you make that clear to the Council."

"There is no longer a Council of Zabul. Those forming it have agreed to retire to their caskets. Instead there will be a committee of seven with myself at the head. These changes have been forced on us by various pressures," he explained. "To resist them would have been to invite disaster. In their wisdom the retiring Council recognized that."

Aided by the persuasion of the guards under Volodya's command. As the only organized force in Zabul their arguments would have been irresistible.

Dumarest said, "A wise move. I commend it. The committee, naturally, will be formed to represent the whole. Two of the young, two of the old and two from the middle-age group. The sexes equally divided. Is Althea Hesford one of the committee?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"She's deserved the appointment." Dumarest met Volodya's eyes. "Do you agree to my conditions?"

"As long as you do not endanger Zabul or the Terridae you will have a free hand. Althea Hesford will provide liaison." Volodya added, "I suggest you avoid all unnecessary delay."

Do it quickly-it would have to be that.

Like a city, Zabul had grown. The original concept bore additions which had overlaid the smooth ovoid dotted with spires into the bizarre assembly it now was: a compilation which held elements of lunacy.

Why did this passage turn to twist in on itself like a corkscrew? What had dictated the placement of this chamber? From where did this installation draw its power? How did this compartment harmonize with its twin?

Such details filled endless charts, maps, intricate schematics over which Dumarest pored for hours on end.

Althea grew impatient.

"Why do it. Earl?" she demanded. "What is the point? All you need do is issue orders and others will see they are carried out. There's no need for you to know every detail of Zabul."

She stood against one wall of the chamber he had made his office, the copper sheen of her hair bright against a scene of muted storm. The emerald of her gown matched the hue of her eyes.

Dumarest said, "How long have you waited for the Event?"

"All my life. Why?"

"And others?"

"As long-longer." She frowned, understanding his meaning. "You're telling me not to be impatient, is that it?"

"Yes."

"All right, I'll be patient, but I still can't see the need for all this." Her gesture embraced the papers lying thick on the long table at which he sat. "What are you looking for?"

The answers to questions she hadn't even imagined and Dumarest was cautious in his explanations. To tell her he was familiarizing himself with a potential battleground would be to strain her new-formed loyalty, and even if she said nothing Volodya was too shrewd not to scent a mystery. Once alerted he would move to safeguard his position and, from then, it would be a logical step to remove the source of potential danger.

That confrontation Dumarest hoped to avoid but he wanted to be ready to meet it if it came.

Now he said, "I was hoping to find an easy way to reach Earth. In the old days Zabul could be moved as an entire unit." He reached for a schematic and tapped various points with a finger. "See? These are the generators and this was the original navigation room and here would have been the computer installation. The captain would have operated from here. You see?"

"I think so." She bit her lip as she tried to visualize familiar installations with their prime intention. "Could it still be done?"

"I don't think so. Who should I ask to be certain?"

His name was Ivan Quiley; he was no longer young but was too interested in machines to idle away his life in casket-given dreams. He shook his head as Dumarest asked the question.

"No, Earl, it can't be done."

"Too many extensions?"

"You've hit it. The scope of the Erhaft field will no longer embrace all of Zabul. Even if we adjusted the conduits to feed maximum power into the generators the damage would be too great."

"And if the generators should be resited?"

"In theory almost anything will work," said Quiley dryly. "Move the generators, establish coordinated control systems and boost the power. Yes, it could be done, but it would need time and labor and material. Say the full efforts of all technicians for a couple of years at the very least."

Time he didn't have. Dumarest said, "Would it be possible to reach a compromise? I'm thinking of a field-jump effect."

Althea said, "What's that? I don't understand."

"A temporary application of the Erhaft field." Quiley didn't look at her. "Use it and you can move a short distance in space before the synchronization fails. It's possible, yes. As I said, most things are possible."

"I'm talking of days," said Dumarest. "A few weeks at the most. Supposing Zabul ran into danger-what then?"

"We're in a selected drift node," explained Quiley. "There's no gravitation drag to draw us to any world or sun. We could stay in this position until the universe ran down. Once it was established and proved there was no need for us to move." He added, almost as an afterthought, "Of course we have defenses."

Installations which could send missiles to vaporize any threatening scrap of debris. Men trained to working in void conditions. Teams which could disperse to defend Zabul from unwanted visitors.

That was the best Dumarest could hope for. Rising, he said, "Check on all equipment and keep it on operational alert. Double the observers and arrange for alternative sources of power to all essential installations."

Quiley grunted as he made notes. Without looking up from his memo pad he said, "I'll recheck the possibility of locating the generators in more favorable positions. Maybe, if we cut down some of the extensions and ran wave-grids down passages 27 through to 92, the field could be extended for a short-term use at least. I'll see to it."

As he left Althea said, "He's on your side, Earl. Most of the technicians are."

"Most?"

"Some want to hang on to the old ways. They think you threaten their importance. Once we reach Earth what will they have to do?"

Dumarest left the question unanswered; the anxieties of potentially redundant technicians were the least of his worries.

Always Zabul held sound; the muted susurration of trapped vibrations echoing and harmonizing to form a medley which could be translated by the imagination into subtle music, mathematical sequences or abstract resonances. A noise not even noticed by those accustomed to it, but now it held something new. A harsh, martial sound which grew as Dumarest neared the gymnasium, to flower into cries, the clash of metal and stamp of feet, the harsh yells of command from the instructors he had trained.

"In! Get in there! Attack! Delay could cost you victory!"

On the cleared floor two dozen men faced each other in a dozen pairs. Each was naked aside from shorts, all armed with a short bar of metal; dummy knives held sword-fashion, thumb to the blade and point held upward. Many carried ugly weals and dark bruises. One had a broken nose; dried blood masking mouth and chin. Several bore trails of blood from lacerated scalps.

"Horrible!" At his side Althea voiced her disgust. "Earl, is this necessary? To turn men into beasts?"

"You would rather they died?"

"Who is to hurt them? Earth is a haven of peace. They have no need to train as butchers."

Dumarest said patiently, "I've explained all that. Before we can enjoy your haven of peace we have to get there. Others might object." He lifted his voice as the men prepared to reengage. "Erik! Hold the action!"

Medwin came toward him, smiling, face and torso beaded with sweat. A long scrape ran over his ribs and a bruise rested over his navel.

"Earl! Glad you could drop in. What do you think of our progress?"

The truth would have been cruel and they were not to blame for their ignorance. Even Volodya's guards knew little of martial arts, relying on acceptance of their authority more than their skill with club and gas-gun.

Reaching out Dumarest touched the long scrape, the mottled bruise.

"If you'd fought for real you'd be dead by now. And so would most of those others down there. Here, let me show you."

Stripped, Dumarest joined the others and, watching, Althea noted the differences. Not just his superior height or the hard musculature of his body but his stance, the feral determination which dictated every move. Beneath the lights the tracery of cicatrices on his torso made a lacelike pattern, scars earned during the early days of his youth when he had learned the skill he was now trying to pass on.

"You!" He pointed to a man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, who was as yet unmarked. "Ready? Attack!"

Kirek was confident, proud of his physical development, eager to score. He blinked as his thrust met no resistance, grunted as metal slammed against his side, backed as the bar darted toward him to halt with the point touching his throat.

"Let's do it again," said Dumarest.

This time he stood, waiting arms outstretched at his sides. A tempting target and, smarting with his recent defeat, Kirek rushed in.

To stumble as Dumarest moved deftly aside, to fall as, pushed, he tripped over an outthrust foot.

"You've got a choice," said Dumarest as the man climbed to his feet. "You can make excuses or you can admit you need to learn. If you want to make excuses then you've no place here."

"You were fast," muttered Kirek. "So damned fast I didn't see you move."

"Well?"

"I-" Kirek swallowed, then threw back his shoulders. "I guess I need to learn."

"Good. The first thing to bear in mind is that this isn't a game. When you face a man, armed or not, recognize the fact that he wants to kill you. It's your life or his. If you want to stay alive you have to hit first, hit hard and make the blow tell. To hesitate is to give your opponent an advantage. To aim to hurt and not to kill, the same. To do either is to invite death." To Kirek he said, "What did you do wrong?"

"I rushed in. You looked too easy. I guess I underestimated you."

"And maybe you wanted to show off a little right?" Dumarest smiled, removing the sting from the rebuke. "It's a natural reaction. Now let's do it again and this time remember what I said."

This time he made no concessions, crouching in a fighter's stance, poised on the balls of his feet, the bar of metal held before him, point upward, the metal slanted to one side. Had it been a real knife the hold would have given the opportunity to slash in a variety of directions, to thrust, to turn so as to catch and reflect the light. His face matched the stance, falling unconsciously into the bleak mask of a man determined to kill, fighting for his life.

Kirek tried to copy him, a tyro against a veteran, but he had the elements and was willing to learn.

Dumarest opened the encounter, doing as he would never have done in a ring, moving to touch his dummy knife against the other's and by so doing presenting him with an opportunity.

One he took, moving in to knock Dumarest's bar aside with his own weapon before lunging forward in a vicious thrust.

Metal rang as Dumarest parried, striking back in turn, the slash deliberately slow and falling short by an inch. Kirek parried the proffered weapon, cut at Dumarest's stomach, missed and, too late, tried a backhanded slash. He grunted as Dumarest weaved, dodging the attack to slap his own bar of metal against Kirek's side.

"I win," said Dumarest. "Resent it?"

"No, of course not, but-"

"You were good," said Dumarest. "And you can be better. All it needs is practice. But you're all trying to rush things. Erik!"

"Earl?"

"Keep them at basic drill for a while. You've matched them too soon. Wait until they have mastered the basic movements and can do them without conscious thought. Then have them go through routine attacks and parries. If they learn bad habits now they'll be hard to get rid of later." He added, seeing the shadow in the young man's eyes, "But you've done well. Far better than I'd hoped for. You're just a little too impatient."

"Can you blame us for that?"

"No, but it takes time to train a man. Once you've taught these they can teach others. That goes for all of you." He glanced at the men, the other instructors. "Just don't try to run before you can walk."

The noise rose again as, dressed, Dumarest walked with Althea from the gymnasium. In a small enclosure filled with plants and heavy with the scent of flowers she halted and sat on a bench.

As he joined her she said, "You were kind in there, Earl. You could have made Alva look a fool."

"Alva?"

"The man you fought. Alva Kirek. He is Volodya's nephew. You didn't know that?"

Dumarest shook his head; the relationships of the Terridae were a mystery to him, but he saw no point in solving it. Marriage, family life, personal loyalties-all must be strange when conducted among those who spent the major part of their lives in ornamented caskets waiting for the culmination of a dream.

"You were kind," said Althea again. "Against you he was slow and clumsy and you could have made him a laughingstock. The lesson might have done him good."

Dumarest said, "It never pays to make an enemy. I want that man on my side not against me." This was a slip and he cursed the fatigue which had led him to make it. "We need dedicated men," he said. "Those who will be willing to endure hardship."

"Men willing to kill?"

"Men willing to fight," he corrected. "To reach out for what they want. To destroy those who try to stop them."

"Violence."

"Protection." He turned to face her, looking at the face blurred in the dim illumination, the wide, luminous pools of her eyes. "Without it what do you have? The trust that others will not harm you? The hope you will be ignored and left to go your own way? Your ancestors knew better. They knew that all life is a continual act of violence. Why else did they build Zabul?"

"As a haven."

"True, but an armed one. In the beginning it was a fortress designed to safeguard the Terridae in their caskets. How else to ensure protection from fire and flood and war? From quakes and natural hazards? Where better to wait as the years drifted by and the Event came nearer? But they weren't prepared just to wait. The original plans make it clear what they intended."

"But we bred," she said. "Grew in numbers-can we be blamed for that?"

"You made a choice. The Terridae wanted children and, losing the initial drive, became apathetic. Zabul was designed to be moved-why else but in order to search for Earth?"

"The Event will happen," she said uncertainly. "That is what we believe."

"It will happen," he promised. "I'm going to see that it does. But I can't do it alone. And it must be done fast."

"I know Volodya said that, but he will be reasonable. The committee will see to that. He-"

"I'm not talking of Volodya."

"What then?" Her eyes widened. "The Cyclan? But Lim is dead. You destroyed the Saito."

Dumarest leaned back, closing his eyes, seeing again the white gush of searing flame from the pyre his bomb had created, which had destroyed the cyber and reduced the ship to a cloud of expanding, incandescent vapor. That battle was won, but the war continued and he knew the forces of the Cyclan must be on their way.

When would they arrive?

Too much time had been wasted while Volodya had made up his mind to throw his weight on the winning side. There had been too many arguments, manipulations, indecisions. The dead weight of inertia had forced him to move slowly when every nerve had screamed for haste. The young had needed to be convinced, their support assured. The Council had to be weakened by subtle innuendo. A dreaming race had to be shaken into wakeful acceptance of the imminence of their destiny.

The work had sapped his stamina and clogged his mind with fatigue and toxins, which introduced the danger of a careless tongue-already he had made one slip which the woman had seemed to ignore. How many others had escaped him due to impatience and frustration?

A balancing act, he thought, feeling himself sink deeper into a semi-doze. To push and yet to appear to be only a reluctant follower. To urge and suggest and persuade and never, ever, to appear more than helpful. As a stranger he would be resented despite open denials. Those who would accept promises and glittering images of the splendid future about to come would gibe at the work necessary to achieve it.

Dreamers-he was trapped in a world of dreamers. Easy prey for the Cyclan when they came unless, first, he could form his own defenses. If Volodya would allow him to. Unless the newly formed committee grew too fond of personal authority.

But that was a knife edge he had to walk if he was ever to find Earth.