The Coming Event

CHAPTER SIX

Dumarest stirred, tasting blood, conscious of the ache in his head, the dull agony of his left arm. He blinked, clearing his vision of residual glare, remembering the surge of transmitted vibration, the crashing impact of debris against his body and the back of his helmet. An impact which had slammed the faceplate hard against the surface. Listening to the gush of air, he felt the transparency, finding it uncracked. The air loss was due to another cause and he found it-a jagged rip beneath his left shoulder. A place almost impossible to reach with his one good arm.

Rolling he pressed the rip hard against the surface, blocking the flow while he stripped an adhesive wafer from the pack on his thigh. A lift and with an effort which sent blood roaring in his ears he managed to partially block the escape of air. Another wafer and the gushing roar eased a little. A third, spread on the surface over which he rolled, made the best repair he could manage.

Not good enough.

Too much air had gushed from his tanks as the regulator had tried to maintain internal pressure. Now, like a savage eye, the warning light was flashing from the gauge in his helmet.

"Attention all Corpsmen," he said into the radio. "Report!"

He heard nothing but the empty wash of static. Trying to contact the technicians produced the same result; the blow which had sent him to the verge of oblivion had damaged the radio. Rising, Dumarest looked around.

The pod had vanished, the equipment which had stood around it, the men working on the skin. The scintillating fury of the thermal paste was now nothing but a tenuous mass of dispersing vapor high in space where it had been blown by the rush of escaping air as it had burned through to the inner compartments.

Vellani was dead. He lay sprawled on the metal, his blank visor turned up toward the stars, face hidden beneath the opacity. But there was no need to see his face-the long, jagged shard of metal which had penetrated his suit despite the armor told its own story. The crude spear had smashed through heart and lungs to transfix the man as if he'd been an insect on a pin.

Had Dumarest been on the other side of the man it would be he now lying dead. Luck-for Vellani all of it bad.

Within his helmet the flashing red light steadied to erupt in a final warning glow. The last dregs of air had been fed from his tanks and Dumarest knew his life was now measured in minutes. He felt cold and could still hear a faint hiss, but this was not the comforting sound from the regulator but the lethal note of escaping air. To survive he had to reach a lock and get inside.

He turned, swaying, trying to orient himself. The lock he had used to reach the surface lay far back below the near horizon. Too far to travel in his present condition. There had to be another, closer, but where?

Dumarest sucked air into his lungs, held it while he forced himself to concentrate. His left arm hung limp at his side, broken or numbed, and the taste of blood in his mouth had grown stronger. Details he ignored as he scanned the area, aligning it with data culled from maps and charts. The nearest lock was over to his right below the curve of the surface. He must reach it or die.

Dumarest swung his right hand behind him, caught his left wrist and dragged the useless arm up and across his back. The soft hiss of escaping air faded as the constriction pressed against the rent. Carefully he stepped forward, stooping low, fighting the temptation to run.

To race was to lose-extra exertion would use up the remaining oxygen too fast. Yet to go too slowly was to invite destruction. If he tried to spring he could break free of the gravity zone to die helplessly in the void. Yet to crawl was to waste the seconds remaining.

Remembering Kunel, Dumarest began to lope.

It was a trick the surface worker had known and had used to run to his death. Now there was no enemy waiting with a gun but, equally, there was no body of experience on which to call. He had to lope, remaining low, not moving too fast yet using all the energy he could spare to throw himself over the surface toward the lock which spelled safety. Moving faster than a walk yet slower than a run, he fought to maintain his balance, to conserve his air, to remain alert as oxygen lack began to dull his mind and distort his judgment.

The lock rose before him, a cylindrical protuberance which swung against the backdrop of stars and blurred to take on the shape and form of a soaring pinnacle rising at an incredible distance over an endless plain. As illusion which yielded to another as Dumarest tripped to land heavily, pain stabbing from his arm, darkness edging his vision. Before him the cowled shape which the lock had become raised a hand to beckon, to turn into a crouching predator, to become a spined and wavering shape set in an eternity of sand.

Delirium. Hallucinations born in a tormented brain as he rose to forge on, feeling the pain from his bitten cheek, the taste of fresh blood mingling with that of old.

Again Dumarest fell, releasing the grip on his left wrist and feeling the sudden chill as air gushed from the opened vent, a signal which triggered the innate determination to survive which motivated his being. Rising, lungs burning, a red tide rising to tinge the universe with the hue of blood, he staggered forward into the embrace of the lock. A moment later he slammed his hand against the control, feeling the movement, falling forward as he was rotated into the inner compartment.

To fall, retching for air, as hands tore the helmet from his head.

"Commander!" Medwin stared at him, eyes wide, face shocked. "I thought you were dead!"

"Here!" A surface technician, more practical, thrust a mask beneath Dumarest's face. "Breathe deep, Commander. Deeply, now."

Life returned with the rush of pure oxygen and with it the pain. His arm, the bitten cheek, the throbbing in his head, the raw agony of his lungs. Dumarest coughed, spat blood, swallowed more.

The technician said, "You're going down to medical, Commander. You've sucked vacuum and those lungs need treatment."

"Later." Dumarest looked at Medwin. "What are you doing here, Captain? Get some men and go out searching. Your comrades could need you."

"They're dead, Commander. All dead."

"You can't be sure of that." Dumarest sucked more oxygen into his lungs, the gas seeming to be acid boiling within his chest. Pain sharpened his tone. "I wasn't. Others could be lying out there this minute. Hurt. Waiting for help. Get out there, damn you! Get out and look!"

"Steady, Commander." The technician adjusted the flow of oxygen. "Just take things easy."

"Use the radio," snapped Dumarest. "Men could have been thrown into the void when the fireball was blasted from the surface. Count heads. I want every man accounted for. Bring them all inside. Understand? All of them."

Medwin said, dubiously, "The enemy too?"

"All of them!"

"Better do it," said the technician. Then, to Dumarest, "All right, Commander. Let's get you down to the infirmary."

Sneh Thome finished checking the dressing and, straightening, said, "You were lucky, Earl. A damned sight luckier than most."

"Tell me."

"Those young fools didn't stand a chance. They went out there and most of them stayed. A few made it back and some managed to stay unhurt. The rest-" He broke off, his gesture expressive. "Soldiers," he added bitterly. "The glory of war."

"There is no glory in war," said Dumarest. "There's only death and pain and destruction. But those men weren't soldiers. They weren't fools either. They had the guts to go out and do what had to be done to protect your nice, snug little world. Did Alva Kirek make it back?"

"No. Not alive if that's what you mean. Did you have a special interest in him?"

Alive he would have been arrested, charged, tried and executed for having incited the mutiny which had created such havoc. Dead he was no longer a problem Dumarest had to deal with.

Rearing upright in the bed he threw his legs over the edge and looked at his arm. The bicep was bulky with a transparent dressing.

"The bone was broken," explained Thorne. "I've fixed it and you've been under slow time-three weeks subjective-so if you feel hungry you know why. You can use the arm if you want to, but it would be best to use a sling for a while." He gestured to where it lay together with Dumarest's clothing. "You also had concussion and vacuum-burned lungs. That pure oxygen must have burned like hell. Well, it's all fixed now and you can leave when you want." He added bitterly. "Leave to spread your infection."

"Meaning?"

"I spoke of it before, remember? You're like a virus. What you touch turns bad. You encourage violence. Those young men who died out there. The ones who came back more dead than alive. If you hadn't been here would it have happened?"

Dumarest said softly, "If you had never been born could you ever die?"

"What has that to do with it?"

"Things are what they are. Life isn't gentle. Did you think it was?"

"No," admitted Thorne. "And I know what you're getting at. Althea told me and, as a medical man, I must agree. The process of life is a continual act of violence, but does that mean man has to kill man?"

"If it is in order to defend himself-yes."

"But-"

"You blame me for those who died," said Dumarest. "You should blame yourselves. They were raw, untrained, totally unused to combat. I did what I could but it wasn't enough. Faced with cold reality they lost their heads and paid the penalty. That's what life is all about. The survival of the fittest. You win or you lose. You live or you die."

"Kill or be killed," snapped Thorne. "Is that it?"

"An organism must protect itself."

"Or fall prey to another." Thorne shook his head. "Man, you don't belong here. You preach the law of the jungle."

The jungle the race had never left. Which accompanied every man and woman all the days of their lives no matter where they lived or how. The basic rule of survival, ignored, spelled extinction.

Dumarest rose and dressed and lingered for a moment before stepping from the room. Outside Althea was waiting, her eyes widening as she saw the sling supporting his left arm.

"It's nothing." He smiled so as to relieve her anxiety. "Just a little soreness. What's been happening?"

"Too much." Her face was drawn, fatigue creasing the soft skin around her eyes. "The committee has been in session for hours and there have been urgent matters to attend to. Volodya has taken over, a virtual dictator-on the grounds of necessity, he claimed. Brandt was with him as were Lijert and Stanton. Prideaux objected but was beaten at the vote when Towitsch sided with Volodya. So there it is." The gesture of her hands was one of defeat. "It's been a long day, Earl."

Hours which for him had been weeks, but he had been resting drugged and unconscious, fed by artificial means while she had had to face the opposition alone.

Dumarest said, "What of the Corps?"

"I don't know."

"The men who went outside with me? What is the position?" Thorne could have lied. "I know Medwin is alive but who else?"

She said, "You had five teams each of a dozen men and each with its own captain. Of the five Medwin and Quiley are still alive though Quiley was hurt. Of the men eighteen returned alive and a dozen of them are injured. Half will be lucky to make it."

Those losses had to have an adverse effect on morale. No wonder Thorne had been so bitter. Dumarest said, "What of the others?"

"The enemy? None were found alive."

Or if alive had not lived long. That was a possibility but Dumarest discounted it; the Terridae were too gentle for ruthless murder. "Their bodies?"

They were down near the reclamation plant, stretched in a ragged line, stripped of their suits and looking like broken and discarded dolls. A half-dozen of them, more than Dumarest had expected. Hard-faced men bearing a common stamp. Mercenaries, trading in war, selling their skills and obedience to any willing to pay. Vellani lay to the far end, his hair cropped to form a dark cap over a peaked skull. His face was broad, the mouth cruel, a scar running over one cheek. A proud man who wore his name blazoned on the black and gold of his uniform. A wolf and the leader of wolves.

"From Sorkendo," said Althea when Dumarest glanced at her. "We searched them and found papers from that world. Some bills, a program to a local spectacle, some stamped photographs of women."

"Vellani?"

"Nothing. His pockets were empty aside from a medical pack containing a variety of drugs and some packs of narcotic gum." She added, "He carried a Taser in a sleeve holster and wore heavy rings."

The mark of a professional. Dumarest said, "He was the leader and the others must have been recently hired for the job. From Sorkendo?"

"According to their papers. It's a world lying toward the Zaragoza Cluster. I could find out how far if you want."

But that was academic. The men had come and been defeated; now other problems remained. Had they comrades in space? How long would they wait? Who had hired them and why?

The last question at least he could answer. Who but the Cyclan wanted to hunt him down?

Althea said, "One other thing, Earl. Those ships we saw which vanished-they've come back. Volodya has invited one to land."

It hung in space inching gently toward the port, smooth, sleek, obviously well-maintained. A free-trader which had been adapted and Dumarest could guess why. At his side as he watched it in the screen Volodya said, "The Moira commanded by Captain Pendance. I thought it best to permit him to land and discuss the situation."

"You must have had a long talk."

"Long enough."

"For what? To be conned? Where is the other ship? Waiting out there ready to blast Zabul to scrap if the Moira is threatened?"

"There is no other ship," said Volodya. "It's gone. We deal with Captain Pendance alone."

An illusion and he was a fool if he believed it, but Dumarest sensed that Volodya was acting with calculated intent. Sensed too the augmented aura of power he wore, which was betrayed in his stance, the tilt of his head, the tone of his voice-the trappings of arrogance bora of the knowledge of total command.

Volodya had gained that command while Dumarest had been under sedation and, with a gambler's instinct, Dumarest knew he held a losing hand.

"I think we should greet them," said Volodya as the ship reached the lock. "It would be a courteous gesture and I do not want them in Command. Major!" He looked expressionlessly at Dumarest as Medwin entered and snapped to attention. "Is the lock area sealed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then conduct us to meet our visitors." An illustration of power neatly done. Dumarest looked at the young man now wearing the uniform of Volodya's guards.

"So you're a major now. Congratulations on the promotion."

Medwin stared past him, his face twitching. "Don't feel bad about it." Dumarest adjusted the sling on his left arm. "We all have to look after ourselves and a smart man knows when it's time to change sides. Keep going as you are and, soon, you may even reach the top." He added, looking at Volodya, "That's when your troubles really begin."

"The door," snapped Volodya. "Hurry, Major-our visitors will be waiting."

They stood within the lock area, five of them, four wearing tough, practical clothing, the other dressed in ornate finery. He stepped forward as Volodya approached, lifting a hand heavy with rings, gems catching and reflecting the light in dancing shimmers as, gesturing, he smiled.

"This is a pleasure, sir. Captain Pendance at your service. And this is the gentleman we spoke of? Again my pleasure. I am certain we can all be friends."

Dumarest said, "What do you want?"

"Want?" Pendance glanced at Volodya then back at Dumarest. "Why, just to talk a little. To clear up certain misunderstandings To share a rare and costly wine. Bisdon! The wine for our hosts. Use the special glasses. Made of Surrentian crystal," he explained as one of his men produced a box and took out a bottle. "It touches the lips like a passionate kiss. I bore you?"

"No wine," said Dumarest. "Not for me." Then, speaking to Medwin and the other guards rather than the visitors, he said, "I assume you've come to discuss the matter of compensation and to make apologies for your wanton and unprovoked attack on this world and its people. How many died, Volodya? I'm sure you have the figure. Something like six dozen, wasn't it? And another score badly injured. Call it a hundred casualties. How much a head do you offer, Captain Pendance?"

The figure was exaggerated but the captain couldn't argue and for Volodya to protest would make him appear to be diminishing the importance of the losses.

Pendance said, "Offer? I fail to understand."

"Then start with an apology. At least pretend to regret your men attacked Zabul."

"You assume too much!" For a moment Pendance's facade dropped to reveal a little of the true man beneath. Not a decorated fop but someone who was cruel and vicious and a stranger to mercy. Then he was smiling again and the moment had passed. "I understand your attitude but, believe me, I am innocent. It was the other ship which launched the attack. It was their men you killed-they are dead, are they not? A pity. Under interrogation they would have cleared me of suspicion." Then, to Volodya, "But to get back to the matter at hand, sir. Shall we drink a little wine to seal our bargain?"

"No wine." Volodya looked at Dumarest. "I've no choice," he said. "Surely you can see that?"

"A man always has a choice."

"Not in this case. Captain?"

"The weakness of a man lies in love," said Pendance. He accepted a glass from his aide and lifted it to show the golden fluid it contained. The wine was held in the glass shaped like an upturned hand, which seemed to quiver as if with a life of its own. "Beautiful, is it not? The work of genius and the wine matches the glass. If you knew me better you would realize how high is my regard for you that I offered to share it. To your health, sir." Looking at Volodya he took a sip. Then, to Dumarest, "To your health."

"You spoke of love."

"Ah, yes, so I did." Pendance touched a scrap of fabric to his lips. "The love of things, Earl. The love of a woman. But, above all, the love of authority. For such a love a man will forget his pride. He will kill, steal, betray a friend. How much easier, then, it would be for him to rid himself of a rival."

"Me?"

"You are a man of discernment. But can you blame him? You, the victor of the recent unpleasantness, must surely pose a threat. The young love courage and acts of heroism performed under staggering difficulties. We know better but we have had time in which to learn. Time, the enemy of us all." He lifted his free hand as, again, he sipped at his wine. A gesture which seemed to command silence as it drew attention. "A rare moment," he said as he lowered the glass. "Good things should be savored to the full. Wine, a meal, a woman." He laughed with a strange cacophony. "Even a fight. At times I think combat alone can teach what lies within a man. The scent of blood, the touch of pain, the sight of death-and the weaklings run."

They change sides as Medwin had done, persuaded by Volodya's arguments, Thome's hatred of violence and, even, his own fears. The reality of war had changed more than one strutting braggart into a wincing coward.

How many of the Corps had followed his example?

Dumarest turned, fumbling with his sling but keeping his free hand in full view. The guards ringing the area contained faces he recognized but to appeal to them would be a waste of time. They would accept Volodya's authority. Obey his orders. Carry out his commands. Later, as he must have told them, he would lead them to the Event.

Later-a thousand years, perhaps. He would be in no hurry.

"The wine," said Pendance. "I really must insist you take some wine. Bisdon! Give him a glass-and make sure he holds it in his left hand."

Dumarest waited until the man came close then drew back the sling to show his empty fingers. They rested lax in the fabric and the man had to push the glass between them.

"That's better." Pendance smiled his satisfaction. "Who knows what a hidden hand could hold? I have no wish to harm you, Earl, but-"

"I know. Try anything and you'll burn my legs off at the knees. My arms at the elbows. I've heard it all before."

"Yet managed to remain intact. You're a most unusual person and we must talk at length later when on our way."

"To where?"

"Does it matter? Let us just say that certain mutual acquaintances are eager for your company and are willing to pay highly for the privilege."

"And if I offered more?"

Regretfully Pendance shook his head. "You would only waste time. There are certain ethical considerations, you understand. And our mutual friends are not to be trifled with. I suggest you drink your wine and put an end to what could become an awkward situation. No guest should outstay his welcome and I'm sure your host would be reluctant to use force."

A reluctance he would overcome. Dumarest glanced to where Volodya now stood, flanked by his guards. Men he recognized who had no cause to be gentle. They would use clubs or gas and no matter how hard he fought the end would be the same.

"No," said Pendance softly. "Don't try it. You are a hawk among pigeons but, my friend, even the strongest and most courageous of beasts can be pulled down by a pack of snapping curs. You have done what you could for these people and in return they have sold you out. Why give them the satisfaction of adding injury to insult?" Without moving his eyes he snapped, "Bisdon! Pack up the wine. Be careful when you collect the glass from our new companion."

The wine he hadn't tasted. Dumarest held it out as the man came close, using his right hand to lift the arm in the sling. A natural gesture followed by another as he felt it plucked from his fingers. A step followed by a stumble which threw him against the man and knocked him off-balance.

"The glass!" Pendance shouted the warning. "Be careful, you fool!"

A moment when his attention was distracted. When every eye was on Bisdon and his frantic attempts to save the crystal from ruin.

Dumarest thrust his right hand into the sling, found the ampule of slow time he had hidden there and thrust the needle into his arm.