The Coming Event

CHAPTER SEVEN

The lights flickered and the room became full of statues. Dumarest slowly withdrew the ampule from his arm and threw it to one side where it burst like a miniature bomb against a wall. Before him Bisdon seemed to hang suspended in mid-air, eyes wide, mouth gaping, one hand clutching the precious glass. Beyond him Pendance had one foot lifted, his body leaning forward, frozen in mid-stride.

Volodya, the guards, the rest of Pendance's crew-all were frozen in various attitudes.

An illusion; they hadn't changed but Dumarest's metabolism had speeded to forty times normal. He could see and move and act at the accelerated speed but there were dangers. He could move forty times as fast but he wasn't forty times as strong. If he punched a man he would shatter bone and pulp flesh-his own as well as the victim's. A knock was a blow which could break bones in his hands and leave bruised flesh. To move at all was to create a hampering wind and to shift objects was to fight against their increased inertia which showed itself as a massive gain in weight.

But there had been no other way to escape from the jaws of the trap Volodya had sprung.

Dumarest stepped toward the door leading to Command and halted as he saw it was closed and blocked by a heavyset guard. To shift both would take too much time and too much energy. Turning he studied the compartment. The lock itself was unguarded and various items of equipment stood or were racked against the walls. In the screen the ship hung connected to the outer door by a flexible communication tube.

Wind droned past his ears as Dumarest stepped toward equipment standing ready for use when vessels had to be loaded or compartments freed of their cargo. Wrecking bars, snips, extinguishers which could spout a mass of fire-dampening foam. Suits hung on a rack together with sacs for personal transportation through space for short distances. Next to a compressor stood ranked tanks of air.

Dumarest reached down and gripped one, straining as he lifted, remembering to take his time and not to grip too hard. Slowly it rose and he gripped it in both hands, ignoring the ache from the newly healed bone in his left arm. With it poised above his head he launched it with all his strength at a point above and to one side of the lock. As it left his hands he turned and picked up a slender bar.

It lifted more easily and he thrust it at the bulk of an alarm, shattering the case and shorting inner connections. Havoc repeated in three other places before he threw the bar like a spear at the deep indentation left by the tank of air.

As he saw it penetrate he moved quickly into the lock.

It rotated with dragging slowness finally to give access to the connecting tube. Three steps and he was at the ship. The lock was open and he stepped inside to pause for a moment as he assessed the situation.

A gamble, but if he had guessed right the vessel must be near-deserted. Vellani and his men must have come from the Moira and they, together with Pendance and his men, would almost have emptied the ship. He based this calculation on the reluctance of mercenaries and free-traders to split profits more than they had to; the pod and decoys must have taken a lot of space.

Dumarest swayed as the outer port swung closed. He was burning fuel at an enormous rate and had only recently used slow time before. His body tissue, wasted then, was being used now to his detriment. Unless he neutralized the drug and ate, he could, literally, starve to death or collapse from dehydration.

Within the ship he paused then headed for the engine room where the engineer was usually to be found. He was sitting at his console, head slumped on his arms, apparently asleep. The hold was empty as were the cabins and salon. No handler, then, and no steward or they had accompanied Pendance. But surely he must have left more than one man to guard the vessel?

He was in the control room, a stylishly dressed man of late middle age who sat in the pilot's chair with one hand supporting his chin while his eyes remained fastened on a screen. It pictured Zabul and the lock to which the ship was connected and, already, Dumarest could see the expanding plume of escaping air from the hole he had made.

This was a minor emergency which could easily be handled by the technicians, but he had aggravated it by smashing the alarms and so helped to create a greater degree of confusion.

A device to gain time; by the time things had settled he hoped to be well away.

Lights flickered on the control panels, moving even to his accelerated sense of vision, and he guessed the Moira was monitoring the environment for a wide area around. Each drifting mote of debris or movement of the structure would be sensed, checked, assessed and registered.

Leaning forward Dumarest checked the controls. A switch would break the connection with the tube in case of emergency and he threw it, seeing the flexible connection draw back to Zabul as the ship began gently to drift away impelled by the gust of expelled air. The gap widened but too slowly for his liking and Dumarest frowned as he studied the controls. They were unfamiliar, more complex than those of normal free-traders, proof as to his earlier suspicions.

Then, as he straightened, something ground into the base of his neck.

"Don't move your hands," said a voice. "Just hold them from your sides. Good. Now lift them and lock fingers on the top of your head. That's right. Now back out and keep backing until you're in the salon." A sigh as he obeyed. "Now you can turn."

He faced a woman.

She was tall and lithe with a copper-hued skin and long hair black as night which hung in thick braids over her shoulders and the high promontories of her breasts. A creature of the wild with high cheekbones and flared nostrils and eyes of liquid ebon deep-set beneath thick brows. Her mouth was full, the lower lip pouting with betraying sensuosity, the chin rounded and with a dimpled cleft. Facts he noted as he assessed the broad shoulders and narrow waist, the rounded hips and long, swelling curves of her thighs and calves.

Details lost in the forceful blaze of her personality as she stood, staring at him, the peculiar gun she carried pointed at

"You're fast," she said. "So am I with this dope but in case you think you've an edge you'd better think again. I'm using a laser, wide-spread beam like a fan. No trigger that takes time to operate but an induction button instead. Move and I'll touch it and unless you can jump ten feet to one side you'll be burned. Ten feet at a speed as fast as light," she added. "Can you do it?"

"No."

"Just that? Nothing else?"

Dumarest said dryly, "I'm in no position to argue. Can I lower my hands?" He did so as she nodded. "How did I miss you?"

"I should be asking the questions."

"And why the slow time?"

"A precaution," she said. "I was checking and noticed signals which shouldn't have been so I took a shot of slow time just in case. When you searched I just moved from one cabin to another while out of your sight. You're Dumarest, right?"

"Earl Dumarest, yes. And you?"

"Ysanne."

"Ysanne who?"

"Just that. Ysanne. Where I come from we only use one name. Why were you stealing the Moira?"

He said bluntly, "In order to save my life. Can you think of a better reason?"

"If I were in your position, probably not," she agreed. "But I haven't your problem and don't want to share it." She frowned as he swayed. "Don't try it if you're thinking of jumping me. And don't think I won't use this if I have to." She gestured with the gun. "I had it specially made to take care of characters who think a woman's easy prey." Her tone changed a little. "Are you ill?"

"Weak. I've been in slow time too long. Can we get away from here so I can neutralize?"

For a moment she stared at him then, throwing back her head, filled the salon with genuine laughter.

"Man, you're the most! What makes you think I'd abandon Pendance and the others? And for what?"

"Money," said Dumarest. "A lot of money. And a ship. And, maybe, just for the hell of it."

A gamble but now luck was with him and he relaxed a little as, again, her laughter pealed through the salon. A woman but more than that. An adventuress, a kindred soul-he had sensed it as an animal could sense its mate over miles of frozen terrain. Then, as he saw her face change, he realized it had been a two-way exchange.

"Here!" She handed him a hypogun. "Neutralize while I put the Moira into a course away from Zabul."

"Heading toward the other ship," Dumarest added, as she stared at him. "And radio to let them know you have me safe. Arrange a rendezvous for the exchange."

"I thought you wanted to escape."

"That's the idea."

He lifted the hypogun as she left the salon and aimed it at his throat before pulling the trigger. Air blasted a charge of drugs into his bloodstream and he felt a momentary vertigo as his metabolism slowed back to normal. He was on his third cup of basic when Ysanne returned. He handed her one as she, suddenly, stood before him.

"Here! You must be hungry."

"I can go without food for a week at a time."

"So can anyone if they have to." Dumarest swallowed more of the liquid. It was loaded with protein, sickly with glucose, tart with added vitamins. A cup provided a spaceman with enough energy for a day. "Who is that in the control room?"

"Maynard. The second in command. He won't bother us." Ysanne lifted the hypogun in explanation. "I gave him a shot to put him out so we can talk. And I told Craig to stay where he is."

"The engineer?"

"That's right. Did you see his face?"

"No."

"It's burned," she said. "Pendance's work. A dose of acid when the generator went on the blink. If he weren't so good he'd be dead by now. Persuade me and he'll ride along."

"Persuade?"

"The money. The adventure. You think I'm doing this just because I like your face? You're valuable property, I know that, but just how damned valuable? And why? Did I tell you I was curious?"

More than curious and with a feline grace which emphasized the contours of her face, the dark glitter of her eyes. They were ebon pools which widened as he talked then narrowed with sudden speculation, calmed as she made her evaluation.

"You're mad," she said. "But it's the kind of craziness I go for. To hunt down a legend! Well, there are worse things."

"Like slaving?"

"That depends on which side you're on. Pendance made it pay."

"So you went along with it?"

"Sure. Why not? There are worse things."

"Not if you've ever worn a collar." Dumarest changed the subject, like the cat she seemed she was amoral. For her the concepts of good and evil did not exist. A fact he recognized but one overlaid by the necessity to win her cooperation. "Work," he said. "Ship after ship, world after world. After a dozen they all seem the same. I'm giving you a chance to break free."

"To find Earth," she said. "Crazy, but I like the idea. I told you that. Just put up the money and I'm with you." She sobered as he remained silent. "You've got the money? No? Then how the hell do you expect to get where you want to go?"

"In the Moira."

"And how do you expect to pay for fuel? Supplies? A crew?"

Dumarest said, "I'm valuable, you know that, and you know who is willing to pay. So I'm your insurance. Trust me a little and, if I don't deliver, then you collect from those who paid Pendance to get me." He added casually, "How far is the other ship?"

"Not far."

"You know who is in it?"

"A cyber. I heard him on the radio." She frowned as she considered his suggestion but he had narrowed her field of choice. To return now to Pendance would be to invite acid in the face. To sell Dumarest would be to lose the chance of an intriguing adventure. To do nothing would be to go against her restless nature. "You bastard," she said. "You cunning bastard. You tricked Pendance and stole his ship and now you want to use it for free. Well, why not?"

"A crew. We've got an engineer if you can talk Craig into it as you promised. Maynard might act as our captain but what about a navigator?"

"You've got one. Me. The finest in space." She smiled at his expression. "I mean that-or haven't you ever met a woman who's good at anything outside of a bed?"

"Words aren't deeds. How soon do we reach that other ship?"

"Why? What's the interest? We're not going to hit it."

"Wrong. That's just what I want to do." Dumarest forced himself to be patient as he explained. To emphasize the danger was to sow the seeds of potential panic, to minimize it would breed carelessness. "Pendance is back in Zabul. I tried to gain time so as to get clear but he'll want to radio the other ship. You got in first so they may suspect a trap or decide to play both sides. We are closest so it will be logical for them to keep the rendezvous and jump us as soon as they get the chance. We have to prevent them from doing that."

"Or?" She answered her own question. "They'll pick up Pendance and his men and come after us. With a faster ship and a full crew they'll trail and catch us for sure. When they do-" She broke off, thinking of the engineer and his ruined face. "What do you want to do, Earl?"

Smash the other ship from space, destroy the poison it contained, wipe the threat from the universe as he would rid his body of a venomous insect. Instead he had to compromise. To make do with what he had.

She nodded when he explained. "We'll need Maynard. I'll talk him into it while you take care of Craig. He'll help you get things ready if you handle him right. But hurry, man, we've got less than an hour!"

Craig was thick-set, stocky, a man who carried his brains in his hands and the marks of Pendance's anger on his face. The skin was blotched, oozing with sores, tissue stretched like thin red paper over the bone, a clownlike mask from which blue eyes gleamed beneath shaggy brows. His hair was rust-colored, short, bristling in angry spikes.

Looking around the hold he said, "That's about the best we can do, Earl. To gather more will take time we haven't got."

"You've done well, Jed."

"Maybe." Craig lifted a hand as if to rub his chin then, remembering, lowered it to his side. A thwarted gesture he felt he should explain. "It's the sores. Touching them makes it worse."

"They can be treated. The rest too."

"Sure." Craig looked at his hands. They were broad, scarred, the tips of his fingers spatulate. "I guess you wonder how I let them get away with it. Pendance, I mean and the acid. Did Ysanne tell you about it?"

"Briefly. Not the details."

"He was in a rage and when he's in that state he'll kill as soon as breathe. The generator-well, never mind that now. I'd done my best but it wasn't good enough and he threw the acid. I'd been cleaning a component and it was standing on the bench. Maybe he didn't know what was in the beaker."

"Maybe."

"Or maybe I'm just trying to fool myself. Is that what you think?"

"It's none of my business," said Dumarest. "We all do odd things at times-act the fool, the idiot, the amateur."

"The coward?"

"That too at times if there's no other choice. Or to seem to act that way to those with no right to judge. At times to be brave is to be dead. A smart man recognizes the situation, waits his chance then, when it comes, takes his revenge."

"Like now." Craig straightened his shoulders, his pride restored. "Maybe he'll remember what he did after we're through."

The captain and the cyber now waited in the ship ahead. Dumarest wondered if even now he was assessing the situation, extrapolating the probabilities and arriving at a prediction of what could happen. He hoped not; the chances were small enough without a trained and calculating mind making them less.

He looked at what had been gathered in the hold; the piles of scrap, the supplies left by the mercenaries, old tools, sections of metal cut and fashioned into jagged scraps. Items small enough to be handled and heavy enough to contain a respectable mass.

From a speaker Ysanne said, "We're getting close, Earl. You'd better get ready."

"Is everything under control?"

"Of course." Her voice held amusement and something else; an emotion close to euphoria, the intoxication of the senses now sharpened to a fine pitch. One he recognized. "Don't worry about this end, just concentrate on your own. I'll give you the timing."

To Craig Dumarest said, "We'll suit up now and loosen the hatches. Make certain your line is secure."

They both checked and then there was nothing to do but wait. Dumarest could hear the sound of the engineer's breathing in his speakers, a soft susurration which could have been static or the rustle of a woman's clothing. Ysanne? She was with Maynard and he wondered how she had gained the man's cooperation. With lies, he guessed, a tale acceptable to a drugged mind. With smiles and promises and the warm allure of her body. Such a woman would stop at nothing to get her own way.

"We're in contact," she said from the radio. "They want to talk to Pendance."

"Tell them we left him back in Zabul."

"Why?"

"We want to make a special deal. Use your imagination but don't lie unless you have to."

Lies would warn without need and the cyber would be wary as it was. He must know where Pendance was but would also be aware of the greed which drove men into strange paths.

"I don't think they're buying it, Earl."

"Be open. We'll come to a halt and they can check. What can they lose?" He added, "Don't be too polite. You have what they want and let them know it. How much longer?"

"Minutes now. Stand by."

"Stand by the hatches, Jed." Dumarest took up his position, conscious of the prickling of his back, the tension which always warned of danger. Automatically he checked his line, the instruments within his helmet, the position of the assembled debris. The enemy lay outside. "Ysanne?"

"Seconds now before we drop the field." A pause, then, "On three, Earl. One! Two! Three! Now!"

The hatches swung open beneath the engineer's hands, space filling the frame of the structure, the bulk of the other ship almost dead center. Good aiming and even better navigation but there was no time to assess the skills of the pilot and the girl.

"Now!" snapped Dumarest. "Now!"

He threw his weight against a heap of scraps and thrust them into the void. More followed, sacks which broke to spill their contents, containers tipped to spread their loads, all the items collected, the rubbish and pieces and unessential furnishings of the hold and workroom. The mass spread into space, carrying with it the momentum of the ship-which was aimed at the vessel lying dead ahead.

Surprise was their only asset. Given time the ship would move, run from the hail, find safety in its Erhaft field, but Dumarest had given them no time. The ship they were expecting had arrived, killed its field to coast to the rendezvous. The mass of debris was masked by its bulk, the scanners of the other vessel unable to isolate the fragments.

"Up!" snapped Dumarest. "Up and away!"

The picture framed in the open hatch changed as he was obeyed. Stars replacing the ship, the widening hail heading toward it. A rain which hit the vessel, tearing into the hull, perforating it, ruining the scanners and creating internal chaos.

"We did it!" yelled Craig. "By God, we did it!" He laughed as he closed the hatches, slipping, saved from falling into space by the line at his waist. Dumarest crossed to it and hauled the man to safety before sealing the hatches. "Ysanne!"

"I know, Jed." Her voice was as light as the engineer's. "A crazy scheme but it worked. That ship won't move in a hurry. Where to now?"

"Anywhere." Dumarest cracked his suit as the external pressure reached normal. "Just get moving. We can change course later."

Change it again and yet again in a random pattern to throw off pursuit. He would decide that later but, for now, the euphoria was enough, and was shared by Ysanne, as he could see when she came to join him in the salon.

"Earl!" She stood close before him. "By, God-Earl!"

She was like a gambler lost in the intoxication of success, exaggerated by the tensions which had preceded it, now blazing from every atom of her being. This was a feeling he knew and had seen too often-the reward of all who deliberately risked their lives and so played with the highest stake of all.

He felt her nearness, the warm exudations of her body, and felt himself respond to her need. The light caught the heavy braids of her hair, creating a small aura of haze touched with color. The oil which gave it added sheen carried a heavy, pungent scent.

"You bitch! You dirty, lying bitch!"

Maynard had entered the salon and now stood to one side of the door. His face was tense, his eyes rimmed with red, angry, bloodshot. The collar of his tunic was open and Dumarest could see the thick veins pulsing in his neck beneath the mottled skin. He had arisen from a drugged acquiescence to vent a killing rage.

"Don't move!" he said. "Just don't either of you move!"

The gun he carried was the one Ysanne had used and Dumarest knew the fan would cover the entire area of the salon where they stood. A device used by slavers to control their victims, burning with savage intensity even if it did not kill.

Dumarest said, "What's the matter? Why the gun?"

"Stay out of this. Move over to one side. Move, damn you!" The jerk of the gun emphasized the command. "Get away from her!"

"Do it, Earl." Then, as he obeyed, she said, "I had to do it, Evan. It was for the best."

"Your best or mine?" His hand shook with renewed anger. "Using me. Lying. Promising-and for what? You know who that ship carried? You know what the Cyclan do to those who work against them? We had a fortune in our hand and you threw it away. I ought to burn your eyes out."

"You wouldn't like me if you did." Her eyes were direct, her tone loaded with hidden meaning. "You're upset and you've a right to be annoyed, but if you'll just let me explain. There wasn't time before. Now, if you'd just listen we can straighten all this out." She stepped toward him, one hand extended. "Give me the gun and let's forget this nonsense."

Dumarest watched, admiring her calm, yet aware of the tension Maynard was under. Jealousy compounded with fear, the two creating a suicidal rage. Death would offer him an escape from his problems and, killing her, would insure his possession. Soon now he would act-if she took a few steps closer he would explode or collapse. Kill or cry.

Only then would he have a chance.

As Ysanne moved closer, talking as if to a child, Dumarest studied the man, the gun he held. It was a fan-beam, which meant the energy would be dispersed. The induction button gave no delay but his finger still had to touch it. A tiny movement compared to that he would have to take but if the woman was out of the field of fire it would ease the problem.

He said, "Drop, girl! Drop!"

"What?" Maynard turned toward him. "What's that you say?"

Ysanne tried to take advantage of this distraction. Her long legs moved, her hand reaching out for the gun, missing as Maynard jerked it back, lifting his free hand to send it slashing across her face. The blow sent her staggering back, to trip, to fall sprawling on the floor.

"You bastard! You-no, Earl! Earl!"

He had stooped, right knee lifting, hand rising weighted with his knife. Steel flashed as the knife spun across the salon when Maynard fired. One shot which died as metal touched his throat, drove deep into skin and fat and muscle, cutting the great arteries and the flow of blood to the brain.

"Earl!" Ysanne rose, ignoring the blood, the dead man on the floor. "He shot you!"

The heat had missed his face, his hands, burning instead a narrow swath across his tunic, searing the plastic and revealing the metal mesh buried within the material. This protection had absorbed the energy and saved him from injury.

"No harm," she said. "Thank God for that." Then, looking at the dead man, she added, "But what do we do now for a captain?"