The Quillian Sector

Chapter Two

Dumarest heard the shout and looked up to see death falling from the sky. The grab of the digger was overhead, the jaws open, tons of oozing clay scooped from the cutting, blotting out the pale orange of the firmament. It should have been neatly deposited in the body of his truck. Instead, it was plummeting down to crush and bury him. No accident. The crane was well to one side, the truck closer to it than himself, but there was no time to think of that.

Even before the warning shout had died he was on the move, lunging to one side, feeling his foot slip on the loose dirt, toppling off balance as the load thundered down.

Luck was with him. A second later, or had he been less fast, he would have been crushed and buried like an insect. As it was, he felt the impact on his left shoulder, the barest touch of the debris which rasped down the sleeve of his coverall, the blow throwing him further in the direction of his fall. He hit a slope, rolling, falling, to land on the waterlogged clay at the foot of the cutting as over him showered the mass of clay, dirt and rubble.

Too much rubble. It pressed on his back, drove his face into the water as it piled on his head, his shoulders, trapping his entire body with a layer of dirt which pressed with an iron hand. A hand which could kill, which would kill within minutes unless he could find some way to breathe.

He strained, body aching, muscles tense, blood thundering in his ears as, slowly, he lifted. A fraction only; loose dirt compacted by his upward pressure, yielding a trifle to form a shallow gap beneath him so that, arms and legs rigid, back arched against the strain, head turned to rest one cheek in the water, his nose lay above the surface and he could breathe.

Breathe and wait for a rescue which need never come.

Life was cheap on Ealius. Only the skilled technicians were of value, the rest were easily replaced. Those in authority could decide that he wasn't worth the trouble and effort to save. Better to let him lie, to be covered in, buried, forgotten. But the cutting had to be kept open, the great channel formed and smoothed, the passage through the mountain maintained.

After what seemed hours, Dumarest felt and heard the grating vibration of mechanical jaws.

They were not being operated with any care for the vulnerability of a human body. The steel teeth dropped, closed, lifted with a load of clay to set it aside and return for more. Only a concern to avoid marring the sides of the channel made the operator take small bites at the mound he had dropped. The fact that any of the scoops could have sheared through a body didn't seem to have occurred to him.

Dumarest had a more personal interest. He felt a touch against one leg, kicked, felt metal beneath his foot and then the rasp of the teeth over his thigh. Luck had saved him; a few more inches and his foot would have been caught, his leg ripped from its socket as the grab lifted with resistless force. Before it could return he heaved, squandering the last of his conserved energy, fighting the crushing weight on back and shoulders as he thrust himself back to where the clay had been lifted from his legs. When next the grab returned, he was ready. As the open jaws dug into the mound he threw himself into the grab, ducking as the serrated edges closed, one hand caught between two of the steel teeth of the low jaw, the upper halting an inch from his wrist as it closed on a stone.

Then up and out to one side, the grab halting, turning, opening as it jerked to shower its load into the open body of the truck waiting below. As Dumarest fell, he heard a yell.

"It's Earl! By damn, it's Earl!"

Carl Devoy, the one who had shouted, his face taut beneath a tangle of rust-colored hair now smeared with ocher clay. He ran to the side of the truck, heaving himself up and staring over the side.

"Earl?" He sucked in his breath as Dumarest moved. "By God, he's still alive! Give a hand here! Give a hand!"

He was small, but with a temper to match the color of his hair, and two men ran to obey. A third arrived with a bucket of water as they lowered Dumarest to the ground and, without preamble, threw the contents over the clay smeared figure.

"Earl?"

"I'm all right." Dumarest straightened, breathing deeply, water running down his head and face to soak his coverall. As he wiped his hands on his sides, he said, "Who was operating the digger?"

"Menser, He's still operating it." Devoy glanced at the man seated in the cab of the machine. A transparent canopy gave weather protection, its clarity now marred with dirt. Behind it, the face and figure of the operator were blurred. "I saw the bucket jerk and yelled but I was too late."

"No," said Dumarest. "If you hadn't shouted I'd be dead now. And then?"

"After the load dropped?" Devoy shrugged. "They figured you had to be dead and would have left you but Strick wanted the cutting to be cleared. Ten minutes later and he'd have left it for the next shift to clear up the mess."

Ten minutes-the difference between life and death. Dumarest looked at the orange sky, at the bulk of the digger etched against it, at the dark face which peered at him from behind the canopy. As a whistle blew the face moved, became a part of the body which climbed down from the cab, a man who stood almost seven-feet tall and with shoulders to match. A black giant with massive hands and thighs like trees. A man who stepped to where Dumarest stood waiting, to halt, to part his lips in a grin before spitting on the ground.

"Mister, you were lucky."

"No," said Dumarest. "You were careless."

"Meaning the accident?"

"If it was one."

"Hell, man, how can you doubt it? A cable locked and I had to snap it clear. That's why I swung the grab over and away from the truck. Sometimes the catch slips and you drop the load."

"On me?"

"I didn't see you." Menser spat again. "I had other things to think about."

Truth or lie, there was no way of telling and certainly nothing could be proved. Dumarest studied the man, seeing the eyes, white rims showing around the irises, the corners tinged with red. The telltale signs of the drug he chewed, as was the purple spittle he had vented on the ground. The pungent, shredded leaf which gave euphoria at the cost of sanity.

Then, as the whistle shrilled again, Devoy said, "Come on, Earl, let's get away from here. The next shift's taking over."

The residential quarters matched the workings; hard, rough, severely functional. Sleeping was done in dormitories, eating in a communal mess, washing in a long, low room flanked by shallow troughs above which showers supplied water ranging from tepid to steaming hot. The place itself was filled with steam; writhing vapor which blurred details in a manmade fog. In it shapes loomed, indistinct, voices muffled as men called to each other.

Stripped, Dumarest stepped under a shower, feeling the drum of water on his head, the rivulets cleaning away the grime and dirt from his hair. Soap came in liquid form from a dispenser and he filled his palm with the sticky goo, rubbing it hard and getting little result.

"Here, Earl, try this." Devoy handed over a bar of soap from where he stood in the adjoining shower. "Something special from a friend in town." His wink left no doubt as to the nature of the friend. "She likes her men to smell nice. Go ahead," he urged. "It's good."

The soap held a crude perfume but it contained oil and lacked the harsh bite of the supplied liquid. Dumarest used it, creating a mass of suds which flowed over the firm muscles of shoulders and back, stomach and thighs. As he turned beneath the shower to wash them free, Devoy sucked in his breath.

"Hell, Earl, you look as if you'd been clawed by a giant."

Dumarest turned to examine his legs. On the back of each calf, running midway up each thigh, ran a wide, purpling bruise: the result of the raking jaws of the grab. They marred the hard, smooth whiteness of the skin, as did the other marks carried on his chest and forearms, the thin cicatrices of old wounds.

Devoy looked at them, recognizing them for what they were, wondering why he hadn't spotted them before. The long bruises gave the answer to that; unless they had caught his attention he wouldn't have stared. Wouldn't now know that Dumarest bore the scars of a man who has fought with naked blades. That he was a fighter, trained to kill.

He said, "That's Menser's trouble, Earl. I've heard it from others in the gang. He's been pushing, seeing how far he can go, how much he can get away with. That accident could have been fixed."

"I know."

"Does he have anything against you? Did he try to push, and you told him where to get off?"

Dumarest shook his head, then lifted his arms to let the steaming water cascade over his body, the impact helping to ease the ache of muscles recently overstrained. Since coming to the workings he had kept himself to himself, not asking for trouble, not looking for it. The last thing he wanted was to become the center of attention. Now, it seemed, Menser had other ideas.

He came into the washroom, voice booming, attended by a handful of sycophants eager to hook their wagon to a profitable star. On any construction site there were men who recognized opportunity when they saw it and took steps to skim the cream. Parasites, using threats and violence to intimidate others, demanding a share of their pay under the guise of collecting contributions, donations, or as insurance premiums. Such men, if they survived, could become rich and powerful with their own small, private armies to enforce their dictates.

Menser wanted to become one of them.

Dumarest watched as the steam swirled to part, to reveal the giant, to close again over his giant frame. What the man did was no concern of his as long as he was left alone, but Menser had recognized in Dumarest a source of potential trouble. To eliminate him would pay dividends in more ways than one.

"He's high," said Devoy uneasily. "Doped and crazed and spoiling for trouble. Let's get out of here."

Good advice, but Dumarest didn't follow it. If trouble was to come this was as good a place as any in which to meet it. He stood, the soap in his hand, eyes narrowed as he stared through the vapor. It broke, shredded, torn into wisps as the giant came forward, head lowered, shoulders hunched, fists pounding the air as, weaving, he shadowboxed his way along the edge of the trough. His intention was obvious; to locate his victim, to strike, to break bones and pulp flesh with hammer blows and then to explain that he had seen nothing in the steam and had maimed or killed by accident.

"Earl!" Devoy was anxious.

"Stand clear."

As the smaller man stepped from the shower, Dumarest left the trough to stand facing the approaching giant. Menser was huge, coiled ropes of muscle shifting beneath the gleaming ebon of his skin, his head a ball of bone, hair cropped close to the scalp. Now he looked up, grinning, a purple stream jetting from between his lips to spatter the floor inches from Dumarest's feet.

"Waiting for me, friend? Well, now, that's nice of you. A pity you're going to have another accident." His laughter was soft, feral, devoid of amusement. "A fatal one this times."

Dumarest threw the soap.

It flashed from his hand to drive against the giant's face, to land beneath one of the thick eyebrows and to slam against the eye with a force which tore the orb from its socket, to leave an ugly red hole streaming blood. A blow which shocked and blinded, one which he followed with another as, lunging forward, he lifted his foot and sent the heel up hard against the chin.

It was like kicking a mountain.

Menser yelled, one hand lifting to his ruined eye, the hand falling as he dodged Dumarest's second kick. Hurt, he was even more dangerous than before, pain fueling the hate now powering his muscles, obliterating everything but the desire to rend and kill the man standing before him. Like an oiled machine, he swung into action, hands extended, feet moving in little, dancing steps, body poised to turn in any direction.

A wrestler and a dangerous one. A man with a very high pain threshold, as his apparent ignoring of his ruined eye testified. One who had to be treated with respect and caution.

One Dumarest had to kill before being killed.

He moved back, aware of the circle of watchers, the eyes avid with anticipation, the faces gloating at the free and unexpected spectacle. Faces rendered more beastlike by the blurring vapor, eyes more feral because of the steam.

"You bastard!" Menser inched forward. "I was just going to hurt you a little, break a few bones, maybe, or give you some bruises. Now I'm going to make you pay for what you did. Your eyes first, maybe. Or maybe I'll smash both legs and, as you crawl, tear out your arms. Then I'll take care of your eyes, a thumb in each socket, pressing slowly, so slowly, until they pop out like stones from a fruit And then-"

His voice whispered on but Dumarest ignored it. A trick to command a part of his attention and to ruin a little of his concentration. To weaken him by fear and to soften him by imagined terrors. Blatant tactics he had long since learned to disregard.

"Earl! Get him, Earl! Get the bastard!"

Carl Devoy offering what help he could and at the same time revealing both his courage and stupidity. If Menser should win he would be marked and taken care of-a high price to pay for the encouragement Dumarest didn't need.

He dropped as the giant came in, turning, his hand rising to chop with stiffened palm at the man's left knee. He felt the jar and spun to one side as the right foot lashed at his face, kicking back in turn, his heel impacting the knee he had struck. Then he was up and on his feet, circling to keep on the blind side of his opponent, making use of the advantage he had won.

A fist darted toward him, to scrape against the side of his head as he weaved, the forearm like an iron bar as he gripped it, throwing back his weight, trying to throw the giant off balance. Menser yielded, snarled as his other hand grabbed, laughed as the fingers sank into Dumarest's shoulder.

"Now," he gloated. "Now!"

His knee jerked upwards, Dumarest turning to avoid the crippling impact, striking back in turn, his foot aimed at the same left knee. A weak blow, but one which added to the previously caused damage, and he followed it with a thrust of his head which hit the nose and sent more blood to join that streaming from the ruined eye.

Then Menser struck in turn.

His fist rose, darted forward, making a meaty impact as it slammed against Dumarest's torso. A blow aimed for the face, which had missed as Dumarest reared upwards, fighting the steel like fingers holding him fast. One followed by another, which brought stars flashing and the taste of blood. A third, which created a web of darkness which edged close as, all around, men yelled in anticipation of the kill.

Dumarest twisted, using his weight to tear free of the gripping fingers, sweat oiling his skin as he blocked another blow and sent his own hand to stab fingers in the ruined eye. Menser screamed, jumping back, hands lifted to protect his face as again Dumarest kicked at the knee. This time, he felt bone yield, the kneecap splintering, maiming the giant and robbing him of quick mobility. But even though he had to fight to maintain his balance, he still had his hands and the strength they possessed.

"Coward!" Menser snarled his hate as he stood balanced on one foot. "Come and fight like a man!"

An invitation only a fool would accept. Dumarest feinted, drew back and then, with a blur of movement, had run forward, his hands busy, stiffened palms like blunt axes as they drove at the throat, the windpipe and larynx, crushing both before he withdrew from the closing arms.

Again.

A third time, this one resulting in a long gash over his shoulder as Menser clawed at his elusive opponent.

And then again, to leave the giant sprawled like a fallen tree, blood puddling the floor around his mouth, one leg bent at an impossible angle, the great machine of his body broken and stilled.

The woman said quietly, "Hold on now, this is going to hurt."

Dumarest heard the rustling behind him as he lay prone on the couch, a shifting of clothing, a metallic rattle and then something like liquid fire traced a path over his shoulder.

As he grunted, the woman said, "You should have gone to the hospital."

"Aren't you a nurse?"

"I was once." Her tone held bitterness. "But that was a long time ago. Now I earn my living treating young fools who should have more sense than to get themselves hurt in stupid duels. We have a law against such things and the penalties are harsh. Hold still, now." Again came the liquid fire, the touch of acid burning away the corruption which had festered in the wound. Menser had carried vileness beneath his fingernails; a paste containing virulent bacteria which, untreated, could kill. "There, that should do it. You were lucky."

The woman was wrong. Caution, not luck, had dictated his actions. He had noticed the festering gash and had suspected its cause. The same caution had made him seek unofficial aid; had caused him to leave the camp with pay still uncollected. A precaution against Menser's friends and others who might have agents lying in wait.

Now, turning, he looked at the woman who stood to one side of the couch, a small bowl in one hand, the glass stylo with which she had applied the acid held by her thumb. "Is there anything else?"

"Maintain a watch on your temperature. Should it rise more than five degrees take antibiotics and seek medical advice."

"The wound itself?"

"Has been cleaned and sealed. The compound of my own devising; the residue film will peel automatically as the wound heals." She added, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

He did not mistake her meaning even though she was still attractive, though far from young. Many of those who paid for her help would have wanted more than the service she offered-passion riding on the relief of assistance given. Perhaps she catered to them. People lived as best they could and there was little charity on Ealius, but he sensed she had judged him to hold wider interests,

"I need to get on a ship," said Dumarest. "I'd like to do it without attracting attention. Would you know how it could be done?"

"The gate is guarded," she said immediately. "All leavings are checked against the files deposited by the construction company. They don't want anyone leaving who owes them money. Are you breaking a contract?"

"No."

"Then you could pass through the gate without difficulty."

"And if I were?"

"Breaking a contract?" She frowned. "There are ways if you have money. Men who will smuggle you on a vessel as long as you don't care where you go or how you end. I wouldn't advise using the service they offer."

"Why not?" Dumarest asked, but already knew the answer. Too many worlds close by had mines which needed workers and those who operated them were careless as to how they gained their laborers. A man, buying a secret passage, could wind up contracted to slave in a living hell. "What else is there?"

"If you can afford it, there are men who could arrange to have you signed on as a crew member."

"And would that be safer?" Dumarest eased himself from the couch. The sting had gone from the wound and he moved his arm a few times to test the pull of the plastic film covering it. "I'm avoiding enemies," he explained. "A little trouble I had-no need for detail. You've heard it all before."

As she had learned to recognize lies. As Dumarest dressed, she put away her things, turning to look as he donned the boots and the knife he carried in the right. They were a match for the pants and long-sleeved tunic, which rose high to fit snugly around the throat. Tough material in which was imbedded protective metallic mesh. The gray plastic was easy to clean and simple to refurbish. A convenience for any traveler.

As he reached for money, she said, "You paid me in advance."

"For the medical treatment only."

"The advice came free."

"And your silence?" He dropped coins on the couch as she made no answer, "This is to forget you've ever seen me. And this," he added more, "is for being what you are."

For not asking questions, for taking him in on the basis of nothing more than a whispered introduction from an intermediary, for taking care of the man, in turn. And, perhaps, for looking like someone else he had known years ago now, and a long journey through space. A woman who had tended him when, as a young man, he had suffered his first wound and who had healed the gash as she had tended his desires. Her name? That was forgotten, together with the name of the world on which they had met. But some things about her could not be forgotten; the touch of her hands, the shape of her hair, the clustered wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, her kindness.

"Thank you," the woman said quietly. She made no effort to pick up the money. "There is a tavern on the corner of North and Inner. Some captains and others have a habit of using the back room. Ask for Varn Egulus. But you are welcome to stay, if you wish."

"No. I must be on my way."

From the house and into the town and out to where the field lay in its circle of perimeter lights, with ships at rest and the stars winking like jewels against the black velvet of the sky. At the gate, men stood in casual attitudes, some uniformed with the garb of the local authority, others wearing ship uniforms, a few in civilian dress. Watching, Dumarest noticed how they examined a man coming toward them, how they checked him, watched after him when they allowed him to pass.

It could have meant nothing, but Menser could have been reported murdered and even if those watching had testified to the truth, personal combat was against the local regulations. He could be arrested, tried, fined or set to a term of forced labor. At best, it would mean delay.

"Mister!" One of the guards called to him. "You looking for something?"

"Yesh." He swayed, deliberately slurring his words, one hand pawing vaguely at the air as it hid his face. "A girl… she promised to meet me… late. ." A hiccup emphasised his drunkenness. "Thish South and Outer?"

"No, you're on Inner and West. South is that way." A hand lifted to point, lowered as the guard turned away, losing interest but completing the directions. "Go up it and you'll hit Outer."

Dumarest lurched away, plunging deeper into the shadows, following directions until he was out of sight. Straightening, he turned up a narrow alley and made his way back to the road running north, turning to head back to the one curving around the field.

The tavern was like most of its type, a place where men journeying between the stars could find the comforts they lacked on their ships, the dissipations offered for their enjoyment. Dumarest shook his head as a pert young girl offered her invitation, shook it again as an older matron repeated it with added detail, shrugged as a man hinted at more exotic delights. None was offended at his refusal, no recent arrival could be considered a real prospect but it did no harm to try. Later, when alcohol had worked its magic, or when drugs had dulled the sharp edges of discrimination, they and others would try again.

Varn Egulus was a tall man of middle age with a long, serious face, a beaked nose and hair which was cut and lifted in an elaborate forelock. His lips were thin, the jaw pronounced, the cheeks hollowed as if with privation. Beneath thin brows his eyes were shrewd, watchful, calculating.

He said, "It seems we have a mutual friend. Sit and order some wine. Good wine-I can afford it since you are paying."

Dumarest obeyed, watching as the man poured, barely sipping at what his own goblet contained. The woman must have sent word ahead for Egulus to expect him and he would take his own time in getting to the point.

"Good wine, this." Egulus lifted his glass and studied the play of color trapped in the crystal. "Such a wine makes a man glad to be alive." And then, without changing tone, he said, "Why did you kill Menser?"

"Did I?"

"Perhaps not, but you match the description of the man who did. The one who brought the news was most explicit as to detail. He was also amazed at the speed you-the man- operated. It was like watching the dart of lightning, he said. Movements faster than the eye could follow." Egulus tilted his goblet and slowly drank the wine it contained. Emptied, he lowered it toward the table. Then, before it could hit the surface, he flung it directly at Dumarest's face.

He smiled as it scattered on the floor.

"Clever," he mused. "You did not catch it as I thought you might and, most certainly, could have done. You didn't simply block it, and so risk cuts to hand and face. Instead, you deflected it as if by accident, to smash on the floor. Which proves nothing to any who might be watching. Well, to business.

"I command the Entil. A trader. One of the rules we follow is that nothing should ever be done without some form of return. To do otherwise would be to operate at a loss and only the stupid do that. A cooperative, you understand. We work, take risks, carry any cargo we can get, and go anywhere a profit is to be made."

And run a ship more like a heap of wreckage than a vessel designed to survive in the void. One that is undermanned, with faulty equipment and dangerous installations.

Egulus smiled again as he guessed Dumarest's thoughts.

"A ship such as you imagine wouldn't last long in the Rift. Also I have a regard for my life, which is why the Entil is as good as I can make her. But obviously, you've had experience. What as? Steward? Handler?"

"Both."

"And?"

"I know a little about engines. A little more about caskets. And," Dumarest added, "I can operate a table should the need arise."

"A gambler?" Egulus pursed his lips as Dumarest nodded. "And one who can take care of himself if he has to. Good. That's an advantage. Now, this is the situation. You give me the cost of a double High passage and work as one of the crew. When you decide to quit, I'll compute what is your share of the profit and pay you off. Fair enough?"

For the captain, more than fair. Unless he was more honest than his fellows there would be no profits and he and the others would have gained passage money and service for nothing.

Dumarest said, "About the tables. What I win I keep?"

"You know better than that. It goes into the common fund."

"And if I lose?"

"You pay." The captain's tone hardened a little. "And I should warn you that I have no intention of haggling. The cost of a double High passage, take it or leave it. And I want the money now."

"No." Dumarest reached for the wine and called for a new goblet to replace the broken one. "You'll get it after I'm on the ship and we're on our way."

"You have it?" Egulus didn't wait for an answer. "You're committing suicide if you haven't. Unless I get paid, you'll be evicted into the void."

He meant it. Dumarest said, "Don't worry about the money. You'll get it. When do we leave?"

"At noon." Egulus reached for the wine Dumarest had poured. "But we'll hit the gate an hour before dawn. The guards will be sleepy then. I'll arrange for a uniform for you before we leave here and they'll take you for one of my crew."