The Return

Chapter Eight

Ivernal wasted no time in coming to the point.

"Earth!" His hand slammed on the table, emphasizing both anger and disgust. "Is the man serious? Does he expect us to give him a ship and crew to go hunting a legend?"

"He isn't asking for charity," said Nadine. "He-"

"If any want to go with him that is their choice." Ozenne was curt in his interruption as he attacked what he considered to be the heart of the matter. "None has the right to deny them."

"That is admitted." Musson shifted restlessly on his chair. "What is the problem? Why is the Council in session? It is simply a matter of business. Does Dumarest have money?"

"His own plus what he gained from Toibin." Nadine added, "Aside from personal jewelry that wasn't much."

"Is that why he challenged Dumarest?" Jumay was shrewd. "To harvest what he'd gained from the traders? Not that it matters. Toibin was a fool. He could have handled things better. Dumarest is an outsider."

But could no longer be treated as one.

Nadine leaned back in her chair pretending an indifference she did not feel. The council chamber, a bare room fitted with a table and chairs, held no dignity as the Council itself held no real power. A body created as a matter of convenience to provide arbitration when needed, to deal with visiting traders, to act as an agent and to provide a degree of administration. Yet they could act as one and had influence by reason of friends and families.

Musson said, "I still fail to see why we are here. Dumarest wants to charter a ship. If he can pay for it then where is the problem?"

Dieter was more discerning. "He wants to go hunting a myth. To search for Earth. Never mind what we think — he obviously believes he can find it. But when? Where? How long would he expect the charter to last?"

"Until he reaches his destination." Nadine looked at those around the table. "He is willing to pay all he has towards the venture. He also has the coordinates."

"Of Earth?" Calbray spoke for the first time. An old, thin, wizened man who bore facial scars with a stubborn pride. "Woman, do you know what you are saying?"

To them all Earth was a legend. Any supposed coordinates had to be the product of a mad or cunning mind. The stuff of lying adventure sold in taverns to gullible fools. Such a one, with money, could buy passage to wherever it would take him, but the ships of Kaldar were not ordinary vessels. The caution of those owning and operating them induced a wary suspicion.

One Nadine shared but Dumarest had won her over.

Now she dangled a glittering bait.

Earth was the mythical treasure world of the galaxy. A planet of indescribable wealth. One holding mountains of rare and precious metals, dunes of gems, lakes of perfumes, oceans of wine, forests of trees bearing pods which held the cure for all ills. The inflated promise of legend yet the allure remained. Find Earth and gain the prize of all time. Out there for the talking.

"Dumarest is convinced he can find it," she said. "He is willing to back himself with a fortune. All he wants is a ship to carry him."

"Then let him find one elsewhere."

"And lose all the potential profit?" Dieter scowled at the suggestion. "Don't be a fool, Ivernal. We daren't turn him down. Think how it will look to others. The chance to find the richest prize ever dreamed of thrown away by scared old men? You know what would be said and done. We'll be targets for every frustrated youngster on the planet. We wouldn't last a week."

Ozenne said, "You say he has the coordinates, Nadine. Have you seen them? Did he give you any proof?"

"He isn't lying."

"But the figures?"

"He didn't give them to me," she admitted. "Would you?"

"No, I suppose not. But he'll have to give them to the captain. Who will it be?"

She took her time before answering, knowing she trod on delicate ground. Few ships were owned by an individual. Costs were too high and most were owned by combines with shares sold to those willing to gamble. Crews and captains the same. Dieter''s warning applied to more than frustrated youngsters. Who best to select?

"Wine?" Brak Sorenson had held himself in reserve. Now he acted to take the pressure off his niece. As he limped around the table filling glasses he said, casually, "While we're on the subject, who will take over the Geniat now that Toibin is dead?"

"Uncle, that can wait."

"Of course. It's just that he was readying for action and — " He broke off, shrugging. "I guess it doesn't matter."

A clever man, one who knew better than to say too much or press too hard, but the seed had been sown and Nadine shared his silence as discussion swept the table. All had preferences, Jumay arguing with Ozenne, Dieter with Musson. Calbray with Ivernal. As the noise mounted Nadine rapped on the board.

"If the proposition is going to create strife among us it had best be abandoned. A pity. The potential is vast but Dumarest will have to try elsewhere."

As if on cue Musson said, "You've given this some thought, Nadine. What do you advise?"

"That we forget our differences and waste no time in reaching agreement. Dumarest has much to offer but isn't the most patient of men. Many hold him in high regard since his fight with Toibin and will not take kindly to his rejection. There are those who want to rid themselves of the restrictions we have imposed. There has been talk of changes." She looked at Suke Jumay. "Some of it close to home."

"Mel is a hothead," he admitted. He rasped his chin, remembering how the youngster had defied him over the damage caused by the fire. Pride had made him meet the cost from his own pocket, but where would the defiance end? "He needs action."

"He isn't alone," said Nadine. "There aren't enough opportunities to keep he and his kind busy. To raid we need ships. To meet costs we must have profitable targets. Dumarest is offering us a golden opportunity. The accumulated wealth of an entire world!"

A theme she harped on as she went into detail. With Toibin dead his ship needed a captain and she had just the man in mind. Lief Chapman who belonged to no combine and old enough to be cautious, stubborn enough not to be easily swayed, rich enough to contribute. One with experience now fretting at inactivity and yearning to get back into space. A man they could trust.

Points they could appreciate.

She gave them others. An idle vessel made no profits. The Geniat was almost ready to leave. The crew could contain most of the disaffected. A large compliment would offer the chance of many gaining experience and also provide a garrison to establish a claim on Earth. Dumarest would command the expedition.

"Command?" Jumay shook his head. "No. He'll be a passenger."

"And a guide."

"All we need are the coordinates."

"We have to be sure of him." Nadine was patient. "The reward is too great for us to take unnecessary chances. Give him nothing but passage and he has no real commitment. Put him in command and offer him a share and we'll bind him to us." She appealed to their logic. "What have we to lose?"

Her own idea and a good one. Dumarest would accept the offer as he would agree to the condition she intended to impose. One Brak guessed as, after the others had gone, he voiced his displeasure.

"You can't do it, Nadine!"

"You can't stop me."

"But-"

"Don't try to talk me out of it!" She regretted her tone, but he was transparently easy to read and she was in no mood for an argument. "I'm going with Dumarest. With the expedition. It's what I want and what's going to happen."

"Nadine! For God's sake! You're all I have!"

The prisoner of his need and she turned from him, fighting her anger. Why couldn't he understand? Why must he cling so hard? Why couldn't he let her go?

Standing at the edge of the field Dumarest studied the Kaldari as they practiced their form of military exercise. They worked in groups, following coded signals, keeping to patterns of movement which provided mutual cover and protection. Drills common to the mercenary bands he had known, but where hired soldiers were intent on survival the Kaldari concentrated on speed. They had no interest in taking and holding territory or of limiting damage. Their aim was to raid and run. To attack, to kill to loot. They would attack like wolves, fight like cornered rats, die rather than yield. Individuals trained in the art of murder.

At his side Zehava said, "Look at them, Earl. Ready for anything. They'll go wherever you want. Do anything you order. Why not help me make the final decision?"

"The Council gave you that job. You know these people better than I do. Just avoid selecting hotheads. We want no trouble."

"You or Nadine? Why take her? She's paranoid."

"She comes with us," he said flatly. "Nigel too." The young man could be a potential ally. He pointed at a man on the field. One going through the movements of unarmed combat. "What about him?"

"Atsuo? He's good but getting slow." Stubbornly she added, "I still can't see why you want to take Nadine."

Dumarest ignored her objection, concentrating on those busy at exercise. Zehava had assumed too much. She believed they would follow him without question, but he knew better. Killing Toibin had won him a certain respect, but it wasn't enough. To gain rank and loyalty he needed to prove himself in a manner they would accept, yet do it in a way which would not injure their pride.

He had made his choice. A sharp rattle of shots made it easy for him to close in on his selected target. "Automatic fire?"

"That's Nowka. He's fast and accurate. Come and watch."

Targets had been set up at the edge of the field. A dozen, man-sized silhouettes balanced to fall at the impact of a bullet. A man stood facing them, a stubby weapon cradled in his arms. Others clustered behind him, among them a girl with braided hair with a chronometer in her hand. As she called the signal Nowka fired, crouching, twisting as he emptied the magazine. Half the targets toppled to the dirt.

As the applause died Zehava said, "See? I told you he was good."

By her definition and those watching but Dumarest had other standards. Joining the group he said to the man with the gun, "That's a fine weapon. May I see it?"

It was simple, but effective, designed for hard wear. A short-range weapon favored by mercenaries for street and house fighting. The magazine held thirty cartridges. A stud determined the style of fire.

"I've smoothed and polished the action," explained the owner. He was hard, brash, in his early twenties. He wore the ubiquitous martial garb and the weapon had been personalized with engraving and brilliant stones. "I can clear the load in less than four seconds."

"So I noticed."

"You don't approve?"

Dumarest said, dryly, "It seems to me that if you hit the target with the first shot the rest aren't necessary. Use them all and you could be in trouble."

"Meaning?"

"Think about it." Dumarest looked at the targets, noting their distance, the way they had been grouped. The space between them was too great for effective sweep-fire. "Anyone can shoot at things which can't hit back, but suppose those targets were a real enemy? Armed men ready and able to kill. What then?"

"I'll show you." Nowka snatched back the gun and rammed home a fresh magazine. "Give the word, Kathi." He bettered his previous performance sending nine targets to the ground.

As he lowered the gun and turned, smiling, Dumarest said, "Well? What do you do now?"

"What are you getting at?"

"They are the enemy." Dumarest pointed at the targets still standing. "You've just shot down their comrades. Your gun is empty. You're at their mercy. If you're lucky they'll give you a quick death."

"Could you do better?"

"I think so."

"Let's see you do it." Nowka added, "If you've the guts to bet I'll lay a thousand you can't beat my score."

"Load the gun." Dumarest took it, checked the action, set the stud for single fire. To those watching he said, "Just shooting at targets doesn't teach you much more than how to aim your weapon. To improve the skill which could save your life you need to use intelligence and imagination. Think of those targets as enemy soldiers on patrol, alert to catch any hint of movement, primed to open fire in triggered reflex. If you attacked and gave them the slightest chance then, no matter how good you are at hitting targets, you're dead. Dead," he repeated. "Useless. To me. The expedition. Your comrades."

"The talk of a coward," sneered Nowka. "You can only die once. What matter how as long as it's done with honor? Toibin knew that. He never hesitated to take a risk. Not even when it came to fighting a man trained in the arena."

"It was his choice," said Dumarest. "As making that wager was yours." He turned to face the targets. "Kathi!"

He opened fire as the girl gave the signal, moving and firing in a blur of coordinated movement, the sound of the shots blending into one.

As the last target fell Kathi said, her voice high,

"That's perfect! They never knew what hit them! They were dead before they hit the ground! They — " She broke off, recognizing the false reality induced by the demonstration.

Then, defiantly, she added, "I've never seen anyone move so fast or shoot as straight. Right, Nowka?"

He glared his rage. "I'll take the gun!"

It still held a third of its load. Dumarest emptied it, working the action to spill the cartridges on the ground before throwing it into the extended palm.

The last of the suppliants had gone, the benediction light now dark, the interior of the church a place of shadowed gloom. Brother Weyer rose, stretching, feeling old muscles register their protest, old sinews making their complaint. It had been a long session, but now it was over and he could relax. He stepped from the chair and out of the enclosed space where tormented souls had found comfort and forgiveness. A bolt rolled beneath his sandal and he staggered and almost fell, conscious of the sudden pain around his heart. An accident and a warning, but the fault was equally his. Knowing of the danger he should have carried a light. Certainly he needed to avoid stress.

Outside he leaned against a stanchion and looked at the sky. The Lonagar Drift burned in an awesome splendor, its light silvering the bulk of the newly constructed church, shadowing the materials lying bulked within. Soon now the task would be completed, the debris cleared away and the church once again would dominate the area.

Until some fool would amuse himself and all would have to be done again.

A bad thought and Weyer dismissed it. To anticipate disaster was to invite it and to stand in judgement on others was to ape divinity. It was not for him to determine how others should lead their lives. Instead he listened to the noises of the night. Distant laughter, metallic clangings from the field, the working chant of teams of ganni blending with the soft keening of those mourningtheirdead.Loudersounds swamped the others; a formless yammering stemming from a dozen throats, the noise quelled by a sudden blast of searing anger.

"Shut up, damn you! The Council made the selection! You'll abide by it! And remember — stowaways will be evicted!"

Dumarest and, from the sound of him, at the end of his patience. Weyer lifted a hand in greeting as he came forward in the starlight.

"Welcome. You look as if you could use a drink. I have some wine inside. Would you care to share it?"

Dumarest followed the monk into the church. A lantern glowed into life at his touch, yellow light illuminating a closed area holding a cot, a table, chairs, a cabinet of charred wood. From it Weyer produced a bottle and goblets.

"Some food?"

"Just the wine."

It was better than he'd expected and the monk smiled as he refilled the goblet. "A gift from the one of the Kaldari," he explained. "A lady we were able to comfort. In return we gained her gratitude."

"A rare achievement," said Dumarest. He sipped at his wine. "You sent a message. It sounded urgent. You want to see me. Why?"

"It was good of you to come. You must be very busy."

"Completing final checks," agreed Dumarest. "We leave at dawn. What is it you want? A berth? I can arrange it if you wish."

"The offer is tempting," said Weyer. "To search for a planet most believe to be a legend. An adventure with many attractions; the lure of the unknown, rich rewards, fabulous achievements. On Kaldar who could resist them? But there are other legends and they promise far less. Earth need not be a paradise. Find it and you could discover abomination."

"From which men ran in the old days?"

"I don't understand."

"No?" Dumarest shrugged. "Maybe not, but I think you do." His voice deepened, took the pulse of drums as he quoted. "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."

The creed of the Original People, but if the monk knew of them he made no comment.

"Terror," said Dumarest. "Or Terra — another name for Earth. It fits with what you are saying. A world abandoned because of some terrible catastrophe. Forgotten, ignored, all references to it eliminated from the almanac. An entire planet relegated to the status of a legend. But Earth is not a legend. It exists. I shall find it."

A statement of fact as Weyer recognized. He looked at his hands, locked as if in prayer, then at his guest. A hard man and not one to be easily dissuaded.

He said, quietly, "There are many legends. One is about a box. The comfort and safety of a world rested on the fact that it should never be opened. But someone was curious. The box was opened and terror was released. You recognize the analogy?"

"Earth is not a box."

"And the galaxy is not a world, but the similarity is the same." Weyer's voice held a desperate intensity. "All legends hold a grain of truth. Why else should a planet be abandoned? The thing which destroyed a world could still exist. The hope of the Church is that the vileness which contaminates the human race can be contained and, in time, neutralized. But if the galaxy is again exposed to the essence of horror which could still reside on Earth then what hope for Mankind?"

A man of intelligence and understanding repeating dogma learned when young. A doctrine designed to shape minds to serve a particular end.

"You talk of legends," said Dumarest impatiently. "Use logic and reason instead. I am living proof that the planet is harmless. I was born on Earth. If there is contamination then I must carry it. Am I such a dangerous threat to the safety of the galaxy?"

"You could be unique," said Weyer. "Immune. The possibility exists. As does the threat you could present. You are not as other men. Your reflexes are amazingly fast and you seem to constantly benefit from a succession of fortuitous circumstances. Luck," he explained. "Good luck. Also there is something within you which seems to radiate a determined strength. A violence and intensity of purpose." He moved his hands in a helpless gesture. "I can't explain it, but it is present and it sets you apart. The Kaldari will be freshly exposed. They are savage barbarians of the worst kind. Selfish, uncaring, devoid of any sense of responsibility. Once contaminated they would be irresistible. Such a scourge must not be permitted to exist!" His right fist drove into his left palm. "No matter how remote the possibility it cannot be allowed!"

Dumarest said, "The Kaldari are no problem. Have the ganni refuse their labor. Move into the hills."

"The Kaldari would follow them."

"And return to ashes. I've looked around. Their strongholds, factories, warehouses, workshops — all are vulnerable. Fire could cleanse this world. There are enough men wearing the collar to take care of it."

"They won't," said Weyer. "You could and would, but they can't and neither can I. It's advice I cannot accept. It is not what I want from you."

"What is?"

"For you to give up your search for a legend. I beg you — do not find Earth!"

A useless plea. As it ended Dumarest heard sounds from outside the room. A scrape, the clink of metal, a sharp inhalation as of a stifled curse.

"Down!" His hand lashed out to kill the lantern. Pushed Weyer to lie beside it. "Stay on the floor!"

In darkness Dumarest lunged towards the wall, plastic yielding to the slash of his knife. Easing himself through the gap he crouched, immobile, eyes and ears strained for movement and sound. The interior of the church was dark aside from the nacreous glow of starlight filtering through the translucent material of its construction. The stacked materials on the floor provided both traps and cover.

Metal clinked to one side.

An accident or noise deliberately created to attract attention? As it came again Dumarest moved to a pile of crates, hugging their shelter as he searched the area. Was that a bale or a crouching man? Sacks or a lurking menace? Was the intruder still within the church?

Dumarest knew he was lurking in the shadows. Sooner or later he would move to the attack or decide to retreat. When he did would be the time to act. Time would provide the answer. All he need do was wait.

Weyer lacked his patience. Within the room the monk stirred, fumbled for the lantern, triggered it into glowing life as he headed towards the door. Illumination flooded into the body of the church as he opened it, revealing the scattered materials, the figure rising from where it had crouched. Nowka, light gleaming from a familiar object in his hand. One he pointed at the monk.

"No!" Weyer lifted a hand as if against the threat of a gun. "Don't shoot!"

Dumarest rose, lifting his knife as Weyer fell. The blast of a gun froze his hand and he lowered the blade as Zehava moved from the entrance to the building.

"The fool!" She kicked at Nowka's lifeless body. "Just as well I followed him. I knew he was nursing a grievance, but I didn't think he'd turn into an assassin. He couldn't stand the shame," she explained. "You bested him at the range and he resented it. He was close to Toibin and wanted to avenge him. That's why he used the weapon he did. A symbol in a way. A pity about the monk, but better him than you. I guess the light must have dazzled Nowka, or he was just primed to react to any target he saw."

Dumarest stooped and picked up the knife the dead man had carried. The one Toibin had used. Weyer lay where he had fallen, as he would have fallen had Nowka made sure of his target. But how could a knife, unless thrown, kill at a distance?

"Earl!" Zehava was impatient. "Let's get away from here. Forget him," she snapped as Dumarest knelt beside the monk. "Let his own kind take care of him."

He made no comment as he examined the limp shape. There was no apparent wound, just a fleck of blood on the right cheek. A tiny puncture which could have been made by a stinging insect — or a tiny missile. One which had induced the simulation of death, but Dumarest could feel the slow, turgid beat of the heart. Crossing to the lantern he examined the knife, seeing the tiny hole in the guard, the stud on the hilt. Pressed it would fire a dart loaded with chemicals. A device common in cheating arenas.

"Earl!"

"There's no need for you to stay, Zehava. Just tell someone to get rid of this filth." He gestured at the dead man. "I'll take care of the monk."