World of Promise

Chapter Two

He rose through layers of ebon chill counting seconds as he waited for the eddy currents to warm his body, for the pulmotor to cease aiding his respiration, for light and the euphoria of resurrection. A dream which dissolved into shattered fragments and the realization that he was not riding low, lying in a casket designed for the transportation of beasts, doped, frozen, ninety percent dead, risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.

A dream born of memory and followed by others; a surging tide of faces and places and strangely distorted images which threw him back into time in a series of speeded montages. Silver hair replaced by flaming scarlet, brown, gold ebon streaked with alabaster. A world on which the dead walked to converse with the living-a woman, a doll, a child-Lavinia!

He writhed as a tide of pain washed the images away and left him trembling but awake.

He looked up at a face. It was blurred, the planes and contours oddly vague as if seen through water or through eyes affected by chemical compounds. The face was haloed by the light beyond, rimmed with effulgence, touched with mystery.

Then, even as he looked, the features seemed to firm; the eyes widening to form limpid pools deep-set beneath arching brows, the nose firmly bridged, the cheeks concave, the rounded jaw strongly determined, the mouth wide, sensuous, the lips moist and full. The face was surmounted by a crested mane of hair which shone like oiled jet. An ebon cloud in which shone the sparkle of scintillate gems.

She said, "Earl Dumarest you are a fool."

"If so I am a grateful one, my lady. May I know my benefactor?"

"I am Charisse Chetame."

"Then, my lady, I thank you."

"For having saved your life?" Her laughter, like her voice, was deep and warm with resonance. "Please, Earl, don't compound your folly."

She could be playing a game with rules known only to herself if any such existed. Someone rich, jaded, choosing to amuse herself. One who could decide to terminate her charity-if charity it had been.

Dumarest struggled to sit upright, fighting a sudden nausea, taking deep breaths as he waited for it to pass. The bed was a hospital cot, the room fitted with medical equipment, his body naked beneath a thin sheet which fell as he rose to expose his torso, the scars which traced thin lines over his chest. In the hollows of his elbows small wounds rested puckered mouths in tiny gardens of bruise.

"Intravenous feeding," she explained, unnecessarily. "You've been under slowtime. Six weeks subjective."

Over a normal day he had lain, his metabolism speeded by the drug, healing with accelerated tempo. Even though he'd been fed, his body showed signs of wastage.

"You were cut up pretty badly inside," she explained casually. "I had to section the bone and replace quite a large amount of lung tissue. I didn't think you'd object to a couple more scars." Her hand lifted, a slender finger touching his skin, tracing a path over the pattern of cicatrices. A touch which held more than a professional interest, lingering as if a caress. "A fighter," she mused. "You've worked in the ring and learned the hard way. How often have you killed Earl?"

Too often, but he said nothing, watching her eyes, the set of her lips. She was past her first youth, in her third decade at least, and the name was familiar. Chetame? He remembered the guard.

He said. "The beast was yours?"

"Is, Earl. It's still alive and the sight has been fully restored. You know what happened, of course?" She didn't wait for him to reply. "My men had to shoot it with anesthetic darts. One of them hit you. They brought you in together."

And who had claimed her first attention?

"It was deliberate," he said, understanding. "You placed the creature outside to be tormented. Only a fool would have done such a thing without reason and, my lady, I do not take you for a fool."

"Charisse, Earl, you may call me Charisse. And you are correct. It was necessary for me to discover its tolerance level and also its potential strength. Clients do not take kindly to being supplied with beasts they cannot control. The cage seemed strong enough but, obviously, it was not. And I had underestimated the maniacal fury level by a factor of at least five percent. It could even be ten."

A mistake-and two guards had died and the child could have joined them. The men standing by had been slow to act or had been ordered to hold their fire. More tests?

"That's why I called you a fool, Earl." Charisse seemed oblivious to Dumarest's anger. "To have risked your life for so little. A child. Something so easily replaced. But perhaps you had a personal reason?"

She guessed too much and Dumarest remembered the montage of dreams; the images, names, faces which had spun before him. Had he raved in delirium? Talked in answer to direct questions? She knew his name which was a clue in itself. How deeply had she probed?

She stepped back as he threw his legs over the edge of the cot to stand upright, the sheet wrapped around his waist. A tall woman, deep-breasted, her hips and buttocks a harmony of curves. The outline of her thighs showed taut against the embroidered fabric of her gown. She emitted a delicate perfume: a blend of rose and carnation coupled with a scent he did not recognize, but which made him acutely aware of her femininity.

She said, "You need to take things easy for a while. Good food and rest and no undue exertion. Your system has been shocked in more ways than one."

"I have to go somewhere."

"I know. To Ascelius." She shrugged at his expression. "It's obvious. You wore a student's robe and where else do ships head for at this time? Which was yours? The Evidial The Qualt!

"The Cossos."

"You blame me for having missed it?"

He said flatly, "The beast was yours. You failed to contain it. If it hadn't broken free I'd be on my way by now."

"Are you forgetting I saved your life?"

"No. And, once again, I thank you."

"Thank me?" She shook her head. "What value are words? You know better than to think payment can be made by a babble of gratitude. Tell me, Earl, of what value is life? If you were dying now, at this moment, and I had the drug which could save you-how much would you be willing to pay?"

Without hesitation he said, "All I possess. Of what value are goods without life to enjoy them?"

"A true philosopher." Her smile was radiant. "Earl, you are a man after my own heart. But enough of this silly bickering. There need be no debts between us and certainly no animosity. Shall we drink to it?"

"Like this?"

"What?"

She hadn't grasped his meaning. Patiently he explained. "My lady-Charisse-I have no clothes."

They had been refurbished; the gray plastic smooth, bearing a rich sheen, the protective mesh hidden from sight. The knife too had been polished and honed and Dumarest lifted it from where it lay on the plate and noted the thin line of unbroken weld beneath the pommel before slipping it into his boot.

From where she stood pouring wine Charisse said, "A vicious blade, Earl. But you know how to use it." As she handed him a goblet filled with sparkling amber liquid she added, "No other man would have survived ten seconds after the mannek had reached him."

"I was lucky."

"And fast." Her lips touched the goblet, wine adding to their moistness. "So very fast. I've never seen a man with such reflexes. We must talk about it but, first, we drink and then we dine. To you, Earl, and a fortunate meeting."

"To you, Charisse," he responded. "And to your loveliness."

He hadn't intended the words but they came easily to his lips, as did others when they had sat to share dishes of pounded meats and vegetables, compotes of fruit and honey, an assortment of oddly shaped biscuits, morsels of varying tastes and textures. The meal was served by a soft-footed girl with a blank, unformed face, a slight creature who served and bowed and left at a signal.

"An idiot," said Charisse casually as if expecting Dumarest to ask the question. "I've done what I could but the basic gene structure was rotten to begin with."

"A local?"

"No." She took a sip of wine, lavender this time, tart with citrus. "Podestanians aren't to be trusted."

Which was why they stayed in her vessel? Dumarest itched to examine it but knew better than to insist. As a guest he had to defer to his hostess but he wondered what the ship could contain, how the holds had been designed.

"You're curious, Earl." She met his eyes. "Don't bother to deny it. Who am I? What am I doing? What do I intend? Questions easily answered. I own the Chetame Laboratories. I deal in manufactured life forms and will supply any who have the price to buy. Gene manipulation, forced growth, breeding for desired characteristics-you must know the kind of thing. Know too why you interest me so much. Your speed and determination are unusual traits and should be cultivated. You would be surprised to learn how many women yearn for the perfect mate to provide perfect offspring. How many would be willing to pay highly for selected sperm with a guarantee as to results and quality. Not to speak of the men who want strong and prideful sons. More wine?"

She poured without waiting for an answer, leaning close across the table so as to fill his nostrils with the scent of her perfume. She radiated an almost feral heat, stirred his masculinity, smiled as, sitting back, she held him with her eyes.

"My father taught me most of what I know," she said. "He died last year and the laboratories came to me. My mother was a geneticist trained on Shaldom-they are far advanced in the art of chromosome unification. A man with two heads, a woman with four arms-pay for it and they will supply it."

"And you?"

"Freaks and distortions don't interest me. The mannek was developed from a basic human sperm with additions to form a near invulnerable form of life which-"

"Proved a failure."

"— could….What did you say?"

"The thing is a failure." Dumarest elaborated as he sipped at his wine. "You made another mistake, Charisse. The multiplication of attributes does not result in added efficiency."

He had touched her as he'd intended and he watched her react to the slight on her ability; the clenching of her hands, the tension of her jaw, the bunching of small facial muscles which, somehow, made her look old. The moment passed as she shielded her face behind her goblet, throat working as she drank wine.

"The horns," he explained as she lowered the near empty container. "The claws. The feet, the jaws. Some animals have a double attack system-a cat, for example, with its claws and teeth. Some use head and feet, like a bird with its beak and talons. A bull has its horns."

"So?"

"Those systems have been designed by trial and error over thousands of years. Add them and you show flaws. To use the horns the mannek has to stoop. Once it does that it loses a degree of vision. To kick and gore at the same time is to diversify effort. To rend with the claws is to ignore the horns. To-need I go on?"

She said bluntly, "Could you have killed it?"

"No."

"Not even if you'd had your full strength? If you hadn't been hurt at the outset?" She added, "Using your knife, naturally."

He said, "You know the answer to that. The natural defenses are too high. To stab and slash takes time and the wounds would be relatively minor."

"But if your life depended on it?"

He would do his best but too much could happen; a slip, the flick of blood into his eyes, sweat easing his grip, the rake of a claw, the shift of the wind, the glare of reflected sunlight. Never could he be certain of winning. No man could ever be that.

"Earl?"

She was insistent and he wondered why. Wondered too what she could have learned while he was being treated. While under slowtime nothing could have been gained but at the end, or if he had been returned to normal time for a few hours, he would have been vulnerable. Drugs, hypnotism, electronic probing. He remembered the dreams, the stimulated memories, the result of distorted senses. The result of applied instruction? And why the terminal wave of pain?

She shrugged when he asked. "A means to restore full awareness. It was created by direct cortical stimulation and caused no cellular damage. Now, Earl, please answer my question."

"I can't." He was bluntly honest. "How the hell can I? You're asking me to predict a certainty and only God can do that."

"Or the Cyclan?" She smiled as he made no answer. "We're bickering again, Earl, and without need. Like young lovers so tensed with emotion they explode at a word. It's my fault. I should have remembered you have just awakened from treatment. But think of it, Earl. You matched against a mannek. The odds against your winning would be astronomical. With skilled management you could make a fortune."

The glittering prospect had lured too many to their death and he wondered why she had mentioned it. And why mention the Cyclan? Coincidence, perhaps, but Dumarest distrusted coincidences and had long learned the error of taking things at their apparent value. The woman could be what she claimed or she could be that and more.

She looked up as he rose, the clean lines of her throat a column of perfection, the gems in her hair winking, moving, sparkling, drifting among the ebon tresses like a host of watching eyes. Tiny orbs held his own as she too rose, to step toward him, to fill his nostrils with her scent before stepping to where a mass of cut and shaped crystal stood in an elaborate form on a small table to one side of the salon.

"A toy, Earl, let me show it to you."

"Thank you, Charisse, but I haven't the time. I've things to do, a passage to arrange, you understand."

"Of course." She disarmed him with her agreement. "But there are no ships just yet. In a few days the Ophir is due and the Kevore shortly afterward. They come to pick up any remaining students. You could book passage on either."

"And you?"

"I'm waiting to transship the mannek. After that I return to the laboratories on Kuldip." She lifted a hand toward the crystal. "Now let me show you my toy."

It came alive beneath her hand, light winking, fading to flare again in a kaleidoscope of shifting points, burning, transient brilliance, accompanied by a musical chiming, a brittle tintinnabulation which filled the chamber and echoed to ring again in new and more complex patterns. Light and sound. Brilliance and tinklings. Form and movement and a vague disquiet.

The unease was quashed as Charisse came to him to throw back her head and smile into his eyes with her hair alive with scintillations.

Dumarest smelled her perfume. Felt the blood pound in his veins. Felt the age-old urge dictated by nature-the force designed to perpetuate the species. Tasted blood as his teeth dug into the soft inner flesh of his cheek.

"Here, Earl." Her voice was soft as she handed him more wine. Bubbles rose in glowing emerald to burst, to be renewed, to die in eye-catching sparkles. "Drink it, my darling. It will do you good. Give you strength and help you to relax." Then, as he hesitated, "You almost died, Earl. You would have died had it not been for me. Trust me, my darling. Drink the wine. Drink."

Drink and add to the drugs already circulating in his system. The compounds which could have been added to the nutrients fed into his veins. Yet to be cautious now was to be wary too late. If this were a trap he was snared. If it were to be sprung he had no escape. Her guards, while unseen, would be close.

"Earl?" She was insistent. "Drink, Earl. Drink!"

Light and music. Shine and glitter and the sweet, brittle tinkling of endlessly ringing crystal. The perfume assailed his senses and turned his yearning into an impatient fire.

Pheromones, chemical messengers emitted by her glands to trigger his masculine response. An aphrodisiac against which there was no defense. A demand impossible for him to resist.

"You want me, my darling," she whispered. "You burn with need. Hold me, Earl. Hold me!"

Hold and feel the warmth, the softness and comfort which came from the union of parts, the completeness, the merging. To yield to the prime dictate built into the basic fabric of his being; the survival urge which overrode all else.

To mate. To die while mating-but to mate! The compulsion to procreate in which the individual was nothing more than the carrier of the precious and selfish genes; seed to be sown in a blaze of physical heat and a desire which rose to a crescendo, obliterating all caution, all restraint. A need which turned Dumarest into a rutting beast rewarding him with the intoxication of ecstasy.

In a small room which had once known exotic delights Cyber Okos experienced an intoxication of a different kind. It was always the same after rapport had been broken with the massed brains of central intelligence and the engrafted Homochon elements within his skull sank back into normal quiescence. A time in which the machinery of his body began to realign itself with mental control while he drifted in a dark void sensing strange memories and new concepts, scraps of data, novel outlooks. The overflow from other, distant intelligences. Intriguing glimpses of other worlds which he would never see but which were as real as any he had known.

A familiar experience-Okos had long been a servant of the Cyclan, but this time there had been something new.

Lying supine he thought about it. A fragment which had become implanted on his brain during the moment when central intelligence had assimilated his data as if it had been water sucked by a sponge. Near instantaneous communication against which the speed of light was a crawl gave the Cyclan a part of the power it possessed. Data given and instructions received-but this time there had been that little extra.

A mistake? The concept alone was disturbing for central intelligence was above such mundane error or it was no better than a flawed machine. Deliberate, then, but why? Why should he have been selected to be given that fragment of data?

This was an illogical thought and immediately he corrected the error. He had no proof that others had not been given the information and yet the probability against it was, had to be, in the order of ninety-nine percent-a prediction as close to absolute certainty as he dared to make. So, working on the assumption that he had been favored, the question remained.

Why?

Opening his eyes, Okos stared up at the reflection in the mirrored ceiling. Lying on the bed he looked a corpse dressed in the scarlet of his robe, the shaven head framed by the cowl, gaunt, smooth, skull-like, only the deep-set eyes revealing life and intelligence. A man dedicated to an organization whose seal was blazoned on the breast of the garment he wore. A living, breathing, emotionless machine. One with the ability to take a handful of facts and from them extrapolate a whole. Of taking a situation and predicting the logical outcome of any course of action. Now, looking at his reflection, he assessed what he had just learned.

Some of the associated brains which formed central intelligence had shown signs of aberration.

Elge, the Cyber Prime, would never have released this information, and to Okos it was plain why. Once hint at the possibility of incipient madness and the one great reward every cyber worked to obtain, the assimilation of his brain at the end of his working life into the giant complex, would lose its appeal. And what could replace it?

For some, Okos among them, the work itself was enough-the striving to replace error with reasoned calculation, to eliminate the vagaries of emotional dictates with the cold logic of assessed benefit. To spread the domination of the Cyclan until it embraced every world in the known galaxy. An end desired by all who wore the scarlet robe, augmented by the conviction that, even after physical termination, the intelligence would live on in the brain which, removed from the body, would rest in a vat filled with nutrients, kept alive and aware by the magic of science, locked in series with the others which had gone before to become a part of the gestalt of central intelligence.

But, if some of the brains had gone insane?

Okos rose, touching the wide band of golden metal at his left wrist, ending the zone of silence which had added to the security of locked and guarded doors. A precaution against electronic spies while he had been in communication with the heart of the Cyclan. As he opened the door an acolyte bowed in respectful deference; a young man dedicated to serve his master, still in training, one who need never gain the coveted distinction Okos had achieved.

"Master?"

"Have Chan and Elcar check all ship movements and arrivals during the past two days. Send word to Corcyn for data on the Fenilman Project. Gather all agents reports and have them on my desk in an hour."

"All, master?" Ashir looked doubtful. "The mass of data is great and much must be valueless."

This attitude would keep him a acolyte and would cost him dear if maintained. No data was ever without value. Each small fact, trifling as it might appear, could provide the essential key to unlock a puzzle, provide the answer to an apparently insoluble problem,

"Obey." Okos did not raise his voice and the smooth modulation of his tone remained unaltered but the acolyte bowed and seemed to cringe a little. "Do any wait?"

"Two, master. The manager of the Vard Federation and Professor Pell of the Paraphysical Laboratory of the Higham University."

Men who wanted the services the Cyclan offered and Okos would see them both-there would be time while the data was assembled, and the business of the Cyclan never hesitated.

"Show in the manager. His name?"

"Mahill Shad."

He was round, plump, sweating a little and radiating anxiety. A typical product of a culture which thought that to consume was to progress. He came directly to the point.

"I am here on business, Cyber Okos, and it's possible you could help me. I will, naturally, pay for any advice you see fit to give."

"Is that all you want? Advice?"

"Well-" Shad hesitated, suddenly conscious of his crudity, suddenly aware of what the tall, calm man at the desk represented. Cybers were not hired as common workmen and not all could gain their services. To forget the power of their organization was to invite disaster in more ways than one. He tried again. "I've come to Ascelius to recruit graduates for our interests on Lemos; we have an extensive mining project there with associated developments in bacteriological culture farms. The problem is how many to hire for how long and in just what fields. Our computer has provided an analogue, of course, but-" The spread of his hands completed the sentence. A computer was only as good as the data it contained, the operators in charge, the programmers who made up the schedules. "A form of insurance," he ended. "A mistake could be costly in contract terms, voidances and compensation for work shifts."

"I understand." Okos knew more than the other guessed but said nothing. The mines on Lemos would run into trouble in a matter of months when the shafts hit a strata of geological instability. The bacteriological farms would be faced with competition from a new process already proved on a nearby planet. Men hired now would be a liability. "I will forward your request for the services of the Cyclan," he said smoothly. "If you are accepted and the fees can be agreed then the matter can be resolved."

"But-" Shad was impatient. "Can't you give me the answer now?"

"No. Leave details of how you can be contacted." Then, as the man still hesitated, Okos added, "Or am I to understand you are no longer interested?"

A hint taken as the veiled threat it was and Shad left, protesting his interest. Impatience would drive him to hire the men and time would ruin him. The Vard Federation, driven desperate, would beg the help of the Cyclan which would be provided at a price. The advice, followed, would be of value and a foothold would have been gained in the company and on its world. A foothold was all the Cyclan needed. Once established the organization would be in demand and in a matter of years would be the true power behind the fagade.

Professor Pell had a different problem.

"It's a matter of academic values," he said as he plumped into a chair. "The Higham University is in the process of reorganization and my department is regarded as of small value. I wondered if-that is-well…"

He was begging but connected to the scholastic establishment and of potential use.

Okos said, "The paraphysical sciences have recently gained an impetus from the discoveries of Doctor Ahmed Rafiq of the University of Zabouch. His report on a hundred sensitives tested under stringent laboratory conditions is a telling document. I could get you a copy."

"Would you?" Pell had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes. "If you could I would be grateful. If at any time I could serve you please ask." He left, protesting his gratitude, not guessing that he would be asked to pay and, having paid, would continue to do so.

The Cyclan always had a use for agents.

Alone Okos studied the data Ashir had provided. A mass of items which the cyber checked, valued, assessed, assimilated, fed into the computer which was his brain. Facts to build a pattern. Data to forge a trap for a man.

Dumarest had been on Elysius, that was a fact established beyond all doubt. He had left on the Mercador. The ship had touched on several worlds on a regular schedule-on which had Dumarest left it? To which had he gone?

Okos had narrowed the choice down to two, working on a basis of pure logic adapted to local conditions and associated factors. If Dumarest was aware that he was being hunted, and the probability of that was in the order of ninety-three percent, then his actions would be influenced by that knowledge. The region was one of poor worlds with limited economies among which a ship would need to work hard to earn a profit. For such ships the exodus of scholars from Podesta would provide a welcome source of revenue. And how better to hide than among a crowd?

On the other hand, guessing that he was being searched for, knowing the power of the Cyclan he could have made for Quen there to wait for the hunting season to open and the tourists to arrive with the increase in shipping such trade would entail.

Two probabilities-which was correct?

The communicator came to life beneath his touch.

"Ashir-bring me the latest data received from the worlds of Podesta and Quen."

On the latter there had been rape, murder, theft, a ship delayed for no apparent reason, an accident in which a waiting hunter had blown off his foot, the second-hand report of a man who had wronged another and had died beneath the thrust of a knife. A second and Okos passed on; the victim had been a gambler, the killer a man who had lost too much. A clue, perhaps, but the probability was low.

On Podesta a man had rescued a child.

Okos checked the region, the details, absorbing the data at a glance and feeling the glow of mental satisfaction at having made a correct prediction which was the only pleasure he could know. Podesta-Dumarest had revealed himself-revealed too the world which must be his destination.

A window filled one wall of the room and Okos turned toward it, halting to stare through the crystal at the mass of buildings beyond-the spires and towers, domes and turrets, parapets and peaks all adorned with variegated flags denoting different universities, various seats of learning, the clustered departments, the massed halls. The product of a world whose main industry was the imparting of knowledge and which sprawled in city-sized confusion.

Even as he watched another ship settled on the distant field to discharge its cargo of fresh students. Another batch to add to the hordes which thronged the streets and lodging houses, the eating places and taverns, the emporiums, the bookstores, the cut-price tutorials. A mass of variegated humanity, nondescript in their ubiquitous robes. Soon Dumarest would be among them-when would he arrive?