Текст книги "Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun"

Автор книги: E. C. Tubb

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

"Earl! My God, Earl!"

Dephine! He waved her back as she came running towards him, her figure seeming to expand and diminish in his sight.

"No! Don't touch me!"

She said, angrily, "Earl, you fool, you're not thinking straight. What are you going to do? Join Mayna? Lie on the deck here and die? Stop being so damned noble and get some sense. Now lean on me and let's get you to a bunk. Damn you, Earl! Do as I say!"

It was easier to obey than argue and the return of pain made it impossible to resist the arm she threw around him, the pull which drew his own over her shoulder. Twice she had to halt as he doubled, retching, blood running down his chin from bitten lips. Blood which dripped on a hand and made tiny flecks of red among the ebon blotches which mottled his skin.

"You've got it," she whispered. "Earl, you've got the disease. God help me now!"

* * * * *

Once, as a young boy, Dumarest had torn the nail from a toe during a chase after game and, alone, had had to hobble for miles over rough and stoney ground. The pain then had been something he had imagined would never be equaled, but now the memory of it was a pleasantry against the agony which suffused every cell of his being.

Pain which seemed to escalate, wave after wave each more intense than the last, a ladder of agony on which his diminishing consciousness rode like a cork on water, bobbing, turning, writhing as he desperately tried to escape. A wound would have brought blood loss and the attendant shock with its mercy of oblivion, but the thing which had turned each nerve into a hyper-sensitive conductor of pain had, as yet, done no irreparable damage to his physique. And, alone, pain does not kill.

"Earl!" A faint voice echoing from across unimaginable distances. "Earl!"

A touch and a lessening of anguish, a chance to breathe without searing torment afflicting the lungs, to move without the muscle-tearing agony of cramps. To look upward and see, haloed in a nimbus of light, a mass of red hair.

Hair which shifted and shimmered and moved as if with a life of its own.

Hair which turned to the color of flame. "Kalin!"

"Kalin? No, Earl, it is I, Dephine." A mumble, echoes vastly magnified, words which boomed and rolled and became thunder. And then became words again. "What can I do? More drugs? Dear God, guide me, what can I do?"

Words which turned into a susurration, a thin whisper, the scrape of a nail on slate, a pain in itself so that he rolled and tried to close his ears and saw painted on the inside of his eyelids, images which spun and turned and lunged towards him to stand and become familiar.

A face, gibbering, falling back with the hilt of a knife protruding like a growth from the orbit of an eye. An old woman nodded, her eyes like insects, smoke rising to veil the space between them. A burst of gargantuan laughter. "Earth? Earth? Where is Earth?"

A scream which continued, a rawness of the throat, an ache in the lungs. Light and flashing fire and, again, the halo of red hair limned against a blur of white. Delirium.

Dumarest sank like a stone into the escape of hallucinations, illusions; the over-strained fabric of his mind running from the intolerable prison of his flesh. Pain alone does not kill. He could not find the surcease of death. He could no longer bear the relentless agony.

Only madness was left.

Madness and memory.

He was in a place of shifting patterns of light with strange shapes moving in wild abandon, cones and spheres, polyhedrons and cubes, constructs of lace and squat forms which teased the eye with varying contours. A medley of jumbled impressions; sensory stimuli received and registered by a brain which had lost the ability to distinguish illusion from reality. Pictures drawn from the storehouse of memory and thrown against his consciousness as slides projected against a screen.

Death was there, waiting as it had waited all his life; closer now, more avid to clutch and claim him for its own. A black edging to the picture and one which dulled the bright colors of happy anticipation. An edging which turned scarlet, which congested into a profusion of lines, took on a hatedly familiar aspect.

Became the Seal of the Cyclan.

Faces wreathed in scarlet hoods, all alike in their skeletal aspect, skin taut over bone, heads shaven, eyes deep-set, mouths lipless; only the burning intelligence in the sockets of the skulls giving evidence of life and dedication. Cybers, men dedicated to the organization to which they belonged. Living robots of flesh and blood, incapable of feeling emotion, knowing only the mental pleasure of intellectual achievement.

Hunters!

And he was their quarry. Chased from world to world, always having to anticipate where they would be next, how they would strike. Not to kill-had that been their aim he would have long since been dead, but to take. To hold. To question. To wring from him the secret he carried. The gift of Kalin.

Kalin with the hair like flame!

"Earl! My hands! Let go!"

A well of darkness into which he sank, stars flashing, dying, replaced by others burning with transient glory, a scatter of gems lying on the black velvet of a cosmic jeweler. Stars which formed patterns each the symbol of a biological unit. Fifteen units which, correctly assembled, would form the affinity twin. The artificial biological construct which could be either dominant or submissive according to the reversal of one of the units forming the chain. Injected into the bloodstream the symbiote would nestle in the cortex and intermesh with the central nervous system. The ego of a host would be diminished, reduced to a sleeping node while that of the dominant partner would take its place. The effect was to provide a new body for the master-half of the twin. A surrogate which became an actual extension of the ego. By its use an old man could become young in an alternate body, an old woman regain her beauty. A bribe none could resist.

"Earl! Tell me about Kalin. Kalin, Earl, tell me about her."

A voice like the wind, formless, disembodied, a thing to be ignored in the pursuit of bitter memory and yet enough to guide the direction of thought.

Kalin who had succumbed to temptation. And who, in the end, had given him the formula stolen from a secret laboratory of the Cyclan.

A secret they had to regain.

A thing which would accelerate their domination of the galaxy, their aim and ambition. Once they had it every ruler and person of influence would become an extension of their organization, the mind of the cyber residing in a new body, moving it as a puppet, making it their own.

Incredible power, and the Cyclan would move worlds to regain what they had lost: the secret sequence of the units forming the chain.

"Earl?"

Dumarest moved, fretful, images dissolving and being replaced by new. A horde of men busy at work, an entire planet devoted to a single aim. Workers of the Cyclan busy trying to resolve the combination, but mathematics was against them. The total of all possible combinations of fifteen units was high. Even if they could make and test one every second it would take them four thousand years to cover them all.

"Earl! For God's sake answer me! Earl!"

The voice again, louder, demanding, imperious. A thunder in his ears. Dumarest forced open his eyes, they were matted with dried pus, the lids heavy, the light streaming through them a red-hot sword plunging into his brain.

"Wa-" He tried again, mouth and lips refusing to respond, his tongue a puffed and cracked mass of raw tissue. "Water… give me water."

It flooded over his lips and chin, made wetness on his naked chest. With the liquid gurgling came the voice, rising, breaking.

"Thank God, Earl! Oh, thank God! I was so afraid. Earl! Keep living, my darling. Keep living!"

"How… long…"

"Days. Days and days. Don't go away again. Stay with me, Earl. Don't get delirious again. Stay sane, damn you! I need you! Stay sane!"

A voice like a whip, the lash cutting through the fog, the terror he heard in it, the fear a stimulus to exert his strength. It was barely enough for him to keep his eyes open, to form words.

"Water. Give me more water."

A shadow and a seeming deluge which filled his mouth and pressed into his lungs. Coughing he expelled it, a spray which lifted like a fountain, glittering droplets falling like jewels. Dimly he was aware of his nudity, of the stickiness of his body, its heat and aching discomfort and, above all, the fatigue.

"Tired," he mumbled. "Tired."

"Earl! Stay alive, Earl! Live!"

He would try but it was hard to think and impossible to remain alert. His eyes closed and, in the darkness, Dumarest felt himself slipping back into the safe, warm haven he had constructed in his mind as a defense against pain. A warren into which he would mentally crawl to suffer the grinding ache of disorientation.

The last thing he consciously heard was the harsh sound of a woman's tears.

Chapter Eight

The room was a jewel carved from an emerald, the light soft through windows with tinted panes, the coloring of walls and floor matching that of the ceiling, the furnishings a variety of kindred shades. From the bed Dumarest looked at it, ran his hands over silken covers shimmering with the delicate hue of early petals. Green, a restful color, one designed to alleviate fear. He knew he must be in a hospital.

"Welcome to the living." A man stepped from behind the head of the bed where he had stood out of Dumarest's field of vision. He was slender, of medium height, his face smooth and his voice gentle. He wore a uniform of dull green adorned with silver patches on shoulders and cuffs. "A jest, but you must forgive me. Before you ask this world is Shallah and you are in the Hammanrad Institute. My name is Doctor Chi Moulmein. Yours?" He nodded as Dumarest gave it. "At least you have no doubt as to your identity. And you came from Hoghan, correct?"

"Yes. How-"

"All in good time." Smiling the doctor lifted a hand. "Let me say at once that you have made a remarkable recovery. Even the fittest of men usually take a few minutes to gain complete orientation after such a long period of unconsciousness, but you became almost immediately aware." He gestured towards a panel which stood attached to the coils and pipes of a mass of complicated apparatus. "Again, my congratulations."

"For what? Living?"

"For having the will to survive. Without it your recovery would have been impossible. Chelha is not the most gentle of plagues. However you have nothing to fear now. One attack makes you immune, if you survive it and you can be released from quarantine when you wish."

Dumarest looked at the man, the assembled apparatus.

"How long?"

"Six months subjective, fifteen days actual. Slow-time, of course, but the treatment had to be interrupted to permit recovery, checking and essential tests. We used the Rhadgen-Hartle technique of maintaining unconsciousness by the use of micro-currents applied directly to the sleep centers of the brain. Perhaps you are aware of it?"

"Under a different name, yes."

"Of course, but the RH method does have some advantages over the usual application and we are rather proud of it. A system of induced electronic shocks which maintain the flexibility and power of the musculature," he explained. "The patient wakes with no trace of the expected weakness and can resume an active life without delay. You will have noticed that you are not hungry. A further benefit; the stomach has been nurtured on a diet of selected roughage and concentrated staples. This, in addition to normal intravenous feeding, ensures a minimum of fat-loss and tissue-wastage. I bore you?"

"No."

"It is my specialty, you understand and, to be frank, I was pleased at the opportunity of using it for so long a period at a stretch. It will probably be advisable for you to spend a few days doing certain exercises, mainly for the restoration of full coordination and automatic responses. This, of course, will be your decision. Now, as to how you came here. You are curious, am I correct?"

Dumarest nodded.

"A signal was received from your vessel and a ship was sent to intercept and rescue. Messages had been received from Hoghan warning of the outbreak of plague and so all precautions were at hand ready to be taken. You were sealed, brought down to planet, installed in the Institute and taken care of. A lucky escape, sir, if I may say so. Not one in a hundred can hope to recover from Chelha and not more than one in ten thousand is naturally immune."

Luck, and it was still riding with him. Dumarest looked at the room, the expensive appointments, the mass of complicated equipment. Money, time, and care had been spent on him-who was footing the bill? And what had happened to Dephine?

Both questions were answered at the same time.

"Your lady is taking care of everything, sir. She is a most remarkable woman and, in fact, she saved your life. A natural immune which is rare enough, but one with intelligence and knowledge also. She realised that, unaided, you would not survive the crisis and remembered a fragment of learning gained when she studied elementary medicine. You would know about that, naturally, but she would have needed a grim determination to have carried out her decision. A bold woman, sir, and a brave one. May I congratulate you a third time on your choice of a partner."

Dumarest said, patiently, "You will excuse me if I seem dull, but I wasn't conscious at the time, as you must know. Just what did she do?"

"To save you?" The doctor shrugged. "She could not, of course, have known that she was a natural immune but as time passed and she didn't contact the plague she must have had an inclination that she was in some way favored. The problem was how to pass her resistance-factor to you. Without the correct equipment she could not make a true vaccine and it was essential that the appropriate antibiotics should be transmitted active and alive. I am not using professional terminology, you understand."

"Get on with it, man. What did she do?"

"If the flesh is seared a blister will form," said the man a little stiffly. "The blister will contain a fluid which is derived from the blood, containing none of the potentially harmful corpuscles but a kind of strained and refined distillation which can be used as an inoculation-fluid. This is what your lady did."

"Burned herself?"

"On the breast and thigh. Both wounds are now fully healed and, naturally, there are no scars." The doctor made a small gesture as of a man suddenly reminded of something. "She is well and, like yourself, out of quarantine. I'm sorry, I should have mentioned that before. Naturally you would have been worried."

"Naturally," said Dumarest, dryly. "Where is she now?"

"At this time of day most probably at the Krhan Display. You wish to join her?"

Dumarest said, "Get me my clothes."

The Institute itself stood on a rolling expanse of close-cropped sward; the building housing the display was set in an oasis of flowers, giant blooms which held within their petals the blended colors of broken rainbows. The breeze was blowing towards him and Dumarest caught their scent long before he reached the flowers themselves. The odor was sweetly rich, stimulating to the nostrils, yet holding within itself the cloying stench of decay. The petals too were thick and curled like segments of tissue and, as he headed towards the path, some of the great blooms turned to follow his progress.

"My lord?" A guard blocked his path, eyes roving over Dumarest from head to foot. He wore his own clothes, refurbished, the plastic glistening with a liquid sheen, the grey in strong contrast to the profusion of color. Like himself they had been cleansed, checked, passed fit for normal circulation.

"My lord?" said the guard again, the title more a question than a deferential politeness. "May I be of assistance?"

"The Lady Dephine?"

"She is within." The guard gestured towards the curved entrance of the display. "And you? A patient? My apologies, but-" He broke off, a little discomforted. Those who could afford the expense of the Institute were not usually so sombre in their choice of dress. "To the left as you enter, my lord. The lady is probably in the inner chamber."

Music echoed with faint tinklings as Dumarest passed through the door, an electronic chime activated by his body-mass, serving both to announce his presence and to warn those within that a stranger had come to join them. A peculiarity for which he could see no need, as there had seemed none for the guard. Then, as he looked through the shadowed gloom, the reason became obvious.

The walls glowed with color, patches of flaming brilliance interspersed with areas of muted luminescence, a profusion of sparkles and shades, of glows and shafts and points, of pulses and ripples in each and every combination of hue. Works of art constructed of metal and crystal, of trapped gasses and seething liquids, of sponge-like ceramics and foils which hummed and moved as if alive.

Before one a woman stood, lost in rapture, her hands squeezing her naked breasts, her breathing a deep and quickening susurration. Beyond her a man crouched in an attitude of attack, lips drawn back over snarling teeth, hands lifted, fingers hooked, ropes of muscle standing clear on his naked arms and torso. A couple lost in each other, so interlocked that it seemed as if they were one. A young girl who simpered and ran to stand with her thumb in her mouth and invitation in her eyes. An oldster who drooled. A matron who stood with parted lips and cried in silence. A boy who talked to the air in muted gibberish.

Dumarest passed them all, his boots soundless on the padded floor, light from the display shimmering from his sterile clothing, the polished boots, the hilt of the knife riding above the right.

Dephine was in the inner chamber.

She sat on a circular couch which slowly turned in the centre of the floor so that one seated could see the entire extent of the inner display. It was in sharp contrast to that outside, sombre tones now instead of stimulating brilliance, lines and planes holding a subtle disquiet which seemed to darken the glowing constructs. Her eyes were blank, emerald pools which glistened with reflected light beneath the carefully dressed mane of her hair. Eyes which blinked and became alive when Dumarest stood before her.

"Earl!" She rose, hands lifted, the nails glowing as they turned to rest the palms against his cheeks. "Earl! At last!"

"You've been waiting long?"

"An eternity! Earl, you look so well!" Her palms stroked his cheeks, ran down the line of his jaw, the tips of her fingers resting on his lips, following the contours of his mouth. Her eyes were wide, luminous with unshed tears of joy, her face bearing the radiance of a young girl. "Earl."

A sudden flood of natural emotion or a reaction to his presence caused by the effects of the display? Dumarest stepped back, looking at her, conscious of the impact of her femininity, his own wakening desire.

"Dephine, you look well."

An understatement, she looked beautiful. Rich fabrics clothed the long, lithe contours of her body, gems shone at ears and neck, wrists and fingers. More from the auburn cloud of her hair. Her eyes gleamed beneath the slanted brows and, in the hollows of her cheeks beneath the prominent bone, luminous shadows danced to enhance the wide invitation of her mouth.

He said, a little unsteadily, "Let's get out of here."

"Why, don't you like it?" Sitting she patted the couch at her side. "Join me, Earl. Let me feel the warmth of your body close to mine. The life that is within you. The strong, so strong determination to survive. The only reason you are with me now. Did they tell you that when you woke? That a lesser man would have succumbed?"

"This place-"

"A work of genius, Earl. Krhan was a master of his art. A visionary who took inert material and imbued it with life." Her voice sobered a little. "He haunted the beds of the dying and recorded their every hope and fear and aspiration later to use those recordings to program the structure of the artifacts which now rest all around us. Extremes of emotion caught and reflected to be assimilated by those who come here to stand and concentrate and become one with the emanations. You've seen them, Earl, you understand."

Auto-hypnosis which stripped away layers of inhibition and released secrets, desires and aspirations. And here within the inner chamber?

"The culmination of his art, Earl," she said when he asked. "Sit and watch for long enough and time ceases to have meaning. Death is robbed of its terror. Life becomes a pulsing surge of demand. Life, Earl, and emotion, and the desperate hopes of those who have left their desires too late and, in dying, sent them to blaze in a final burst of emotive appeal. Do it now, Earl. Can't you grasp the message? Do it now before it is too late. Do it! Do it!" Her arms engulfed him, holding him with a desperate yearning, her body radiating a demanding heat. "Do it, Earl! Damn you, do it now!"

* * * * *

A bird descended with a flutter of wings to land on the fleshy petal of a flower, to peck, to whir into the air again. A free creature of the air, protected in this environment, a thing of grace and beauty.

As she watched it fly away Dephine said, "We need to talk, Earl."

He nodded, looking back at the building housing the Krhan Display. A trap set among riotous flowers, its insidious attraction as subtle as the scent emitted by the bloom of a carnivorous plant. To it would come the ambulatory patients of the Institute eager to taste the new excitement, experience the new thrills. To stand and release inhibitions and act the parts transmitted by those who had died, taken and adapted by the artist. To indulge in stimulated passion. To be watched by skeins of glowing luminescence.

To return again and again, drawn by the depictions as a moth is drawn to flame.

"How long?"

"Have I been waiting? Days, Earl, almost a week now. They had to check me out under slow-time. You needed specialized treatment-but you know all that." She looked back at the massed flowers, the building with its rounded roof. "The Krhan Display beguiled me. It was a way to pass the time. It holds truth, Earl."

"No. Dreams, illusions."

"The truth," she insisted. "How many die eaten with the regret of lost opportunities? The fury of having waited too long? Of building for a future which, for them, no longer exists? Do it now, Earl. A fact which life has taught me. A truth among others." Her voice grew hard. "So many others."

Too many, perhaps, and some of them only a facet of the truth she imagined she had gained. Glimpses of reality distorted by false imagery and garnished by faded tinsel; the lure of promised excitement too often turning sour. How often had she known disappointment? How often had she reached for a new thrill, a new experience, another adventure? How many layers of defensive protection shielded the real woman?

A path led to a bench ringed with scented shrubs and he led the way to it, sitting, waiting for her to settle.

"What happened, Dephine?"

"On the ship?"

"Yes… the others?"

"Charl died by his own hand. I went in to him and he pleaded with me to give him his compounds. One of them must have contained poison."

"Mayna?"

"Dead too."

"How?"

"Does it matter, Earl?" She refused to meet his eyes. "He died, that's all you need to know. His screams were driving me crazy and-" She broke off. "Forget it."

A knife plunged into the heart, the impact of a club against temple or spine, drugs to distort the metabolism, there were many ways to kill a man.

Dumarest said, "Remille wanted to be alone. How did you talk him into landing?"

"I didn't. He made a recording and set the computer to throw the ship into orbit. They picked up the appeal and came up to see what was wrong. Remille was dead. They sent the vessel into a collision-course with the sun and brought us both to the Institute." She added, bleakly, "I think they would have sent us with the ship if I hadn't been able to pay."

The jewels they had found in the loot-the answer to the expensive treatment which had saved his life.

Dumarest said, sincerely, "Thank you, Dephine."

"For what?"

"Doing what you could to save me. The doctor told me about the burns. Without those inoculations I wouldn't be alive now."

"No, Earl, you wouldn't."

"And so I thank you."

"You thank me," she said, dryly. "Is that all? A few words quickly spoken?" And then, as he made no comment, added, "If so it isn't enough. I want more, Earl. A lot more."

"There is little I can give," said Dumarest evenly. "But you have the jewels and can retain most of my share."

"It still isn't enough."

Simple greed? He doubted it, but had to be sure. "What then?"

Her answer was direct. "You, Earl. I want you."

Marriage? In the display they had been governed by passion, riding a tide of sensual pleasure, of desire, of lust. She had been wild in her abandon, surrendering all restraint, concerned only with their union and careless as to who might be watching. An abandon he had shared in an explosive release of primeval energy. There had been words in the glowing dimness, things whispered in the language of lovers. Terms of endearment, protestations of affection, promises which he had heard from other women and which he had learned to discount-when passion died such things were often forgotten. And, influenced by Krhan's genius, neither had been wholly normal.

«Earl?»

She expected an answer, but he delayed giving it, letting the silence grow as he studied the lines of her face. It was hard, cold, a tiny muscle twitching at the corner of her mouth. Her nails made little scratching sounds as they rasped over the rich fabric of her gown.

Not the face of a woman declaring her love to a potential mate. But if not marriage then what?

"You're cold," she said at last. "Had I said that to another man he would have leapt to the obvious and be talking of our future life together. Especially after what happened between us in the display. Yet you say nothing. Why, Earl? Am I so repulsive?"

"Say what you mean, Dephine."

"Cold and hard and direct." She looked down at her hands as if reluctant to meet his eyes. "You're an unusual man, Earl, but I knew that before we left Hoghan. And in the Varden you proved it again and again. The Varden– how can I ever forget it? Days spent with death all around, not knowing if I would contract the disease, not even knowing if Remille had sent the ship to plunge into a sun. Can you imagine it, Earl? Can you?"

The cold glare of light and a silence broken only by moans and screams of the sick and insane. Alone in a ship which had become a tomb, the air tainted with the stench of burning flesh, filled with the restless mutters of nightmare.

"It's over now," he said. "Over."

"Yes, Earl. A danger passed and a problem solved and for you that is the end of it. You will move on, visit other worlds, meet other women, but you don't carry, as I do, the curse of your heritage. I had thought myself rid of it, but in the Varden, and later when I felt the impact of Krhan's genius-Earl, it isn't easy to forget the past."

"Can you ever, Dephine?"

She caught the sombre note in his voice and with an impulsive gesture reached out a hand and touched the side of his face. A touch which turned into a caress as her fingers moved softly over his cheek, to rest on his lips, to lift and be pressed against her own. A kiss by proxy; a thing often done in taverns by harlots with eyes as hard as the metal which graced their nails. But this was no tavern but a bench set among scented bushes and the woman was regal in self-assured pride.

A pride which crumpled as, tremulously, she said, "Earl! I need you! Please don't make me beg!"

"Need me for what?"

"For your strength, your courage, your skill. Because you are a man in every sense of the word. Because I am afraid."

"Afraid?"

She said, dully, "I belong to an old and honored family. One so steeped in tradition that it has become a way of life. Can you understand that? To live by a code which must not be broken. Of pride which can admit of no weakness. Of reputation which must be maintained no matter what the cost. I was a rebel and when the chance came to escape I took it. Since then I have done many things." Light glittered as she lifted her hands and looked at her nails. "Things which could be regarded as having sullied the good name of my House."

"So?"

"I want to go back, Earl. I want to go home. Yet how can I be sure of a welcome? I could be challenged-there is nothing so cruel as outraged pride. So you see why I need you. I must have a champion. A man to stand at my side and to shield me with his strength. Just for a while, Earl, until I am accepted, then you can go your own way if you want."

She had tended him and saved his life-he couldn't refuse.

"Very well, Dephine," he said. "I'll take you home."

Chapter Nine

Home was Emijar, a small world lying at the edge of a dust cloud, the solitary planet of a dying sun. From his balcony Dumarest studied it, looking at the distant loom of hills, the rolling swell of terrain. From below came the sound of voices and, leaning over the parapet, he could see small and colorful figures busy driving horned beasts from pasture into stalls for milking. Boys at their labors as the girls would be hard at work spinning and weaving. The children of the Family learning the essential disciplines of husbandry.

With his elbows leaning on the carved and weathered stone Dumarest examined the exterior of the house. It was a big, rambling structure which had grown over the years, yet the new additions had blended with the old adding to instead of detracting from the original conception. The tower in which he stood reared towards the sky, walls enclosed small courtyards and the thick, outer walls were topped with crenelations. A house which was a combination of farm and fortress. A building which had stretched to embrace generations of residents as it had expanded to contain the accumulation of centuries.