Still driven by his search for Man's fabled birthplace, Earl Dumrest accepts a commission to guard the Lady Derai, heiress to the proud House of Caldor, on the feudal world of Hive. On Derai's home planet, Dumarest had hoped to meet a living witness to Earth. But instead he finds himself in the lists of the deadly Contest on Folgone - with the Lady of Caldor as prize. And on Folgone, for the first time, Dumarest confronts the Cybers: ruthless, emotionless tools of a great Gestalt which holds the mighty of the universe in its grip - a power which may yet provide him with the key to his quest for Earth.
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
186
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Dumarest was at practice when the skybeast came. He stood poised on the balls of his feet, a short bar of lead in his hand,
parrying and dodging the vicious slashes and thrusts of a yard of steel. Sweat dripped from his face and naked torso; Nada
wasn’t playing and she was strong enough to send the steel rod whining through the turgid air. She was also sadist enough
to enjoy it.
‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘That’s enough.’ She stepped back and threw aside the rod. Her blouse, taut over her breasts,
was dark with perspiration. Her long, dark hair clung to her neck and cheeks. Her skin, in the dull lighting of the tent,
was faintly olive. ‘You’re fast,’ she said admiringly. ‘Fast.’
‘I am?’ He looked down at his body. A ragged, shallow gash ran over his ribs. A deeper cut marked his left side, two others
his left forearm. The wounds were almost healed beneath a layer of transparent plastic.
‘You were green then,’ she said. ‘Still groggy from travelling Low. And they were lucky,’ she added. ‘Those who managed to
hit you, I mean. Lucky enough to make a score but not lucky enough to win.’ She stepped close and stood before him. Her head
came just below the level of his own. ‘You’re good, Earl,’ she said. ‘Real good.’
‘I’m hot.’
‘Then wash.’ She didn’t mistake his meaning. ‘I’ve put a bucket outside.’
It was a five-gallon drum, the top removed, almost full of tepid water. He plunged in his arms, laving his torso, then ducked
his head. When he stood up he heard the mournful booming. High above, drifting among the scattered clouds, a beast was dying.
Already most of the auxiliary pods had been punctured and hung like ragged ribbons of mist at the edge of the great, hemispherical
body. Even as he watched, a swarm of the local skylife darted from the clouds to tear at the intruders: rats worrying a dog.
It fought back with the fringe of tentacles hanging from beneath its body, seizing its tormentors, sending them plummeting
with ruptured gas-sacs. Others of their own kind ate them before they could hit the ground. Still others continued the attack.
‘It hasn’t got a chance,’ said Nada. ‘Not one.’ Her voice was thick with anticipation.
Abruptly the creature vomited in a desperate effort to gain height. A cloud of water vapour and ingested food sprayed in a
kaleidoscope of coloured smoke. It rose a little, booming with terror and alarm, almost helpless here over flat country away
from the strong thermals of its mountainous browsing grounds. High and to one side the keepers who had driven it to the city
with air-blast and electric probe watched from the safety of their floating platforms.
‘Soon,’ gloated Nada. ‘Soon!’
The attackers darted in for the kill. They tore at the lashing tentacles, at the soft underparts, at the tough skin of the main gas-sac. The creature vomited again and then, as
natural hydrogen spurted from its punctured hide, spored.
Its death-scream echoed over the city as a cloud of glittering fragments sparkled in the air.
‘Nice.’ Nada stared thoughtfully at the falling remnants of the creature. Around it the attackers were busy feeding. Little
if any of it would reach the ground. ‘They’re bringing in another for the finale,’ she said. ‘I was talking to the keepers.
It’s a real big one. They’re going to burn it,’ she added. ‘At night.’
Dumarest plunged his head again into the water. He rose, squeezing his hair. Droplets clung to his naked flesh like a coloured
dew. ‘Do they always do that?’
‘Burn one? Sure. It makes a good spectacle,’ she explained. ‘Something to give the tourists a big charge. A highlight, sort
of.’ She smiled at her own joke. ‘This your first time on Kyle?’
Dumarest nodded.
‘We’ll be moving on soon,’ said the girl. ‘The Festival’s almost over. ‘Elgar’s the next stop. Know it?’
‘No.’
‘A lousy dump,’ she said dispassionately. ‘Then Gerath, then Segelt, then Folgone. That’s a weird one,’ she mused. ‘Real weird.
You coming with us?’
‘No.’ Dumarest reached for a towel. She handed it to him.
‘You could do worse,’ she suggested. ‘Aiken likes you. And,’ she added meaningfully, ‘so do I.’
Dumarest busied himself with the towel.
‘We’d make a fine couple,’ she said. ‘I’m all the woman you could ever use and you’re all the man I’ll ever want. We’d get
along fine.’ She caught the towel he threw toward her and watched him dress. ‘What do you say, Earl?’
‘It wouldn’t work,’ he said. ‘I like to keep moving.’
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘You’re looking for something,’ she decided. ‘That or you’re running away from something. Which is it,
Earl?’
‘Neither,’ he said.
‘Then …?’
‘No,’ he said. And left her standing alone.
Aiken lived in a blocked-off portion at the rear of the tent, living, eating and sleeping on the premises of his concession.
The proprietor was a small, round, pudgy man with a tendency to sweat. He looked up from the upended crate he used as a desk
and hastily slammed the lid of a cash box. ‘Earl!’ He twisted his face into a smile. ‘It’s good to see you, boy. Something
on your mind?’
‘My share,’ said Dumarest. ‘I want it.’
‘Sure.’ Aiken began to sweat. ‘Your share.’
‘That’s right.’ Dumarest stood to one side of the rough desk looking down at the little man. ‘You’ve had time to count it
out,’ he said. ‘If you haven’t I know just how much it should be. Want me to tell you?’
‘No need for that,’ said Aiken. ‘I didn’t think you’d be in so much of a hurry,’ he explained. ‘We’ve got a few days yet before
the end of the Festival. How about settling up then?’
Dumarest shook his head. ‘Look,’ he said gently, ‘I want that money. I fought for it. I earned it. Now I want it.’
‘That’s natural.’ Aiken produced a handkerchief and mopped his face and neck. ‘A man likes to handle the money he’s earned,
spend a little of it maybe. A man that’s a fool, that is. But, Earl, you’re no fool.’
Dumarest stood, waiting.
‘That money,’ said Aiken. ‘It’s yours—that I’m not arguing about—but why not invest it while you’ve got the chance? Listen,’
he urged. ‘This is a nice little setup. We’ve got Nada as a flash to con in the goops. A couple of steadies who bleed fast
and a comic who’s good for a laugh. With you in the ring we can’t lose. We can offer odds of ten-to-one on first blood and
still clean up. Better yet, we can take on the private fights. You know, ten-inch knives and no quarter. Big money, Earl.
Big money.’
‘No,’ said Dumarest.
‘You’re letting slip the chance of a lifetime.’
‘Maybe. Where’s my share?’
‘You seen Nada? She wants to talk to you.’
‘I’ve seen her.’ Dumarest leaned forward, his face hard. ‘What’s the matter, Aiken? Don’t you want to pay me?’
‘Sure I do,’ said the proprietor. His eyes were darting, furtive. ‘Sure I do,’ he repeated, ‘only …’ He broke off, swallowing.
‘Look, Earl,’ he said desperately. ‘I’ll give it to you straight. Things haven’t been going so good. The concession cost more
than I figured and the goops have been staying away. What I’m trying to say is that I’m practically broke. I owe the others. I’ve got to find freight
and passage money to the next stop on the circuit. There are bills due in town. With your share I can just about make it.’
‘And without?’
‘I’m beaten,’ admitted Aiken. ‘I’ll be stranded. Finished.’
‘Too bad,’ said Dumarest. ‘Pay me.’
‘But …’
Dumarest reached out and caught the other man by the shoulder. Gently he tightened his fingers. ‘I worked for that money,’
he said quietly. ‘I chanced getting myself killed to earn it. Now do you give it to me or do I help myself?’
Outside the tent he counted the money. It was barely enough for a single High passage on a ship that wasn’t travelling too
far. Thoughtfully he walked down the midway section of the carnival. Concessions stood to either side, some open, most waiting
for night, when the square mile set aside for the Festival games really came to life. An amplified voice yelled to him from
a tent:
‘Hey, you there! Want to know what it’s like to be burned to death? Full-sense feelies give you the thrill of a lifetime!
Genuine recordings of impalement, live-burial, flaying, dismemberment and many more. Sixteen different types of torture! You
feel it, sense it, know what it’s like. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!’
The male voice fell silent. A female voice whispered from lower down the line:
‘Hello, handsome! Want to share my wedding night? Find out just how the little woman feels. Adapt your technique. Get the
reputation of a man who knows what it’s all about. Please the ladies. Step right up for a new experience!’
A third voice, quieter, without amplification: ‘Alms, ?’
A monk of the Universal Brotherhood stood by the gate in the perimeter fence. He had a pale, thin face framed by the cowl
of his homespun robe. He held out his chipped plastic begging bowl as Dumarest halted. ‘Of your charity,’ he said.
‘Remember the poor.’
‘How could I forget them?’ Dumarest threw coins into the bowl. ‘How could anyone? You have much work on Kyle, Brother.’
‘You speak truth,’ said the monk. He looked at the coins in his bowl. Dumarest had been generous. ‘Your name, Brother?’
‘So that I shall be mentioned in your prayers?’ Dumarest smiled but gave the information. The monk stepped closer.
‘There is a man who seeks you,’ he said quietly. ‘A man of influence and power. It would be to your advantage to attend him.’
‘Thank you, Brother.’ The monks, Dumarest knew, had friends in high places and an information network that spread across the
galaxy. The Universal Brotherhood, for all the humbleness, was a very real power. ‘His name?’
‘Moto Shamaski. A factor in the city. You will attend?’
‘Yes,’ said Dumarest. ‘Keep well, Brother.’
‘Keep well.’
The factor had grey hair, grey eyes, a grey beard shaved in the pattern of his Guild. His skin was a faded saffron, creped
with wrinkles, pouched beneath slanting eyes. He rose as Dumarest entered the office and inclined his head in greeting. ‘You
have not kept me waiting,’ he said. His voice was thin, precise. ‘It is appreciated. You will accept refreshment?’
‘Thank you, no.’ Dumarest glanced around the office before taking the proffered chair. It was a soft, luxurious place, the
carpet thick underfoot, the ceiling a mesh of sound-trapping fibre. A few simple designs ornamented the panelled walls, delicate
embroideries of intricate construction, rare and valuable examples of Sha’ Tung art. Moto Shamaski was a rich and cultured
man.
‘It is good of you to attend me,’ he said. ‘I trust that you have suffered no inconvenience?’
‘None.’ Dumarest wasn’t deluded as to his own importance: men such as the factor were always polite. ‘I received word that
you wanted to see me,’ he said. ‘Apparently you do. May I ask why?’
The factor smiled with his lips, not his eyes—they were busy searching the visitor. Dumarest recognised the ritual: let the
silence grow and it would, perhaps, reveal something of interest, impatience, arrogance, servility or simply an overriding
need to talk.
Impassively he leaned back, letting his eyes drift from the factor to where a sheet of unbroken crystal occupied the major
part of one wall. It gave a clear view of the sky and the famous Clouds of Kyle.
‘Beautiful, are they not?’ The factor leaned forward, looking at the coloured shadows brushing the face of his visitor. It
was a strong face, hard, determined. The face of a man who learned to live without the protection of Guild, House or Organisation.
‘I have been thirty years on Kyle,’ he said quietly. ‘Never do I tire of watching the sky.’
Dumarest made no comment.
‘Such tiny organisms to create such splendour,’ mused the factor. ‘Living, breeding, dying in their great swarms high above the ground. Food for others who share their aerial environment. A thing unique to Kyle and for which the planet has cause
to be grateful.’
‘The Festival,’ said Dumarest. He turned from the window to face the man across the desk. ‘The time when the skybeasts turn
from their browsing to fight in the fury of mating. That,’ he said dryly, ‘and other things.’
It was the factor’s turn to make no comment. Shamaski was an old man, a lover of beauty who preferred not to dwell on the
other aspects of the Festival, the games and wild lusts, the perversions and pandering to bestiality which wiled away the
long nights for the impatient tourists who brought their wealth to Kyle. Instead he gestured toward a tray standing on a small
table to one side of the room. ‘Are you sure that you require nothing? Some tea, perhaps?’
Dumarest shook his head, his eyes thoughtful. The man had sent for him; why did he delay?
‘You are impatient,’ said the factor shrewdly. ‘And, no doubt, a little curious. They are natural attributes but you mask
them well.’ He pressed a button at the edge of his desk. A panel glowed on the flat surface, the brightness marked with lines
of script. ‘Earl Dumarest,’ read Shamaski. ‘A traveller. You arrived from Gleece . . .
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