Melome

Book 0: DUMAREST SAGA

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

"Welcome to the circus of Chen Wei! A spectacle of marvels culled from a thousand worlds! Things that will fill you with rapture!" There could be little to surprise Dumarest. But Chen Wei's circus was special. It held Melome - the girl-child whose song could bring back forgotten data from the logs of lost spaceships and true visions of mythical Terra. She was surely the key to Dumarest's next step - but that circus was more than an entertainment. It was a deadly trap . . . (First published 1983)

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 160

Sample

Dumarest heard the scream of a tortured child and turned, eyes searching, relaxing as it came again and he recognized the
source. A hundred yards to his right, raised high above the decorated surface of the boulevard, a painted crone lolled on
a gilded throne standing on a platform of massive timbers supported by a dozen stalwarts. They, in turn, stood on another
platform, larger, borne by twice their number. Overseers lashed them on with whips which left carmine streaks on naked, sweating
flesh.


A show as false as the screams; a mature beauty lay beneath the masking paint and the massive timbers were thin cladding over
buoyant rafts. Props for the actors demonstrating their skills; the grimaces, the fatigue, the grunts of pain. The whips were
thin tubes containing dye but the men wielding them were clever as was the woman with her screams.


She shrieked again as Dumarest watched, the cry now accompanied by the clash of beaten metal, the harsh tintinnabulation prolonged
by the chime of tiny bells. A score of girls ran from the shelter of the lower platform, weaving among the spectators, one
coming to a halt before Dumarest.


“My lord—do I please you?” She was young, lithe, radiating unabashed femininity. Bells circled her ankles and wrists, more
caressing the column of her throat, the narrow cincture of her waist. The long skirt, slit to the hip, displayed naked, slender
legs, the hint of unclothed loins. Paint accentuated the luster of her eyes, the soft fullness of her lips. Curled hair the color of gold held the glint of metal and gems. “My lord?”


A girl demanding his attention as the screams of the crone had caught it. The girl smiled as he nodded, chiming as she moved,
the bound of unfettered breasts an enticing invitation.


“You are gracious, my lord.” Her eyes were frank in their appraisal. “It would pleasure me to serve you. At the circus of
Chen Wei. A spectacle of marvels culled from a thousand worlds. Things which will amaze you, amuse you, puzzle you, fill you
with rapture. A feast for the eye and ear and mind and one not to be missed. The circus of Chen Wei. And, if you should be
in a mind for dalliance—” Her face became lewd with unspoken promise. “My name is Helga. Ask for Helga.”


A smile and she was gone leaving nothing but the scent of perfume and the fading tinkle of bells. Things which belonged on
Baatz, and Dumarest took a deep breath as he looked at the sky, the hills, the boulevard on which he stood. It ran arrow-straight
from the landing field to the market, the surface tessellated in abstract designs, curlicues, broken rainbows. Triple-tiered
buildings edged the wide road, dwellings, shops, businesses, the verandas gaudy with bright hangings, the roofs with bloated
lanterns. On the flanking hills the mansions of the rich and influential rested like a scatter of gems.


A good world, one of balm, of warmth and gentle breezes, of golden sunlight and rounded hills. A place of tranquility; the
exudations of massed vegetation filling the air with subtle vapors which took the edge off violence and aggression and induced
a tolerant lethargy.


A danger he recognized but could do nothing about and it was good to relax, to enjoy the sun, to become one with the crowd.
To feel wide expanses around him instead of the cramping confines of a hull. And Baatz, with its transient population, was
as good a place as any for him to be.


But caution remained and before he moved on, Dumarest made sure that none had lingered for no apparent reason, that he wasn’t
the object of covert interest. All seemed innocuous, most had followed the spectacle advertising the circus, others were intent
on their own affairs, the rest headed toward the market, the sights, sounds and smells it contained.


“My lord!” A woman dressed in the barbaric apparel of a warrior-amazon gestured with an imperious arm. “Fine weaves from Kirek,
strands as tough as steel and as soft as silk—nothing can beat spider-webs for utility. I have fifteen bales of it—you offer?”


A scowl marred the mannish face as Dumarest moved on, the voice yielding to another.

“High quality grain proof against bacterial molds and virus infestation. Strains from the biolabs of Lengue and Femarre. Fifteen
kobolds a measure. Buy! Buy! Buy!”


A man stepped forward, another catching at his arm.

“Wait, Krasse. It could be cheaper deeper in the market.”

“And less trustworthy. I’ve dealt with Chamile before and I don’t trust you among the stalls. Best to buy here and now and
get back to the farm before you’ve spent all we have.”


Brothers or partners—they fell behind as Dumarest moved on. Booths and stalls stretched on all sides, some bearing a profusion
of items, some only a few. Many held examples of goods housed in the holds of the vessels which had carried them. Others showed
goods yet to arrive or dealt in future harvests, the samples on display examples of earlier yields. Stalls bearing gems of
price were set next to those heaped with the cheap glitter of rubbish.


Businessmen, traders, thieves, entrepreneurs—the market of Baatz catered to all.

The jangle of a bell and the echo of a gong announced an operation in progress and Dumarest halted at the booth of a transient
healer. The man was old, his robe not as spotless as it could have been, but he was deft and practice had augmented his skill.
The patient was seated, eyes wide, the milky orbs already anesthetized. A woman in middle age attended by a young girl who
watched with horror as the needle was applied. Within seconds it had been done, the cataracts removed and the eyes bandaged.
The assistant had been generous with the prophylactic spray.


“Here, my dear.” The healer handed the girl a phial. “All done and nothing to worry about. Give your mother this draught as
soon as you get her home.”


A strong sedative with a touch of slowtime; the woman would sleep while her accelerated metabolism speeded the healing process.
She would wake rested, hungry—and cured.


Another booth housed a dentist, another a dealer in charms, yet another a man who promised a cure for all the afflictions
of the heart.


A fortune teller sat staring into a bowl of sand, the fine grains spurting in a random pattern of plumes.


A man swallowed flame.

A boy lay screaming on the ground, held by four men while, over his naked chest crawled the insect whose bite would cure him
of the epilepsy which controlled him.


“Earl!” Evan Luftman waved from where he stood chewing at a mouthful of meat. “Enjoying the sights?”

“Just looking around.”

“Baatz holds everything a man could need.” Luftman wiped his mouth and looked at the skewer he held. On it fragments of meat
lay beside succulent vegetables, the whole flavored with spice. “Good food, amiable women, diversions of all kinds. Going
to the circus?”


“Maybe.”

“They say it’s good. Something special.” Luftman licked at his skewer. “If those girls are anything to go by they weren’t
lying.”


Dumarest made no comment. Luftman had been a fellow passenger on the journey to Baatz. They’d killed time over the card table
and the man had talked more than he had wanted to listen. A roving entrepreneur dealing in what came to hand. A man past middle
age with a face creased and blotched by the passage of time and dissipation. The meeting was one he could have done without.


“I’ve finished my business,” said Luftman. “A quick profit, small but a man can’t be too greedy. Now I’m looking for a couple
of healers willing to travel to Jardis. They have a lot of eye trouble in the mines and it costs money to ship in regular
doctors. Working on a profit-sharing basis I figure three months should make us all a comfortable pile.”


“It could.”

“It will if—” Luftman looked at his skewer then threw it aside. “I could use someone to take care of things, Earl. Muscle
in case it’s needed. Those miners can get awkward at times. Refuse to pay after treatment or gang up and demand a refund.
You know how it can be.”


“You can handle it.”

“Once, yes, not now. I can’t face them down, not like you could. One-fifth the profit, Earl. Maybe three months’ work. A deal?”

“For a fifth?”

“Make it a quarter. An even share, Earl, you, me, the two healers—after expenses, naturally.”


Which would be high. Dumarest said, “When are you leaving?”

“On the Yegor. It leaves at midnight. Be on the field an hour before then.”


A rendezvous Dumarest hadn’t made and wouldn’t keep. Luftman’s scheme held little appeal, and the only one to gain would be
the entrepreneur himself. If he could find willing healers—even on Baatz trusting fools were rare.


On the ground the writhing boy shrieked, twisted, shrieked again as the mandibles of the insect fed healing venom into his
blood. A convulsive heave and he slumped. Head tilted to one side, lips parted to bare the teeth, the rod clamped between
them.


In the comparative silence Dumarest heard the rattle of clashing ceramics, the whine of a female voice broken by the brittle
sound.


“… gather to hear … clash … the ancient … clash … songs of … clash … clash … Terra.”


Terra?

Earth!

She stood in a ragged circle of semi-curious spectators, a girl little more than a child with long, straggling hair the color
of sun-bleached bone, eyes like bruises, a mouth of bloodless lips and down-curved corners. Her skin matched the color of
her hair, pale, waxen. The limbs were brittle appendages, nails of hands and naked feet rimmed with dirt. A frayed skirt hugged
boyish loins and a halter shielded nascent breasts. Her waist, bare, was circled by a metal belt from which hung strands ending
in spooled grips.


“Melome!” The woman standing beside her rattled her cluster of ceramic shards. “Who dares to test her powers? What man is
brave enough to yield to her skill and taste the acid burn of remembered fears? What woman has the strength to shred the veil
hiding her secret dreads?” Again the brittle chiming. “You, sir? You? You, my lady?”


A grifter and a good one; gaining attention, building a pitch, selecting the marks even as she spoke. A boy, blushing, looked
at the spooled grip she thrust into his hand. A woman frowned as she was given another. Two men, grinning, took their places.


“Guaranteed entertainment for a mere five kobolds and your money back if dissatisfied. You, sir? Here, my lord!”

Dumarest felt the spool thrust into his hand and held it as he stared at the woman. She was no longer young, raddled beneath
her paint, the body shapeless, the eyes hard.


He said, “You spoke of Terra.”

“Terror, my lord? Aye, that and more for those with the courage to face it. Here you will find the ancient and dire songs
of fear and hate and abject terror. Threnodies to chill the blood and numb the mind. A unique experience and one not to be
missed. You there, sir! And you!”


A mistake, one born of noise and confusion, and natural enough to make. The twist of a vowel—yet for a moment there had been
hope. The hope died as Dumarest looked again at the girl, the older woman, the two men squatting to one side. Ragged, both
old, one with a drum, the other holding a pipe. Its wail rose as the woman returned to halt before him.


“The last place, my lord. Take it and we can begin.”

A market-spectacle, born of illusion and the circumstance of the moment; it could be little more than that. But curiosity
remained, why the belt, the connecting strands? How did the woman hope to prevent those who had not paid from enjoying what
she had to offer?


“My lord!” The woman smiled as she took his money and handed him the spool. “Be seated. All be seated and let the entertainment
commence!”


The spool was spring-loaded, the strand remaining taut as Dumarest sat on the ground, forming a connection between his hand
and the belt the girl wore against her naked flesh. Connections repeated by all who had paid to join the circle. Like a spider
in the center of a shimmering web the girl stood, motionless.


The tap of the drum joined the wail of the pipe, a throbbing, monotonous beat which seemed too loud for the instrument, as
the wail of the pipe seemed too loud, the sudden hush drowning normal sounds too strong. A moment in which his eyes followed
the glinting strand, moved to others, returned to his own and then, without warning, the girl began to sing.


A song without words.

One which filled the universe.

Dumarest had known the Ghenka-art which took vocal sound and used it to gain a hypnotic compulsion in which the mind was opened
to flower in a profusion of mental images. He had heard the song of a living jewel and would never forget the awesome tonal
effects of Gath. But this diminished them all.


A song—no, a dirge—no, a paean—no, a threnody, a lilting cadence, a sobbing, sighing, heart-wrenching murmur which created
sympathetic vibrations from the thin strands so that they, too, sang in metallic harmony. A quivering which seemed to cloud
the air and mask the slender figure in writhing strands of light and darkness. A chiaroscuro which blurred and changed to
become a face snarling in anger.


One Dumarest had seen before.

It swelled to fill his vision, small details becoming plain; the eyes with their yellow tinge, the thinned, cracked lips,
the nostrils rimmed with mucous, the ears tufted with hair. The face of a man who intended to kill.


One without a name on a world far distant in a time long forgotten, but Dumarest felt again the shock he had known then; the
sudden realization that he had been duped and what he’d thought was a practice bout was the stage for his public butchery.


The shock and the terror. The fear and pain as edged steel cut a channel across his torso and sent blood to stain the floor
of the ring. The lights, the weight of his own blade, the ring of avid faces but, above all, the terror of being maimed, crippled,
blinded, turned into a mewling, helpless thing.


The face promised it all, the man, the knife he held, the profession he was in. A trained and savage killer amusing himself
with an inexperienced boy. One who had no choice but to learn fast.


To move, to dodge and weave, to cut and slash and rip and stab and to find speed and use it. To be fast … fast … fast …

But the terror remained and would always remain if only as a whispering echo in the dim regions of his psyche. A weakness
which strengthened his iron determination to survive.


He blinked, aware of the spool in his hand, the sweat dewing his face. To one side a man rocked, wailing, tears falling over
his cheeks. Another shuddered, quivering. A woman appealed to invisible ghosts.


“No! Dear God, please! Please!”

Facing Dumarest the young boy looked sick, one of the two laughing men stared blankly at his clenched hand, his companion
had a blood-smeared chin from a bitten lip.


Only the girl seemed unchanged. She stood as Dumarest remembered, head lowered a little, eyes blank, hands limp a. . .