Prison of Night

Book 0: DUMAREST SAGA

by E.C. Tubb

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

Synopsis

ZAKYM: World of the night-rulers and the day people. A world teetering on the edge of nightmare. The Cyclan orders were clear - 'Find Dumarest. Find him before war erupts on ZAKYM.' But Zakym could hold the key to Dumarest's search for his lost home planet - and for that he would risk everything. (First published 1977)

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 157

Sample

Kars Gartok was the last to leave, lingering in his cabin until the others had gone, unwilling to engage in useless conversation,
to hear again the empty threats and bitter denunciations. Only when the ship was silent did he venture forth to step through
the open port and head down the ramp to the field below. It was late in the day, the sun low on the horizon, the air misted
with a damp fog which pearled the mesh of the perimeter fence and gave the tall figure standing just beyond the gate a blurred,
ethereal quality as if it were the figment of a dream.


But Brother Eldon was no ghost. He waited, dressed in a brown, homespun robe the cowl thrown back despite the chill to reveal
a face seamed and creased with age and privation. His feet were bare in open sandals and gnarled hands gripped a bowl of cheap
plastic chipped and scarred by usage and time. He lifted it as Gartok approached.


“Of your charity, brother.”

Halting Gartok stared at the monk then said, dryly, “Charity? Aren’t there fools enough on Ilyard without you wanting more?”

“Is to give an act of foolishness?”

“What else?”

“Some would call it an act of virtue, brother.”

“To give without hope of reward is the act of a fool,” said Gartok, curtly. “A lesson a man in my trade quickly learns.”

“As those did who left the ship before you?” Then, before Gartok could answer, the monk added, quietly, “It could be that
you have already had your reward. You seem uninjured and you are alive.”


“Yes,” said Gartok, heavily. “I’m alive.”

He was a big man, wide of shoulder and thick of neck, dressed in dark leather trimmed with scarlet, polished patches showing at shoulders and waist where body-armor had rested.
His temples bore callouses from the weight of a helmet and his eyes, deep-set and hooded, watched from beneath beetling
brows. His hands were broad, the fingers spatulate, the knuckles knobs of bone. His face matched the hands, broad, rough,
ridged and seamed with scars. The mouth was a trap, the chin a rock, the nose a predatory beak. He looked what he was—a professional
dealer in death.


Watching him as he stood there, the mist dewing the stubble of his cropped head, the monk said, “What happened, brother?”

“We lost.”

“And?”

“What more needs to be said? We were out-gunned, out-manned, out-maneuvered. Eighty-three of a hundred died on Craig. The
details? What do they matter?”


“Even so, brother, I would like to know.”

For a moment the mercenary hesitated then, shrugging, said, “It’s the old story; two men snarling at each other over a strip
of land on a world not worth a woman’s spit. Each turned to force and hired men. A minor war and dangerous only to those involved.
Or so it should have been but accidents happen. And the locals were stubborn and refused to evacuate their villages.”


And so they had died in blossoms of flame as shells had burst in crude houses and fragmentation bombs had torn air and flesh
with whining shards of metal. An old story and one common on Ilyard where men came to talk and rest and seek employment. Common
too on worlds cursed with ambitious rulers who thought of men as pawns to be used in a complicated game.


“Craig,” said the monk. “You said that was the name of the world?”

“Yes. One lying on the edge of the Rift. A bleak place of rock and water and cold. A world where the rich burn turf to keep
warm and the poor huddle together. But one the wealthier now for the bodies of good men fertilizing the soil.”


“But you are not one of them, brother,” reminded the monk and lifted his empty bowl a little. “Those who give to the poor often enjoy good fortune.”


A direct appeal to the superstition inherent in all gamblers, and what was a mercenary but a man who gambled with his life?
Yet the monk felt no pride of achievement as Gartok plunged a hand into a pocket. Trained in the art of psychology it was simple
for him to manipulate the emotional triggers which all men carried and to which they could not help but to respond. And the
mercenary, like all his breed, must have inner weaknesses, hidden guilts, invisible cracks in his external armor of competence.


As he threw coins into the bowl Gartok said, “It’s all I can give, monk. If it isn’t enough to buy a blessing at least spare
me your curse.”


“I curse no one, brother.”

“Then you are more saint than man. I curse people often. Captain Blasco who has a taste for killing. The fool who hired us.
The swine who—well, never mind. What is done is done and what point to dwell in the past? But you, Brother, have you any news?”
Then, as the monk made no reply, “I forgot, you do not trade in war. But at least tell me this—have any persons of consequence
and wealth arrived recently? High lords with ambition and money to hire men?” His eyes narrowed as they searched the old face.
Like the monk he had a knowledge of psychology but could read nothing. Then a flicker of the eyes gave him a clue. “They have?
You do not deny it? Good. Fortune could be smiling on me at last. Where are they staying?”


“You can find out where, brother,” said the monk. “As you say, I do not trade in war.”

He shivered a little as the mercenary strode away, the wind was increasing and its chill numbed skin and bone. He could barely
feel the bowl in his hands and his feet were like blocks of wood yet he welcomed the discomfort as a reminder of times past
when, as a young man newly taken into the Church, he had stood before gates like this begging for alms.


An essential duty but one which he no longer had need to perform but old habits died hard and, always, it was necessary to
guard against the sin of pride.


And to beg was to be humble.


A gust of wind caught his robe and drove it hard against his body, the damp material emphasizing the chill of the dying day.
From the distance came the shouts of men and the monotonous pounding of feet. Raw recruits were at drill; men engaged on a
scatter of worlds and transported here to Ilyard where their contracts were sold at a profit. Those who had already been bloodied,
who had been flung into combat and who had managed to survive, fetched a higher price than the rest. Others, like Kars Gartok,
long freed of contractual restraint, sold their skills to any who would be willing to pay. Their skill and loyalty for what
it was worth, going out to fight, to kill, to bleed, to die if they must to live if they could even at the cost of all they
owned.


One day, thought the monk,’ he might be able to understand what drove men to act in such a manner, but for now it was cold,
the field was empty and work still waited to be done.


The shadows were lengthening as he reached the first of a litter of shacks and huts which sprawled away from the town to the
side of the field. Lowtowns were all the same no matter on which world they were found. The refuge of the desperate, those
stricken with illness, those cursed with poverty. The stench of it rose like a miasma from the ramshackle dwellings; constructions
of scrap and discarded plastic, of fabrics salvaged from the garbage of the more fortunate, doing little but to keep out the
rain and giving a scrap of privacy.


The church was little better, but from intent rather than need. A building of brick or stone with solid walls and barred windows,
of thick doors and heated air would have been an affront to those it had been designed to serve. As a monk wearing silk and
gems would have insulted the wretch to whom he preached the virtue of poverty. To gain the confidence of those in need they
had to be met at their own level.


Yet, even so, the church was bigger and better than others he had known. They had been the flimsy shacks of portable churches:
fabric and poles which could be carried on a back together with the benediction light which was the heart of the structure.
Yet tent or palace all were the same. All strove to teach the same message. To persuade all who came to listen or who could be persuaded to pay attention
to accept the Universal teaching of complete Brotherhood. That no man was an island. That the pain of one was the pain of
all. That all shared the burden of a common heritage. That all belonged to the Corpus Humanite. That once each could look at the other and say, there, but for the grace of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.


He would never see it. No monk now alive would ever see it. Men bred too fast and travelled too far for that. They rested on
too many worlds scattered throughout the galaxy and were subjected to too many strains. But, eventually, it would come. It
was an article of faith to believe that The purpose of his being.


“Brother!” A man rose from where he’d been squatting in the dirt and mud at the side of the track. He was thin, his face yellowed
with jaundice, his teeth chattering with cold. He smelt of suppurating pus; the sickly sweet odor of tissue-decay. The hand
he extended was like a claw, thin, quivering. “Brother. For the love of God help me!”


“Ask, brother, and if it is possible it will be given.”

“I’m ill. Rotten with sores and something else. Starving. I can’t get work. And I—I’ve …”

“The church is waiting,” said Brother Eldon quietly. “Enter it, kneel beneath the benediction light, confess and receive forgiveness.
Medicines are available and they will be given.”


“Brother, will you speak for me to Major Khaftle? He—”

“One thing at a time, brother.” Eldon was insistent. “First you must be given what help we have. After, well, we shall see.
Come now.”


He took the quivering claw into his hand, feeling the febrile heat of the skin, recognizing the fever, the disease. The man
was dying and would die despite the antibiotics they could give. But he would not die alone and he would die in peace. Brother
Veac would see to that.


The young monk accepted his charge and glanced sharply at his superior. It was not his place to question or to criticize,
but he would not have been human had he not made a comment.


“It is late, brother, and cold.”


“Yes.”

“There is food and warmth within. You should rest now.”

“And stop trying to act the young man, brother?” Eldon smiled as the other looked abashed. “Am I so old you think I have forgotten
to remember how I thought when young? Take care of our friend now. Is Brother Biul available? Good.” Then lowering his voice
he whispered, “The infirmary, I think. There is room? Then see he has a place. I fear that he will not be with us for long.”


But first came the easing of his heart and soul. To kneel beneath the swirling bowl of colored light, to drift into a hypnotic
condition, to unburden himself, to suffer subjective penance and then to be given the bread of forgiveness. And if most of
those coming to the church did so for the sake of the wafer of concentrates then it was a fair exchange. For each who knelt
beneath the light was conditioned not to kill.


“Brother!” Biul looked up from where he sat busy with papers and rose as Eldon entered the office. “You must be frozen! Why
must you be so stubborn? You are too old to act this way.”


Older than Veac the monk cared less for diplomacy and long friendship had given him a casual familiarity. Now he bustled around,
fetching a warm blanket, filling a bowl with soup, standing over Eldon while he ate. Only when the bowl was empty did he permit
the older man to speak.


“Biul, you have all the attributes of a bully,” said Eldon mildly. “If I didn’t know you meant well I might even be annoyed.”

“As I will be unless you take better care of yourself. We need you—and do I have to remind you that self-injury is a sin?”
Biul cleared away the bowl, rearranged the blanket then said, “Well?”


“Little. A few coins.”

“And?”

“Bad news.” Eldon felt his shoulders sag. “War on Craig. The first engagements are over but there will be others that is certain.
Help will be needed. Contact the seminary on Pace and have them notify those on Hope. A full medical team if possible, as
many monks as they can spare at least. And perhaps influence could be brought to bear on those responsible to cease the hostilities.”


It was possible, the Church had friends in high places, and it would be tried, but inevitably there would be delays and in
a war-situation delay meant suffering, disease, degradation and death.


To alleviate a little of it was the most they could hope to do.

As Biul left Eldon sank back in his chair, conscious of the warmth of the blanket, the snug comfort of the room. It was bleak
enough, the walls ornamented with small mementoes and a few paintings of worlds known when young, but it held everything he
had come to value since, when a youth, he had applied for acceptance into the church and had commenced his training.


There was trust there, and faith, and the desire of one to help another. There was truth and tolerance and compassion. There
was an acknowledgement that life was more than could be seen on the surface and that, without the belief in something greater
than Man, then Man could not be greater than what he was.


A point on which he had argued when young and had still not understood what it really meant to be a monk.

Brother Hoji had stripped away his illusions.

He was old, stooped, withered, crippled, acid. He was in charge of indoctrination and had not been gentle. Leaning back, half-asleep,
Eldon could hear again the voice which had rasped like a file through the confines of the room into which had been packed
a score of youngsters like himself.


“Why did you apply to become monks? What motive drives you? That question must be answered before any other. Look into the
mirror of your soul and search for the truth. Is it in order to help your fellow man? Is it that and nothing more? If not
then you don’t belong here. You are wasting my time and your own. Rise and leave and none will think the worst of you. Be
honest. Above all, be honest!”


Someone had coughed; strain triggering a near-hysterical giggle covered too late into the resemblance of a normal expulsion
of air.


“You!” The twisted fingers of the old monk had been an accusing claw. “You laughed—why? Did you think I was a fool? That I tended to exaggerate? That I distorted the truth? Don’t
bother to answer.” Then, in a lower voice, he had continued. “If you hope for personal reward or high office or the love and
respect of those you are dedicated to serve, then you do not belong here. If you yearn for power or pain the same applies.
Pain you will get and discomfort and suffering. You will know disappointment and see the work of years destroyed in a moment.
You will be scorned and held in contempt, robbed and beaten, used and ignored, hated and despised. Yet, if in the deepest
recesses of your heart, you long to be so treated, then you have no place here. Man is not born to suffer. There is no intrinsic
virtue in pain. Those who seek it are enemies of the Church. If any sit here I tell you now to go. Go!”


No one coughed when he paused, no one giggled, but still there. . .