Starslave

by E.C. Tubb

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

Synopsis

On several settled worlds of the Earth Confederation, towns had been utterly destroyed by attacking alien vessels - exploded into flaming ruin, and fleeing people reduced to smears of blood and bone. And so they sent for Captain Kurt Varl, the only man to have fought an alien ship and destroyed it - the only survivor from his crew of thirty souls. And now he would have to lead another ship and crew into battle, knowing that as well as the alien raiders he faced the things that lurked in limbo, existing in four dimensions and capable of transforming humans into things of screaming horror...

Release date: January 30, 2014

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 336

Sample

In the shadows the figure was tall, slender, touched with glitters, hung with the scent of expensive perfume. A harlot or a bored lady of quality seeking nocturnal pleasure—on Ceruti during carnival both were common. Her voice was a husky contralto.

“Varl? Captain Kurt Varl?”

He halted, narrowing his eyes, seeing no more than before. Standing against an elaborate filigree of coloured light she was little more than a silhouette; a shape embraced by the curved walls of the alcove holing the illuminated screen. Then, from a point high in the sky, chemical fire burst in a shower of scintillant rain that dispelled the night and banished the shadows. In its glow he saw an embroidered cloak, a headdress of metallic feathers framing the pale ovoid of a face. One slashed with the scarlet of a generous mouth, illuminated by silvered eyes,

“Please—you are Captain Varl?”

“And if I am?”

“Then you are fortunate. Come!” A hand lifted in an imperious gesture. The other, hidden within the cloak, moved a little as if changing its grasp on the fabric. “Come closer, Kurt. Taste the sweet joy of Carnival. Tonight will be one you will never forget.”

A routine promise yet the voice held more than the ritual lure. Varl hesitated, looking to either side, scanning the straggle of pedestrians, the hovercar that had come to rest a few paces distant.

“You don’t trust me?” She stepped from the alcove to stand before him. Her perfume caressed his nostrils and he saw his own image reflected from the silvered eyes scant inches below his own. Smiling she said, “Would it make you feel more comfortable if I set a price?”

“For what?”

“Need I explain?” Her laughter matched the music of her voice. “For food and wine and entertaining company. For surprise and excitement—and perhaps something more. Am I so ugly you must turn away?” She stepped even closer so that he could hear the rustle of the cloak over her body. Then, quickly, before he could speak or respond, she added, “I need an escort. One to accompany me to a party. To protect me if I should need protection.”

“Against violence?”

“Against boredom. Come.” Her hand rested on his arm. “Please, Captain, be generous. Accommodate me. Help me to win the prize.”

A game, he guessed, a treasure hunt of some kind in which each had to return with a selected companion; a mute, a trader, a spacer, a scavenger. She had drawn the need to find a rarer item—but how had she known his name?

“It was on the card,” she explained when he asked. “That together with your description. The computer said you had recently arrived on Ceruti and where you were living. I simply chose to wait where I guessed you would venture.” Her hand closed on his in the gloom of the cab they had hired. The driver didn’t turn as she pressed herself against her companion. Beneath the cloak she was almost naked. “Kurt! Kurt—kiss me!”

The car halted before he could oblige.

It had taken them to a building on the edge of town; a sombre place with shrouded windows and stairs that climbed to a solid door. It opened as they neared, light streaming to slash the night, music throbbing from somewhere within.

“Edallia!” The man within stepped forward, smiling, eyes moving from the woman to her companion. “So you found him. Good!”

“Let us in, Paul.”

He stepped aside, still smiling, his eyes hungry as he stared at Varl. A man broad in his shoulders, thick in his arras, dressed in a barbaric costume of straps and gilded plates a dagger hanging at his side. He slammed shut the door as Varl followed Edallia into the house and he heard the rasp of closing bolts. Then the music swelled louder to accompany a babble of greeting and a girl came towards him, smiling, wearing little but paint, a brimming goblet in her hands.

“To you, Edallia!” She drank. “To us all!” She drank again then, tensing, said, “To you, Captain. This to—”

“No!” Edallla stepped before her, cloak swirling as she stripped it from her shoulders. “Take this, Maya. Give me the goblet—here!” She turned towards Varl as the girl left with the cloak. Her costume was brief as he’d known; straps and plates to adorn her flesh. Gilded decoration for a body that was superb.

She smiled as he looked at her, lifting the goblet to stain her lips with its contents, a rich purple that gave the natural scarlet a deeper hue and tinged her teeth with the hint of blood.

“Here!” She handed him the goblet. “The wine I promised you. The music you can hear. There is food for the taking and, as for the rest—” Her inhalation lifted her breasts to thrust them hard against the metallic cups caressing their contours. “To the victor the spoils, Kurt. Isn’t that the way it goes?”

“What have I won?”

“As yet nothing. But the night is still young and much can happen. In the meantime look around, enjoy yourself. Let them all see you. Touch you. Revel in your presence. Sabatova! Dance with me!”

She was gone, weaving in a complicated rhythm with an ebon giant adorned with red and yellow and dangling bones. A make-believe savage as she was a make-believe barbarian queen and yet there was nothing artificial in the way they moved each muscle responding to the pulse of the music, each movement the symbolic depiction of an age-old rite.

One which affected the others so that, within minutes, the room was full of weaving shapes, the air heavy with the meaty slap of naked feet on the boards, the beat of hands on thighs and hips and buttocks.

A demonstration of primitive abandon that Varl watched before moving around the chamber.

It was large, set, he guessed, in the rear of the house, the windows sealed with metal plates. A table flanked one side bearing a choice of foods and he selected a cake and ate it, taking a sip of wine before picking up a small pastry roll filled with a meaty, succulent paste. A second table held a variety of bottles. A third bore a host of crushed pods, which accounted for the scent of ka’sense hanging in the air. Other odours were not so familiar and he guessed at the presence of uninhibiting vapours and sensual stimulants. Common additions to any party especially a fancy-dress one and he felt out of place. Among the near-nudity of the dancers and their barbaric splendour his own, normal clothing made him as conspicuous as a raven among peacocks.

Too conspicuous—had Edallia told the truth there should have been others. Or had he been the sole target of the treasure hunt?

The dance was nearing a climax, the music deafening as it climbed to a crescendo of emotive sound. None noticed as he reached the door. The passage was apparently empty; an illusion broken as he neared the door.

“Going somewhere, Captain?” Paul smiled without humour as he lifted the gun in his hand. “The party isn’t over yet.”

“It is for me.”

“No.” Paul shook his head, the gun remaining steady. “That’s where you’re wrong. You can’t leave yet. You see, Captain—you are the party.” His tone hardened. “Go back to the room now. Back, you bastard, before I burn a hole in your guts!”

The music died as Varl obeyed, the recorder switching to another rhythm, one softer, more subtle than the other. Faces stared at him as he stepped into the chamber, Paul following behind, the laser aimed at his back. A touch and it would vent a stream of searing energy that would cut and pierce like a burning sword.

As they entered he explained, “He tried to get away.”

“And you stopped him, Paul. That was clever of you.” Edallia came forward, smiling, a hand outstretched. “I’ll handle this. Give me the gun.” Then, as he hesitated, she snapped, “The gun, damn you!”

“I’ve a right—”

“We all have a right!” Sabatova, skin glistening with sweat, snarled his anger. “Give her the gun.” Then, as he obeyed. “Kill the music. Let’s get on with doing what we gathered to do.”

“Kill him!” Screamed a woman. “Kill—”

“Wait!” Sabatova lifted a hand for silence. Looking at Varl he said, “You admit to being Captain Kurt Varl?”

“I don’t deny it.”

“Of the Odile?”

“The Odile is dead.”

“And so is everyone who rode in her!” The shout was an accusing scream. “Only you survived, you bastard! How does it feel to have killed so many?”

“Duty killed them.”

“You scum! You gave the orders!”

“I held the command,” admitted Varl. “They died and now you want to kill me. For what reason? Revenge?” He stared at the faces ringing him, savage in their paint and adornment, but belonging to those who had been civilised too long. “Is that what you want? Revenge?”

“You’ve been tried,” said a woman. “Found guilty of having betrayed those who trusted you. A master should die with his men.”

“And women!” The voice was harsh, brittle. “Don’t forget the women!”

“Elsa Hoetmar,” said Sabatova. “He was to have married her.” He pointed. “That’s Ellain Ovideo—remember him? She does. It isn’t easy for forget a brother. And that’s Ivan Yegorovich and he is Brian Cachou and she is the sister of Lucy Bland and—”

Varl said, harshly, “The Odile carried a crew of thirty—are you going to name them all?”

“They’re dead.”

“Did you expect them to live forever?”

“My God!” A woman thrust herself forward to stare at Varl. “I’ve heard of people like you,” she said bitterly, “but I never believed any really existed. You animal! You should he in a cage!”

She was dressed in paint and beads with decorated bands supporting sagging breasts and bulging hips. Her teeth, stained red and painted to simulate filed points, framed a blotched tongue. Her eyes held madness. Her breath stank of wine and drugs.

“An animal?” Varl met her eyes his own betraying his contempt and anger. “You call me that? You freakish bitch, look at yourself.”

“Bastard!”

She threw herself towards him, hands lifted, fingers curved into claws. Her nails were filed into points, long, threatening his eyes. They slashed down, missing as he moved backwards, then the meaty slap of his hand against her mouth cut short her frenzied shrieking.

“He hit me!” She looked at the blood dappling her torso, the hand she lifted to her split lips. “He hit me!”

“Get him!” A man yelled from the back of the crowd. “Tear him apart!”

“Wait!” The woman who had mentioned the trial lifted her arm. A gilded snake wreathed the flesh. “We sat in judgment and a decision was made. We—”

“Kill!” Yelled the man again. “What are we waiting for? Kill the swine! Kill!”

Varl backed as the ring closed in. Hours earlier they had been peaceful citizens conditioned into a civilised mould. Hours later they would be the same but, now, they were acting the parts they had adopted. Barbarians lusting for blood—his.

He moved as Sabatova lunged forward to stand before him, legs braced, fist bunched and poised to strike. His voice was a bellow of triumph.

“I’ll take him. To me the task of execution. In the name of Sam Mboto, you scum, die!”

He grunted as Varl lunged forward, ducking beneath the piston-blow of the fist to send his shoe rasping against a naked, glistening shin. A blow followed by the thrust of his left hand at the genitals and then, as Sabatova doubled, his right arm slammed upwards, the hand bent back at an angle from the wrist, the heel of his palm hitting the jaw with bone-breaking force.

Another followed the giant as he fell, gagging, one hand to his bruised larynx as he fought to breathe. A woman screamed as an elbow pulped her nose then Varl was at the table holding the bottles.

“The gun!” Paul yelled from where he stood at the rear of the crowd. “Use the gun, Edallia! Burn him down!”

He snarled as she made no motion to obey, snatching the dagger from his belt and throwing it with a sweep of his arm. Varl saw the glitter, moved, felt the burn as the point ripped open his cheek and threw the bottle in his hand. A missile that struck Paul’s temple and sent him down. Another followed to crash against the far wall and then it was too late to throw more, the crowd had pressed too close.

Animals baying for his life.

Varl turned to face them, closing his eyes as he smashed the bottles he held together, opening them as the shards fell to leave him with the necks in his hands, the crude hilts ringed with vicious points of broken glass.

“You’ll get me,” he snarled. “Try hard enough and you’ll get me—but I’ll cut the first few to come close. Who will it be?” He moved, swaying from side to side on balanced feet, the jagged weapons in his hand lifting to point, to slash, to threaten. “Two at least,” he said. “Maybe more—which of you will be first?”

He lunged without waiting for an answer, sending a shard of glass to cut a furrow over a naked chest, following it with a jab which sent blood to bubble from the belly of another. A woman backed as the points stabbed at her eyes, a man spun to gain distance and, suddenly, Varl stood in a cleared space.

“That’s better.” He moved forward, sidling around the chamber so as to protect his back. “I’m leaving. Get away from that door. One of you open the outer portal.”

“I’ll do it.” Edallia smiled as she made the promise. “And I’ll come with you. Hurry, darling.”

A woman with a gun, he hadn’t forgotten, but she had had no attempt to use it and both hands were empty. Once the way was clear he would make sure it wouldn’t be used.

He completed the journey to the door, passed through it, backed down the passage to where she was waiting. He heard the rasp of bolts and the creak of hinges. The touch of cool, night air dried the sweat on his neck. Turning he saw her near-naked beauty framed against the outer darkness.

“Darling!” Her hands lifted, empty, the rise of her arms emphasising the contours of her breasts. “Darling you were magnificent! A true warrior. And, to the victor, the spoils. Remember?”

“Stand aside.”

“You won, darling. Don’t you understand? You won and have a right to claim your prize.” She stepped closer towards him, a vision of loveliness, febrile with barbaric splendour. “Hold me, Kurt. Take me.”

She halted an inch from the points aimed at her flesh, frowning, head lowered a little the metallic feathers of her headdress a spined ridge beneath his eyes. Behind he sensed watching eyes. Beyond her lay the safety of the night.

“Move,” he said. “Damn you—move!”

She obeyed, stepping backwards, head lifting, then he heard the thin, spiteful buzz, felt the prick of the dart which had spurted from her headdress to bury itself in his throat. A moment in which he tried to lift the bottles and ruin the perfection of her breasts and face and belly, then he was down, paralysed, seeing his image in the mirrors of her eyes as she stooped over him.

His image and the laser she held and the gout of searing heat which turned the universe into an all-engulfing darkness.

He wandered in a darkness shot with blobs and patches of illumination; brilliantly glowing areas like individual rooms each holding a fragment of memory, each tinged with its own emotion. A parade through hate and fear and pain and joy. One he had taken too often so that now the rooms had become hatefully familiar; the events he relived the scars of aching wounds.

Taylor. Quimper. Finch. Carter. Cole and Machen who had turned into things of horror. Ovidio. . .