Technos

Book 0: DUMAREST SAGA

by E.C. Tubb

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

Synopsis

A dying man's last words brought Dumarest to Loame, "the garden planet". Its name was a mockery - Loame's gentle citizens could only watch in horror as their fields were ravaged by a mutated vine that destroyed all it touched. They were sure the acid-dripping vine was the work of their enemy world, Technos. Technos was not a world open to outsiders, but Dumarest is not a man who takes no for an answer. As a fugitive, as a prisoner of war, as the captive bedmate of a queen, he continues his quest, seeking an answer to the question that is his life's obsession: "Have you ever heard of a planet called Earth?"

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Wildside Press LLC

Print pages: 136

Sample

AT NIGHT the streets of Clovis were twisting threads of shadowed mystery faced by high walls and shuttered windows, looping and curving
as they followed the dictates of some ancient plan. The city itself was a place of brooding silence broken only by the sough
of the wind from the plains beyond, the discordant chiming of prayer bells suspended from the peaked and gabled roofs. Pale
lanterns hung like ghostly stars, their ineffectual light augmented by the haze from the landing field and the great floodlights
of the workings to the north where men and machines tore into the planetary crust for the wealth buried deep; all was reflected
from the lowering clouds in a dim and artificial moonlight.


Dumarest paused as he reached an intersection, eyes watchful as he studied the streets curving to either side. They appeared
deserted but that meant little; men could be lurking in the black mouths of doorways, the shadowed alleys, ready to leap out
and kill any who passed. He would not be the first to be found robbed and murdered in the light of the rising sun.


Cautiously, keeping to the middle of the road, he headed down one of the streets, his boots making soft padding noises as
he trod the cobbled way. It was late; an entrepreneur had brought in a troupe of dancing girls, little things of graceful
movement, doll-like in ornate costumes, their hands fluttering in symbolic gestures as they pirouetted to the beat of gong
and drum, and entranced by their charming innocence he had lingered to see the final performance. Now he was beginning to
regret his self-indulgence. Clovis was an old city steeped in ancient tradition, resentful of the new activity which threatened
its brooding introspection. And, in the winding maze of streets, it was all too easy to get lost.


Dumarest reached the end of the street, turned left and was twenty yards from the corner when he heard the pound of running
feet coming from behind. Immediately he sprang to one side, turning, pressing his back against a wall, his right hand dipping
to lift the nine-inch blade from where it nestled in his boot. A vagrant beam caught the polished steel, shining from the
razor edge and the needle point, the betraying gleam vanishing as, recognizing the man who loped towards him, he sheathed
the knife.


“Lemain!”

“What—” The man staggered to a halt his face ghastly in the dim light. He was stooped, one hand clamped to his side, the fingers
thick with oozing blood. His eyes widened as Dumarest stepped toward him. “Earl! Thank God it’s you! I thought—” He broke
off, head turned to where other racing footsteps broke the silence. “The guards! They’re after me, Earl. They’ll get me, too.
You’d best keep out of the way.”


“Forget it,” said Dumarest. He caught hold of the other’s free arm and swung it over his shoulders. Half carrying, half dragging
the injured man he ran down the street. The dark mouth of an alley gaped to one side, and he turned down it as the approaching
footsteps grew louder. The alley was a trap, a blank wall closing the far end. Dumarest turned and ran back as lights shone
at the mouth of the alley. The fingers of his free hand scraped the wall, felt the wood of a door, and he thrust himself against
it. The panel was locked. He thrust again and felt something yield with a dull snapping of wood. The door swung inward and
he almost fell into darkness. Supporting the weight of the injured man, he closed the panel and leaned against it as boots
echoed from the cobbles beyond.


Light blossomed from somewhere. “Who is that? What do you want?”

“Be quiet!” Dumarest turned and saw a woman sitting upright on a bed, a candle guttering in her hand. “It’s all right,” he said quickly. “We mean you no harm. Just be silent.”


She rose and came toward him. Her feet were bare, the nails gilded, her height almost that of his own. Her hair was curled,
gilded, as were her fingernails, in the sign of her profession. From beneath a thin robe of yellow silk her breasts moved
in succulent attraction. At each step a long, curved thigh gleamed in inviting nudity. Her lips were very red and very full;
moist and full of promise.


“You’re late,” she whispered, “But I’m always ready for business. What’s the matter with your friend? Is he drunk?”

“Silence!” Dumarest reached out and dropped his hand on the candle, killing the dancing flame. From beyond the door came the
sound of harsh voices.


“Well, he isn’t here. Damned if I can see how a man can run like that with the burn we gave him.”

“He’s tough,” said a second voice. “And scared. A scared man can do a lot of surprising things. He must have run faster than
we thought. He isn’t here, anyway. I guess we’d better call it a night.”


The rasp of their boots grew faint as they moved away.

“Earl!” Lemain stirred in the grip of the supporting arm. “Earl, I—”

His voice died as Dumarest clamped his hand over his mouth. Silk rustled as the woman moved in the darkness, the scent of
her perfume heavy in the air.


“They’ve gone now,” she said. “May I relight the candle?”

“No,” said Dumarest. “And make no sound.”

For ten minutes he waited, standing immobile against the door, the weight of the injured man dragging at his arm. The silence
felt thick and heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of garments, the ragged breathing of Lemain. And then, from outside,
boots rang against the cobbles.


“It’s a bust,” said a harsh voice disgustedly. “If he’d holed up in here he would have come out by now. I guess he must have given us the slip somehow.”


“It doesn’t matter.” The second guard was philosophical. “He didn’t get away with anything so there’s nothing to cry about.
And with that burn we gave him he can’t get far. We’ll check with the field and see if he made it as far as there. If not,
we’ll say that he’s dead. We lose the bonus but save ourselves a lot of work. Agreed?”


“Sure,” said his companion. “Who’s going to worry about a crumb like that anyway.”

The sound of their boots grew faint as, genuinely this time, they moved away; the scrape of leather on stone merged with and
drowned in the chimes of prayer bells from high above.


Lemain was dying. Dumarest could see it as he stared at the man in the light of the relit candle. The dancing flame threw
shadows over the prominent bones of his cheeks and temples, accentuating the shadowed sockets of his eyes, the thin bloodlessness
of his lips. Beads of sweat dewed his forehead, and the muscles of his jaw were knotted in pain.


“Earl,” he whispered. “I tried something stupid. I got paid off at the workings. You quit, but I got fired. I was desperate
for a stake and went to Fu Kung’s. I hoped to win but I lost. I guess I went a little crazy then. He keeps his money in a
safe in a rear office behind the tables and I tried to take some. Not all of it, just enough to buy a High passage back home.
His guards caught me before I could get anything. They shot me but I got away. The rest you know.” He coughed and inhaled,
the sharp hiss of indrawn breath betraying his agony. “God, Earl! It hurts! It hurts!”


The woman said, “What’s the matter with him? Is he sick?”

“He’s hurt.” Dumarest looked at the room. It was typical of its kind. A large, double bed filled one corner, the mattress
piled high with soft fabrics. A table, chairs, a wardrobe, a large cabinet holding both food and implements for cooking, a curtained stall containing a shower, a washbasin, toilet facilities, the usual furnishings.


“Get a sheet,” he ordered. “Clear the table and spread it over. Get another for use as a bandage. Hurry!”

“You’ll pay?” Her voice was soft with trained intonations; an instrument of pleasure for the ear, but there was steel beneath
the softness. “He’s been hurt, and those men outside were guards. If he’s on the run I could get into trouble.”


“There’ll be no trouble,” said Dumarest. “And we can pay.”

He lifted Lemain as the woman cleared the table and spread wide a purple sheet, placed the limp figure on the flat surface,
stepped back to ease the ache in his arm and shoulder before he stooped to inspect the wound. It was bad. Blood welled from
a seared opening as he pulled the clamping hand away, the black of char clearly ran deep in the intestine. The laser had hit
hard and strong. How the man had been able to run at all was a mystery.


“Earl!” Lemain writhed in pain. “God, Earl, do something!”

“Give him wine,” said Dumarest to the woman. “Spirits if you have any. And where is that other sheet?”

He bound it tightly around the injured man as she fed him sips of brandy, compressing it over the wound in an effort to staunch
the blood. It was a hopeless gesture. With immediate medical attention the man might have stood a chance; now he had none
at all.


“Earl?” Lemain pushed aside the woman’s hand. The brandy had given him momentary strength, bringing a false flush to his pallid
cheeks. “How bad is it, Earl?”


“Bad.”

“I’m dying?”

“Yes,” said Dumarest emotionlessly. Lemain was not a boy, and a man should be told when to ready himself for the final adventure.
“Are you in pain?”


“Not now,” said Lemain. “Not as I was. It seems to have eased a little.” He turned his head, the dancing candlelight giving his face the somber appearance of a skull. “So much
to do,” he whispered. “And now there’s no time to do it. If only the cards had fallen right I—” He broke off, his smile a
rictus of approaching death. “Listen, Earl, will you do something for me?”


“What is it?”

“A wise man,” said Lemain. “You don’t promise until you know what it is I ask. But it isn’t much, Earl. I just want you to
carry a message for me. To my brother on Loame. Tell him that there is no answer on Shem, Delph and Clovis. Will you do that?”


“Couldn’t I send it?”

“No, Earl, there are reasons why it must be kept private. That is why I want you to carry it. To Loame, Earl. Doesn’t the
name interest you? It’s like the one we talked about. Earth. The planet you want to find. There is a man on Loame who might
be able to tell you exactly where it is.”


Dumarest leaned forward, his face intent in the fitful illumination. “His name?”

“Delmayer, Earl. Grower Delmayer. He owns a big place and he is a collector of antiquities. Go to him, Earl. Talk to him.
I promise nothing but I’m sure he can help.”


Dumarest hesitated. Another wasted journey? Another disappointment? Earth, he was positive, lay somewhere in this region of
the galaxy, yet the exact coordinates remained a mystery. To be so close and still be so uncertain was a nagging irritation.


“Please, Earl.” Lemain’s hand lifted, gripped his own. “I’m dying and we both know it. You’re leaving anyway so why not head
for Loame? Carry my message and maybe you’ll help to save a world.”


Exaggeration? Dying men saw things from a distorted viewpoint but there was no denying the urgency in his voice, the appeal
in his eyes. And why not? One planet was as good as another, and it was barely possible that the man Delmayer possessed valuable
information.


“All right,” said Dumarest. “I’ll carry your message.”


“God bless you, Earl.” The hand fell from his own, fumbled at a pocket. “The address … in here … my brother’s a good man …
help.” Lemain swallowed and said clearly: “You won’t regret this, I’m sure of it.”


“He’s dying,” said the woman suddenly. “Does he want anything? A monk, perhaps?” She stepped forward, the candle in her hand.
“There’s a small church at the edge of the landing field. I can get you one if you want.”


“No,” said Dumarest. “There isn’t time.”

“There could be. I’ll run all the way.”

And return with what? A monk of the Universal Church with his hypnotic skill to ease the mind and body of the dying or a pair
of guards eager to earn a reward? Self-preservation dictated that she return with the latter. It was a risk Dumarest dared
not take.


“No,” he said again.

Gold shimmered as she looked at him, the candlelight bright in the gilded tresses of her hair, more gold flashing from her
nails, matching the gleam in her eyes. “You’re hard,” she said. “By God, you’re hard. And you call yourself his friend?”


“I did,” said Dumarest quietly. He looked at Lemain. While they had argued the man had died. Reachi. . .