The Quillian Sector

Book 0: DUMAREST SAGA

by E.C. Tubb

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

Synopsis

The Cyclan was the greatest concentration of intelligence in a thousand worlds - and yet Earl Dumarest continued to elude it. For too long. Bochner was the greatest hunter of a hundred worlds - a man more than wise to the wiles of beasts and men. And now he was on the trail of the most dangerous and most challenging quarry of his career: Earl Dumarest. While Dumarest searched for lost Terra, the Cyclan and Bochner searched for him. Of all the nightmare worlds of the universe, the hunt this time was to lead to the Quillian Sector. The Quillian Sector: the place where space goes mad... (First published 1978)

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 157

Sample

The Dumarest Saga:

1: The Winds of Gath (1967)

2: Derai (1968)


3: Toyman (1969)


4: Kalin (1969)


5: The Jester at Scar (1970)


6: Lallia (1971)


7: Technos (1972)


8: Veruchia (1973)


9: Mayenne (1973)


10: Jondelle (1973)


11: Zenya (1974)


12: Eloise (1975)


13: Eye of the Zodiac (1975)


14: Jack of Swords (1976)


15: Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun (1976)


16: Haven of Darkness (1977)


17: Prison of Night (1977)


18: Incident on Ath (1978)


19: The Quillian Sector (1978)


20: Web of Sand (1979)


21: Iduna’s Universe (1979)


22: The Terra Data (1980)


23: World of Promise (1980)


24: Nectar of Heaven (1981)


25: The Terridae (1981)


26: The Coming Event (1982)


27: Earth is Heaven (1982)


28: Melome (1983)


29: Angado (1984)


30: Symbol of Terra (1984)


31: The Temple of Truth (1985)


32: The Return (1997)


33: Child of Earth (2008)


The Cap Kennedy (F.A.T.E.) Series (E.C. Tubb writing as Gregory Kern)

1: Galaxy of the Lost (1973)


2: Slave Ship from Sergan (1973)


3: Monster of Metelaze (1973)


4: Enemy Within the Skull (1974)


5: Jewel of Jarhen (1974)


6: Seetee Alert! (1974)


7: The Gholan Gate (1974)


8: The Eater of Worlds (1974)


9: Earth Enslaved (1974)


10: Planet of Dread (1974)


11: Spawn of Laban (1974)


12: The Genetic Buccaneer (1974)


13: A World Aflame (1974)


14: The Ghosts of Epidoris (1975)


15: Mimics of Dephene (1975)


16: Beyond the Galactic Lens (1975)


17: The Galactiad (1983)


Alien Dust (1955)


Alien Impact (1952)


Journey Into Terror (originally published as Alien Life (1954, rev 1998))


Atom War on Mars (1952)


Fear of Strangers (first published as C.O.D. – Mars (1968))


Century of the Manikin (1972)


City of No Return (1954)

Death God’s Doom (1999)

Death is a Dream (1967)

Dead Weight (first published as Death Wears a White Face (1979))

Escape into Space (1969)

Footsteps of Angels (2004) (previously unpublished work written c.1988)

Hell Planet (1954)

Journey to Mars (1954)

Moon Base (1964)

Pandora’s Box (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)

Pawn of the Omphalos (1980)

S.T.A.R. Flight (1969)

Stardeath (1983)

Starslave (2010) (previously unpublished work written 1984)

Stellar Assignment (1979)

Temple of Death (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)

Fifty Days to Doom (first published as The Extra Man (1954))

The Life-Buyer (1965, 2008)

The Luck Machine (1980)

World in Torment (originally published as The Mutants Rebel (1953))

The Primitive (1977)

The Resurrected Man (1954)

The Sleeping City (1999)

The Space-Born (1956)

The Stellar Legion (1954)

To Dream Again (2011)

Venusian Adventure (1953)

Tide of Death (first published as World at Bay (1954))

E. C. Tubb (writing as Arthur MacLean)

The Possessed (revised version of Touch of Evil (1957))

E. C. Tubb (writing as Brian Shaw)

Argentis (1952)

E. C. Tubb (writing as Carl Maddox)

Menace from the Past (1954)

The Living World (1954)

E. C. Tubb (writing as Charles Grey)

Dynasty of Doom (1953)

The Extra Man (first published as Enterprise 2115 (1954) & then as The Mechanical Monarch (1958))

I Fight for Mars (1953)

Space Hunger (1953)

The Hand of Havoc (1954)

Secret of the Towers (originally published as The Tormented City (1953))

The Wall (1953)

E. C. Tubb (writing as Gill Hunt)

Planetfall (1951)

E. C. Tubb (writing as King Lang)

Saturn Patrol (1951)

E. C. Tubb (writing as Roy Sheldon)

The Metal Eater (1954)

E. C. Tubb (writing as Volsted Gridban)

The Green Helix (originally published as Alien Universe (1952))

Reverse Universe (1952)

Planetoid Disposals Ltd. (1953)

The Freedom Army (originally published as De Bracy’s Drug (1953))

Fugitive of Time (1953)

A great bowl of flowers had been set on a small table close to the window so that their petals reflected the light in a mass
of glowing scarlet flecked with amber, the stamens a brilliant yellow around styles of dusty black. The bowl itself was of
veined porphyry, shaped with a rare elegance, curves melting one into the other to form an object of both visual and tactile
beauty. A thing of delicate elegance in direct contrast to the room itself, which was bleak in its Spartan simplicity, all
white and functional, the walls devoid of any decoration, even the carpet a neutral gray.


A room in which to work, to study and to plan with all distraction kept to a minimum. Something Irae could appreciate, as
he could not the flowers. They were an anomaly and he crossed the room to stand before them, studying their form and arrangement
before lifting his head to stare through the window itself.


It was set high in the building and framed a view of grim desolation. The soil had been leached to expose the underlying rock,
the vegetation which once had covered it long since gone, as were the minerals once contained within the stone. Machines had
dug and ripped and crushed and spewed their detritus, turning a pleasant landscape into a barren wilderness. Exploitation
had left nothing but sourness and acid rains which, even as he watched, came to add more corrosion to the thick pane and the
metal in which it was set.


Looking down, he could now understand the presence of the flowers; the contrast they provided to the desolation outside.

“Caradoc’s work,” said a voice behind him. “He said that a touch of color would help.”

Turning, Irae said, “Help whom? You?”

An accusation, which Yoka dismissed with a small gesture of a hand which seemed to be fashioned from transparent porcelain.
No cyber was ever fat, for excess tissue lessened the efficiency of the physical machine which was the body, but Yoka was
skeletal in his thinness. Beneath the scarlet robe, his body was reed-frail, his throat a match for the gaunt face and sunken
eyes which, with his shaven pate, gave his head the appearance of a skull. A skull set with the jewel of his eyes which burned
now, as always, with the steady flame of trained and directed intelligence.


He said, “No, Cyber Irae, the flowers are here to set at ease those ushered into this chamber to wait. Naturally, you grasp
the underlying purpose.”


A statement, not a question. For him to have framed the sentence otherwise would have been tantamount to insult. No cyber
could avoid seeing the obvious, and now that Irae knew the purpose of the room, the presence of the blooms and the position
they occupied was plain. A contrast and a good one; outside, the bleak desolation of Titanus—within, the glowing color and
beauty of the flowers and what they, by association, represented. The security of the Cyclan; the rewards and wealth and comfort
the organization could provide to any who engaged their services. A contrast too subtle to be immediately appreciated by any
visitor, but it was there and would be noted on a subconscious level.


“Caradoc shows skill and intelligence. An acolyte?”

“No longer.” Yoka lifted a hand and touched his breast, fingers thin and pale against the rich scarlet and the design embroidered
on the fabric. A gesture signifying the acolyte had passed his final tests and was now one of their number. Beneath his hand
the Seal of the Cyclan glowed and shimmered with reflected light. “A young man who shows promise. He should give good service
and rise high.”


And would, unless he committed the unpardonable crime of failure.

Irae looked again at the flowers, at the window and the desolation beyond, thinking of others who had shown promise and who
had failed. Those who had paid with their lives because of their failure. Others who had been broken. He did not intend to
become one of them.


He said, “You are certain Dumarest is not on this world?”

“I am.”

“The prediction that he could be found on Titanus was of seventy-three per cent probability.”

“Not high.”

“No, and obviously there were factors we could not take into account. Even so, we must be close.”

As they had been close before, each time to miss the quarry by a few minutes of time, by coincidence, by the luck which seemed
to follow Dumarest from world to world. A trail marked by the death of cybers he had killed in order to ensure his escape.


The irrevocable loss of trained and dedicated intelligences which should have gone to swell the complex of Central Intelligence.

The reward of every cyber who proved his worth.

“It is against all logic,” said Yoka. “How could one man have eluded capture for so long?”

Luck, and more than luck. The instinct which gave warning when danger was close. The intelligence which recognized the threat
and remained alert for the little things which gave warning—a stare maintained too long, a glance, a too-fortuitous meeting,
a proffered friendship, an unexpected invitation—who could tell?


And yet, the Cyclan should be able to tell. The cybers, with their trained minds which could take a handful of known facts
and from them extrapolate the logical sequence of events encompassing any imaginable variation. To arrive at a deduction and
make a prediction which was as close as possible to actual prophecy. They should know where a man on the move would come to
rest, had known, but still he had managed to dodge, to stay one jump ahead.


For too long now. Too long.

Irae studied the flowers. Had an insect hummed among the blossoms he would have been able to predict on which it would next
settle, on the pattern it would follow. Had he wanted to snare it, he would have known exactly where to apply the compound
which would hold it fast.


An insect—why not a man?

He said, “We know that Dumarest is among the worlds of the Rift. That is a probability of ninety-nine percent. We have checked
the course of each vessel leaving relevant worlds and have agents alerted at each port of call. All precautions have been taken.”


And still they hadn’t proved enough. Like a ghost, Dumarest had vanished, aided by the unpredictable, riding his luck until
even those searching for him had begun to doubt their powers.


“The Rift,” said Yoka. “A good place for a man to hide.”

Too good. A section of space in which suns burned close and worlds were plentiful. An area in which opposed energies created
dangerous vortexes and regions in which matter itself could cease to exist. A place in which planets rested in isolation in
whirls of dust, rolled hidden in masses of interstellar gloom, hung like glittering gems in a web of destructive forces. A
haystack in which a wisp of straw could so easily be lost.


Irae lifted his eyes from the bowl of flowers and turned like a scarlet flame to where Yoka stood respectfully waiting.

“Your conclusions?”

“Based on all available data, the probability of capturing Dumarest at this time is fifty-three percent. Not until he is located
can we hope to gain information on which to base a more favorable prediction.”


“Fifty-three percent?”

“Low,” admitted Yoka, “but I said ‘capture,’ not ‘discover’. The probability of spotting him is higher—seventy-six percent.”

“Eighty-seven point five,” corrected Irae. “You are too conservative. Even if he is now in space he must eventually land and
when he does, an agent could spot him.”


“If the man is at the right time, at the right place.” Yoka had the stubbornness of age. “It comes to a matter of logistics.
In order to maintain surveillance at every probable port of call at all appropriate times, we need the services of an army
of men. Add to that the probability that he is on a planet and, unless he makes a move, locating him will be far from easy.
And we must check all worlds.” He ended, “In the Rift they are many.”


He said it without change of the smooth, even modulation, devoid of all irritant factors which all cybers were trained to
adopt. And yet, Irae caught the irony beneath the apparently flat statement.


“You repeat the obvious, Cyber Yoka. I am fully aware of the problem but we can eliminate a large area of low-order probabilities. We have information as to where Dumarest was last
located, together with the names and routes of the vessels which left at the critical time.”


“Data?” Yoka stood, immobile, as he listened to the stream of facts and figures, his mind assimilating, correlating, selecting
and discarding various possibilities until he reached a decision. “You are correct. The probability that Dumarest will be
discovered within the Rift is as you say. The Quillian Sector. He could be there now, but to locate him will not be easy.”


“For a cyber?”

“For anyone but an expert hunter of men.” Yoka added, “I have one at hand.”

Leo Bochner didn’t look the part. While tall, he appeared slim, almost womanish, his face unlined, his hands smooth, as was
his voice as he announced himself. He stood waiting with an easy grace. Instinctively, he selected the one in authority, turning
a little to face Irae, recognizing that while younger than Yoka, he held the command. A point Irae noted as he did the clothing;
good, yet not obtrusive; fine woven cloth cut to emphasize good taste and not vulgar ostentation. Clothing which somehow added
to the effeminate impression he had gained and which lessened the threat of the man.


A mistake?

A less experienced man could have thought so and wondered at Yoka’s judgment, but Irae had long since learned to look beneath
the surface of apparent truth. Now, looking, he noted the smooth pad of muscle beneath the skin of face, throat and wrists.
The iron beneath the smooth set of lips and jaw. The carriage. The ingrained confidence in words and manner. The eyes.


The eyes which, even as he watched, changed to give the lie to the polished dress and manner; turning into those of a beast,
a wolf, a tiger, a hunter of prey.


Then, in a moment, they were again a part of the disguise, calm, bland, faintly mocking.

Irae said, “Tell me something of yourself.”

“I have, shall we say, a certain skill.” Bochner’s voice carried no pride, it was merely a vehicle used to convey a fact.
“I realized I had it when very young and took steps to cultivate and perfect it. I have an affinity with wild things. I sense their habits and, knowing them, can anticipate what they will
do.” He added with the same easy tone, “I am probably the finest hunter ever to be born on Pontia, and on that world you hunt
or you starve.”


“Animals.” Irae watched the eyes as he spoke. “Beasts operating on instinctive patterns of behavior.”

He had looked for anger. None came, nor did the eyes change as they had before. That, he knew, had been a demonstration, a
dropping of the veil to show a little of the real nature of the man.


Bochner said, “Beast or man, my lord, they are the same.”

“A man can think.”

“And for that attribute, has lost others. But we talk to little purpose. My record is known to you.”

A good one or he would not now be standing before them. A noted hunter, a skilled assassin, but this time such skills would
be unwanted.


Bochner shrugged as Irae made that clear.

“I understand. I find Dumarest and hold him with the least amount of force necessary until he can be handed over to your agents.
Of course, it may be that I shall have to cripple him to ruin his mobility. Break his legs, for example, and even his arms.
But his life will not be in danger. That is acceptable?”


“We want the man unharmed and in full possession of his mental faculties.”

“You want the man in any way he can be delivered,” said Bochner flatly. “As long as he is alive on delivery. If that isn’t
the case, why send for me?” His eyes moved from one to the other of the scarlet figures. “I shall not let you down, my lords.
My reputation was not gained by bungling my commissions. And, speaking of commissions my fee—”


“Will be paid,” said Yoka. “The Cyclan does not break its word.”

A bow was Bochner’s answer, but Irae added more; it was well that the man should remember the power of the Cyclan, and that
it could take as well as give.


“You wi. . .