by E. C. Tubb
Crying… crying… crying…
Dumarest jerked fully awake, rearing to sit upright as the thin, demanding tone filled the mirrored chamber. At his side Fiona stirred, came awake with a sudden gasp to fear, golden hair an embracing curtain, her face dimmed in its shadow, pale and trained in the soft light which had bloomed with the alarm. The warning of Kalova's attack.
Chapter Thirteen
Kalova had bathed and perfumed himself and dressed as for a festival in a bright ensemble of lavender and gold touched with emerald and amber. Drugs had banished the last of his fatigue but he didn't need their accompanying euphoria. Sitting, he felt the blood rush through his veins, sparkling in his brain as if the cranium were filled with effervescent bubbles. A warrior geared and readied for battle-and the combat had begun!
He had picked the time well; an hour before dawn when lightning still shredded the northern sky and the ion count was high. A time when most would be asleep and all would be off their guard. The woman especially with her new lover. He could imagine them locked in each other's arms, replete with passion, dulled with satiation, lost in a febrile world of their own. A weakness which was to his advantage and he pressed it home with ruthless determination.
Pressure on Helm, awake but slow to respond. More on Chargel to strengthen the distraction and then to make a direct attack on poor, bruised Prador who would yield and so make way for the flank attack.
A neat, well-contrived, well-considered plan no matter what Zao might think. A demonstration of the skill which had gained him the position he held. Further proof that he deserved the title and retained the power to hold on to it. The Maximus now and the Maximus for always-or for as long as he should live.
A sobering thought and he banished it-there was no time for anything other than total concentration once an attack had been launched. Yet it crept back with its insidious promptings, with wakened fears and aching regrets. How to retain his awareness? His individuality? How to stave off the inevitable?
How to remain alive?
No-how to extend the life he had?
Lights danced on the display before him, a flickering kaleidoscope which reported every aspect of the changing situation. One which, as yet, followed the pattern he had predicted and, again, he felt a resurgence of confidence. Could the cyber have done better? Could the entire Cyclan? A man could do no more than win and, doing that, he showed he was as good as anything they could provide. Demonstrated, too, that he needed nothing he did not already possess.
Thoughts broken as new lights flashed; Lobel joining the fray and eager for gain. Attacking Ashen who, in turn, allowed Reed to gain an advantage. Skirmishing which did not affect the main issue and there was cause for amusement in their snapping like hungry dogs at the edges of a feast. Scavengers eager to gain by another's efforts but, should they transgress, their punishment would be swift.
The hum of the phone and Arment's face on the screen.
"An exchange, Maximus? Sector E 17 for L 98?"
An interruption, which he could have done without but such were part of the struggle. Swiftly he calculated the display; the exchange would do him no harm and, while giving Arment a slight advantage it would be against Traske.
"A hundredth?"
"Agreed."
One percent of the holding's registered worth now added to Kalova's assets. An easy gain and proof that the sector must be more valuable to Arment than was readily apparent. A move in some elaborate plan of his own? A diversion? A shift of attack or, odd though it seemed, a retreat? Facts he should consider but the lights were dancing too fast, the various moves too complicated for him to waste time on wild speculation.
The phone again and Zao's image.
"My lord, if you require my services I am available."
Waiting in his room, watching the lights, resenting Kalova's skill. But, not; resentment was an emotion the cyber could not feel-yet surely the man must have a remnant of pride?
"My lord?"
"I don't need you. But remain available-that is what you are paid for."
An insult but one Kalova felt he could afford. The cyber, despite his talent, the strength of the association he represented, was basically a servant. On Sacaweena the Maximus was almost a king.
Did the king have to die?
A lull in the action and time for his drug-stimulated brain to turn back to the nagging problem. Life could be extended; on various worlds techniques had been developed to replace worn tissue with fresh. New parts, grafts, organs, implants; weapons in the battle against encroaching years. And, on Pane so he had heard, a brain could be transplanted into a new body-for a price.
One he would pay even if it was the value of a world.
The phone and Helm's face, strained, dewed with sweat.
"Maximus! Sectors T 35 and F 82-your offer?"
"Not interested." Kalova paused, mind racing. "I'll pay twenty percent over the price for sector D 32."
"Twenty-five?"
"Done!"
A pause then Vanderburg, followed by Myra Lancing, Barracola, Judd, Cran-the faces began to blur as did their offers. Fish drawn into his net as he had anticipated, holders frightened at the threat they saw brewing, wanting to erect barriers, make safeguards against a probable turn of events. But his main opponent remained silent-was Fiona Velen still asleep?
Dumarest said, "Wait!"
"But-"
"Wait!" He looked at the dancing lights, the shifts and blurs of changing fortunes; details of exchanges, sales, auctions, the flow of assets, gains and losses due to revised valuations, the status of holders, their holdings and revenues. "Just wait!"
The signals were too complex for him to follow; data received and relayed by the computer, the bank which alone made such fast trading possible. The flickers alone were enough to tire the eyes, to induce a near-hypnotic state in which judgment could be distorted and action delayed. Factors which had to be taken into account as did so many others. Seated before the panel, stilled by his command, Fiona chafed and was the victim of surging fears.
Wait-but what if she waited too long? How to sit and do nothing while under attack? To watch as situations changed to develop into others, to ignore opportunities and incipient threats. To obey the harsh voice of a man who could know nothing of the complexities involved. "Earl! I-"
"Wait!" He softened his tone. "I'll admit you are more expert than I, but even so things follow a regular pattern. In the arena it pays to take time to assess the opposition. To study the opponent in order to plan your own defense, your own attack. To hurry without decisive action is to ask for disaster." Pausing he added, "And you gain simply because others expect you to act. Your lack of response can upset their own plans."
Good advice-but this was not an arena with men facing each other with naked blades. Fighters held in a ring and surrounded by watching faces. And yet was it so different? The pain and death would be metaphorical but the tension was the same. The hurt. The disgrace. The sweet taste of success, the sour bile of failure. But to go against the conditioning of a lifetime was hard; every instinct urged her to take an active part in what was happening.
"Here!" Vardoon had made tisane and she took the steaming cup as he offered it. As it left his hand their eyes met and she saw a common understanding, a mutual sympathy. "Drink this," he urged. "And relax. Earl knows what he's doing."
She wished she could share his conviction. Already she had yielded too much; to bathe and dress and come fully awake before answering the alarm. To resist the initial impulse to buy and sell and share in the trading. To wait in a room lined with mirrors which caught the glow of flashing lights and splintered them into dancing rainbows.
Watching, Dumarest admired her calm even as he noted her mounting tension, which he could understand. To fight was one thing and that held basic similarity but the game she played was not that simple. Simulated war fought on a planetary board with three thousand counters of constantly shifting values against a hundred and forty-six opponents.
No wonder she could win at chess!
Vardoon joined him, handed him tisane. The steam held a pungent perfume, the flavor was that of honey and spice. A fluid which yielded a comfort and a mild stimulation.
"She's like a ship on the field with engines running and the drive ready to go." Vardoon looked at the woman's reflected likeness. "She won't wait much longer, Earl."
Dumarest said, "Read me the board."
"Kalova's buying holdings and pressuring others into forced auctions. That means a shift in assets and he's using others' weaknesses to his advantage. Against him are strong blocks; Arment, Chargel and Helm have the largest holdings. But if he's after Fiona why the hell doesn't he make a direct attack?"
"Change the situation-would you?"
"A fort on a hill," mused Vardoon. "I want it but if I concentrate all my forces I leave myself open to attack from flanks and rear. It's strong so it will take time to wear down and, if it costs me too much, I'll be liable to injury from those waiting to pounce. I see what you're getting at."
And there was another facet he hadn't mentioned-the love of a cat for tormenting a mouse. Kalova hated Fiona as Dumarest had learned. A hate born of her casual rejection of his offer. An affront which he had chosen to regard as an insult and which he found impossible to swallow. Now, determined on revenge, he was prone to error.
But if Zao was advising him, there could be only one outcome.
Dumarest finished the tisane and rose to pace the floor. Swaths of color painted his neutral gray with transient glory, shifting, changing as the signals changed, glowing from the mirrors all around. Catching the face of the woman as she sat, hands clenched, sensing her world edging toward ruin.
If she lost it would she search for it as he did Earth?
Pacing, he remembered the dream, the golden egg teeming with life which had died and the life with it. A dream born of his conversation with Marc Bulem and his supposed ravings. A man tormented with delusions, hopelessly insane and lost in a world of fantasy-according to his brother. But some of what he'd said was familiar to Dumarest-and what if the rest had a grounding in truth?
Had all men originated on one world?
An apparent fallacy as Melvin had said-men came in all shades and styles of hair and nostrils and build. Effects caused by wild radiations or local environments as any intelligent man would swear. How else to account for skins as pale as alabaster and those as dark as jet? Blond hair and brown and black and tresses the color of flame? Blue eyes? Eyes of amber? Eyes which looked like liquid pools of Stygian darkness?
All the children of one, single planet?
He heard again a voice which held the muted thunder of drums: "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins."
A voice from a world far distant in time and space. Words he had heard from others as they repeated the guarded creed of the Original People. The same words he had heard from Marc Bulem only a short while ago.
From terror they fled to expiate their sins.
From terror?
Terra?
Another name for Earth and he wondered if the dream had held a deeper significance than he guessed. Something not merely born of a chance encounter but that very encounter serving to trigger latent data into a symbolic whole. Had the egg represented Earth? The parasitic life Mankind?
He remembered the crying, the endless wailing of those lost in a dark eternity. The alarm or a dirge for a destroyed world?
But Earth had not been destroyed.
"Earl!" He turned to see Vardoon staring at him, a peculiar expression in his eyes. The light he had seen before when facing a contender in the arena. The inner glow of a man facing, and loving, combat. "Earl-it's started!"
Nothing but the flashing lights had changed and yet it seemed that something had entered the mirrored chamber with its soft lights and thick carpets, its ornaments and touches of feminine grace. A dark and somber thing with the hue of death.
"A forced auction," explained Fiona as Dumarest came to stand behind her. "A minor holding; Kalova must be mad to have put himself in debt because of it."
A favor owed to the one who backed him with an offer of twice its registered value. And he would want repayment when it suited him.
"Let it go," said Dumarest.
"Relinquish it? Earl-it's a part of my holding!"
Vardoon said, "Let it go, Fiona. Boost the bidding to a third of extra value then duck out."
For a moment she hesitated, the conditioning of a lifetime at war with what, subconsciously, she knew to be good advice. Sweat dewed her face when, after dragging minutes, she slumped back in her chair.
"It's gone," she said dully. "Kalova's won."
A minor conflict but not the war. Dumarest studied the display, wishing he had the skill to read it, feeling ill at ease and knowing why. His life was at stake but the saving of it was beyond his control. Here was no arena with a single opponent but those with faces he could not see careless of the hurt and death they could unwittingly give.
"A fort on a hill," muttered Vardoon. "Remember, Earl? Kalova would have made a good mercenary-he's clearing away potential sources of danger."
Small villages, woods, coppices which could hold armed men. Beating the grounds and warning others to stay clear by his actions. Soon now he would aim his attack at its true target, forcing the use of material, the wasting of resources-the assets which alone could guarantee Fiona her holding.
A crude analogy, for the present situation contained refinements impossible to generalize. Dumarest leaned forward as the woman sucked in her breath.
"Something?"
"A move against Lobel-but why? He presents no threat and rarely takes the initiative." Fiona studied the display, brow creased in a frown, the fingers of her right hand tapping the broad arm of her chair. "And now Cran!"
Another minor holder and easy prey to a ruthless predator. An attack which triggered a pattern in Dumarest's mind, not of a military engagement but a more familiar scene. A melee in which a score of men stood in the arena each against the other. A situation in which the weak could be as dangerous as the strong.
But the arena was a place in which only one law was paramount-to survive. Here the action was hedged with rules and custom, accepted forms of behavior as if the participants were following the dictates of ancient chivalry.
Dumarest said, "Have you those who owe you favors? Contact them and make a deal. They to eliminate one of the weakest in return for you meeting all costs and later support."
"Drive a holder out? By conspiracy? Earl-that's assassination!"
"Do it!"
"But-"
She was thinking of her reputation, the scorn and contempt she would have to face. Dumarest said urgently, "You remember when we played chess? What I did? What I told you? To win is all that counts." He added dryly, "And remember-the winner never has to pay."
A spur which sent her hand to the phone. As she activated it Vardoon drew Dumarest out of range of its scanner.
"A dangerous game, Earl. Kalova could do just what you've advised. Arrange a series of forced auctions and keep milking her until she's too weak to resist."
"How long would that take?"
"It won't be quick but it'll be inevitable. In order to keep that sector she'll have to bid far higher than it's worth."
The balance taken by the bank; a detail Dumarest had learned as he had others. But to know the moves was not to be a master of the game.
Again he began to pace the room, seeing his reflected image grow and diminish, waver and distort as reflection was caught by reflection, the whole painted with shifting hues. What would Zao be doing? If he was advising Kalova then why the delay? The cyber would have no time for elaborate and inefficient maneuverings and any plan he had devised would be apparent by now. Kalova must be operating alone-an unexpected bonus.
"It's done," Fiona called from her chair, face drawn beneath the curtain of hair. Tresses which she lifted to tuck beneath a g
emmed band. "Kelman is down and out."
A name without meaning but, somewhere in the city, a man stared at his display and felt the sickness of utter defeat. Dumarest said, "Bid for sector N 89."
"Earl, that holding's useless!"
"Bid!"
A moment then he heard her sharp inhalation. "This is crazy! Maiden's bidding too!"
One of Vardoon's prospects; a minor holder jumping the gun. He was joined by another; Myra Lancing who had demanded more than a kiss.
"Keep the bidding high," said Dumarest. "Force up the price but duck out before you get stuck with it."
To bleed Kalova in a forced auction. To weaken those already weak if he should prove too shrewd. To fight in the terms of the arena where to lose was to die.
The pills were small, blue, potent Kalova swallowed three and swore as his reaching hand knocked over the goblet of wine. Too much wine and too many pills, but his strength had to be maintained, his clarity of mind. Tiredness now would cloud his ability and cost him more than he could afford.
Why was the bitch so stubborn?
Attack after attack had been bested and still she continued to fight. And now she was attacking his own holdings in the north. She and other fools who should know better.
The phone and Chargel. "Maximus-N 76 for S 21?"
More interest in the north! "No!"
"For S21 and S15?"
Holdings on the edge of the continental shelf but his own was little better. Yet the fact it was wanted woke suspicion. Chargel was too shrewd to chase barren rock in the storm-torn hills unless he had a good reason.
"No!"
The screen died and Kalova sank back in his chair, watching the dancing signals with eyes grown sore with strain. How long had it been? A glance at the clock could have told him but he had his own measure of time. It had been too long, an age, an eternity, and still there was no sign of an end. Would he have to fight on for the rest of the day? The following night? The day after that? Such tremendous engagements had been known in the past but now were the stuff of legend.
Why the interest in the north?
He scowled as yet another forced auction came into being: Bulem, Dulet, Lancing and Sand. Fools who asked for the punishment they deserved for daring to bait the Maximus. Even as he matched and beat their bids he was assessing their resources. All were minor holders but Sand the most vulnerable. It would be easy to make him an example.