by E. C. Tubb
A chance, but one which had to be taken now that he had the opportunity. Chan Parect had spoken of a device, a radio capsule perhaps, something implanted which could be triggered into activity. As yet he had found nothing remotely resembling a trigger, not among Zenya's clothing, nor any scar tissue where it could have been implanted in her body. He had searched carefully, running his fingers over every inch of her body as she lay quivering beneath what she thought was his sensuous embrace. Now it was time to examine himself.
He lay nude as the doctor busied himself with his instruments, talking as he worked.
"Has there been any pain? It would help to localize the potential site. Were you wounded? Your head? I see. Well, let's take a look." A long silence; then, "Nothing there that I can see, marshal. Elsewhere, perhaps? Would it be metallic? A fragment from a bomb, a bullet? There is such a diversity of weapons. Well, we shall sec."
And then, finally, "Nothing, my lord."
"Are you certain?"
"I have made a thorough examination. There is nothing metallic."
"It needn't be metallic."
"Even so, there would be traces. A foreign object cannot be simply inserted into the tissue without some distortion of the surrounding fibers, and there would be a difference in density. My instruments would have revealed any such divergence. You may rest assured, marshal. There is nothing implanted within your flesh."
"I see." Dumarest sat, brooding. "Could there be a possibility that…"
He broke off as Fran Paran burst into the tent. The youth was wild-eyed, panting. He said, "For God's sake, Earl, marshal, Lord Dumarest-"
"Control yourself, lieutenant! Report!" The man, Dumarest remembered, had been placed in charge of the communications equipment.
"Sir!" He saluted and said, his voice strained against imposed control, "A message from the city, sir. Verital is under attack!"
Chapter Eight
There was time for thought on the journey. Sitting, hunched in the body of the raft, Dumarest thought of Aihult Chan Parect and his madness. His deviousness and his threat. All were real enough, and he had been even more cunning than suspected. Dumarest had imagined that a radio beacon had been implanted while he had lain helpless beneath the ministrations of his doctor. A device, booby-trapped, maybe, but a thing which could be safely removed with care and skill. Yet it seemed that the obvious had not been employed. A bluff? It was barely possible, but Dumarest doubted it. Chan Parect had been more clever than he had guessed.
"Sir?" Fran Paran was at his side, earphones on his head, a communicator in his hand. "A recording of the initial message, sir. Do you want to hear it?"
The voice was strained, incredulous.
"Monsters! Things all around. Killing, screaming, everywhere. Help. Send help. This is Verital calling. Verital. For God's sake, come quickly! It's horrible! Ghastly! We haven't got a chance. Hurry! Hurry! Devils from hell, spawn of the underworld, help! Help!"
The rest was distortion, a mouthing of frenzied words, screams, the sound of smashing timbers.
Dumarest played it again, a third time, learning nothing new. A man, almost incoherent, pleading for help from the city, raving about monsters and things of nightmare.
To the lieutenant he said, "Contact the city. Find out if there is anything new."
In the earphones Colonel Paran's voice sounded as if he were speaking through layers of cotton. "Nothing since the message, Earl. I've ordered two units to rendezvous with you at map reference 0136-2784. That's a mile from the southern edge of the village."
"Is there anything closer?"
"A detachment was based twenty miles to the west. We can't establish contact." The voice hardened a little. "Natural enough if the devils attacked them first."
"Not natural," said Dumarest. "They should have been alert. Guards would have given the alarm. Have you a raft in the vicinity?"
"Yes."
"I assume it has flares. They must remain aloft, drop flares, and see what they can. If the detachment appears to have been attacked, they must wait until daylight before landing. If not, let them land, take as many men aboard as they can, and throw a line directly north of the village-about ten miles north." In the glow of a light, Dumarest studied a map. "That is in a direct line to the hills."
"You hope to catch who did it?"
"If possible, yes."
"Should I send in more men? Withdraw detachments from the villages?"
"No. The damage has been done now. There's no point in leaving other villages undefended. Just send out a general red alert to all forces and have them keep a man on constant radio watch. I want a running commentary, and if anything should happen, let me know at once."
"I hope you get them," said Paran. "By God, I really hope that. Susal was born in Verital."
And perhaps his son would die there. Time alone would tell.
Lights marked the rendezvous, bright points drifting against the fading stars, rimming the outlines of the rafts which waited high in the sky. Below, it was totally dark, the massed lofios plants seeming to absorb all light, so that the ground was an infinity of distance, a trick of perspective which vanished as one of the rafts dropped a flare.
Dumarest watched it fall, to burst into eye-bright luminescence, leaves springing into life beneath the glare, betraying their presence if the riding lights hadn't done it already. Another followed it, a third, as excited men searched for anticipated prey. From one of the rafts a laser sent a ruby beam to impact on a plant, fire rising, edged with smoke, from the tip of a frond.
"Stop that!" Dumarest shouted above the rising babble from the rafts. "Cease all fire! No more flares. Fall into line and remain silent!"
"I saw one!" The voice was young, hysterical. "I saw one of the devils. There!"
Again the laser fired, fresh flame rising from another plant, this time far to the left.
"He's right!" Another voice, equally young, just as high. "There! See!"
He owned a rifle, and echoes rolled as he fired, amplified by the lofios, increased as others joined in. Within seconds the body of the raft was a mass of winking points and ruby beams as men leaned over the edge shooting at imagined shapes on the ground.
To Fran Paran Dumarest snapped, "Get the number of that raft. I want the name of every man in it. The officers too. The damned fools should be able to maintain order better than this."
"They're volunteers, sir," said the lieutenant. "A group from one of the villages."
"It makes no difference. Establish contact and order them to stay well clear. Have them patrol to the east- and don't forget to record those names." To the pilot Dumarest said, "Head for the village. Fast."
Already they had lost the element of surprise and given any waiting enemy the choice of retreat or setting up an ambush. If the enemy were still at the village, it had taken time to cover distance. As the raft swept forward, it dropped until it was almost brushing the plants beneath. They vanished, edging a clearing, a barely visible cluster of houses, limp figures lying in the streets. "Flares," ordered Dumarest.
He turned as they fell, looking at the scene clearly revealed, every detail painted in the stark, white glare. Beside him a man was suddenly sick, vomiting over the edge of the raft.
Another cursed with monotonous repetition. "God, look at it! God, look at it!"
Dumarest said, "Contact the other raft. Have them remain aloft and drop flares as needed. We shall land at the northern edge of the village. Two men to stay with the raft, four others to spread in line facing north. Fire at anything that comes toward you. Remember that, toward you. Lieutenant, you are in charge. The rest follow me. Open order, and no firing unless I give the order." He added grimly, "I'll kill any man who disobeys."
* * *
Once, on a distant world, he had seen an ancient painting in a dusty museum depicting, so the curator had said, an impression of hell. It had been a scene of torment, bodies lying, disfigured, faces contorted, blood and devastation all around. The artist could have
taken Verital for his model.
Dumarest studied it from where he crouched behind the cover of a building. The wide main street was a shambles. The air reeked of blood. A man sprawled, stomach slashed open, intestines in a blue-red mass of coils, a rifle frozen in his hand. Close by, a woman, knife in hand, showed a hole between her eyes, the back of her head a soggy mass rimmed with lank hair. Two others lay in a carmine pool, hacked to bloody fragments. A child lacked limbs, another had been seared to crackling, a third, a baby, lay with a crushed skull beneath a red smear on the corner of a building. And there were others. Too many others.
From one side a man said sickly, "The bloody swine! Savages! Only animals could have done a thing like this!"
Another said, "Let's get them!"
He rose from where he had been crouching, rifle in hands, almost staggering as he moved down the street. Dumarest watched him go, willing to accept the proffered bait. If any enemy should still be in the village, the easy target might draw his fire.
The man was lucky; none came. Dumarest waited, then moved from behind his cover.
"Search," he ordered. "House to house. Be careful."
He kicked open the door of the building behind which he had crouched. The interior was dark. Cautiously he felt along the wall, found a switch, turned it. No light came, and he crept forward, tense, nostrils flaring with remembered smells. His foot hit something soft, and he jumped back, eyes narrowed, cursing the darkness. The window was shuttered, and he threw them wide, light from the flares illuminating the room.
A woman stared at him with wide, dead eyes. The ax in her hand was stained, her hand, the entire arm to the shoulder. The man beside her lay face-down, the back of his head crushed and oozing brains. Dumarest stooped over the woman. She was young, nubile, her body firm. The blood coating her was not her own, and as far as he could see, she was uninjured.
Uninjured, but dead, her flesh barely cool.
Upstairs a baby lay in a cot. Dumarest took one glance and turned away. A pet, a small animal, lay against the wall, fur matted with blood, fangs bared in a final defiance. The claws held strips of skin and particles of flesh. The rest of the house was empty.
Back in the street, he called for three men and went in search of the power supply. It was housed at the far end of the village, a compact atomic pile together with generators and rectifiers. In it someone had run berserk, chopping wires, hacking at cables, paying the price in released energy, which had seared him to a crisp. Motes of soot hung in the air, which stank of char.
One of the men said, "Hell, we'll never be able to fix this in a hurry."
"How long?"
"At least three hours, sir. It will be dawn by then."
Dumarest nodded, arriving at a decision. "Get back into the street. Find something to make a fire, several if you can. Get the doors and windows open. If there is anyone still alive, I want to be informed at once. Move!"
As they emerged into the street, a man came running toward him. He halted, saluted, said, "Report from the lieutenant, sir. The raft above is almost out of flares. Your orders?"
"I'll give them personally. You help these men." At the raft Dumarest snapped, "Tell them to ride high, drop what flares they have left, then land to take on those we are carrying. Where is the other raft, the one sent to the east?"
The lieutenant shrugged. "Still there, as far as I know, sir. I can't establish contact."
"Damn them!" Anger darkened Dumarest's face. "Keep trying. I want them to head north and land to form a line ten miles ahead facing the village. If…" He broke off, listening.
"Sir?"
"Be quiet!"
It came again, the distant blast of shots, a thin screaming. The pilot of the raft said, "They've found something! Goddamnit, they've found the enemy!"
That or another outburst of hysteria which turned shadows into menacing figures; yet there was always the chance they were fighting living things. Dumarest sprang into the raft, snapping orders.
"Lieutenant, contact the other raft and have them follow us. Pilot, up and head toward that noise. The rest of you stay here and hold the village."
Lightened, the raft almost shot into the sky, leveling, the air gusting as it drove toward the sound of battle. Ahead, the darkness was broken by a dull glow, smoldering plants sending up thick columns of smoke from a base of flame. Details sprang into life as flares dropped from the sides of the vehicle, men crouching, firing, their raft lying to one side, shielded by smoke drifting beneath the impact of a gust of wind. They faced southwest, toward the village.
"They've got them," said Fran Paran. His voice was tense with eagerness. "Trapped the swine on their way back to the hills. If we land, we can catch them between us."
"And face the fire of our own troops," reminded Dumarest. He glanced to where the other raft, laden with men, moved toward them. "Have them land to the west of the action, drop half their men, then move on to the east. Open order and reserve fire until they recognize their targets."
A basic maneuver when fighting in darkness against an unknown enemy. Properly conducted, it would face them with a wide semicircle, which could move in to surround them with a ring of steel. A trap that could not fail-if the men remained cool, if they obeyed orders, if they retained their fire and didn't shoot each other down.
As the raft passed them, the lieutenant said, "And us, sir?"
"We'll stay aloft, dropping flares and maintaining observation." Dumarest thinned his lips as he recognized the other's expression. "You don't like it, lieutenant?"
"I'd rather be down there killing the swine who did that horror to the village."
"Instead of which you'll have to let others do the killing while you tell them where to shoot."
Leaning over the edge of the raft, Dumarest studied the scene below. The fire was erratic, seemingly unanswered, rifles and lasers blasting in all directions. Above the shots rose the sound of shouting, a wild screaming, a hideous cacophony of bestial noise. And then, suddenly, the raft was the target of concentrated fire.
The pilot reared, crying out, falling as bullets tore at his chest, a laser beam searing into his side. The raft tilted, the engine ruined, the anti-grav conductors ripped and inactive. Dumarest caught Fran Paran as he almost went over the side, throwing him to the floor of the raft, holding him as the vehicle crashed. The vegetation saved them, cushioning the impact, and they landed heavily, to roll on the soft dirt.
"They got us!" The lieutenant staggered to his feet. Blood trickled from a shallow gash at the side of his head. "Where's my rifle? They must be close. Where the hell is my rifle?"
"We were shot down by our own men," said Dumarest He watched as the other found his weapon, his eyes cautious. "What do you intend to do?"
"Get in there and join the fight. What else?"
"It might help to know what we're up against," said Dumarest dryly. He coughed as a gust of wind threw an eddy of smoke over the place where they stood. "We don't want to kill our own men, and we certainly don't want to be shot in error. They almost got us once. We might not be as lucky the next time."
"They wouldn't do that."
"They did. I was watching. The fire came from directly below." Dumarest coughed again, his lungs constricting, his eyes watering so that the figure of the officer blurred and took on distorted lines in the dying light of the flare. And there was something else, a sweet, sickly odor riding on the breeze, bringing an overwhelming tension, a sharp appreciation of impending danger. "We'd better get away from here."
"Run, you mean?"
"We were shot down. If the enemy are close, they would have seen us fall. They know we would carry arms and ammunition. Take the lead, lieutenant. Head for the east."
"The action is toward the north."
"And the other raft is over to the east." Anger sharpened Dumarest's voice. "This isn't a one-man operation, lieutenant. And we've no place for heroes. Just obey orders and stop arguing if you want to avoid a court-martial. Now, move!"
&nb
sp; Fran Paran said tightly, "You can go to hell, marshal. I'm here to fight, and that's just what I intend, to do. Run if you want, but I'm no coward. Those swine are going to pay for what they've done, and I'm going to see they do it. And neither you nor anyone else is going to stop me."
He stood, very young, very defiant, breathing deeply of the smoke-laden air. And then, abruptly, he screamed.
It was a harsh sound, wordless, a noise torn from a distorted throat, powered by fear and hate and blind ferocity. Dumarest was moving as the first note cut the air. He had sensed the tension, seen the beginning of the grimace, the rifle lifting, aiming directly toward his chest. As the officer fired, he threw himself to one side, ducking low as a second bullet cut the air where his head had been. Before the muzzle could lower, he was rising beneath it, slamming his shoulder hard against the barrel, throwing it upward, to spout missiles at the sky. His right hand lifted, the fingers clenched, the hard mass of bone and sinew slamming at the unprotected jaw.
He caught the man as he fell, fighting a sudden nausea, a flashing of his vision, the sickness which filled his stomach. Dropping the limp shape, Dumarest staggered to one side, doubled, retching. Around him the plants seemed to move, to grow arms and legs and grinning faces, crimson cowls framing heads like skulls, the snarling mask of a fighter moving in for the kill, other shapes, all menacing, all horrible.
It lasted for a few moments and then passed, leaving him weak and drenched with sweat. Turning, he looked at the officer. Even though unconscious, he twitched on the ground, arms reaching, fingers scrabbling, booted feet churning the soil. Dumarest reached him, slashing at the bright uniform with his knife, cutting strips of fabric to bind the hands and feet. The rifle lay to one side, and he picked it up and moved like a shadow into the vegetation. Beneath the fronds it was totally dark; the flares had died, and the fading starlight couldn't penetrate the broad leaves and wide-spread branches. The wind had ceased, the smoke rising straight, black against the bright stars.