Zenya dot-11

by E. C. Tubb

  As they neared the dark opening, the captain said, "Sir, let me go in first. Against the light you'd be a clear target."

  "And you wouldn't be?" Dumarest smiled. "Well go in together, captain. Fast, and moving one to either side. I don't have to tell you that we want whoever is in there alive."

  Dumarest halted as they reached the opening, looking up at the low ridge of stone above, eyes searching for traps and snares. He saw nothing, and with a quick movement dived inside, resting his back against the wall, eyes narrowed as he stared into the gloom. Facing him, the captain began to edge forward, pistol in hand.

  From a niche twenty feet down stepped one of the Ayutha.

  He was young, tall, dressed in a shapeless garment of dull gray, a squat tube held in his hands, the butt against his shoulder. Dumarest yelled, fired, moving as he pressed the trigger. The bullet hit one of the arms, spinning the figure, which turned to face him. From the mouth of the tube shot something that smoked.

  Dumarest dived, hitting the floor as flame burst behind him, firing as he fell, the roar of his shots blending with those fired by the captain. Rising, he ran forward, past the crumpled figure, shadows reaching ahead from the light of the flame blazing against the wall.

  "One!" gasped Hamshard. "There could be more!"

  He fired at a shadow, fired again, a scream echoing the shot. Something hummed an inch from his head, to rasp against the stone, not fire this time, but a sliver of steel, a bolt fired from a crossbow. It was followed by the ruby beam of a captured laser. It struck high, lowered, seared the rock where the captain had stood as Dumarest slammed into him and threw him to the floor. Rolling free, he triggered his pistol, sending bullets to whine in savage ricochets. A man screamed, another died as he ran toward him, a third spun, dropping a rifle, blood gushing from an open mouth.

  Dumarest dropped the empty pistol, lunged forward, and snatched up the rifle, firing as he rose, sending bullets whining down the cavern to where it turned at the far end.

  In the following silence he looked around at the captain, climbing stiffly to his feet, a thread of blood running down one cheek, the dying light of the thrown bomb, the dead sprawled on the floor.

  Young, too eager, too quick to shoot, and too impatient to aim. The fault of all green troops if they were not frozen with fear.

  He said, "Captain, how badly are you hurt?"

  "Just a scratch, sir." Hamshard lifted a hand, dabbed at his temple, wiped away the blood on his cheek. "Do you think there are more of them?"

  "I doubt it. One, perhaps, but no more guards." Dumarest hefted the rifle. "Let's go and get him."

  The turn of the cavern was filled with light, a cold, bluish glow illuminating a wide expanse beyond. Wooden tables bore a litter of apparatus; a crude lathe stood to one side, retorts, containers of glass and plastic, tubes of metal, drums of chemicals, scales. Dumarest looked at a crude laboratory and manufacturing plant.

  "This is where they made the flame bombs," said Hamshard. His voice was taut, ugly. "And maybe other things. But they couldn't have done it alone. Someone had to teach them-the damned swine!"

  "He wasn't responsible for the villages, captain."

  "How can you be sure of that?"

  "I'm sure." Dumarest moved cautiously down the area, eyes searching the shadows beneath the tables, behind the heaps of sacks and bales. Cylinders held the familiar shape of missiles, squat tubes similar to the one the guard had used as their launchers. He paused, examining a larger object, seeing the vents at the rear.

  "Self-propelled," snapped Hamshard. "That thing could reach for miles."

  "He didn't start this war," said Dumarest sharply. "So don't get carried away when you see him. Remember, I want him alive."

  Alive and unhurt and able to travel. Dumarest had no doubt as to who it must be.

  A door stood at the end of the area. He opened it, saw a narrow passage running beyond, and led the way down a gentle slope illuminated with softly glowing crimson bulbs. A second door stood at the end. It was thick, heavily padded, reluctant to move. He tugged it open, to reveal the chamber beyond. A small place, snug, the walls covered with plaited mats of local manufacture, a shelf of books, a projector, wafers of condensed information, a revolving globe which threw swaths of kaleidoscopic light, reds, blues, greens, yellows, merging, rippling like rainbows.

  On a narrow cot a man lay supine.

  He wore a robe knotted with a cord around the waist, the cowl raised to shield an emaciated face, both hands lying on his stomach, the fingers wasted, skin tight over prominent bone. In the ruby light streaming through the open door he looked corpselike, horribly familiar.

  Dumarest stared at him, the face, the rifle lifting in his hands, aiming, his finger closing on the trigger.

  Captain Hamshard smashed the barrel upward as he fired.

  "Sir! For God's sake!"

  Dumarest spun, dropping the rifle, hand lifted, palm stiffened to strike. He saw the startled face, the thread of dried blood on the cheek, and turned, staring at the figure on the bed. It had risen, legs drawn back, face ghastly beneath the cowl. The revolving globe threw a swath of emerald over the bed, turning the robe from crimson into a dull brown. A supporting strut stood beneath a shelf. Dumarest gripped it with both hands.

  Harshly he said, "Get him away from me. Keep him clear."

  "Sir?"

  "Do it!"

  Beneath his hands Dumarest felt the wood yield and tear.

  * * *

  The tisane was hot, pungent, dried herbs yielding their oils and flavors to form a tart, refreshing brew. Unarmed, seated at the far side of the table with his back against a wall, Dumarest watched as the captain set a cup before him.

  He was dubious. "I don't know if you should drink this, sir."

  "It isn't poisoned."

  "Maybe not." The captain wasn't convinced. "I don't think I should have stopped you, sir. But you did say that you wanted him alive."

  "You did right." Dumarest leaned back, feeling the quiver of his muscles, the aftermath of strain. The urge to kill had gone now, but the tension remained, joining the ache in his temples. It had faded a little as the tisane had been made, but the liquid shook as he lifted the cup to his lips.

  To the cowled figure he said, "You are known as Amil Kulov." It wasn't a question. "Before that your name was Salek Parect. The son of Aihult Chan Parect."

  "Yes."

  "Why did you help the Ayutha?"

  "Someone had to." Salek put down his cup and rested his arms across his chest. He sat on the edge of the cot at the full distance of the room. Within the cowl his face was drawn, bone prominent on his cheeks beneath the upward-slanting eyes. "Could you ever begin to understand? They are unspoiled, innocent. When first attacked they didn't know what to do. They were numbed, incapable of resistance, children faced with something they couldn't understand. That attack was brutal, savage, a vicious, wanton, unthinking crime. So I helped them as best I could."

  "With weapons," said Dumarest. "Advice. Flame bombs and launchers. What other things did you have in mind?"

  "Does it matter now? The truce-"

  "You are not a part of it. In any case, your guards broke it."

  "They were young," said Salek quietly. "And foolish. I told them not to resist, but they obviously refused to listen. I would have stopped them had I known, but I was tired, working beyond my strength. And I didn't think that you would come so soon."

  Closed in his room, lost in exhausted sleep, he would not have heard the shots and screams. Dumarest studied him sipping the tisane. An idealist, and dangerous, as all such men were. Single-minded in his pursuit of what he considered to be right. And the technical knowledge he possessed gave him more power than others of his kind.

  Hamshard said, "The men, sir?"

  "Have them remain outside. If any of the Ayutha try to enter, warn them away. If they insist, then shoot them down."

  "Like dogs," said Salek bitterly. "Is that what you think of them? Animals
to be destroyed."

  "No. How long have you lived among them?"

  "Over ten years now. A long time. Long enough for me to appreciate what they have to offer, what they can teach. Mental peace, tolerance, understanding, an affinity one to each other. And they have a history, tales handed down from generation to generation, a legend of an old time, when things were not as they are now. Perhaps I should explain that I am interested in ancient myths."

  "Yes," said Dumarest. "I know. Your father told me."

  "My father!" Something, hate or contempt, twisted the emaciated features. "How could he ever begin to understand? His mind is closed to new concepts. To him only the house of the serpent is important. The welfare of the Aihult. He could never admit that Paiyar is only one small world among billions, and that there have been others against whom we are as children."

  "Legends," said Dumarest.

  "But each one holding a kernel of truth. I have spent my life trying to find those truths. Here, on Chard, I have found something, a clue. The Ayutha know more than is guessed, more perhaps than they realize. A race which came to this world eons ago. From where? And how did they travel?"

  And why hadn't they progressed? Dumarest could guess the answer to that. Once, perhaps, their telepathic ability had been stronger than it was now, and that trait was no friend to a race struggling to survive. The price was too high. Violence had no place when all fear and terror was shared, when a beast which could provide food was allowed to run free, an enemy avoided instead of being destroyed.

  The Ayutha were not a growing, viable culture but a decaying one. An off-shoot of the human race, something tried by nature and found unsuitable, to be discarded by a more efficient form. They had fled into the hills, avoiding contact with aggressive types, dreaming, perhaps, around their fires, of vanished glories. Tales to amuse children, props for a vanished pride.

  He said, "You can't help them, Salek. You must know that. In order to survive, they must change. No culture can remain isolated when others are so close."

  "Their traditions-"

  "Are distorted memories. You gave them weapons and taught them how to kill. Can you realize the price they must pay? Their guilt could destroy them. They could go insane."

  "No!"

  "Remember your guards. Young men eager to kill. Trying to kill without logic or reason. You turned them into beasts, to die like animals. The best thing you and the others like you can do is to leave them alone."

  "To be exploited," said Salek bitterly. "To be used as simple, mindless workers in the fields. An old, proud race reduced to the status of beggars."

  "They wouldn't be the first," said Dumarest. "And they won't be the last. Among races, like men, only the strong have the right to survive. But it won't be like that here. The farmers need them, and now that the war is over, arrangements can be made. Land grants given them so they can retain possession of the hills. Their children can be given schooling, taught trades, ways to use their talents. They can work if they wish, or sit and dream if they prefer. But you will not be among them."

  "Revenge?"

  "A precaution. The Chardians have no reason to trust you, and they would never allow you to remain. In any case, you have other duties. Your father needs you."

  Salek frowned. "You mentioned him before," he murmured. "But how do you know him? Did he send you to find me?"

  "Yes."

  "And you are taking me to him?"

  Dumarest looked at his hands. The tremors had stopped, his head now free of the nagging ache. It was, he thought, now safe to move.

  "I'm taking you back to the city. There are people you know there." Rising, he called, "Captain!"

  "Sir?" Hamshard appeared at the doorway of the passage.

  "I'm putting this man in your charge. Take him to my suite in the city and allow him to take with him anything he wants. Before you leave, have the men destroy everything in the cavern. The weapons, the tools, the chemicals, everything."

  "Yes, sir. And you?"

  Dumarest said flatly, "I am going to finish what has to be done."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The line had held seven thousand men, and he used them all, rafts going to each village, men dropping, busy with saws, with lasers, axes, anything that could cut and fell. Fire bloomed around each village, sparks flying from burning plants eating a wide clearing around the buildings. The men were mostly from the woodlands to the south, clerks from the city, workers who had no immediate interest in the lofios, sharing only the crumbs from the rich growers' table. Some of the officers were less eager.

  "Marshal!" A major, red-faced, irate. "You can't do this! The Council-"

  Dumarest snapped, "Lieutenant, place this man under close arrest. He is subversive to the state."

  A captain, less polite, "Damnit, you want to ruin us all? You crazy fool, you can't-"

  He joined the major, a dozen others, all fuming, helpless to resist. Dumarest had ended the war, and the men were grateful. More, they liked his style, his manner. And the loyalty of the men, as Dumarest knew, was the real basis of power for any commander.

  Riding high, he watched the growing clearings, the thickening columns of smoke.

  "Sir!" From the body of the raft Lieutenant Paran looked up from his communicator. His face was strained, torn with indecision. He felt that he should be doing something to halt the destruction, but didn't know what. "Colonel Stone, sir."

  "Let him wait."

  The next call was from Colonel Paran.

  "What's going on, Earl?" His face was lined, eyes pouched with fatigue. "We've been getting reports about you burning the lofios. I can't hold the Council back much longer. They're assembling weapons and men to put you under arrest."

  "They can try."

  "They will try, Earl. You've hit them where it hurts. Raougat has found a bunch of men who will do anything for pay." His control broke a little. "Damnit, man! The last thing we want is a civil war!"

  "You wont get it." Dumarest studied the terrain below. The firebreaks had been cut, and the lofios was well ablaze; nothing now could prevent what he had started. "All right, colonel, I'm coming in."

  It was dark when he arrived, and they were waiting in the light of standards set before the Lambda warehouse, Stone, Oaken, the smiling face of Captain Raougat flanked by a score of armed men. Others stood behind Colonel Paran, more disciplined, equally well armed. At their head Lieutenant Thomile scowled at the other group. As Dumarest dropped from the raft, he snapped to attention, saluting.

  Dumarest returned the salute, then turned to stare at Raougat. For a moment their eyes met, and then the captain lifted his arm.

  "Marshal!"

  "Your men are badly dressed," said Dumarest coldly. "Have them straighten their line. An honor guard should have respect. They are soldiers, not scum."

  Raougat stared at the tall figure, the uniform stained with char and blood, the hard, cruel set of the mouth. When next he saluted, his movement was brisk.

  "Yes, sir! As you order!"

  Of the colonels, Paran was the first to speak. He stepped forward, hand extended. "Marshal, my congratulations on your success. As I was telling the Council, you must have a good explanation for what you've done."

  "Yes, colonel."

  "By God, it had better be a good one!" Oaken, face flushed with rage, stood with hands clenched, trembling. "Is this the arrangement you made with the Ayutha? That you would ruin us in return for their cooperation?"

  "Treason," said Stone. He sounded dazed. "Three hundred square miles of lofios destroyed, not counting the plants you felled to make the line. Why, marshal? Why?"

  "To end the war."

  "But you'd done that. The Ayutha-"

  "Had nothing to do with what happened to the villages," snapped Dumarest impatiently. "I thought that would have been obvious by now. The line proved it. Nothing living could pass without my knowing it, and yet there still was trouble."

  Stone said slowly, "Then someone else? Sabotage?"
>
  "No, the lofios itself." Dumarest turned toward the raft. "Lieutenant!"

  Fran Paran dropped the rifle he had been holding and lifted a sack. Jumping from the raft, he moved forward, to stand at Dumarest's side.

  "The clue was there all along," said Dumarest. "But you couldn't see it. You were too close. When the trouble started, you naturally thought of the Ayutha, and from then on blamed everything on them. But the real cause was much closer to hand, in the plants you grow and harvest for profit."

  Oaken sucked in his breath. "You're lying," he said. "Trying to justify what you've done. You have no proof!"

  "How many more dead do you need before facing reality? Two more villages? Three? The city itself?" Dumarest reached for the sack. "The lofios is a mutated hybrid. You have lived with it so long that you can't even begin to imagine that it could be anything else but harmless. But plants change. They mutate. In this case, the mutation has resulted in a subtle alteration of the pollen. A freak-it couldn't happen again perhaps for a million years-but once was enough. Now, some of the pollen isn't harmless. It contains a hallucinogenic of a particularly horrible nature. It affects the brain, turns people insane, makes them kill, and then causes them to die in turn. You have seen the effects."

  Paran said shrewdly, "Some of the pollen, Earl?"

  "Perhaps one plant out of ten. I don't know; your scientists can determine that. But some, certainly, there can be no doubt. All the evidence points to it; the villages destroyed without trace of an external enemy, that raft that landed and the men who fought each other-they must have broken open dangerous pods. I caught a scent of it myself, sweet, sickly, and I felt its effects." Dumarest glanced at Lieutenant Paran standing at his side. "I felt it and saw what it could do. We were lucky, breathing only a trace, but even that was enough to have killed us both. Now you know why I ordered clearings to be made around every village. The protection isn't enough, but with masks, working without them only when there is no wind, it should serve." He added bitterly, "I asked you to do that before. You refused. How many men, women, and children have died because of that refusal?"