by Paul Darrow
His visitor stood very still. It was a long time before he answered.
“I’m glad you realize this is an end.”
“Yes, Axel, but for whom?”
Axel Reiss, who was Avon’s half-brother, nodded sagely. “You could have killed me just now. Why didn’t you?” he asked, as if genuinely interested in the answer.
“Under similar circumstances, would you have killed me?”
Axel Reiss did not reply.
Avon thought for a moment. “I assume you have to take me alive or return with proof of my death?”
Reiss took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“There’s no other way?”
“Is there ever?”
“Then, so be it.” Avon threw his pump action into the snow and took out the twin-bladed knife.
After a moment, Reiss followed suit.
Two two men faced each other, crouching in the familiar stance of the knifefighter. Warily they circled each other.
Reiss lunged to Avon’s left, but his thrust was easily parried as sparks flew off the knives.
Avon side-stepped, feinted to the right, then slashed at Reiss’s stomach. The other man backed off quickly and appeared to stumble. Avon was after him like a flash, but this too was a feint and a serrated edge glanced off Avon’s arm, reopening the wound he had received, so many moons ago, from the Subsidiary on Gamma 15. He gasped with pain.
Reiss whirled like a dervish, leapt into the air and delivered a kick at Avon’s head. Reacting sluggishly, Avon was struck in the temple and went down.
Reiss stepped back and Avon rose unsteadily to his feet. The blood that filtered from the wound in his arm was weakening him. He slashed wildly at his opponent, but to no avail.
Slowly, steadily, like a jackal moving in on a wounded lion, Reiss stalked him.
Avon was breathing heavily. The pain was almost unbearable. He was nauseous and perspiration was clouding his sight.
With a chilling cry, Reiss, as swift as a shadow, ducked under Avon’s guard and buried his knife in his chest. He twisted it in the flesh like a bayonet, then withdrew it.
Avon fell to his knees, his life’s blood staining the white snow a glittering red. He looked up and Reiss slashed him across the face.
With a deep sigh, Rogue Avon toppled forward.
The last thing he saw before he died was the small mammal who was studying the fight from afar.
Once again, there was the silence of death.
PART TWO
Rowena
1
Although they had shared the same mother, the respective fathers of Axel Reiss and Rogue Avon were very different.
The first man had been powerful in business and had exercised an almost equal power in Federation politics. He had envisaged Axel’s career among the ranks of the Killer men as merely a stepping stone to higher things.
Once his woman had reached an age and condition that no longer pleased him, she was lain aside and, in time, passed to another.
This second man was a fiscal genius employed in the Federation banking system and had worn himself out at an early age. Lonely and jaded, he was a shell of a man. He lived only long enough to father his child and bestow his name.
Because of some atavistic fraternal conscience, it was Axel who guided the privileged education of his half-brother and ensured his enlistment among the Killer men. This elite was a private army of assassins and trouble shooters for the wealthiest corporations on Earth and in the known Universe.
Both Axel and Rogue became expert. The only difference between them was a matter of temperament.
Rogue Avon grew tired and was sickened by his work. For Axel Reiss it was a sublime vocation.
Reiss succeeded where Avon could be said to have failed. But a Federation future is never secure and, unknown to Reiss, Avon had left a legacy. The half-brother who had killed him would have to face the wrath to come.
Even now, his infant nemesis, far away and far out of time, was starting on the journey that would lead to their bloody confrontation.
On a dark night, in that half-forgotten place, Avon’s son, Rowena and Mara received a visitor.
At first, the two women were wary of him and inclined to force him away. Then they remembered his legend and recognized him as the one who was known to wander the wilderness of Phax and who haunted the mountains to the North in a never-ending quest for gold, or some other El Dorado of the soul. He was called the Prospector.
A giant of a man, his face was lined with age and burned by the many moons of Raphael. He had startling blue eyes. His long gray beard caused him to resemble a famous prophet who might have inhabited a childish religious imagination.
He had been hurt in a fall and Mara tended him. He sat quietly as she anointed his wounds with a soothing unguent. His blue eyes, like perfect diamonds, held those of the child.
The child had reached four Earth years. He sat on the edge of Rowena’s sleeping cot and stared unblinkingly at the giant.
After a while, the Prospector frowned and looked away. The child did not move.
Rowena placed herself beside him on the cot and embraced him with a protective arm. “This is my son,” she said.
The Prospector smiled briefly. “He’s an unusual child.”
“In what way?”
“He has the eyes of a hunter.”
Rowena glanced at her mother who was standing by the gun rack. There was a silence.
“I don’t mean to offend you,” the Prospector said hastily.
All the while, the boy had not altered his gaze. His attention was concentrated on the old man. Then, suddenly and without a word, he extricated himself from his mother’s arm, climbed from the cot and walked to the canvas door. He turned and smiled and went outside.
A kind of menace had departed the atmosphere. Or so it seemed to the Prospector and he visibly relaxed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “there’s something about him that is a little unnerving.”
“You make him sound like a specter or a devil,” Mara snapped irritably.
The Prospector said nothing.
Rowena had followed the boy to the door. She glanced outside. Her son was standing by the dune buggy that had brought the old man to them. She turned back. “Have you sufficient fuel to reach Phax’s city?” she asked.
The Prospector nodded.
“Will you take us there?”
The man glanced at Mara, then looked searchingly at Rowena. “Do you really want to go there?”
Rowena shrugged fatalistically. “There’s no alternative. The boy can no longer be raised like a wild animal. He must be taught civilization.”
The Prospector smiled broadly. “The Federation rules Phax’s city,” he said. “A token force as it happens, but all that seems to be required. The people of this moon have blended all too easily into the system. I wonder why you haven’t received a visit from a Coordinator or from the Iron Guard?”
“They’ve chosen to pass us by,” Mara said. “We have very little to offer them.”
The big man glanced at Rowena. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. However, I doubt that there is any real danger at this time. The Federation is pursuing a policy of tact and diplomacy.”
Both women smiled.
“I won’t ask about the boy’s father,” the Prospector continued. “You’re right, of course. There is no life for the child here. None for you either. How old is he?”
“Four, almost five, Earth years.” Rowena said.
“I thought he was older.”
Neither woman made any comment.
The giant stood. His head almost touched the ceiling. “I’ll take you to the city. But you must move on from there as soon as you can. You should seek anonymity. Ignore the system and trust that it will ignore you.”
“We’re grateful for your help,” Rowena said.
“Don’t worry about us,” Mara interjected. “We’ll survive. We have so far.”
The Prospector looked at her solemnly. “The boy has t
o go farther.”
“We intend to make sure that he has every opportunity to go as far as he is able,” Mara said pointedly.
“When may we leave?” Rowena asked.
“In a few days, when the season of the sand winds is over. Once we reach the city, you should take the shuttle to Raphael and, if possible, move on to Saturn Major. There is a kind of civilization there. You will need travel papers. Do you have them?”
Mara moved to a cache sunk into the teak wall and extracted a pouch containing various documents. She handed them to the Prospector.
He studied them. “Very good,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve come across better forgeries.”
“They’re not forgeries,” Mara said, “they’re genuine papers, issued by the Federation, that I’ve adapted for an occasion such as this.”
The Prospector laughed.
“Before we came here,” Mara continued, “before the wars for Uranus, we were respectable citizens. I don’t suppose the Federation documentation system has altered too radically.”
“Not at all,” the old man said. “These will allow you to reach Saturn Major without hindrance. Of course, they may not be good enough to assist you to your ultimate destination.”
“Where might that be?” Rowena asked cautiously. “Earth, I imagine. The boy was clearly fathered by an Earth man.”
Neither woman spoke. The child entered, brushing aside the canvas at the door. He smiled and it was as if a bright light had been switched on or a cloud had scudded away to reveal the rays of a sun.
2
Phax’s city remained much as it was when Rogue Avon had passed through it. The addition of Federation authority and the hungry and lascivious troops that came with it had merely secured a higher standard of living for the few who organized the black market and the gambling and prostitution rackets.
Proper villainy, however, was held in check by the brutal reputation of the occupying forces.
Bored and fractious, these supervised the mining of minimum gold and silver deposits from the mountains in the North. An activity they considered demeaning. An iron hand would be required to control the Iron Guard.
Meanwhile, the citizens played safe and went about their business, legal or otherwise, with caution.
The Prospector was known to many in the city. Despite his great height and accompanying strength, he was thought to be well meaning and harmless.
His reappearance from the wilderness provoked little reaction from his acquaintances and, thankfully, none at all from the authorities. He and the company he kept were virtually ignored.
He advised Rowena and her mother to dress plainly. Advised Rowena in particular to disguise her undoubted beauty. He gave no advice to the child. The boy had not spoken one word in his presence and, for the moment, that suited him.
Mara, together with the papers she had supplied, had revealed a stash of gold coins. The Prospector refrained from asking where she had obtained them.
Nevertheless, he accepted her gift of several pieces and used some of the remainder to grease any number of sweaty palms.
Thus it was that all four, an innocuous family, boarded the shuttle for Raphael. In the air as on the land, they excited little comment.
“One of the advantages of Federation rule,” the Prospector whispered, “is that travel and communication systems function almost perfectly.”
The women were too nervous to reply. The boy smiled a wan smile.
Raphael, like its satellite moon, could not be said to have changed much since Avon’s visit. True, there was a more obvious military presence.
The Prospector learned from passersby, even from some soldiers, that Uranus, its satellites, its moons, everything connected with the planet, had easily and readily accepted the power of the Federation and now seemed content.
Mara and Rowena reflected bitterly on the useless suffering of both their men in the face of what seemed to be a vapid surrender to the new rule.
Although it was of no immediate concern, the Prospector also learned that the High Council was now the target of various factions determined to alter the balance of power.
Meanwhile, there was a complacency resulting from the ease with which the Federation had extended its dominion to the very edge of the Beyond, and it was inclined, for the present, to treat its border minions with a velvet glove of authority. A velvet glove that, once removed, would reveal the Iron Guard.
The outposts of Empire were well garrisoned, but the forced involved remained discreet.
The Prospector arranged their transportation to Saturn Major. “Once you get there,” he warned, “if you cannot secure fresh documents, you may not proceed further. Your gold may not be sufficient to buy your security. You should seek protection.”
“Protection!” Mara scoffed. “We will protect ourselves.”
The Prospector shrugged. “As long as you do not constitute a threat, you are of no interest to anyone. But circumstances may change.” He looked directly at the boy. The young Avon stared back at him, his dark eyes like pools of regret that held great sadness. His steady, remorseless gaze made the Prospector feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“There is nothing for me on Saturn Major,” the big man said. “I will go back.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” Rowena asked.
“Of what? Raphael’s moons can be of little use to the Federation. Unless it is assumed that they are the first line of defense against an alien invasion that may never come. I hope to be able to find a kind of peace.” He looked once more at the boy. “I wish you the same.”
The child smiled, but it was no longer the smile reminiscent of his father’s. It was faintly ironic and, the Prospector thought, nearly forlorn.
The women were effusive in their thanks and the big man was touched when Mara tried to press more gold on him. He refused, wished them well and walked away. He did not look back.
Mara and Rowena seemed lost in thought, so the boy sat by a window of toughened crystal on the port side of the spaceship that was carrying them to Saturn Major. He stared into the inky blackness that enveloped them.
When, after some time, the ship slowed in order to pick its route through the Rings of Saturn, he became animated, excited even, by the myriad colors through which they were passing. He watched, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as the colors glowed, then faded. They dazzled him.
The clumsy aircraft stuttered its way into Saturn’s atmosphere and its landing rockets caused mountains of dust to rise from the planet’s surface. Thus, the colors of the Rings were reflected in such a way as to suggest a gigantic, silent, magical firework display.
It was with some disappointment that he left the colors behind and walked with the two women from the shuttle and into the giant terminal of the landing base that served the hi-tech city. This concourse was thronged with people of all ages, races and pigmentation.
Rowena, who had learned of it from the Prospector, made her way to a bank of video screens set against one wall of the marble-floored, steel-surrounded building. She wanted to consult the videos for information concerning accommodation, employment opportunities and local laws.
Her investigation was interrupted by a sharp, anguished cry from her son. She turned and almost cried out herself.
Her mother had collapsed to the ground and lay there, fighting for breath. The crowds had parted. Onlookers showed concern, but did nothing.
The boy was holding his grandmother’s hand and she was smiling up at him. Rowena rushed over to them. Mara’s breathing was faint. What little there was of it that was left to her was shallow and irregular.
Cradling Mara in her arms, Rowena looked up at the sea of faces observing them and asked for help. No one moved. She asked again, tears stinging her eyes.
At length, a man stepped forward. “There is a military hospital nearby,” he said. “I’ll take you there.”
Mara had stopped breathing.
3
With the stranger’s assistance, Rowena managed
to move her mother to a monorail car that would carry them to the hospital. The man declined to travel with them.
A monorail guard kept all others at bay and radioed ahead requesting medical staff to stand by for their arrival.
Four orderlies and a doctor were waiting. They transferred Mara’s seemingly lifeless body to a metal cart and wheeled her away. An attendant insisted that Rowena and the boy should wait in a small room attached to the surgery in which the doctor would conduct his examination.
The room was bright, clean and furnished with several couches covered in black hide. After a while, Rowena persuaded her son to lie down on one of them and try to sleep.
Many Earth hours passed.
With a suddenness that startled her, a communicating door slid back and a man entered.
The intruder was tall and well built. In a way, he could be described as handsome. His face was long and thin and it gave him a look of solemnity. His eyes were gray, his nose full and a little fleshy, suggesting that he might be a drinker. His hair was thick and black, highlighted with silver. His hands seemed soft and white, with long tapering fingers. He wore a green coverall of a material not unlike velvet. This was the uniform of his profession.
“I am Pi Grant,” he said. “I am the chief of staff here. I am also the head surgeon.” His voice was quite melodic. He had spoken very gently.
Rowena said nothing, merely stood and stared at him. The boy slept.
“Your mother is dying,” the doctor went on, raising a hand as if to calm her. It was unnecessary, still she did not move. He continued, “There is nothing I can do. I’m very sorry.” There was a wealth of sadness in his voice.
Rowena fought back her tears.
Pi Grant sat on the edge of the couch upon which the child was sleeping. “I wish I could have told you this terrible news more compassionately,” he said, “The truth is hard to accept, even harder to convey, under any number of circumstances.” He paused. “I am quite certain of diagnosis. Your mother is dying.”
“Why?” Rowena’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“The atmosphere has failed her. I mean, the artificial atmosphere of this planet. May I ask where she was born?”