E. Tubb - Child of Earth

“What’s happened? You’ve been in a fight.”

“Did you see the cyber?”

“Yes. On the way out.”

“With Dorph.” Zander’s voice thickened. “The bastard! It all adds up. He was in a hurry, right? Eager to go about his own business?”

“Yes.”

“He would be. Damn him! He-” The engineer snarled his impatience as a pair of guards sauntered towards them. “This is no place to talk. Let’s find somewhere private.”

A tavern with a low roof and thick, acrid, smoke-filled air. A rough place with furniture to match. One catering to field-workers, transients, those with too much time and too little money. A slattern bought wine and stained beakers. She waited to be paid, studying them both before moving away to serve others.

“Here!” Zander poured wine and pushed a beaker towards Dumarest. “Pick it up. Pretend to drink. That slut is still watching.” As Dumarest obeyed, the engineer continued, “Things have turned bad. The captain’s dead, Raistar too. I left them both, after you’d gone and tried to find Jesso. I heard talk and-”

“The captain is dead?”

“As I told you.” Zander gulped some of his wine. “Bazan, Raistar and from what I heard you can add Jesso to the list. They caught up with us. Someone helped them to do it.”

Dumarest thought of the captain and felt an aching sense of loss.

“How?” he said. “Why?”

“Listen,” said Zander, “and try to understand. When you found us we were somewhere we shouldn’t have been. We’d taken a gamble on making a quick profit and lost. It was a mistake. Now we are paying for it.”

Dumarest said, “You stole the ship?”

“You could call it that.” Zander drank more wine. “We decided to operate as a free-trader and managed to scrape a living by carrying cheap cargos for low profit. We were living on borrowed time.” Again he gulped at the wine. “Taste the stuff,” he urged. “That bitch is still watching. I don’t want her to get too curious.”

The wine was rough, raw, thick with floating particles. Dumarest spat the little he had taken back into the beaker.

“Now the owners have caught up?”

“Someone has. After I’d heard about Jesso I returned to the ship. A stranger was waiting. He tried to kill me.” Zander touched his cheek, coughed, looked at the blood staining his hand. “He had taken care of the captain and Raistar, maybe Jesso too. The entire crew gone aside from me and Dorph.”

“And me?”

“No, Earl, not you. You were never crew Never listed as such. Stay clear and you’ll be safe.”

“Dorph knows.”

“Too much. I think he betrayed us. That’s why he insisted you wear a cap matching his own. You dress alike and are much the same size. It would be easy to take you for him. Kill you instead of him.” He coughed again and fought for breath. “Did you get the drugs you were after?”

“You’re hurt, Zander. Let me get help.”

“Forget it. Just give me what you collected from the apothecary.” The engineer studied the items. “Antibiotics, sedatives, salves, inhalants, pain-killers, slowtime-” He lifted the small containers and shook a half-dozen painkillers into his palm. Swallowing them he said, “This should hold me. I’ll keep the slowtime. Take the rest. They might be worth something.” Abruptly he added, “Goodbye, Earl.”

“Goodbye?”

“We’re parting company. I’ve something to do and I don’t want you involved. Don’t return to the field. Don’t even ask about the ship. Just go and keep going. Here.” Zander put coins on the table. “It isn’t much but it’s all I have. Now go and keep moving.”

Dumarest said, “Don’t talk rubbish! If you’re hurt I want to help.”

“You can’t.” The engineer’s face twisted in pain. “I’m bleeding inside. Dying. You’re on your own. Now get the hell away from me.” Zander rose and staggered and clutched at the table for support. A moment which betrayed his weakness, then he straightened and raised the phial of slowtime to his lips.

“Take care, Earl. Now I’m going to fix Dorph and then take care of the captain. Move, boy! Move!”

The night had turned savage with sharp winds carrying the bite of stinging vapor and noxious gasses. Things ignored as he moved down the streets away from the field, obeying Zander’s instructions because he could think of no better alternative. Overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that the comfort and security he had enjoyed was over, that those he had known as family and friends had gone, vanished as the engineer had vanished when he had taken the slowtime. But Zander hadn’t died. He had simply jerked into an accelerated state of existence in which, for him, time had slowed so that minutes became hours and he could walk safe and unseen through lurking dangers. To find the man who had betrayed them. To kill him. To close his mouth before he could do more damage and then to destroy the ship and the dead it contained.

To create a pyre in which he also would perish.

It blossomed as he reached an intersection; wide avenues crossing to create an open circular area ringed with the glow of accumulated lanterns casting an assortment of vibrant hues embracing the entire spectrum of the universe.

Glows which faded in the sudden burst of searing brilliance from the field to become smears set against drab stone and stained concrete, moldering bricks and cracked flags. In the brilliance scattered figures stood out in sharp relief and clumps of vegetation dotting the central area took on the visage of carved ebony in intricate array.

As the searing brilliance died the gusting wind carried more than the rustle of stirring leaves.

“There! I saw him! There facing Eastlane! Let’s get him!”

The voice of a predator scenting an easy prey. One accompanied by the thud of racing boots and, hearing them, Dumarest ran across the intersection, aiming for a patch of scrub that marred the smooth contours of the area. Reaching it he halted, crouching so as to hide in its shadow. Listening he heard only the sough of the wind.

He had seen guards in the glare of the pyre but to call for their aid would be to invite attention and, if they chose to ignore him, he would have betrayed his position. If he froze, waiting, those after him might tire of the hunt. Or, knowing the area better than he, they might even now be creeping forward to take him unawares.

He reached out, hands flat, fingers and palms searching for stones. He found nothing but grit and loam. He gathered a handful of each and crouched, staring at the hues now again staining the buildings, watching for a silhouette to break their pattern.

Too late he heard the crunch of dirt beneath a boot.

“Well, now, what have we here?” The voice held the purr of a sadistic beast. “A smart little runner-but not smart enough. On your feet, scum! Stand so we can see you!”

The impact of a boot emphasized the command. It slammed into his side with brutal force, turning him to sprawl on his back, arms spread, legs bent at the knees. Above him a figure stood with shadowed menace.

“Up, I said! On your feet! Move!”

Again the boot, the flare of agony from his side, the sick feeling of helplessness, the mounting terror. He was a victim, the prey of a sadistic psychopath. A bully who took pleasure in tormenting the helpless.

Dumarest moved, rolling, shifting his legs so as to gain mobility, his hands emptying, pressing against the ground as he used the muscles of back and shoulders to lift his weight. Pain made it hard and he guessed at broken ribs.

He cried out as the boot lifted and swung towards him.

“No! Don’t!”

“So you’ve got a voice. That’s nice. Let us hear more of it.” The boot again this time slamming into his side. “Talk, scum! Talk!”