E. Tubb - Child of Earth

Talk and be kicked to death for a joke, a momentary thrill, or stay silent and receive the same treatment. Either way he couldn’t win. Yet if he didn’t win he would die.

“I’ve got stuff,” he panted. “Drugs. Kick and you’ll break the containers. You want them you can have them.”

“Drugs?”

“That’s right. Enough for you both.” Dumarest looked to see if his assailant was alone. He’d given the impression that he had company but, like the threats and intimidation, that could have been a part of the ritual. “Here!” He swung back to rest on his heels as he delved into his tunic.

“Not so fast! What you got in there? A gun? A knife?”

“Nothing. Just these-” He broke off as the boot swung towards his face, catching it at toe and heel, twisting it outwards from the body, rising as the man cursed then, thrown off-balance, fell backwards.

And screamed as Dumarest slammed his own boot into his groin. Screamed again at a second kick then fell silent as his larynx pulped beneath a third blow.

“Hold it!” A harsh voice rapped the command from beyond the vegetation. “Halt or I shoot!”

“Save your breath.” His companion hawked and spat. “We’ll get him another time. Let’s see what he was up to.”

Dumarest dropped before the two men came into sight. Guards from their equipment and uniforms. Flashlights illuminated the scene focusing on Dumarest as he groaned.

“What the hell’s been going on here?” One stooped over the limp figure of the predator lying to one side. “Dead. Throat-blow by the look of it. Did you do it?” He glared at Dumarest. “Come on, talk, was it you?”

“No.” Dumarest blinked in the glow of the flashlight. “I’m not too sure what happened. I was with him,” he pointed at the sprawled figure. “We were talking. Then a man came along and hit me. I think he ran away.”

“The one we heard,” said the other guard. “He must have been lurking in the bushes waiting for someone to pass by. This one couldn’t have done it. Hell, he’s only a kid. So the man who ran was on the prowl or knew the dead man. He knocked hell out of the kid then when the dead man tried to protect him he went berserk.”

“Maybe.” His companion wasn’t as certain. “What were you doing here, anyway?” he said to Dumarest. “Where were you going?”

“I was looking. Someone told me there was a place where I could get something to eat and stay the night.”

“And this guy offered to take you there? Is that it?” The guard grunted as Dumarest nodded. “I’d say you’ve been lucky. You hurt bad?”

“Bruises. I can manage.”

“You got a home? Family? No?” The guard turned away the beam of his flashlight. His companion was examining the dead man. “Anything?”

“Maybe. What are we going to do about the kid?”

“We should take him in, make out a report, get him checked for injuries.”

“He says he’s only bruised.” Leaving the sprawled corpse the guard leaned towards Dumarest. “That’s right, isn’t it boy? Just a few bruises?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you don’t need medical attention and a lot of questions. We can all do without trouble, right? If you need shelter and food there’s a place down that street over there.” He pointed. “They’re monks. They belong to a church.”

“How far is it?”

“Not far. You should make it in fifteen minutes.”

It took over an hour.

Along time,” mused Shandaha. “When you are hurt and in pain and unsure as to your destination. Yet luck, it seems, was with you. No further attacks,” he explained. “Another predator would have found you easy prey.”

“As you would know,” said Dumarest.

“As I surmise.”

“Surmise?” Dumarest was sharp. “I don’t understand. You were with me, riding my memories, living my life. Every step I took you took also.”

Steps of agony as shattered bone grated against bone, lacerating internal tissues, tearing at his lungs, filling his mouth with blood. The boots the thug had worn had been tipped with metal and had created internal damage which turned his legs to water, filled his vision with swirling mists and flashing darts of pain. Every motion had needed greater effort, each step become a greater challenge. At times the desire to simply stop and sink to the ground had become almost overwhelming.

“The guards were obviously intent on robbing the dead man and you were an inconvenience.” Shandaha poured wine into goblets, shimmering purple into twisted skeins of convoluted crystal. “You must have guessed that and so masked your true condition. Had you not done so they would probably have killed you. Another victim of local violence-who would have cared?”

Dumarest lifted his goblet and looked at the wine. The surface shimmered with eye-catching brilliance, the innate glow accentuated by the transmitted motion of his hand. He sipped and tasted a sweet succulence carrying the hint of delicate spices and, abruptly, was again lurching an agonized path down a deserted street towards an unknown destination. A memory, nota relived incident, and he carefully set down the goblet on a table made of gold and amber.

He said, “You were with me. You sent me back!”

“And so should have felt everything you suffered, everything you felt.” Shandaha sipped at his wine, savoring it, smiling over the ornamented rim of the goblet. “I could have done that and would have done had it been desirable. I chose to do otherwise.”

“Why? Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Chagal has given you the answer. Did the good doctor not liken himself to a book? His mind, your mind, something to be read? And if you grow bored with a book do you not turn the pages?”

“Skip the boring parts? Close the volume?”

“Exactly. A minute of agony is enough-what more is to be learned or enjoyed by extending the suffering?”

“What point in leaving me to experience it alone?”

“An oversight. One I regret, but let us not linger over trivial detail.” Shandaha set down his goblet. “I am curious as to the actions of your late engineer. The situation he revealed to you of which you had no suspicion. Yet exactly how much do you know? Did the captain and the others really die? Was your vessel destroyed? Are you convinced the Cyclan were, in some way, involved with what happened?”

“You were with me. You know.”

“Only what you learned from Zander. He could have told you anything, made up any story he chose. You can’t even be certain he died.”

Dumarest made no comment, remembering the pyre, the searing light of destruction, the events which had followed. Looking at Shandaha he was reminded of the clump of vegetation behind which he had hidden. Like his host it had resembled ebony fashioned in intricate array but there the likeness ceased for where it had stood bare and vulnerable in the open Shandaha was far from that.

“Earl?”

“If you cannot trust my memories then why bother reliving them?”

“For amusement as you are aware. But I have already proved that some of your memories are suspect. Let us continue. After your journey, which obviously ended in success, what happened?”

Things Shandaha would have known had he continued to share in the relived life. Instead he had withdrawn leaving Dumarest to suffer the anguish alone. Pain, fear and agony he would have preferred to forget.

“I reached the church and the monks took me in. Without their help I would have died.”

Even with it he almost had. He sat, remembering, seeing again the crumbling building that formed the local church, the robed monks who had dedicated their lives to an ideal. Men who lived in poverty, wearing rough homespun and sandals, bearing chipped bowls as they begged for alms. They had eased his pain, kept him warm and fed and nursed him back to health. He had given them what he had and, when fit, had worked as best he could in order to repay their kindness.