E. Tubb - Child of Earth

Somewhere a woman screamed in torment her voice rising in a shriek of savage hatred at the forces of the universe that had devastated her life; a cry of helpless frustration, anger and seething despair. To soar in a long, nerve-scraping ululation then to break, to drop into a moaning susurration as she cradled the ravaged body of her child, to stare bleakly at the ruin of her home, the slumped corpses of her slaughtered dead, the end of a familiar life.

Sounds Dumarest had heard before on a scatter of worlds that had fallen victim to the arrogance and ambition of petty rulers. The burning, bloodshed and butchery dispensed by mercenary forces interested in nothing but victory, reward and self-preservation.

He moved and the screaming vanished. There had been no woman only the impact of wind transmitted through the hull against which his head had rested. The sounds inducing memories and latent images conjured from the recesses of his mind. Near-dreams of other places, other times. Reminders of things best forgotten. Of events impossible to forget.

Another rose to dominate his vision.

A face, hard, mad, bearing the stamp of corrupt degeneration. One still young yet seared with the acid of sadistic indulgence. The hair was a thick roach adorned with flecks of ribbon, scraps of filigree, the gleam of gems. The eyebrows were thick, the mouth a gash, the teeth filed into points. All carmine with blood smeared over the writhing curlicues of paint that masked and distorted the visage beneath. Only the eyes seemed alive, ringed with darkness, usually narrowed; now wide with terror as the blade rose before him to rest its point against his cheek.

He writhed, fighting the hand clamped around his throat, the fingers digging against nerve and artery. A grip his clawing fingers failed to break as the desperate violence of an up-thrusting knee wasted itself on air and the column of a thigh. Things Dumarest ignored as he guided the knife up and over the cheek the skin parting beneath the edge to form a long, shallow wound. One welling blood as the blade halted with the point pressed against the inner corner of the eye.

Before him the lips parted, the man fighting to talk, to plead or beg, but the grip on his throat kept him silent.

Only his eyes could speak and they showed nothing but the horror of knowing what was to come. A horror which lasted a long moment then the knife thrust forward, twisting, the eye spurting from its socket to lie on the bloodied cheek, the blade driving on and into the brain, to twist, to drag free coated with grey and red as the dead man fell from the opened hand.

Air, gusting from his lungs, made a sound like the agonized sighing of wind.

Dumarest reared upright on the cot, feeling the sweat dewing his face, the heat prickling his skin. The air vas thick, tainted, various sounds blending to form a teasing susurration. But there was no painted visage with a snarling mouth and eyes belonging to something less than human. That was a memory from his distant past. An act that had needed to be done. He had no regret but wished the dying sigh had sounded less like the sough of wind. He’d had enough of wind.

Enough of fighting and killing and the need to do both. He looked at the cabin he was in, the soiled surface, the dirt and mess. The common elements of Lowtown, but while this was not a normal refuge for the poverty-stricken, other things made it a true comparison. Those within it were lost, sick, stranded, desperate and, above all, dangerous.

Dumarest swung his legs over the edge of the cot and sat, elbows on his knees, face cradled in his hands. For too long he had walked the razor-edge of danger, surrounded by those who hated him and wanted him dead. He was tense, jumpy, tired, mind and muscles clogged with the poisons of fatigue.

His skin burned with the prickling of danger and, no matter which way he turned, he could see no escape from the trap that held him close.

He tensed as a scrabbling sound came from the external passage. He rose as something scraped at the door of the cabin, reaching it, tearing it open with his left hand, grabbing at the shape standing outside as his right hand lifted the knife snatched from his boot.

“Earl! For God’s sake!”

It was Chagal, his face old, lined, sagging with fatigue in the light outside. Fatigue and more than a little fear as he recoiled from the weapon threatening his life. The diffused glow caught the blade and haloed it with a nacreous brilliance. One that vanished as Dumarest lowered the knife and slipped it into his boot. Had Chagal been an assailant he would have died.

“Earl-”

“What is it?”

“There’s something you should see.” Chagal entered the cabin and slumped down on the cot. He touched his throat, looking at his fingers, the smear of blood from a tiny wound.

“A hell of a greeting.”

“I had a bad dream.”

“And reacted instinctively to anticipated danger.” Chagal nodded. “Your nerves are too tense. You’re too much on edge. You could have killed me.”

“I recognized you.”

“I was lucky. But what if I had been someone else? A woman seeking a little consolation, perhaps, or a man bringing a suggestion or a warning? You would have killed without hesitation.” Chagal looked at his smeared fingers. “I can’t blame you. You’re in a hell of a situation, but I’ve got something which should help.” He produced a small bottle, “I haven’t forgotten everything I’ve learned.” He undid the cap, filled it with the contents of the phial. “Here!” He proffered it, shrugged as Dumarest made no effort to take it, swallowed it himself. “Just a mixture of a few things to reduce toxic levels and give a temporary boost. The equivalent of a good sleep and rest. It will do you no harm. I swear it.”

A genuine promise but one he had heard too often before. In the sweat-tainted air of the waiting rooms in which contenders readied themselves for combat. The touts eager to ply their wares; the magic compounds which they claimed would guarantee victory. Most were rubbish, some were poisons to ensure defeat, no fighter in his right mind would entertain them. But this was no arena and the doctor wasn’t a tout. Dumarest watched as the cap was refilled, took it, swallowed and felt the warm taste of syrup and a tang as of vinegar fill his mouth and throat.

“Another?” The doctor lifted the phial. “You look as if you could use it.”

“Later, maybe.” Dumarest felt the chemicals the liquid had carried begin to take effect. “This thing you mentioned. The one I should see. Trouble?”

Chagal shrugged. “What else? It’s been with us ever since we left Kaldar. We should be used to it by now. If something can go wrong it will.”

“And too often does.” Dumarest stood upright, his head barely clearing the curved metal which had once been the hull of a ship. “When are you going to tell me something new?”

“When it happens.”

“But it hasn’t happened yet.” Dumarest blinked, aware that he was stating the obvious. Chagal’s potion had been stronger than he thought. “And now?”

“We go outside.”

Dumarest halted as they left the shelter. Nothing had changed. All was as it had been before and, as he looked around, he felt again the helpless anger of disappointment and broken expectations. This was his home world. He had crossed the galaxy to find it. He had fought and killed and, in a crippled vessel, had finally made it. Had survived the crash to enjoy his victory only to taste the acrid dust of defeat. For nothing was as he had expected it would be.

There should have been soft breezes scented with entrancing perfumes, the soothing warmth of a golden sun, lakes of wine and mountains of grain, trees adorned with fruit and bud and flower, shrubs bearing a profusion of glittering gems. Herbs and spices to provide freedom from pain, a return to youthful zest, an end of aging and decay. Salves and ointments and natural fungi to cure all physical ills. For this was Earth, the planet of legend, the paradise for which all yearned and hungered to find. The world of joy and beauty and riches beyond the wildest dreams.