THE RETURN dot-32 Page 2

  A threat emphasized by the smoke rising from the hotel. Minor damage as yet but a demonstration of what would happen if the raiders were not obeyed. Whoever was in command knew his business and was wasting no time. The fence by the warehouse was down, cut and flattened on the dirt. The loading ports of the ship were open, ramps already in place, men hurrying to collect their loot. Workers lightly dressed guarded by others resembling machines.

  Light gleamed from their amour; polished surfaces designed to reflect the fury of lasers, strong enough to withstand the impact of missiles. The helmets were blank, tanked air a protection against gas, the weapons they carried able to scythe flesh, metal and stone.

  Dumarest edged closer to the warehouse, crouched low, trusting the glare of the perimeter lights and drifting smoke to shield him, from watchful eyes. One man, hardly a threat, but a guard on the alert would fire at a shadow. He froze behind the shielding bulk of a hut. Too late to give warning there was nothing he could do but ensure his own survival. To wait and watch as the warehouse was gutted of its treasures; bales containing rare and costly spices, boxes of electronic components, valuable oils, gems, herbs. Cartons he recognized.

  The cargo which had cost him all he owned.

  As sweating men piled it on the ramps he rose and slipped closer to the warehouse. Rubble from the ruined turret provided shelter and he crouched among it, feeling broken furnishings, equipment, the body of a guard. He moved again, freezing as an armored shape turned to scan the area. As it turned away he ran again, reaching the wall of the warehouse, the carvings which decorated it and provided plentiful holds. He swarmed upwards, reached the eaves and drew himself onto the roof. It was curved, thick, the transparencies now glowing with light. Illumination which revealed wide cracks caused by the attack. He reached one, stared through it, saw a mound of bales lying beneath. Bulk cargo of small value which cushioned his fall and he lay still, examining the scene below. The workers were busy further down the warehouse and he could see no guards.

  Dropping to the floor he waited for the moment he knew had to come.

  The success of a raid depended on surprise and speed. To hit, steal and run with the minimum of warning and without delay. The man commanding the raid would know that. Know, too, that despite his warning and the threat of damage local forces would move against him. Any ship was vulnerable to missile attack. It would have to leave before one could be organized. When it left there would be no time to count heads.

  Dumarest inched forward among the piled goods, seeking shadows, freezing as men passed close. One grunted as a siren cut the air.

  "That's it! First warning! Let's move!"

  He flung his weight against a loaded platform, others joining him; a disciplined group but inevitably there were stragglers. A couple of men quested for anything small and valuable. Another tugged at a torn bale. As his hand dived into the opening the man guiding the platform yelled his anger.

  "There's no time for that! Get busy on this load! Hurry!"

  Dumarest watched as the loaded platform moved on its way towards the ship. As the siren again blasted its warning he stepped from hiding, hand dropping to his boot, rising armed with steel. As the raider tore his hand free from the bale and ran down the warehouse Dumarest threw the knife.

  It hit as he intended, the pommel slamming against the back of the skull, the man falling as again the siren tore the air in final warning. There had been no shot, no scream, no witnesses. A prisoner had been safely taken.

  One who would never talk.

  Kez Mbopola was a Hausi, his dark face striated with the ritual caste-scars of his guild. An agent who could be trusted. One who never lied even if he didn't reveal all the truth. Early as it was he sat at his desk in an office redolent of a hundred spices, a thousand deals.

  "A bad time." He gestured at the bottle standing before him together with glasses. "Help yourself if you want. You've earned it."

  "You know?"

  "I've been told. At least you got one of them. A pity he had such a thin skull." Mbopola watched as Dumarest sipped at the brandy. "It's a shame they got away so light. Three teams of guards dead as well as civilians. Raiders should be hunted down. Exterminated like the vermin they are!"

  Strong language from a man who prided himself on his detached neutrality and it would be echoed by others eager for punitive action. Empty demands for nothing would be done. Ships, men and armaments cost money and the one man who could have told them where to strike was dead. They would repair the damage, heal the injured, bury the dead and things would be as before.

  Aside from the orphans, the widows, those left crippled, those left ruined.

  As Dumarest lowered his glass the Hausi said, "I can guess why you are here. Unfortunately the answer is no."

  "To what?"

  "The return of your money. The transaction was completed. There can be no reversal of the contract."

  As Dumarest had expected. "What about insurance?"

  "Your partner would know about that."

  "The warehouse guarantee?"

  "Will be honored. In matters of business it is essential to maintain a good reputation and Arpagus will not shirk responsibility. However, it will take time to settle the details and, in your case, the recompense will be minimal."

  "Why? The cargo -"

  "Was declared by your partner to have little value." Mbopola shrugged, lifting his hands to forestall any protest. "A fiction, of course, but it is common practice and saves on the premium. Most traders cut corners where they can and your partner is no different to the rest. Didn't he tell you? Perhaps he didn't think it important. But I should ask him about the insurance." The Hausi reached for the bottle to pour fresh drinks, then halted the action, his face registering concern. "I should have asked. The hotel was hit. I hope he wasn't hurt."

  Lozano Polletin was dying.

  Dumarest looked at him where he lay in the terminal ward of the infirmary. They had washed his face and sealed his wounds with a film of clear plastic dressing, but the blood edging his lips told of lacerated lungs and internal injuries. Weakly he raised a hand in greeting.

  "Earl! I'm glad you came." His voice was thin, blurred by the drugs which had killed his pain. "They told me what happened. A raid – damn the luck."

  "Was the cargo insured?"

  "No. Those cartons were too big to pilfer and money was tight." Polletin coughed, swallowed, fresh carmine staining his lips "Dreaming," he said. "I was dreaming of what I'd do with the profit. A big house, my own company, some comforts…" His voice trailed into silence. Returned with a caustic bitterness. "I had it all wrong. Lease, don't sell. Just hire out and collect for life. Telwig -"

  "Where can I find him?

  "I told you."

  "A lie. Now I want the truth. Where?"

  "Chendha." The sick man moved fretfully on the bed.

  "You'll find him on Chendha. Sorry about that, Earl, but I had to keep an edge. You understand? You'd do the same yourself." He grimaced as Dumarest nodded, the parody of a smile. "You got the keys?"

  Collected from the ruins of the room they had shared.

  "They're safe."

  "Good." Polletin lifted his hands and pulled free the rings he wore. 'Take these. I won't need them now. Go on, take them!" His fingers closed on Dumarest's own as he obeyed. "The pain, Earl! It's coming back! Help me! Help me!"

  Dumarest stepped away from the bed as the summoned attendant stooped over the writhing figure. He heard the sharp hiss as a hypogun blasted oblivion into Polletin's arteries. A lethal dose; there was nothing merciful in extending torment.

  "He's at peace now." The attendant pursed his lips. "Known him long?"

  "No."

  "I see you've got his rings. There could be charges due and -"

  Dumarest said flatly, "They'll be met by the town. All of them. If the guards had done their job he wouldn't be lying here. Where are the rest of his things?"

  His clothing was ruined, the money belt empty, the shoes de
void of secret compartments. In exchange for his money Dumarest had nothing but useless components and a few tawdry rings.

  He hefted them in his palm knowing that, even if genuine, they would buy little more than a single High passage. One trip in relative comfort to another world there to be stranded, crippled by poverty, easy prey for any who might be hunting him down.

  "Your pardon, sir."

  Men had come to remove the body. He left them to it, leaving the ward, aware of the death-smell pervading the chamber. A corridor led him into an open space from which ran several passages. He chose one at random. It led to a room flanked with cots occupied by women. A nurse stared at him from where she stood beside a patient. Dumarest halted, recognizing his mistake. Turning he retraced his steps, then halted, looking towards his right, the bed in the corner, the gleam of russet hair.

  To the nurse who came towards him he said, "That woman in the corner bed. Who is she?"

  "A victim of the raid. She was found near the guard towers badly concussed. Do you know her?"

  "I'm not sure. Her name?"

  "We haven't got it. She carried no identification and appears to be suffering from amnesia. It's common after her type of injury. If you recognize her please let me know. There are questions needing to be answered."

  Dumarest waited until she had bustled away then moved towards the bed. She was as he remembered. The metal blades still glued to her nails showed bright against the cover. Sitting beside her he searched her face. It was expressionless. Her eyes appeared unfocused. In them he could see his own reflection.

  "Do you know me? Remember me?"

  She made no response. Leaning forward he touched her scalp where the hair had been shaved. Plastic dressing covered an ugly wound.

  He said quietly, "If you really are suffering from amnesia then I'm wasting my time. I could even feel sorry for you because you're going to pay for something you can't even remember. People were killed and hurt during the raid and feeling is running high. They want revenge and they won't be gentle. Already they're curious as to why you were found so close to the towers. I could tell them."

  She remained silent but he saw faint glimmers from the bright metal on her nails.

  "You're faking amnesia in order to avoid answering questions. Hoping to leave here before they lose patience. But you won't be allowed to leave. Not after I've had a word with the guards." Dumarest paused then said, flatly, "I'm the only chance you have of staying alive. I can provide an alibi and swear to your innocence. They'll believe me. But I don't come cheap.'

  He leaned over the bed to whisper in her ear. The picture of a man kissing a tender farewell to the object of his affection.

  "Make your decision. Help me or I'll turn you in. There'll be a reward and I can use the money." His tone deepened, echoed his anger, his determination. "Get this straight! You and yours robbed me. Killed my partner. Made a wreck of my plans. You'll pay for that or I'll see you dead. Touch my hand if we have a deal."

  He waited, watching her face, her eyes. He smelt the faint ghost of perfume but nothing of fear. A woman with too much courage or one genuinely ill. In either case he would carry out his threat. Then, as he rose, he felt the stinging impact of her nails.

  At night the window glowed with cerulean brightness, but now the lantern was dark, the opening framing a sunlit vista of the town, the men busy repairing the warehouse, the empty field. Minton had come and gone, scowling when he heard of Polletin's death, accepting the Hausi's offer of an alternative cargo. But there would be plenty of other ships. Arpagus was a busy world.

  "Earl!" Water splashed in the bathroom. "Come and scrub my back."

  Ignoring the invitation he roamed the apartment. The furnishings were sparse, cheap, as drab as the carpet and curtains. The print of a clown made a splash of color and betrayed an ironic humor. There were no cushions, no ornaments, nothing personal to the occupant herself.

  He turned at the pad of feet as, naked but for the towel wrapped around her waist, she came towards him.

  Zehava Postel was a beautiful woman.

  One almost as tall as himself with wide, sloping shoulders, breasts set high and proud. Beneath the strong brows the eyes were vividly blue. The lips were full, revealing in their sensuality. Her skin was a pale copper dewed with pearls.

  He touched one, saw the droplet break beneath his finger, felt the warm velvet of her skin.

  "Do you like what you see?" Her voice was rich with an inviting softness, the slight huskiness bearing musical overtones. One different to that she had used before. "Do I please you?"

  "You're an actress."

  "All women are that."

  "But few as expert." He added, dryly, "Few have as great a need."

  She made no comment, stepping past him to stand before the window, the air of her passage scented with enticing odors. Sunlight created an aureole about her hair. She had removed the metal blades and scarlet shone at the tips of her fingers. Nails polished and painted as the rest of her had been washed and perfumed and adorned with a cunning art. A woman unashamed of her body. One who thought all men vulnerable to her charms.

  "That's better!" She turned to face him, drawing in her breath, holding it before exhaling with a contented sigh. "I love the sun and it's good to be clean. To wash off the stink of the infirmary. I was beginning to think you'd never come to get me out. Well, you did, so let's celebrate."

  She opened the wine standing on a low table and filled two tables.

  Dumarest said, "First there's a matter of money."

  "Later. After we celebrate."

  "Now." Harshness edged his voice. "We made a deal. If you want to argue I can always change my mind."

  "After you've sworn I was with you?" Smiling she shook her head. "I think not. What would you tell them?"

  "I didn't swear. I gave you an alibi and they took my word. They'll take it again if I say I wanted you to trust me so I could get at the truth."

  "Which is?"

  "You worked with the raiders. You were sent ahead to scout the target. You rented this apartment and checked out the warehouse, noting cargo-numbers and assessing bulk and value. I saw you there. You must have relayed the information to the others and, after you'd taken care of the towers, you gave the signal to strike. But why pick on my goods? All that bulk?"

  "Weapons, Earl. There's a ready market for them on a lot of worlds."

  Weapons? He frowned then remembered how Polletin had described the value of the units to the farmers, the words he had used. Weapons against drought and famine. Weapons they couldn't do without. She had caught a word and had assumed the rest and made a mistake which had ruined him.

  "Anything else?"

  "The reason you rented this apartment. No cleaning service. No maids. No one to check your comings or goings or to see something suspicious. I guess you intended to leave with the others but you couldn't make it. When found you acted as you did. That was clever," he admitted "If I hadn't taken the wrong passage you'd have got away with it."

  "You did and I didn't. But it wasn't all an act. At first I didn't know where I was. You weren't gentle."

  "Your head hit a stone when you fell."

  "That makes me feel better." She closed the space between them, her hand rising to touch his cheek, the fingers a lingering caress. "So luck threw us together again. We can't argue with fate, darling. We -"

  "Have business to finish. Get the money."

  For a long moment she stared at him, her hand falling from his cheek then, abruptly, she turned and padded from the room. He heard small sounds, rustles, clicks, the thud of a closing door. When she returned she was dressed as he remembered, the metallic fabric shimmering with reflected gleams. A matching belt hung like a dead snake over her arm.

  "Here!" She threw it at him. "What I promised you. All I have."

  He found no seal, sliced it open, spilled a handful of gems into his palm.

  "I didn't promise you a fortune," she said quickly. "I haven't one to give.
I was to have left with the others as you said. That's my emergency fund in case something went wrong."

  One she would have carried with her together with everything else of value if she'd intended to run. The contents of the apartment proved the intention, no food, no clothing or personal jewelry, just liquid soap, perfume, a bottle of forgotten wine.

  "It isn't enough." She sensed his disappointment. "I guess you could make more if you turned me in for a reward."

  "You kept the deal. You gave me all you have."

  "I haven't done that yet. I've more than money, Earl. Not my body though it's yours if you want it, but an opportunity to make your fortune. You have the temperament for it. You could get back all you've lost and more."

  He said, dryly, "As a raider?"

  "Why not? There are worse things to do with your life. Better than wasting it in a factory or office or breaking your back on a farm making others rich. You were right about me working with them, but it's more than that. I'm one of them. I belong and so could you. Please, Earl! Think about it!"

  Dumarest caught the note of desperation. Without money the woman was stranded. Running the risk of falling into debt and being collared to be sold as a virtual slave. She could make out in her own way but it would take time and the authorities were already suspicious. She needed to leave Arpagus quickly and she couldn't do it without his help. The reason for the offer, the bait, the appeal to his greed.

  "Earl?"

  He pretended to consider, to weigh advantage against risk. Then, shrugging, he lifted his glass.

  "Hell, why not? What have I to lose?" The answer she had wanted to hear. "A toast, Zehava! To love and life and endless loot!"

  To the blast of guns, the screams of the dying, the stink of fear and blood and pain. He'd known them all as a mercenary and could well know them again. But it was more than that. She was giving him the chance to recover his stolen cargo. To be rich, to be safe, to find the means of revenge. Above all, the opportunity to complete his voyage. Raiders had ships and he needed a vessel to carry him home.

  Chapter Three

  In a chamber sunken deep beneath the torn and ravaged surface of a lonely world Master Ryon, Cyber Prime, sat and fished in the waters of madness.