Prison of Night Read online

  To hire the services of the Cyclan was to ensure success and to minimize error. Once used the temptation to take advantage of such advice could not be resisted. So the Cyclan grew in power and influence, with cybers at every court, in every sphere of influence, predicting the sequence of events following any action, weaving a scarlet-tinted web.

  Sitting, listening to the liquid gurgle of Fatshan's voice,

  Ardoch filled in the parts left unsaid, verifying pervious knowledge, endorsing made predictions.

  "On Harald men took passage on board the Sleethan." he said. "Cyber Broge, his acolyte and a man called Dumarest. Verify!"

  The ruined face lolled on the pillow. "Gone! All gone!"

  "Dead?" A doubt to be resolved and a search to be ended. "Did they die in the ship with the others?" He leaned forward as the bloated head signaled a negative. "They did not die."

  "Not in the Rift. They vanished before we reached Zakym."

  "Vanished?"

  "Disappeared." The engineer reared. "The pain? I can't stand the pain! For God's sake give me something for it."

  "You'll talk? Cooperate?" The hypogun hissed as the man grunted agreement, the instrument delivering its reward of mercy. A double dose; the drugs which numbed pain were accompanied by others which gave a false confidence. "Tell me!"

  "We were on Harald," wheezed the engineer. "But you know that. The cyber and his acolyte took Dumarest prisoner. The captain had no choice but to agree. The reward-you understand."

  A free-trader, operating on the edge of extinction, any profit shared by the crew-how could he have refused?

  "There were three of us," continued the engineer. "Me, Erylin the captain, Chagney the navigator. Too few but we had no choice. We were less later." He doubled in a fit of coughing. "The Rift-damn the luck. Damn it all to hell!"

  "What happened?"

  "They vanished. They simply vanished. Three men disappearing from a ship in flight They must have died. Maybe they had a fight or something and the survivor threw out the bodies and himself after them. I don't know. We were going to report it but Chagney advised against it. He acted odd. Kept drinking though he knew it was bad for him. Erylin tried to warn him but nothing he said made any difference. Not him nor me." He coughed again, blood staining the phlegm he spat from his mouth. "Damn the luck. We needed a navigator."

  "In the Rift?"

  "Where else? How the hell can you hope to navigate without one? Erylin tried but he'd forgotten his skill. The instruments were acting up, old, rotten, the whole stinking ship was rotten. I should have gone with it. Died while I was still whole. Quit like Chagney did-at least he had guts. Jumped out after we left Zakym. Just walked through the port and breathed vacuum. There are worse ways to go."

  Lying cooped in a small compartment with a mesh of wire singing with trapped energies-electronic spiders leaping with scintillant darts of flame and no certainty that rescue would ever come. Eking out the food, the water, lying in filth, the body rotting with accelerated decay. Waiting while quick-time compressed days into minutes, the drug altering and slowing the metabolism and so extending life. A convenience which reduced the tedium of long journeys. One used by the engineer to extend his life. One which ended as the cyber watched.

  Fralde was a bleak world; the suite given over for the use of Ardoch was little better than the harsh wards of the hospital and differed from a prison only in that the doors were open and the windows unbarred. The Spartan conditions meant nothing to the cyber. A desk at which to work and a chair on which to sit were the only essentials and, in the room to which he retired, a narrow cot was all he asked.

  Now he moved toward it, giving the attendant acolyte a single command.

  "Total seal. I am not to be disturbed."

  As the youth bowed he closed the door on the inner chamber and touched the thick band of metal embracing his left wrist. Electronic energies streamed from the activated mechanism to form a zone through which no spying eye or ear could penetrate. His. privacy assured, Ardoch turned to the bed and lay supine, relaxing, breathing regularly as, closing his eyes, he concentrated on the Samatchazi formula. Gradually he lost the use of his senses. He became deaf and, had he opened his eyes, he would have been blind. Divorced of the irritation of external stimuli his mind gained tranquility, became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness the only thread with reality. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements rise from quiescence.

  Rapport was established.

  Ardoch became wholly alive.

  He soared like a bird and yet more than a bird, flying through vast immensities by the sheer application of thought, gliding past pendants of shimmering crystal, seeing gleaming rainbows locked in an incredible complexity; arching bridges, bows, segments of multi-dimensional circles, lines which turned to twist and turn again so that the entire universe was filled with a coruscating, burning, resplendent effulgence of light which was the essence of truth.

  And, at the heart of it, an incredible flower of brilliance among an incredible skein of luminescence, was the convoluted node which was the headquarters of the Cyclan. A fortress buried deep beneath miles of rock and containing the mass of interlocked brains which was the Central Intelligence. The heart of the Cyclan. The multiple brain to which he was drawn, his own intelligence touching it, being absorbed by it, his knowledge sucked into it as dew into arid ground.

  Instantaneous organic transmission against which the speed of light was a veritable crawl.

  "Dumarest alive! Explain in detail!" Ardoch felt the pulse, the urgency, the determination. "Are you certain?"

  The engineer had not lied, of that he was convinced. And there was verification. Broge had found Dumarest, had taken him, was on his way to a rendevous in the Sleethan. He had communicated and was confident that nothing could go wrong. Too confident for that was the last communication received. Had he been alive he would have established rapport-as he hadn't, it was logical to assume he was dead.

  "The engineer was genuine?"

  Affirmative.

  "And he stated the party had vanished?" A pause. "From the ship and Dumarest must have been the cause. Even if he had died his body would have been delivered. He destroyed the cyber and his acolyte, evicted them and after?"

  A split second in which countless brains assessed all possibilities, discarded the impossible, isolated the most probable and produced the answers.

  The affinity twin. The secret Dumarest held and for which the Cyclan searched. For which they would hunt him over a thousand worlds and through endless parsecs. Had hunted him and would hunt him still, using every resource to gain the correct sequence in which the fifteen molecular units had to be joined in order to form the artificial symbiote which would ensure the Cyclan the complete and utter domination of the galaxy.

  Fifteen biological molecular units, the last reversed to form a subjective half. Injected into a host it settled in the cortex and meshed with the motor and nervous system transmitting all sensory data to the dominant portion. In effect the person carrying it became other than himself. He became the host, living in the body, looking through the eyes, feeling, tasting, sensing-enjoying all the attributes of a completely new body.

  An old man could become young again in a firm, virile body, A crone could know the admiration of men and look into a mirror and see the stolen beauty which was hers. A cyber could take over a person of influence and work him as a puppeteer would a marionette. And what one cyber could do so could others. They would occupy every place of power and wealth, each throne, every command.

  A secret thought lost when Brasque had stolen it. Thought lost again when every sign pointed to Dumarest having died together with Broge and his acolyte when the Sleethan had been lost. As it had been lost, wrecked in the Rift, only the wildest chance bringing it and its sole survivor to light.

  "Verification?"

  Surely a test, the Central Intelligence did not need the calculations of a lone cyber to check its findings but already it had taken t
he prediction from Ardoch's brain.

  "Probability is in order of ninety-three percent that you are correct. Dumarest must have chosen a crew member to be the host which is the only logical step he could have taken in order to ensure his own survival and arrange for the disappearance. Which?"

  A name.

  "Correct. It had to be the navigator, Chagney. After the ship had deposited its cargo on Zakym the man had to die in order to release Dumarests intelligence. Therefore the excessive drinking. Therefore the apparent suicide."

  A question.

  "Yes. Dumarest must have landed on Zakym hidden in a box of cargo. The probability is that he is still on that world. There are unusual attributes to the planet which would have had a peculiar effect on him. Certainty is lacking but the prediction is eighty-two percent that he is, or was while on that world, not wholly sane."

  A query.

  "Correction. Sane is not wholly appropriate. He will be a little abnormal. You will proceed to Zakym with the utmost dispatch. Dumarest is not to be killed or his life or intelligence placed in danger. This is of utmost priority. Once found he is to be removed from the planet immediately. That is if he is on Zakym as the prediction implies. If not he must be followed."

  Acknowledgment and, again, a question.

  "No. Do not hold him and wait for contact by our agents. Zakym is approaching a critical state as regards the stability of the present culture. Information from Ilyard and other worlds shows the interest of mercenary bands. Find Dumarest and move him before he becomes embroiled in a war!"

  The rest was sheer euphoria.

  Always, after rapport had been broken, was a period when the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the mind began to realign itself with the machinery of the body. Ardoch hovered in a dark immensity, a naked intelligence untrammeled and unconfined by the limitations of the flesh, sensing strange memories and alien situations, knowing things he could have never learned, living lives which could never have been his. A flood of experience, the shards and overflow of other minds, the contact of other intelligences.

  The radiated power of Central Intelligence which filled the universe with the emitted power of its massed minds.

  One day he would become a living part of that tremendous complex. His body would age and reach the end of its useful life but his mind would remain as sharp and as active as ever. Then he would be taken, his brain removed from his skull, placed in a vat of nutrient fluids, connected to a life support apparatus and then, finally, connected to the others, his brain hooked into series with the rest.

  He would become a part of Central Intelligence and, at the same time, the whole of it. His ego merging with, absorbed by, assimilating the rest in one total unification.

  Converted into a section of an organic computer working continuously to solve each and every secret of the universe. To meld all the races of mankind into a unified whole. To make the Cyclan supreme throughout the galaxy. The aim and object of his being.

  Chapter Seven

  Mbom Chelhar lifted his goblet, studied the engraving, tapped his nail against the edge and, as the thin, clear note died into silence said, "Surely this is not of local manufacture?"

  "An import." Lavinia filled the goblet with wine from the decanter she held. "This also. From Ieldhara."

  "An interesting world." Chelhar sipped with the fastidiousness of a cat. "Mostly desert but there are fossil deposits to the north together with a high proportion of potash in beds to the south. A combination which lends itself to the production of glass. Have you been there, my lord?"

  "Once." Roland selected a fruit and began to remove the peel with a silver knife. "I traveled a little when young and visited most of the Rift-worlds. Do you know it, Earl?"

  "No."

  "But you have traveled, surely? You have the look of a man who has seen many worlds." Chelhar leaned back in his chair, his eyes lifting to study the groined roof of the hall, the carvings gracing the stone of the walls. "Finally to find a haven, yes? I envy you. Few men have such good fortune."

  He was too brash, too forceful and Dumarest wondered why. Lavinia had suggested inviting the man to dinner and he had made no objection; a meal was a good way to gauge the depths of a man when, lulled by food and wine, he felt safe to relax. Roland had joined them, now he rose, dropping the remains of his fruit on the table as he dipped his hands into a bowl of scented water.

  "Lavinia, you must excuse me, there are matters demanding my attention. Earl? Chelhar? We shall meet again and soon, I trust."

  "Naturally." The man rose, towering above the other by over a head. A tall man, almost as tall as Dumarest and taller than Lavinia who was tall for her race. "You will return home, now?"

  "Roland has a suite in the castle." Lavinia touched a bell summoning a servant to clear away the dishes. "In any case he has to stay. Curfew has sounded."

  "Of course. Curfew. I had forgotten."

  There was irony in his tones and Dumarest watched from where he sat in his chair, noting the play of light over the ebon features, the shape of nose, mouth and jaw. With caste-marks he would have been taken for a Hausi but the cheeks were smooth and there was a subtle difference in the slant of the eyes. A kindred race, perhaps, or someone who carried the stamp of a common ancestry. A dealer who need not be what he seemed.

  "You were most gracious to invite me to share your meal," he said. "I appreciate the hospitality and can only regret that we have not met earlier. But I have been busy, you understand. And, always it seems, I get trapped by the curfew." His smile widened. "I think I should introduce the habit on my home world. It has advantages."

  "Such as?"

  "My lady, I do not care to embarrass you. It is enough to say that the ladies on my planet are somewhat stilted in their conduct toward men and social intercourse is difficult. But if we had a curfew which froze all movement after dark-what an excuse that would be!"

  "Your world," said Dumarest. "Tyrahmen?"

  "Tyumen," corrected Chelhar. "The names sound similar, I agree, but such error could lead to confusion. My home world lies beyond the Rift towards the Center. Yours?"

  "Somewhere." Dumarest poured himself wine, added water, gulped the goblet empty. Lavinia glanced at him as he refilled it, this time with water alone. He was drinking too deeply and too often as if assailed by an unquenchable thirst. "One day I shall return to it."

  "Show me the traveler who does not say that!" Chelhar lifted both hands, eyes turning upwards in a parody of prayer. "Always it is 'one day 'one day'… never does it seem to be tomorrow. Strange is it not how the world we remember with such tenderness was the one we were so eager to leave? Like a man I knew once who had a wife who was the most beautiful thing in creation if he was to be believed. Always he praised her but always he remained at a distance. Once, when he had drunk more than he should, I asked him why he stayed away. Can you guess what he answered?"

  "No," said Lavinia. "What?"

  "My lady, he said that the memory was sweeter than the reality. That to see her would be to spoil his illusion. But, at least, that man was honest with himself. Too many other are not."

  "Are you?"

  "I have no illusions, my lady. One day I shall return to my world but not until I have made enough money to live as I would like." Chelhar tapped his nail against the rim of his goblet as if to provide an accompaniment to his words. "At times I pray that it will not be long. There are worse planets than Tyumen. We have seas and plains and mountains tipped with snow. The skies are blue and the clouds are white and, at night, a great silver moon adorns the stars. It is old and scarred so that, with imagination, you can see a face looking down at you. Lovers find it pleasant to stroll in its light."

  Earth? The man could have been describing Earth-but how many planets had a single moon? A coincidence if not a deliberate trap. But why should a dealer want to set a snare?

  Then Chelhar said, softly, "Moonlight. How could you understand its magic? Sunlight, polarized and reflected but som
ehow magically changed so that the mundane takes on the aspect of mystery and enchantment. Moonlight and starlight, the glory of the heavens, and yet you of Zakym want none of it."

  "Can have none of it," corrected Lavinia. "The curfew-"

  "Close the door of your prison of night." Chelhar shrugged. "I am in no position to question the local customs or beliefs of any world, but this is one of the strangest Yes, I know about the Pact and the Sungari, but I've also heard about ghosts and goblins and things which lurk in the mist. Superstitions which have grown to control the minds and habits of men and peoples. On Angku, for example, no woman may be seen with a naked face. All wear masks and some are fantastic in their depictions; birds, beasts, reptiles, insects, some are things of horror. Yet those same women are forbidden to cover their breasts. Odd, is it not?"

  "An original belief or cultural eccentricity," said Lavinia. "But the Sungari are real."

  "Of course."

  "They exist!" Dumarest had not liked the glance, the hint of a sneer, the smooth manner of a man who was a guest but who seemed to have his own ideas as to how he should conduct himself. "I know."

  Chelhar insisted on arguing. "Are you saying that the Sungari actually and literally rule the night? That if I left this castle now, before dawn, they would kill me?"

  "Something would destroy you. You would not live to see the dawn." Dumarest halted his hand as it reached for the goblet. "If you wish to put it to the test it can be arranged."

  "You would permit me to leave?"

  "You spoke of a prison of the night," said Dumarest. "Every house on Zakym is such a prison but I am not your jailer. Leave if you want."

  "And die?"

  Dumarest picked up his wine. "Yes," he said, flatly. "And die."

  The day broke clear, the wreaths of night-mist which had gathered during the night already dissipated in the crisp, cool air. Lavinia had chosen to ride and was in the lead, the hooves of her mount ringing against the packed stone of the road, softening to a drumming beat as she led the way to a dirt path which wound up and around the point known as Ellman's Rest.