Tubb, E.C. - Dumarest 29 - Angado

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Angado by E. C. Tubb
Chapter One
Once, the place had been bright with the froth of
make-believe; domes, minarets, spires, towers, soaring arches
and sweeping promenades all blazing with variegated colors—a
skillful illusion created with paint and plastic, lying like a jewel
in the cup of rounded hills. The circus of Chen Wei was gone
now, leaving only an expanse of torn and barren ground, a
scatter of debris, the crusted surface of a fetid lagoon.
A monument to emotional waste, which Avro pondered as his
raft circled the area. How many work-hours had been poured
into its construction, operation and maintenance? How many
more had been squandered by those visiting the circus for the
sake of transient thrills? Time, effort, resources, skills all
dissipated to the wind. Leaving nothing but a raw devastation.
Time would heal the wound and soon the hills would seem as if
they had never been touched. More waste. Under correct
guidance things of lasting worth could have been constructed for
the benefit of humanity. Testimonials to the efficiency of the
Cyclan.
Instead the place was evidence as to its failure.
"Master?" The acolyte was deferential, the title more than an
acknowledgment of Avro's superiority. "Would you care to go
lower?"
"No." Avro had seen enough. "When did they leave?"
"Five days ago." Cardor added, "A week after the accident."
When Tron had died, and Valaban, and most important of all,
Dumarest. Avro looked again at the place where it had
happened, assessing, extrapolating, knowing the mental
bitterness of defeat. Too late. He had arrived too late. A matter
of days and his search would have been over, his mission
accomplished. Dumarest, taken and helpless in his charge.
Dumarest—and the precious secret he owned. One which had
made Avro into an angel.
The cyber leaned back as the raft headed toward town. High
above, a winged shape glided, others wheeling close. Small birds
feeding on airborne seeds, mindless creatures operating on a
plane of sheer instinct but, for a moment, he envied them.
Remembering the freedom of the skies, the rush of wind, the
thrum of pinions, the surging impact of alien emotions. Then he
had known hate and fear and anger and, yes, even concern. He
had known the burning flame of passion and, at the end, he had
experienced death.
Watching him, Cardor felt a mounting unease. He was young,
taken and trained by the Cyclan, yet still to don the scarlet robe
which was the mark of a cyber. He might never wear it. Not all
acolytes made the grade. Some continued to work in subordinate
capacities but the majority quietly vanished from sight, erased
by the touch of oblivion.
He said, "I did what I could, master. As I was ordered to do."
By Tron who had demonstrated his inefficiency. Who had
escaped his punishment by extinction.
"Tell me again what happened."
Unnecessary repetition, every detail was clear in Avro's mind
as the acolyte knew. As he also knew that, in making the
demand, the cyber had put him on trial. The next few minutes
would decide his fate.
"I arrived with Cyber Tron on Baatz fifteen days ago. We
stayed at the Dubedat Hotel. He was in contact with an agent in
the circus of Chen Wei. The man had reported that Dumarest
was attached to the circus and could be captured. Cyber Tron
visited the circus but neither Dumarest nor the agent was
present. He made a second visit later. That is when he died."
"And you?"
"Obeying orders, I stayed in town. To meet you should you
arrive and report on what was happening. When Cyber Tron
failed to return I made inquiries at the circus. There I learned of
the accident." Cardor paused, reliving the incident, recognizing
its importance. "The owner, Tayu Shakira, explained what had
happened. An animal had gone berserk, broken free of its cage
and had run amok. A klachen. It—"
"I know what it is. Continue."
"Its keeper, Valaban, had been killed. Cyber Tron and
Dumarest also. There were witnesses."
"Did you see the bodies?"
"No. But with Shakira's permission I tested the witnesses with
lie-detectors. All responses were positive. They were not lying."
"But you did not see the bodies."
"They had been disposed of before I arrived. A matter of
necessity, so it was explained. The scent of blood needed to be
eradicated in order to prevent further upset among the beasts.
And the bodies themselves were terribly mangled. But some
things had been saved. Cyber Tron's bracelet and a gun he
carried. I recognized them both."
Proof the cyber had died—but the others? Avro stared at
distant, wheeling shapes. Valaban, certainly, the man must have
died if Dumarest had escaped but, from the evidence, he had
joined the others in death. A fact Avro found hard to accept; he
did not want to accept. Yet to refute the evidence was to be
illogical.
"How many witnesses did you examine?"
"Eight. Three actually saw the incident. The others all saw the
bodies and three helped to dispose of them."
"And the owner?"
"He actually saw nothing. Cyber Tron must have contacted
the agent direct."
"But you tested him?"
"I did. With his permission after I pointed out how ill advised
he would be to make an enemy of the Cyclan. The findings
confirmed what he claimed."
Which meant that he had not lied. And yet… And yet…
"Relate the evidence of those who saw the incident," said
Avro. "Individually and in detail."
He sat immobile as he listened to the acolyte. The raft headed
toward the sun and warm hues painted his face with red and
gold and amber. Colors which accentuated the scarlet of his
robe, reflecting brilliantly from the sigil adorning his breast. The
Seal of the Cyclan, the symbol of his power. Yet despite the
sunlight and the warm tint of his robe a chill rested about him.
An aura emphasized by the skull-like contours of his face. One
thin to the point of emaciation, the scalp shaven, the deep-set
eyes meshed by lines. The visage of a living machine devoid of
the capacity of emotion. A flesh and blood robot who could only
know the pleasure of mental achievement.
Behind him the site of the circus fell away. The barren
ground, the litter, the crusted lagoon. The pool in which the dead
had been buried and, with them, the ending of a dream.
At night Baatz became a world of gaiety with bright lanterns
illuminating the tiered buildings and the market itself turned
into a playground. Here the venders, traders, merchants and
entrepreneurs put aside business and joined with stallholders,
farmers, shopkeepers, housewives, workers and the restless tide
of transients that made up the population.
A time of drinking and dancing and merriment but one free of
violence. The air saw to that, the invisible spores it carried from
the vegetation clothing the surrounding hills. Exudations which
calmed and reduced tension so that men laughed instead of
quarreling and sought peaceful solutions instead of bloody
settlements.
Like a scarlet ghost Avro moved through the town.
Cardor could have accomplished the task, as could others of
his own acolytes, but he needed to do it himself. The woman who
answered his knock frowned as she saw his face, became
respectful as she recognized his robe. Even on Baatz the Cyclan
was known.
"My lord!" Her head dipped in a bow. "This is an honor. How
may I serve you?"
"A man stayed here." Avro's tone was the even modulation of
his kind, devoid of all irritating factors. "Dumarest. Earl
Dumarest. I have the correct address?"
"You have, my lord. He hired a room upstairs. In the back."
She blinked sorrowful eyes. "Such a pity he died."
"You heard?"
"From the circus. They told me to sell his things and to let the
room if anyone wanted it. Not that he'd used it much."
"Let me see it."
It was a box containing a narrow bed, a cabinet, a small table,
two chairs. A rug half-covered the bare wood of the floor. A jug
held scummed water and a bowl had a chipped rim. Avro
assessed this at a glance then he was at the cabinet, searching,
the table, the drawers. They yielded nothing and he dropped to
his knees and checked the underside of the bed, the chairs,
finally stripping the cot and examining the bare, wooden
structure.
Nothing aside from a few crumpled papers, some packets of
dried fruit, a book, a folder of bright pictures, a deck of cards.
These things he checked with minute attention, holding each of
the pasteboards to the light, running his fingers over their edges.
Finally he turned his attention to the room itself, scanning each
wall, the ceiling, the floor bared when he moved aside the rug.
Again he found nothing and stood, thoughtful, trying to put a
man into the chamber, trying to guess what that man would do.
Guessing, for he lacked data on which to base an
extrapolation. The essential ingredient to promote his honed
talent. Given a handful of facts he could predict the logical
outcome of any event; without them he could only make
assumptions. A man, alone on a strange world—how would he
have safeguarded his secret?
Again Avro checked the room, looking for the fifteen symbols
which would tell him all he needed to know: the sequence in
which the biomolecular units of the affinity twin had to be
assembled. The secret which would give the Cyclan galactic
domination.
But he looked for it without success.
A failure he had expected, yet to have ignored the possibility
of success would have been insane stupidity. An error equal in
magnitude to that made by Tron. To have had Dumarest in his
grasp and then to have lost him. Death had been a merciful
punishment.
Avro looked once more at the room. A small, bare place, cold,
featureless. One Dumarest had known as he must have known so
many others. Moving on to leave nothing of himself behind. And
yet there had to be more.
He found it at a local bank, the manager reluctant to
cooperate, finally yielding to logical persuasion. To refuse Avro's
demand was to ruin all hope of promotion.
"Yes," he admitted. "Dumarest did have money on deposit
here. Quite a large sum as a matter of fact."
"Withdrawals?"
"None after the initial deposit."
"How was the credit registered?"
"The usual way." The manager added an explanation. "This is
a transient world and we get all types. This bank is affiliated
with others and we use the common system. When a deposit is
made—" He broke off as Avro lifted a hand. "I see you
understand."
"Give me the number of the account."
The deposit Dumarest had made had been registered in a
pattern of metallic inks set invisibly beneath the skin of his left
arm. Special machines could read the code and adjust the credit
as necessary. A blast of flame would incinerate the limb had
there been any tampering or forgery.
"Here." The manager handed over the desired information.
"But no withdrawals have been made to date."
With Dumarest dead none ever would. More proof as to his
extinction—would a man in need refuse to use the money that
was his?
From the bank Avro went to the field where Cardor waited.
The acolyte shook his head in a gesture of defeat.
"Nothing, master. The traffic is too great. It is impossible to
gain detailed records of who traveled where and on what vessel."
"The circus?"
"Bound for Lopakhin."
Traveling in assorted ships, some members going their own
way, others ready to disperse. All could be followed but nothing
new would be gained. Dumarest was dead. All the evidence
proved it. To deny the facts was to demonstrate his inefficiency.
Yet to accept evidence without checking was to do the same.
Avro said, "Take men out to the circus lagoon. Have it
dragged. If bodies are found have them placed in cryosacs for
later examination. Bones also. Nothing must be missed."
"Yes, master." The acolyte hesitated. "But all waste from the
circus was pulverized before being pumped to the lagoon."
"Do as I order."
The tone of Avro's voice did not change but Cardor flinched as
he bowed and hurried away. A mistake and one he must have
recognized; no assumption could be regarded as proof. Yet it was
a natural one for him to make, for what else was a dead body but
waste? And he had been influenced by Tron who had
demonstrated his weakness by his failure.
All this Avro considered as he made his way to the Dubedat
Hotel. To waste a valuable resource was to be avoided and the
young man could be salvaged. A period of intense training,
exposure to what a true cyber could be, a final warning to stiffen
his resolve and he could yet earn the right to don the scarlet
robe.
A decision made and set to one side as he entered his suite.
Byrne rose to greet him, Tupou at his side. Personal aides who
have traveled with him.
To them both Avro said, "Total seal."
He moved on, into his chamber, the door closing behind him.
A barrier the acolytes would protect with their lives. One
enhanced as he touched the broad band of metal clasped to his
left wrist. A twin to one Tron had worn; activated, it emitted a
pattern of forces which formed a zone impenetrable to any
prying electronic eye or ear.
Avro lay supine on his bed.
The hotel was luxurious, the bed soft, the ceiling decorated
with intricate designs picked in red and yellow and vivid scarlet.
Patterns which vanished as he closed his eyes and concentrated
on the Samatchazi formula. Gradually he lost the use of his
senses; had he opened his eyes he would have been blind.
Divorced of external stimuli his brain ceased to be irritated,
gained tranquility and calm, became a thing of pure intellect, its
reasoning awareness the only thread with normal existence. Only
then did the grafted Homochon elements become active.
Rapport was immediate.
It was followed by chaos.
Avro felt the mental shock and twisted in his mind, screaming
as his body lay immobile on the bed, dumb, soundless, incapable
of movement. A husk that housed roiling insanity, a conflict of
jarring discord, flashes of light, of color, of searing impossibility.
A turmoil in which he spun like a leaf in a gale, helpless to do
other than ride the storm, to wait for a period of calm.
It came with the echoes of rolling thunder yielding to a host of
twitterings, whispers, murmurings, sighs. A shadowed darkness
which slowly brightened to reveal a bizarre landscape composed
of crystalline facets gleaming with a fire of splintered colors. A
ball in which he stood with his feet resting on softly engulfing
shadows.
Before him stood a mirror image of himself.
A shape as tall, as thin, as skeletal about the face. One
wearing the twin of his scarlet robe. But the image was no
reflection and he recognized it at once. Master Marie, Cyber
Prime, the head of the Cyclan.
But how? How?
Normally communication with Central Intelligence was
preceded by the illusion of bubbles moving in continuous motion
with other bubbles all composed of gleaming light. An
experience unique to himself; each cyber had a different
experience. Then would come the actual contact during which
information was absorbed from his mind as water was sucked by
a sponge from a pool. An interchange in which orders were
relayed as fast. Organic communication of a near-instantaneous
speed. After would come the time of euphoria in which he drifted
in a zone filled with the scraps of overflow from other minds.
Never before had he known this confusion.
"Avro?" Marie sounded as confused as himself. "Are you
Avro?"
"Marie?" Avro caught himself, the evidence was before him.
Incredible as it seemed they stood face to face. "A coincidence,"
he suggested. "We both established rapport at the same time
and Central Intelligence has created this direct link. An
improvement if restricted to special occasions."
"Perhaps." Marie was slow to agree. "What have you to
report?"
"Dumarest is dead."
"Explain." Marie listened as Avro gave him the facts. "The
lagoon?"
"Can only produce negative evidence. Anything recovered
may, on examination, prove the death of Tron of which we have
no doubt. The rest must be based on a valuation of other
evidence. I regard it as conclusive."
"Eye-witness accounts," said Marie. "Irrefutable testimony
substantiated by mechanical lie-detectors. And yet you were not
satisfied."
"I needed to be certain."
"Of what? To check the lagoon was wasted effort if you believe
the testimony. Time and expense used to no purpose. Could
Cardor have lied?"
"No. His findings have been checked."
"So he told the truth as he knew it. As others could have
done."
Avro caught the implication and stepped forward, noting,
with vague detachment, that the figure he faced remained at the
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