E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 15 - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

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DEDICATION

To Ken and Pamela Bulmer

Arrow Books Limited

3 Fitzroy Square, London Wl P 6JD

An imprint of the Hutchinson Publishing Group

London Melbourne Sydney Auckland

Wellington Johannesburg and agencies throughout the world

First published in Great Britain by Arrow Books 1980 © E. C. Tubb

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of

trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated

without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover

other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Made and printed in Great Britain by The Anchor Press Ltd

Tiptree, Essex

ISBN 0 09 921420 2

Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

#15 in the Dumarest series

E.C Tubb

Chapter One

On Hoghan a man lay dying. He sprawled beneath the jagged stump

of a broken tree, blood puddling the dirt around his hips, the uniform he

wore ripped and torn, burned and stained. In the flame-shot darkness

his voice was a tormented whisper.

"Earl?"

"Here." Dumarest knelt, feeling the squelch of mud, reaching out with

his left hand to grip the other's shoulder. "Relax, Clar. You'll be all right."

"Don't lie to me, Earl." The pain-wracked voice held a bitter

impatience. "Am I a raw recruit to believe a thing like that? I'm as good

as dead and you know it. That laser caught me right across the guts. If I

hadn't been armored I'd be dead now." The voice drew strength from

pain and anger. "Damn the armor! Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"

A flare rose from a point close to hand, cold, blue-white light

throwing stark shadows from the ruined buildings, the broken remains

of once-decorative trees. Once the city had been a gentle place graced

with statues and things of beauty; now the fury of internecine war had

turned it into a shambles.

"Earl!" Clar writhed beneath Dumarest's hand. "The pain! Dear God,

the pain!"

"Easy!"

"I'm burning! My guts—!" The voice became an animal-cry of searing

agony. A shriek which could bring unwanted attention.

With his free hand Dumarest tore at his belt, jerking open the pouch

it contained, spilling free the contents. An ampule tipped with a hollow

needle rose to bury itself in the writhing man's throat. A pressure and

numbing drugs laced the bloodstream. A temporary measure only;

nothing available could heal the wound. In the blazing light of the

drifting flare Dumarest examined it.

The armor Clar had worn, like his own, was cheap stuff, protection

against low-velocity missiles, falling debris, shrapnel and ricochets. It

could even give some defense against the glancing beam of a laser,

melting even as it distributed the heat, but the beam which had caught

Clar had been directly aimed and the plate across his stomach had flared

like paper, adding molten droplets to the searing energy of the blast.

Beneath the twisted metal and charred clothing the flesh was burned,

black and red with char and blood, the greasy ropes of exposed intestines

bulging, perforated, crisp with cauterised tissue.

"Earl?" Calmed by the drug Oar's voice was flat and dull. "It's bad?"

"Bad enough."

"I knew it." A hand rose to push the helmet from the sweating face,

thin grey hair accentuating the age-lines now prominent at eyes and

mouth. "A hell of a way to end. Ten years with the Corps and never a

wound and now it's the end of the line. Well, it happens. A man can't live

forever, Earl."

But no man had to die like a beast in the mud of a city, spilling his

guts for the sake of another's ambition. From somewhere came the roar

of an explosion, the rattle of small-arms fire. Flame, red and leaping,

rose to dull the watching stars, the distant points of brilliance cold,

remote, hostile in their indifference.

"Listen," said Clar. "Hide out until it's over. Pick a spot and crawl into

it and stay there until its safe to show yourself. Wait until well past dawn

and, when you move, keep your hands open and high. You understand?"

Beneath his fingers Dumarest could feel the growing acceleration of

the pulse in the dying man's throat.

"Be smart, Earl. Learn from one who knows. So we've lost, so what?

There'll be a penalty to pay, but later, when cool, the winners will listen

to reason. Now they'll kill anything moving on sight. I…" His voice broke,

returning edged with pain. "A burn like that—why is it taking so long?"

The weapon itself had seen to that, cauterising the flesh and

preventing the swift loss of blood which would have brought a speedy

and merciful end. An irony. In another time and place the man could

have been saved, frozen, placed in an amniotic tank, the ruined tissue

replaced with other grown from his own cells. Now he could only wait for

death.

"Earl."

"I'm here, Clar." Dumarest tightened his hand. "My fingers, can you

feel them?"

"Yes, but I can't see you. Everything's gone dark." In the light of the

flare the eyes rolled, wide, the balls mottled with red. "You're a good

man, Earl. The kind a man needs at his side when he goes into battle. But

the life of a mercenary isn't for you. You're too smart. Too clever. Take

my advice, Earl. Get out while you can. Don't waste your life. Don't—

God, Earl! The pain! The pain!"

More drugs would do nothing but stave off the inevitable and the

toxins flooding the man's bloodstream diminished their effectiveness.

But it was all he had. Dumarest used three more of the ampules then

snarled as Clar heaved beneath his hand. Old stock or diluted contents;

someone, somewhere, had made an easy profit and because of it a man

would die in screaming agony.

"Earl!"

Dumarest moved his hand, the fingers searching for the carotids,

finding them, pressing deep to cut off the blood supply to the brain.

Unconsciousness came almost at once but, as Clar relaxed, he

maintained his grip. To allow the man to wake required a sadistic bent

he did not possess. It was kinder to be merciful. More gentle to kill.

* * * * *

The tide of battle had moved to the south, gunfire echoing from the

area of warehouses huddled close to the field, flames rising from burning

houses, some lurid with the writhing colors of fuming chemicals.

Swathes of green and orange, darts of blue and amber, a golden haze

shot with the searing brilliance of burning magnesium which obliviated

the need of flares and sent shadows dancing over the torn street and

shattered buildings. An eruption of violence wasteful in its extravagance

for, as he knew, the battle was over, the victory assured to the other side.

But war did not have a tidy ending and armed men, fearful of their lives,

would take no chances.

As his hand fell from the dead man's throat Dumarest heard the scuff

of a boot, a sharp, metallic sound, and was moving as gunfire tore the air

and missiles threw gouts of dirt from where he had knelt.

"Captain! I've got one! Here!"

The gun fired again as Dumarest rolled, the man holding it too

excited to take careful aim. Bullets sprayed the ground, one tearing at the

heel of a boot, another ripping through armor to graze a shoulder, the

impact like the kick of a horse.

"Captain!"

Dumarest felt the jar of his helmet against stone and flung himself

behind a sheltering mass of fallen debris, moving towards the end as

bullets sent chips whining through the air. From cover he peered up and

outwards, seeing the figure silhouetted against the lambent glow. A man,

young from the sound of his voice, wearing the black and maroon of the

opposing forces, a sub-machine gun cradled in his arms. A raw recruit on

his first mission, forgetting elementary precautions in his excited desire

to kill. A veteran would have taken cover, aimed with care, counted his

shots, and Dumarest would now be dead. Instead the fool stood in full

view, firing wildly, the gun failing silent as the magazine exhausted itself.

As he reloaded Dumarest rose, his own gun lifting, leveling, his finger

checking on the trigger as a deep voice called from one side.

"Lorne! Down, you fool! Down!"

To fire now would be to betray his position, to invite answering fire

from the man who had called. A veteran, this, knowing better than to

show himself, one who would not miss.

"Captain! He's over there! Behind that stone!"

"Down, you fool! Hit the dirt!"

"But—"

"I'm using a grenade."

It exploded in a blossom of flame as Dumarest dived for the cover he

had spotted, a narrow crack in a shattered wall, shrapnel whining inches

from his helmet, dust stinging his eyes as he dropped to turn and stare

into the flame-lit darkness. Two men at least, but the captain would not

be alone, with him would probably be a patrol sent to sweep up any

stragglers and, when they found no body, they would close in.

Dumarest looked upwards. The crack narrowed as it rose, to climb it

would merely place him in a blind extension of the trap in which he was

placed. Behind him reared a jumble of debris, stone precariously

balanced which would fall if he attempted to burrow into it. The only

way out was the way he had come.

"Lorne, check the area," ordered the deep voice. "And hurry!"

"One dead, Captain. He's the man the one I saw was trying to rob."

"Anything else?"

Boots scrabbled over stone and Dumarest heard the sound of ragged

breathing as the young man came to investigate. A dark patch showed

against the illuminated sky, light reflected from a pair of eyes, more

catching a polished spot on the helmet. A target impossible to miss, but

to fire would bring another grenade.

"Lorne?"

"Nothing, Captain." The young voice echoed its disappointment. "But

he couldn't have got away. I'm sure I hit him and he couldn't have

escaped the blast."

"Then he must be there. Look again."

The dark shape came closer, head bent, gun ready to fire. The finger

on the trigger would be tense, a word, a movement and he would shoot

without thought or hesitation.

Dumarest rose slowly, taking care not to touch the stone to either side.

Lifting his gun he waited until the dark shape had turned away then

threw it with the full power of his arm. It landed with a clatter, a sound

immediately drowned in the roar of the weapon cradled in the

mercenary's arms. A blast of thunder which sent echoes from the

buildings and masked the thud of Dumarest's boots as he lunged

forward. One hand lifted, weighed with his knife, steel gleaming, it came

to a halt as it touched the bare face beneath the helmet. His other hand

slammed over a shoulder to clamp over the chest and pull the body of the

soldier hard against his own.

"Move and you die!" he snapped. Then, raising his voice, called, "I've

got your man, Captain. Fire and you kill us both."

"Lorne?"

The man gulped as he felt the prick of the knife in the soft flesh

beneath his chin.

"Answer him," said Dumarest, and dug the blade a little deeper.

"He's got me." The young voice was sullen. "A knife at my throat."

"Kill him and you burn," rasped the captain. "What do you want?"

"To live."

"You're surrendering?" The captain rose, his shape bulky against the

sky. Others rose with him, four men all with weapons aimed. "Why didn't

you call out before?"

"And be blasted by a trigger-happy fool?" Dumarest eased the

pressure on the knife a little. "He gave me no chance. He fired as soon as

he saw me—if he was my man I'd have something to say about him

missing the way he did."

"He's young," said the captain. "And new—but he'll learn." He

stepped forward lifting his helmet, revealing a hard face seamed and

puckered with old scars. "Let him go."

"When he drops his gun."

"He won't shoot you." Reaching out the captain took the weapon. "But

I may if given cause. Lorne?"

"He was robbing the dead," snapped the young man. As Dumarest

released his grip Lorne stepped forward, turning to rub his throat,

looking at the blood staining his hand. "A ghoul," he said bitterly. "A

damned ghoul."

"He was a comrade," said Dumarest flatly. "And I wasn't robbing

him. Stop trying to justify yourself, youngster. And while you're at it you

can thank the captain for saving your life. If he hadn't called out you'd be

dead now."

"You—"

"That's enough, Lorne!" The captain turned to where one of the others

rose from his examination of the dead man. "Sheel?"

"He's got money on him. A wound in the guts and drugs are scattered

around. My guess is that he was passed out easy."

"A comrade, eh?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. "And a good one. What happens now?"

The captain shrugged. "The engagement's over and you're among the

vanquished. The orders were to kill all stragglers, but what the hell?

You're worth more to us alive and you've earned your chance. Lorne,

escort him to camp." He added, grimly, "And make sure that nothing

happens to him on the way."

* * * * *

The room was like many others he had seen before. A bleak place with

Spartan furnishings: a desk, a chair behind it, another facing it, set

squarely on the floor and fitted with invisible electronic devices to

winnow the truth from lies. A place designed to intimidate, holding

nothing to distract the attention, as much a cell as the one in which he

had been held since his surrender three days ago. Time which Dumarest

had spent with the tireless patience of an animal knowing there was

nothing else he could do.

Major Kan Lofoten was waiting for him. Like the room, he was the

product of functional intent. Neatly uniformed in black and maroon, his

face was a hard combination of lines and planes. His eyes, deep-set

beneath slanting brows, were shrewdly direct. A man of middle-age, dark

hair brushed back from a high forehead, his mouth thin and cruel. When

he spoke his voice held an unexpected resonance, a depth of inflection

which Dumarest guessed was as cultivated as his exterior.

"Be seated, my friend. Rest your hands on the arms of the chair.

Relax, no harm will come to you. To business, but first my apologies for

the delay. As yon can imagine we have been busy." And then, without

change of tone, he said, "You are Earl Dumarest A mercenary attached to

Haiten's Corps. Your first engagement?"

"Yes."

"You joined, where?"

"On Ragould." There was no point in lying and the man would

already know the answer to the questions he asked. But he wanted more

than bare answers. "I was desperate," added Dumarest. "I'd traveled Low

and found no work available. The Corps was recruiting and it seemed a

good idea to sign up. We left the next day and came to Hoghan. The rest

you know."

"Perhaps." The Major moved some papers. "You have fought as a

mercenary before?"

"No."

"But you have fought?"

"When I had to, yes."

Lofoten nodded and leaned back in his chair his eyes studying the

figure before him. Tall, hard, the face edging on bleakness. A man who

had learned early to rely on no one but himself. Stripped of armor and

uniform he wore the clothes he had carried beneath, pants and tunic of

dull, neutral grey, boots which rose to just below the knee. The tunic had

a high collar and long sleeves falling to mid-thigh. One shoulder was

scarred by the impact of a grazing bullet, the glint of protective metal

showing beneath the tear. Only one thing was missing from his usual

attire—the knife which now rested on the desk before the interrogator.

Lofoten picked it up, turning it so as to allow the light to glimmer

along the blade. Nine inches of honed steel, the edge curved, the back

sweeping down to form a needlepoint. The guard was scarred and the

hilt worn. Striking it on the desk he listened to the clear note from the

vibrating metal.

"A good knife," he said casually, "but an unusual weapon for a

mercenary to carry. As unusual as the fact that you wore your own

clothes beneath the armor. Why did you do that?"

"I didn't like what I was given."

"Cheap stuff, thin, tearing at a touch." Lofoten smiled, a brief nicker

of the lips which revealed a flash of white teeth. "And your weapons the

same, yes? How many veterans did your contingent hold? What rations

did you carry? How were your logistics? How well were you officered?"

"Badly," said Dumarest and added, dryly, "as you must know."

"Yes, I know, as you must have realized by now, that Haiten's Corps

was sacrificed. You had no hope of winning and there was no intention

that you should. It was nothing more than a show. Sound and fury and

some limited destruction, enough to awe the civilians and make them

obedient to the new regime."

"A show," said Dumarest bitterly. "But some good men died."

"Of course—but dead men draw no pay." Lofoten was cynical. "And

who ever claimed that the life of a mercenary was easy? You realize why

I'm telling you this? Your Command has no interest in redeeming you.

Unless you have money to buy your freedom you are ours to dispose of as

we see fit. The penalty the vanquished must pay. Either you work off your

debt by service in the Legion or we sell you as contract labor. You have

money?"

"No."

"Of course not, else you would not have joined up with Haiten

on—where did you join?"

"Ragould."

"And you arrived there from where?"

"Elmish."

"And before that?" Too many worlds scattered across the spread of

the galaxy. Names which had become faded memories, the habitats of

people who were now ghosts. A fact Lofoten sensed. "Never mind. Just

tell me the world of your origin." He blinked at the answer. "Earth?"

"Earth."

"A most unusual name for a world." Lofoten glanced at the desk, at

the tell-tales relaying their signals. "Earth? I've never heard of it, but no

matter, I am more interested in your future than your past. Incidentally

Captain Sigiua was most impressed by your conduct. He has agreed to

take you under his command should you join us. The captain was the one

who had you sent to camp."

"I remember," said Dumarest. "If I did join you for how long would it

be?"

"Things are slow at the present. Your expenses would be high and

your income small. Even with rapid promotion, and I think that could be

promised, it would take several years to gain your freedom. Then, of

course, you could remain as a free-lance. Many men have made a career

in a mercenary band and you could be one of them. Atlmar's Legion is

always in need of good men and the rewards could be high."

And death could come fast with the burn of a laser, the shocking

impact of a bullet, the blast of explosives. Dumarest thought of Clar and

how he had died—a small return for a decade of loyalty, but a man would

be a fool to hope for more. A bigger fool to join an organization which

traded in war and used harsh discipline to maintain its dominance over

those wearing its colors. And yet had he any choice?

Leaning back Dumarest veiled his eyes and studied the bland face of

the interrogator. It was a mask of tissue, tiny muscular reactions firmly

controlled, the eyes like glass, the lips carved as if from stone. A proud

face belonging to a proud man and once, perhaps, a sensitive one. An

ambitious man, certainly, no other would have risen as high in the

calling he had chosen to follow.

Lofoten's hands fell, toyed with the knife as, casually, he said, "A

small matter which you can easily put at rest. You were crouched over the

body of your comrade when discovered and were immediately fired on.

Yet you escaped injury. How?"

"Luck," said Dumarest. "I heard the soldier and he fired without

taking aim. The type of gun he was using throws up and to the right after

the first shot."

"And so you moved down and to the left?" Lofoten shook his head.

"No, my friend, I think there must be another explanation."

His hands moved on the knife and, without warning, he threw it from

where he sat. An awkward position, but his aim was true and, spinning,

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DEDICATIONToKenandPamelaBulmerArrowBooksLimited3FitzroySquare,LondonWlP6JDAnimprintoftheHutchinsonPublishingGroupLondonMelbourneSydneyAucklandWellingtonJohannesburgandagenciesthroughouttheworldFirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyArrowBooks1980©E.C.TubbThisbookissoldsubjecttotheconditionthatitshallnot,bywa...

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E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 15 - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

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