E.C Tubb - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun
"Wait much longer and you won't get the chance. Those outside will split your hull open like a rotten melon. My guess is they have charges set and ready to go." Dumarest gestured towards the panel where a signal lamp flashed in ruby urgency. "The radio-attention signal. They want to talk to you."
"Let them want. Damned mercenaries, strutting and swaggering. To hell with them."
"Is your crew aboard?"
"All but the steward. He-we can do without a steward." Remille made up his mind. "We leave." Then, looking at Lofoten, he said, "What about him?"
"Kick him out."
"Let me come with you! Captain! Please!"
"Dump him," snapped Dumarest. "Drop him through the lower hatch. It's him they want, not us."
"Earl, they'll kill him." Dephine's voice was high. "You know the kind of death they give to looters."
He said, bitterly, "He would have smashed in your face had I let him. He would have burned me down given the chance. To hell with him." Reaching out he grabbed the man's good arm. "Let's get rid of this filth and be on our way."
Chapter Four
The Varden was small; a roving free-trader picking up a living wherever a cargo was to be found; the crew paid if and when there were profits to be shared. Aside from the looted crates the hold was empty; but there were passengers.
Dumarest studied them a day later as he sat in the salon. At the table a fat man toyed with a deck of cards, ringed hands deft as he manipulated the pasteboards. Charl Tao, a dealer in rare and precious merchandise-or so he claimed. Dumarest had a shrewd suspicion that the salves and lotions which formed his stock in trade contained not the near-magical essences he said but ingredients of a more humble origin.
Glaring at the plump trader a thin-faced, wasp-voiced woman sat in the rigid attitude of one who wore unyielding garments. Allia Mertrony, a widow, a follower of some obscure sect. Her cabin stank of incense and she wore a cap of dark material covering her hair. Next to her sat a middle-aged man with a bandaged leg. Fren Harmond, taciturn, his face creased with pain.
"A game, Earl?" Charl glanced towards Dumarest. "Something to pass the time. Spectrim, starsmash, banko, man-in-between. You name it and we'll play it."
"For money, no doubt," snapped the woman.
"For small stakes and those only to add interest. How about you, Fren, it'll take your mind off the pain."
"No."
"You don't have to suffer it," said Charl smoothly. "I've a few drops which will give you dreams instead of anguish. Come to my cabin and let's see what can be done."
"We should have a steward," said the woman. "It's all very well to say that he was too sick to rejoin us on Hoghan but we should have one just the same. It's a part of the service."
Dumarest said, "Did any of you board at Hoghan?"
"We came from Legand," said the plump man. "I wanted to leave but they wouldn't let me and when I learned why I was pleased to change my mind."
"They wouldn't let you land? Why not?"
"The war. Surely you must have been involved. We arrived at a bad time and it was best to remain within the safety of the ship. So Captain Remille advised and he made sense."
"Did you book to Hoghan?"
"No, to Malach. The ship had a special delivery to make. It adds time to the journey, but what choice had we?"
"We should have a steward," said the old woman fretfully. "Who is to give us quick-time? Or are we supposed to do without? I've paid for a High Passage and I want what I've paid for. Fren, why don't you complain to the captain? Charl-"
"I'll do it," said Dumarest.
In the control room the air was alive with the hums and burrs of smoothly working apparatus, the sensors questing their way into space, plotting a path and guiding the vessel with mechanical efficiency. Remille sat in his chair, the navigator at his post beside him. A thin man with sour lips half-hidden beneath a ruff of beard, Haw Mayna had an abrupt and bristling manner.
"What do you want? Passengers aren't allowed in the control room. Damn it, man, surely you must know that!"
"Captain?"
"He's right." Remille turned to glare from the depths of his chair. "What is it?"
"You haven't a steward," said Dumarest. "I'm applying for the job." He sensed the hesitation, caught the glance each threw to the other. "I've done it before. Worked as a handler too. I know what has to be done."
"Let him do it," said the navigator after a moment. "Anything for peace. Just keep them quiet and happy."
The previous steward had been allocated a cabin at the end of the passage. It was bare, not even the cabinet containing a scrap of clothing. The bunk was stripped of bedding. The set of drawers normally filled with small items of personal value, like the cabinet, were empty.
Thoughtfully Dumarest moved back to the small room adjoining the salon. From a drawer he took a hypogun and loaded it with quick-time. Charl smiled at him as he moved towards the man.
"Throat or wrist?"
"Throat. It's more efficient."
"If you aim straight, I agree." The man tilted his head, exposing the side of his neck. "Go ahead."
Dumarest aimed the instrument, touched the trigger and it was done. Carried by a blast of air the drug penetrated the skin and fat to mingle directly in the bloodstream. The effect was immediate. As if stricken, Charl Tao slowed, turned into an apparent statue, not even his eyes moving as Dumarest moved to the others and treated each in turn. At the door of the salon he turned to look at them. All three were apparently frozen, their metabolism slowed by the chemical magic of quick-time so that, to them, normal hours passed as swiftly as minutes, weeks shrank into days. A convenience to relieve the tedium of long voyages.
Dephine was in her cabin. She had been sleeping but, as Dumarest entered, she woke to sit upright, stretching her arms above her head. Rest had taken some of the tiny lines of strain from around her eyes, but anticipation made her features even more sharp.
"Now, Earl?"
"Not yet."
"How long must we wait? Those crates are just begging to be examined. Who knows what we may have won? A fortune! Enough to keep us in luxury for the rest of our lives!" She saw the hypogun in his hand. "What's this?" She smiled when he told her. "So you're the new steward. A clever move, Earl. A crew member has advantages the passengers lack. Now hurry! Treat the others and let's see what we have!"
* * * * *
The crates lay in an untidy heap to one side of the hold, held only by a single lashing of rope, the restraint less than useless had the ship been subjected to sudden strain. Dumarest slashed it free and hauled at the topmost box. It thudded to the deck, the lid starting from its seating. With a jerk he tore it free. Beneath lay a mass of fiber which Dephine tore apart with her bare hands.
"Earl? What the hell-"
The crate was stacked with guns. Antiques. Each individually wrapped in plastic, each weapon carefully labeled. Dumarest lifted one, a rifle with a chased stock and an elaborate sight. The barrel was flared and the trigger of a peculiar shape.
"A hunting rifle made for the Mangate of Tyrone after the accident which deformed the muscles of his right hand. He-"
"Never mind that!" Dephine snatched the weapon from his hands as Dumarest read the label. "What about the others?"
They were all much the same, items which belonged to a collection or a museum, and with the thought came the answer.
"We took the wrong boxes." Dumarest turned one, read the small label previously unnoticed. "This comes from the Hargromond Collection. They packed the guns and put them into the warehouse for safe-keeping." He frowned at her expression. "I had no time to choose," he reminded. "These boxes were stacked close to the door and I figured they were the ones due for shipment. Blame Lofoten; not me."
"I don't blame you, Earl," she said quickly. "You did your best. No one could have done better. Let's look at the others."
Two held scraps of pottery and fragments of ceramic, another mouldering reports and carefully bound books which Dumarest checked then put aside. Had they been early navigational tables they would have held interest; as it was they were ancient histories of the first settlers, valuable only to those concerned.
Dephine drew in her breath as she dug into another crate.
"Earl!"
Beneath a layer of faded clothing rested small packets of opaque material. One, opened, rested in her hands, the sparkle of gems reflected in her eyes. A cache of jewels, carefully hidden, placed among items of small value for added concealment.
"Check the others." Dumarest watched as more gems came into view: a tiara, necklaces, pendant earrings, bracelets. All were of delicate workmanship, all old, all of high value. As Dephine slipped rings on her fingers, extending her hands to admire them, he said, "See what else that box contains."
"What do you think they are worth, Earl?"
"Our lives." He was grim. "If the others spot what we have how long do you think they would let us keep it?"
"The captain?"
"He and the others of the crew. They are little better than pirates." Replacing the lids they had removed Dumarest shifted the checked boxes to reach others lower down. "Hide those gems, Dephine. Find a place in your cabin for now and I'll look for a better one later on."
"We'll have to leave something, Earl. Remille would never believe that we had escaped with a load of rubbish."
A good point and one he had thought of, but the other crates might provide the answer. Items of value but too bulky to be easily hidden. Things it would take a specialist to sell, such as the antique guns, the mouldering books, the plaques of intricate workmanship valuable more for their designs than for the basic material.
They could be shown to the captain and shared with him. The portable loot he would keep.
Stooping he moved a crate to one side, cleared the lid of the one below, set his fingers at the edge and heaved. It resisted his tug and he leaned forward to study it. It seemed more sturdy than the others they had checked, thick wood fastened with heavy screws. The end held a red daub the others lacked. Others, similarly marked, rested at the bottom of the heap.
"Earl?"
"These are different," he said. "The soldiers must have mixed the consignment or just took those nearest to hand. I had no time to check."
"We'll need tools to open this." Dephine tugged at the lid. "Something of real value must rest inside and there are more than one. Earl! This could be it!"
The fortune everyone yearned for, hoped to obtain, dreamed of during the long, lonely hours. The magic which would turn a hell into a paradise-or so they thought. Too often sudden wealth ruined what was barely flawed, accentuated traits which would have been innocuous if left unstimulated.
He said, patiently. "Dephine, we have money. The gems."
"There could be more!" She tore at the lid, her nails scratching the wood, making ugly, tearing sounds. "Get some tools, Earl! Hurry!"
He fetched them from the engine room where the engineer sat facing the handler, a chess board between them, the bent fingers of the officer hovering over a pawn. It was a fraction of an inch away when Dumarest entered to select the tools. It had barely touched by the time he left. The move itself could take minutes of normal time.
Back in the hold Dumarest set to work. The screws yielded as he strained on the tool, lifting to be thrown aside. A dozen screws, a score, and the lid was free to be lifted. It made a dull thud as it hit the deck.
"Earl!" Dephine's voice held incredulous amazement. "Earl, what-"
The crate held a corpse.
* * * * *
The body was that of a girl, young, once attractive, but now ugly with the blotches which marked her face and shoulders, the arms crossed on the chest, her hands. Small blotches of an ebon darkness, rimmed with scarlet, looking like velvet patches stuck on with a ruby glue, each the size of the tip of a finger.
Dephine said, shakily, "She's dead, Earl. Dead. But why put her into a box?"
Not a box, a coffin, her presence had turned a container into something special, but Dumarest didn't correct the woman. He leaned close, studying the lines of the dead face, the hollows of the cheeks and shoulders. The body was wrapped in plain white fabric from beneath the armpits to a little above the knees. The feet, long and sum, were bare, blotched as were the shins, the thighs.
"Earl?"
Dumarest moved, seeing the play of refracted light on the hair, silver strands which shimmered beneath the plastic envelope into which the body had been placed.
"For God's sake, Earl! Answer me! What's all this about?"
Dumarest said, slowly, "I'm not sure. Let's open another crate. One with the same markings."
Like the other it contained death, this time an elderly man, his face seamed, the brows tufted, the knuckles of his blunt-fingered hands scarred. Like the girl his body was marked with blotches. Like her he had been sealed in a plastic bag.
"Another." Dephine stared at the rest of the marked crates. "They're all coffins. I don't understand. Why stack them in a warehouse?" Her voice rose to hover on the edge of hysteria. "Earl, we've stolen a load of dead meat. A bunch of corpses. How the hell are they going to make us rich?"
"Stop it!" His hand landed on her cheek, red welts marking the impact of his fingers. "You aren't a child. You've seen dead men before, women too, so why be stupid?"
"You're right." She rubbed at her cheek. "It was just that I didn't expect to see corpses in those crates. They must have been packed away for later cremation or burial. But why do that?"
"The war."
"People die in war."
"Dephine-it depends what they died of."
"Earl?" She frowned, not understanding then said sharply, as he attacked the rest of the boxes, "No! If they contain more dead I don't want to see them. Leave it, Earl. Let the captain open them if he wants to."
Dumarest ignored the suggestion. The first two contained the bodies of a man and a woman, both middle-aged. The third held the shape of a slender man with a roached and dyed beard. The backs of his arms were heavily tattooed. Among the lurid designs was a name.
"The Varden." Dumarest sat back on his heels. "This must be the missing steward."
"Dead and sealed in a crate?" said Dephine blankly, then, as she realised the implication, added, "No, Earl! My God, not that!"
It couldn't be anything else. Dumarest remembered the stacked crates, the soldiers on duty, the Lieutenant's suspicions. And the gunfire he had thought a distraction which had come too late.
"Plague," he said. "It was in the city. Maybe the steward carried it or maybe he picked it up, either way he fell sick and died. The dead needed to be disposed of but with the city at war that wasn't too easy. A soldier could have seen something, put two and two together, and there would have been a riot. As it was the news must have leaked out."
"How can you say that?"
"I forget, you couldn't know. The officer at the warehouse, Lieutenant Frieze, fell sick and had to be taken from his post. I thought he was Lofoten's man, then I didn't, but he must have had the disease. The police summoned his superior to a conference. Maybe they wanted soldiers to ring the field. If the populace grew panic-stricken they would have rushed for transport away from Hoghan. The gunfire we heard was to beat them back, men firing into the air-it doesn't matter."
