Dumarest raced towards it, almost fell, regained his balance as bullets hit the dirt inches from his feet. Quickly he emptied the gun at the burning hut, threw it aside and headed for the road. A ditch lay on the other side and he ducked into it, crouching low, a blur among the vegetation which almost filled the narrow gully.
From above came the sound of running feet and panting breath.
"A set up," the voice was bitter. "Crell dead and Van without a hand. Shem-"
"To hell with Shem!" The feral purr was savage. "He should have handled it different, instead he must have aroused suspicion. Get the raft. He's got to be around here somewhere. We'll lift and drift. Move!"
"Why bother?" The third voice was cynical. "He'll go back to the woman. All we have to do is to get there first and wait."
"The woman." Evron chuckled. "Sure, why didn't I think of that? Good thinking, Latush. We'll meet with her and have a party."
Three of them, close, lost in anticipation of lust and bestiality. Within minutes they would be airborne and out of reach. Dumarest could wait until they had gone, make his own way to the field and do his best to elude the watchers.
But the woman had been kind. He rose, moving silently, a shadow among other shadows, seeing the three silhouettes dim against the sky. Two facing each other, a third moving away down the road, obviously to collect the raft. His hand dipped, rose, lifted with the knife, moved forward to send the steel slamming into the exposed back. As the man fell he sprang up onto the road and lunged forward, hands stiffened, blunt axes which lifted and fell.
Latush died first, his neck broken as he turned, eyes glazed as he fell. Evron was luckier. With the instinct of a rat he dodged, one hand clawing at his belt, mouth opening to shout or plead.
Dumarest hit him, bone snapping beneath his hand, the reaching hand falling from the belt. He struck again and blood spouted from the pulped nose.
"For God's sake!" Evron backed, his broken arm swinging, the other lifted in mute appeal. "You can't kill me, man! You can't!"
"A party," said Dumarest thickly. "Enjoy it you swine-in hell!"
He stabbed, the tips of his fingers crushing the larynx then, as Evron doubled; chopped at the base of the neck.
Like a crushed toad the man slumped, dying, vomiting blood.
"Hey!" A voice called from beside the smoldering hut. "There's a dead man here. God, look at the blood!"
"Here's another, shot. What's been going on?"
Murder, violence and sudden death. Execution dealt to those who deserved it. A threat eliminated and something gained. Money and a raft, the wealth they carried on them, the vehicle parked nearby. Dumarest could use both.
* * * * *
"Earl!" Ayantel stared from her open door, her eyes shocked. "God, man, you look like hell!"
Blood which had dried in ugly smears, dirt and slime on his clothing and boots, his hands begrimed, his hair a mess. He could have washed in the sea, but it would have risked too much. Instead he had flown high in the raft, looking, waiting, dropping down to the roof of her apartment, lashing the raft firmly before climbing down to a window, then her landing.
He said, quickly, "Let me in."
"You hurt?" Her voice was tense as she closed the door after him.
"No, but I could use a bath."
"A bath and a drink, by the look of it. What happened?" Her lips tensed as he answered. "Shem, the bastard! He sold you out. Me too. Earl, if Evron-"
"He won't."
"But-"
"Evron is dead. I dumped him and two of his boys into the sea." Dumarest dropped the bag he had carried slung around his neck by a belt. "You don't have to worry about him, Ayantel. Not now, or ever again. Now, where's that drink?"
It was good and he relished it, before stepping fully dressed under the shower, rubbing the dirt and blood from his clothing, the mess from his boots. Stripping, he bathed as the woman dried his gear. Aside from the lacerations on his scalp, he was unharmed. The bullet which had hit his boot had done no more than tear the heel.
Clean, drying himself on a fluffy towel, he rejoined the woman, pouring himself another drink.
"So Shem set you up," she said. "I'm sorry, Earl. I thought I could trust him."
"Am I blaming you?"
"No, but you have the right." She poised the knife, remembering the traces of blood it had carried, the smears. "How many?"
"Does it matter?"
"I want to know, Earl." Her hand tightened around the hilt as he told her what had happened. "You were lucky," she said. "No, clever. You guessed that they would be waiting. What tipped you off?"
"Shem offered me a drink, but he didn't join me. The stuff was drugged. And he couldn't keep his eyes from the roof. When I questioned him he had the wrong answers. As for the rest, forget it, it's over."
"Easy to say," she said, "not easy to do. You could have been killed. A wasted night, all for nothing."
"No," he corrected. "Not for nothing."
The bag lay where he had dropped it. Opened, it revealed wallets, rings, heavy-banded chronometers-the loot he had collected from the dead. Quickly he sorted it. Evron, as most of his breed, had liked to carry a fat roll. His aides had emulated him.
"This is for you." He handed a wad of cash to the woman. "I'll take the jewelery-you don't want to risk having it traced."
"No." She shook her head as she stared at the money. "No, Earl, I haven't earned it. I don't deserve it."
"Wrong on both counts," he said curtly. "You have and you will. Can you fly a raft?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I've got one on the roof. Now listen, this is what I want you to do."
She frowned as he explained. "Now?"
"Now." Before the alarm could be given, the authorities begin to investigate. And before the cyber, sitting like a gaunt red spider in his web, could learn new facts with which to build a prediction to gain him high rewards, and the Cyclan could get what they wanted most of all.
The secret which had been stolen from one of their hidden laboratories. The correct sequence in which the fifteen molecular units needed to be joined, in order to create the affinity twin.
Kalin had passed it on to him, the girl with the flame-red hair Earl would never forget. Brasque had stolen it, destroying the records, dying in turn to keep it safe. Fifteen biological molecular units, the last reversed to determine dominant or submissive characteristics.
An artificial symbiote which, when injected into the bloodstream, nestled at the base of the cortex and took control of the entire nervous and sensory systems. The brain containing the dominant half would take over the body of the host. Literally take over. Each move, every touch, all sound and sight and taste, all would be transmitted. In effect, it gave an old man the power to become young again in a new, virile body. A body he would keep until it was destroyed, or his own died.
It would give the Cyclan the galaxy to use as a plaything.
The mind of a cyber would reside in each and every ruler and person of consequence. They would be helpless marionettes moving to the dictates of their masters. Slaves of the designs of those who wore the scarlet robes.
They knew of the secret and would discover it in time. But too much time, the possible combinations ran into millions, was needed to test them all. Even at the rate of one every second, it would take four thousand years.
Dumarest could cut that time down to a handful of hours. Once they had him they could probe his brain, learn what they needed to know, advance their domination like a red stain spread on the stars.