"Someone's coming."
Had arrived, the footsteps halting beyond the cabin opening, moving forward as, with a lunge, Dumarest reared, stabbing upwards with the syringe, feeling the point strike against a boney wrist, slip, drive home as he reared again, pain lancing from torn ligaments in back and shoulders.
"What the hell!" Chagney swore and tried to jerk free his arms. Dumarest threw back his weight, imprisoning them between his shoulders and the bulkhead, releasing his grip on the syringe and turning the other so that the needle rested against the artery on the inside of his wrist. A moment he paused-if he had guessed wrong this would be the last action he would ever take and then, as Broge crossed the cabin towards the bunk, he drove the instrument into his flesh.
Chapter Nine
There was a blur, a timeless moment as if the very universe had stopped, then came light and sound and a voice.
"What are you doing here? My orders were plain. This man is to remain in isolation."
The cyber, his tones even, only the words holding an implicit threat. But the words were fuzzed, harmonics lost, the drone of a robot rather than the trained modulation of his class.
"Did you hear me? Step back away from the prisoner. Leave this cabin and do not return. There will be penalties if you do not obey."
Dumarest sucked in his breath and felt a liquid gurgling in his chest. Before him he could see the metal of the cabin; the join where bulkhead met hull. Lower a shape sat slumped in the corner, arms behind the chest, chin pressed against his own torso.
With a jerk he freed the wrists which were trapped between the figure and the metal. A spot of red caught his eye, a small tube hanging from a needle buried in his wrist and he snatched it, pulling it free, coughing, lifting a hand to his mouth and hiding the thing beneath his tongue.
One found and hidden but the other?
He heard the soggy rasp as of clothing; bare flesh sliding over the metal bulkhead as the figure on the bed toppled to one side. He caught it, found the other syringe, coughed again and finally turned to face the cyber.
"I'll," he said. "I heard him cry out and looked inside and he was ill. I think he's fainted or something."
"Please leave immediately."
"I could help, maybe?"
"That will not be necessary." Broge's hand lifted towards his sleeve, the laser clipped to his wrist. "I shall not ask you again."
The man should die, had to die, executed if for no other reason than that he had ordered the death of an old and harmless man, but not yet. The acolyte had to be taken care of first and there were other things which needed to be done.
How to use this new body for one.
Dumarest sagged as he stepped into the corridor, not acting, unable to master the reluctance of the flesh he now wore. The wall was cool against his fevered skin and he leaned against it, feeling the painful pulsation of his lungs, the liquid gurgling, the rasp of breath, the aches and torments, the agony of rotting tissue.
Chagney was dying.
That he had known, but had been unable to guess just how bad the man had been. The disease had progressed too far, alcohol alone had helped to numb the pain and provide the energy for motivation. Bleakly Dumarest looked at the lights, frowning as his eyes refused to focus. His hearing was impaired, his sight, in his mouth rested foulness, his skin felt like abrasive paper and, like little pits of fire, various glands signaled breakdown and inner decay.
"Chagney!" A man came into sight following his voice. Fatshan, the engineer, a steaming cup of basic in one hand, a bottle in the other. "Man, you look like hell! Here, get this down, you need it."
Dumarest reached for the bottle, missed, his hand closing on empty air. He tried again, more slowly this time, shaken by his lack of coordination. As a cripple had to watch every step so he would have to watch every move.
"Thanks." The brandy stung the raw tissues of the lower region of his throat, pain which helped to wash away other pain, the spirit lending him strength. In the pit of his stomach a small fire sprang into life, warming with its comfort.
As again he gulped at the bottle Fatshan said, "Take it easy, man. You still have work to do."
"Like hell I have." Dumarest wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, saw the other's expression and realized he had made a mistake. Chagney, diseased though he was could have retained some elements of a near-forgotten culture. "I can't worry any more," he said. "Not about the ship, not about you, not anything. Erylin's got himself a new navigator. Well, if that's the way he wants it-" Again he lifted the bottle to his mouth, keeping his lips closed and only pretending to drink.
"You're a fool," said the engineer. "The Old Man still needs you. With your share of the profits you can get fixed up. Regrafts, maybe, a spell in an amniotic tank, medical aid at least. Why throw it all away?" His voice dropped a little. "Remember Eunice? She'll be waiting when we reach Koyan. Think of the pleasure she can give. Say, what did happen the last time we were there? You know when she-"
Knowledge he didn't have. Dumarest snapped, "Shut up!"
"What?"
"Keep your stinking nose out of my business!"
The reaction was immediate. The engineer scowled, lifted clenched fists and came forward intent on punishment. Dumarest tried to back, felt the slowness of his reflexes and realized that, in his present condition, he stood no chance. He threw himself to one side, hands lifted, brandy spilling from the bottle to the deck.
"No! Don't hit me! I didn't mean anything! Please! It's my head! My head!"
The engineer lowered his fists.
"What the hell's come over you? You might be weak but you always had guts. Now you don't seem to be the same man. That thing hit your brain? Is that it?"
Dumarest sucked in his breath, teeth rattling on glass as he lifted the bottle. The man had touched on something dangerous. Repeated and heard by the cyber it could be fatal.
"God, I feel queer. Things keep getting mixed up. I thought you were-well, never mind. That time on Koyan. Eunice. She-"
"Forget it." The engineer waved a hand. He looked at the mess on the deck where he'd dropped the cup of basic and shrugged. "More work."
"I'll take care of it."
"Let it lie. Who the hell cares? You'd better get some rest and get into condition. The Old Man's rusty when it comes to navigation and that cyber's no good. Only his money." He chuckled. "That we can use."
For things best left to the imagination but Dumarest wasn't concerned. Checking the cabins he found one which held some books, a scatter of clothing. The books were navigational tables, the clothing fitted the body he now wore. Closing the door he examined it.
Thin, waste, the skin scaled and blotched, a cluster of sores, grime in the pores.
It needed a bath. It lacked any medication. It was an envelope which had seen too many vicissitudes. And in it, somewhere, was housed the original life.
It was below the level of consciousness, a brain trapped in a small, enclosed world, the ego, the individual negated into a formless, timeless region. Yet not all had been eradicated. Sitting, leaning back, relaxing the body while he concentrated on the mind, Dumarest caught odd fragments of distorted memory, items of information he hadn't previously known.
The art of navigation, he felt, was almost at his fingertips. Study it for a while and all would be clear. Jalong- how best to reach Jalong? The Rift held dangers best avoided so head first toward Ystallephra and then alter course to- yes. It was all so obvious.
As was the need for haste.
Dumarest rose and took several deep breaths. It was hard to remember that he wasn't really in this body but lying slumped in apparent unconsciousness in the cyber's cabin. If that body was destroyed then he would die. If Chagney should die then he would wake in his own form. What he now experienced was a total affinity but not a complete transfer. The difference meant survival.