The passage was deserted as far as he could see. So was the salon. Visible evidence meant nothing, the acolyte could be anywhere, but, living at the normal rate as he was, tiredness would be a problem. He would have to snatch rest or use drugs and either would demand his attention at times.
The steward's cabin was as he remembered it, the clothing a mute testimony of the man who had once occupied the space. The medical kit was untouched. The hypogun lay where the engineer had tossed it after injecting them all with quick-time. All aside from the acolyte, of course, to forget that was to invite destruction.
Lifting the hypogun Dumarest checked it, aimed it at his throat and pulled the trigger.
The air-blast made a sharp hiss, the drug blasted into his bloodstream was unnoticeable but, as the sound of the blast died, the neutralizer took effect.
The lights flickered a little. Sounds changed. Time altered as his metabolism speeded back to its normal rate. Those still under the influence of quick-time became statues.
Broge was in his cabin, stooped over the limp figure on the bunk, a thin blade poised over a figure, blood on the needle-point steel and blood like a ruby at the point where it had been thrust beneath a nail.
He didn't turn as Dumarest stepped forward. He stayed immobile as the stiletto-like blade was taken from his hand. He did nothing as it thrust itself into the soft place behind an ear, sliding upwards into the brain, the wound closing as it was withdrawn. Poetic justice, death neatly and swiftly delivered and a step taken towards safety.
Without moving Dumarest looked around. His knife, tunic and boots must be somewhere else, logically in the cabin held by the acolyte. Which would place it toward the rear of the passage towards the engine room. As the cyber fell with a soft thud to the floor he stepped from the cabin.
And almost died.
Luck saved him. Luck and the quick recognition of the situation, an ability unaffected by the diseased body. A nicker of movement where no movement should be. A stir-and he froze as the acolyte stepped from a cabin and came towards him.
He looked tired, body slumped with fatigue, shoulders rounded, head bent, feet dragging. For days now, normal time, he had stayed awake. Drugs had given him a little respite and, perhaps, training had helped a little but no creature, man or emotionless machine, using oxygen as a basic form of energy could deny nature to the extent of rejecting sleep.
Yet, even so, he was aware and alert enough to be suspicious. Dumarest he would have recognized and taken immediate action. The navigator was just a part of the ship. A man who, perhaps, had been summoned by his master for consultation. And one obviously under the influence of quick-time.
It was far from easy. Dumarest stood, immobile, his eyes open, the balls stinging with the need of moisture. His chest ached and his lungs craved air as he waited, not trusting his reflexes, knowing only that he was weak and ill and must kill without mistake or hesitation.
Kill without mercy. Kill to be safe. Kill to survive.
The acolyte reached the cabin, frowned at the open door, halted as he glanced inside.
"Master!"
He spun as Dumarest moved, the action alone being enough to trigger his alarm. The thin sliver of steel aimed at his throat slashed across the face instead, ripping a furrow from the ear and through an eye, blinding, sending blood to pour over the cheek.
A wound which would have caused a normal youth to scream with pain, to back, to be thrown off-guard.
Dumarest grunted as he came in to the attack, one hand lifted, the other snatching at the weapon. The thin blade was almost useless; without weight or balance, too fragile to stab it was good only to slash. Shallow wounds which could hurt but not kill. And to a servant of the Cyclan pain was a stranger.
Dodging the blade he lifted his hand, the laser firing, chipped paint flaring on the cabin wall as, throwing himself down, Dumarest avoided the beam. He rolled as the acolyte fired again, feeling the burn as it hit his left thigh, feeling too the cloth of the scarlet robe spread over the dead body on the floor.
The cyber whom the acolyte didn't know was dead. His master whom he was sworn to protect with his life. To fire again was to risk hitting the sprawled figure: It was, better to wait, to back a little, weapon ready in case of need but aimed safely away.
"The knife," he said. "Drop it." Then, as Dumarest obeyed. "Now up on your feet. Up."
Dumarest fumbled, moved, hands gripping the cyber's dead arm, fingers questing for the laser beneath the wide sleeve. He found it, found the trigger, turning the entire arm towards the acolyte in a grotesque gesture from the dead, as too late, the youth recognized the truth.
He swayed a little, his remaining eye turning into a charred hole in the contours of his face, blood masking his cheek, dripping, falling as he fell to coat the floor with a liquid crimson.
A pool of blood which grew as Dumarest's own wound pumped away his life.
He ripped away the material from the injured thigh, thrust a thumb above the wound where the great artery pulsed and, with the remaining hand and his teeth, ripped a strip of fabric from the cyber's robe. Knotted, twisted into place, it made a crude but efficient tourniquet. Rising, Dumarest staggered and almost fell.
It wasn't just the wound. The beam had missed the bone and he had stanched the blood, but too much had been lost already and he was too weak. His heart pounded like a bursting engine and the lights appeared to dim as he fought for air. The tips of his fingers felt cold and, he knew, death was close.
Too close and too soon. He fought it, gritting his teeth, concentrating on the single act of breathing and, slowly, the immediate danger passed.
Only the impossible remained.
The dead had to be disposed of, the cabin cleaned and other matters taken care of. It would need strength and time-but now, at least, he had won some time.
Time in which to clean himself and don fresh clothing. To force himself to drink three cups of basic. To search the medical kit for appropriate drugs.
Fatshan looked up from his console as Dumarest entered the engine room. He scowled. "What do you want?"
"To apologize." Dumarest held out a bottle and a pair of glasses. "I was a fool and I'm making no excuses but, at times, I don't know which way to turn. I'm dying and we both know it. I haven't a friend in the universe aside from you. Let's drink to old times."
"You're crazy!"
"Yes. I'm not arguing. I deserve all you want to hand out. But, for now, let's drink to the past." Dumarest poured neat brandy into the glasses. "To health and happiness. To the next world." A pause then, "To death and what comes after."
"Cut it out!" Fatshan glared over the rim of his glass. "Your toasts give me the creeps at times. Death'll come when it's ready, until then let's enjoy life."
"I'll drink to that!"
Dumarest lifted his glass, watched as the other swallowed the contents of his own at a gulp. Refilling the container he handed it back, coughed, wiped his lips and sipped at his brandy.
As it touched his lips the engineer sighed and collapsed, a victim of the drug Dumarest had given him. He would sleep for a while, wake with a sense of well-being and, while he slept, the field was clear in which to work.
Dumarest fired a charge of neutralizer into his bloodstream and felt the surge and pulse of a disturbed metabolism threaten his awareness. Too free a use of the drugs was dangerous but he had no choice. To risk the side effects was a gamble he had to take.
Back in the cabin nothing had changed. He took the youth first, rolling the body on to a sheet, fastening it, rising to grip the corners and drag it down the passage into the engine room and through into the hold. A port took it, rotating so as to hurl it into the void. The cyber followed, his extra weight robbing Dumarest of strength so that he leaned against a crate, sweat dripping to stain the wood.