If it came to a war between them who would win?
An academic question as the young doctor was quick to realize. Those who had dedicated their lives to the doctrine of peace would never seek to kill and those who followed reason would never yield to the final stupidity. Between them would be no bloody battles or corrosive wars in which planets would burn and men wither like flies in winter. And yet, even so, always between them there would be conflict.
But, if by some incredible twist of fate actual war should rise between them, Wuhu would back the Cyclan. They were not afraid to exterminate.
And yet who could assess the stubborn resolve of a crusade?
He shook his head, aware that such speculation had no place here at this time, if ever, and the moment of strain passed as Ardoch turned toward him.
"Where are the screens?"
They arrived as the monk, after a final glance at the dying man, moved quietly down the ward to where another patient was in need of his ministration. He and all the occupants of the neatly set rows of beds, vanished from sight as attendants set the screens into place and turned the area around the bed into an oasis of privacy.
"The drugs." Ardoch gestured at the physician. "This man is in a deep, hypnotic trance. I want him brought out of it and his mind placed in a state of conscious awareness. It would be as well if you recognized the urgency of the situation."
In other words kill him if it was necessary but wake him long enough to listen and answer. Wuhu was aware of the implication but, a physician of Fralde, he had no compunction at cutting short a life which was already lost. And it would be an act of mercy to shorten the dying man's anguish.
As he stepped forward to lift the charged hypogun and rest it against the flaccid throat of the patient the cyber caught his arm.
"A moment. I wish to check the medication." He twisted a knob and ejected the charge. "As I suspected. You were about to give far too high a dose of painkiller. Coupled with the rest it would have given him a momentary euphoria. You forget that he is experiencing subjective pleasure. Before he can be of use that must be eradicated. Here." He handed back the instrument. "I want him awake, aware and in pain. Commence!"
Silently the doctor obeyed. The hiss of the airblast carrying the drugs into the patient's bloodstream was followed, within seconds, by a groan.
It yielded to a scream.
"God! God the pain! The pain!"
The voice was thick, slobbering, the words almost lost in the liquid gurgle of phlegm, the dissolving tissue of decaying lungs. On the cover the hands clenched, fingers digging into the fabric, pus thick at cracked joints.
"The pain!"
"It will be eased if you cooperate." Ardoch sat on the edge of the bed and leaned towards the contorted face. Reflected light from his robe gave the pasty flesh an unreal flush of artificial health. "Your name? Your name, man! Your name!"
"Fatshan. Fatshan of the Sleethan. The engineer. We got caught in the Rift. A generator-for God's sake do something about the pain."
The hypogun hissed as the cyber gestured. Wuhu stepped back, eyes and ears alert, Ningsia, for one, would be grateful for any information he could gain and convey. As if guessing his thoughts Ardoch held out his hand.
"Give me the hypogun and go."
"Leave my patient?"
"To me, yes. And I shall not remind you again of your instructions." As the man left the cyber stared at the dying engineer. "Look at me," he commanded. "At the robe I wear. You have seen others like it before I think. On Harald? On board the Sleethan?"
The only pleasure a cyber could experience was the glow of mental achievement and, as the dying man nodded, Ardoch knew it to the full. A prediction confirmed and his skill demonstrated without question. From a handful of facts, diverse data collected, correlated, woven into a pattern he had extrapolated the logical sequence of events. An attribute possessed by all cybers, the fruit of long and arduous training which enhanced natural talent, the thing which made them both desired and disliked by those who paid for their services.
Would a certain pattern gain favor in the markets? A manufacturer of clothing could find the answer-at a price, the predictions as to sales and shifts in fashion guiding him and ensuring the maximum protection against loss, the maximum anticipation of profit.
Should a proposed marriage be canceled or the original intention pursued? A cyber would point out the path such a union would take as appertaining to the shift and balance of power, the influence of possible children, the merging of interests, the alienation of potential enemies.
To hire the services of the Cyclan was to ensure success and to minimize error. Once used the temptation to take advantage of such advice could not be resisted. So the Cyclan grew in power and influence, with cybers at every court, in every sphere of influence, predicting the sequence of events following any action, weaving a scarlet-tinted web.
Sitting, listening to the liquid gurgle of Fatshan's voice,
Ardoch filled in the parts left unsaid, verifying pervious knowledge, endorsing made predictions.
"On Harald men took passage on board the Sleethan." he said. "Cyber Broge, his acolyte and a man called Dumarest. Verify!"
The ruined face lolled on the pillow. "Gone! All gone!"
"Dead?" A doubt to be resolved and a search to be ended. "Did they die in the ship with the others?" He leaned forward as the bloated head signaled a negative. "They did not die."
"Not in the Rift. They vanished before we reached Zakym."
"Vanished?"
"Disappeared." The engineer reared. "The pain? I can't stand the pain! For God's sake give me something for it."
"You'll talk? Cooperate?" The hypogun hissed as the man grunted agreement, the instrument delivering its reward of mercy. A double dose; the drugs which numbed pain were accompanied by others which gave a false confidence. "Tell me!"
"We were on Harald," wheezed the engineer. "But you know that. The cyber and his acolyte took Dumarest prisoner. The captain had no choice but to agree. The reward-you understand."
A free-trader, operating on the edge of extinction, any profit shared by the crew-how could he have refused?
"There were three of us," continued the engineer. "Me, Erylin the captain, Chagney the navigator. Too few but we had no choice. We were less later." He doubled in a fit of coughing. "The Rift-damn the luck. Damn it all to hell!"
"What happened?"
"They vanished. They simply vanished. Three men disappearing from a ship in flight They must have died. Maybe they had a fight or something and the survivor threw out the bodies and himself after them. I don't know. We were going to report it but Chagney advised against it. He acted odd. Kept drinking though he knew it was bad for him. Erylin tried to warn him but nothing he said made any difference. Not him nor me." He coughed again, blood staining the phlegm he spat from his mouth. "Damn the luck. We needed a navigator."
"In the Rift?"
"Where else? How the hell can you hope to navigate without one? Erylin tried but he'd forgotten his skill. The instruments were acting up, old, rotten, the whole stinking ship was rotten. I should have gone with it. Died while I was still whole. Quit like Chagney did-at least he had guts. Jumped out after we left Zakym. Just walked through the port and breathed vacuum. There are worse ways to go."
Lying cooped in a small compartment with a mesh of wire singing with trapped energies-electronic spiders leaping with scintillant darts of flame and no certainty that rescue would ever come. Eking out the food, the water, lying in filth, the body rotting with accelerated decay. Waiting while quick-time compressed days into minutes, the drug altering and slowing the metabolism and so extending life. A convenience which reduced the tedium of long journeys. One used by the engineer to extend his life. One which ended as the cyber watched.