"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.
"Earl?"
He blinked, conscious that he had fallen into a reverie, hovered on the brink of sleep. Standing, he looked at the woman. She wore a casual gown, a flower in her hair, too much paint on her face. The scent of her perfume was overpowering.
"Is this what you wanted, Earl?"
"Yes." He gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "Make no mistake, girl. My life is in your hands now. You know what to do?"
"I know."
"Good." He turned, picked up the bottle of brandy, spilled the contents over her hair, her shoulders, her gown. "Then let's go."
Chapter Six
It was late and Dach Lang was tired. For five hours he had stood guard at the gate. Now it was his turn to make a patrol around the inner perimeter of the fence. A long journey and a useless one. The summit was fitted with alarms. If anyone tried to climb the mesh, they would be shocked and caught. Yet the orders had been plain.
"Dach!" The figure approaching was muffled, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap, his collar turned high. Haw Falla felt the chill. "A bad night," he grumbled. "And still hours to wait before dawn. This kind of thing makes a man wish for his bed."
"You're late."
"I had things to do." Falla shrugged aside the accusation. "A man has his needs."
Too many and too often as far as Falla was concerned, but that was his problem. Dach checked his watch, made a notation on his pad and tucked the book away. Three minutes late. With luck they could make it up, but in any case he was in the clear. Two-man patrols, the orders had said, and a two-man patrol it would be.
"Let's get on our way."
It was growing cold, the wind from the sea carrying a drift of rain, sparkles clinging to the mesh of the fence, glittering like minute gems beneath the glow of the floodlights. An artistic scene, but one which neither man appreciated. They kept their eyes down, searching for holes, for strangers.
Not that it was easy. The ships stood close, crewmen busy, making a straggling line from their vessels to the gate. Accustomed to the freedom of space they resented the new restrictions, the checks and questions at the gate. There had been a little trouble, a couple of fights, some broken heads.
Well, to hell with them. Dach had his own problems. He brooded on them as Falla led the way around the perimeter. Sulen was fully grown now and getting rebellious. Mari didn't help, what with her spendthrift ways. A woman should look after her daughter, take a closer interest in what she was getting in to. Instead, she spend hard-earned money on clothes and paint which made her look like a creature from a seraglio. A shame and a disgrace to any decent, hard-working man. And the chances were high that if he went home now, she would be out or not alone.
"Dach!" Falla halted, staring up at the sky. "What the hell-look, a raft!"
It swept down low, almost touching the summit of the fence, veering over the field as alarms sounded from the gate. From it came the sound of singing, high-pitched laughter, the trill of a woman's voice.
"The stupid bitch!" Falla began to run, waving his arms. "Hey, you up there! You crazy or something?"
Insane or drunk, the only reasonable explanation. No one flew over a field, the risk was too great. With ships leaving and landing at any time, the air-displacement would wreck any smaller craft. A fact Dumarest had known, a risk he had taken.
He lay flat in the body of the raft, invisible from below, tensing as the vehicle jerked beneath Ayantel's inexperienced hands. She was acting well, a little too well. Only by a tremendous effort did she avoid being thrown over the edge.
"Careful!"