Starslave

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2He wandered in a darkness shot with blobs and patches of illumination; brilliantly glowing areas like individual rooms each holding a fragment of memory, each tinged with its own emotion. A parade through hate and fear and pain and joy. One he had taken too often so that now the rooms had become hatefully familiar; the events he relived the scars of aching wounds.

Taylor. Quimper. Finch. Carter. Cole and Machen who had turned into things of horror. Ovidio smeared like paint over the hull in a grotesque travesty of a man. Stacy who drank. Lydon who dealt in ghosts. Asner. Owen. Noventes. Erica with her eyes and lips and her gift of love.

Varl twisted, muttering, locked in recurrent nightmare. Seeing again those he had led to their deaths, the faces that accused or screamed or pleaded with empty, weeping eyes. Knowing failure again, the pain of loss, the last dreadful period when his mind had seemed to burn within his skull and his tormented body had jerked and convulsed to the impact of destructive energies.

Waking he looked at a ghost.

“Erica!” He reared, hands outstretched, reaching for the woman standing beside the bed on which he lay. A tall, blonde woman dressed in a plain garment that covered her from neck to mid-thigh, from shoulder to wrist. “Erica!”

She was warm and active and he buried his face in the warm softness between her breasts as his hungry hands roved over the figure he had known so well. A caress that was more than a desire to touch. One intended to hold, to grip, to reassure, to never, ever relinquish.

“My darling!” His voice was a betrayal of his need. “You came back to me. You came back!”

“No!” He heard a snap and felt the sting of acrid vapours in his nostrils. Gas from the ampoule she held and which sent him back and away, gasping but, suddenly, fully alert. “This isn’t a dream, Kurt. Your woman is where all the dead go.”

“But—”

“I’m not Erica, you fool!” Anger edged her tone. “I’m Edallia. Edallia Kramer. Just in case you’ve forgotten we’ve met before.”

The headdress was gone, the cloak, the silvered eyes. The paint and barbaric adornment but the mouth remained and the body he had touched was one he remembered.

“You put me down,” he said. “Betrayed me—”

“I saved your life.”

“With a poisoned dart? And what about the laser?”

“They wanted you dead,” she said patiently. “They had tried you and condemned you and were set on your execution. It wasn’t enough for you just to fall. So I used the gun to sear your scalp. They thought I’d burned your brains. The smoke and blood sobered them and no one wanted to look too close.”

And none of them would have wanted to dispose of the body. Shocked, frightened, blasted out of their blood-hunger, they would have run back to their safe, snug, civilised lives. The woman would have had a free hand.

“I manage.”

“Sure.” Beneath her garment the mounds of her breasts moved with liquid grace as she shrugged, “We all manage. Now get up and get busy. I’ll be in the salon.”

“Wait!” He rose as she halted at the door. “Why?” he demanded. “Why do it?”

“Because you’re Captain Kurt Varl.”

“That’s reason enough?”

“For me, yes,” she said. “That’s reason enough.”

She left and he turned to the washbowl and faucet set against the wall of the cabin. A mirror was set above it and he assessed his damages as he assessed his situation. He was on board a vessel, that was obvious, a ship of a small class that even now was hurtling through space. The cabin told him that and the unmistakable quiver transmitted by the hydee field. The reason why she had saved him and was taking him somewhere could wait. Other things could not.

The dagger that had torn his cheek had left a gash over an inch long and the blood seeping from the wound had dried to mask his face with a brownish film. More dried blood had matted his hair from the shallow wound on his scalp; one seared and blackened from the fury of the laser. A neat shot; an inch to one side and he would be dead. As it was the bone had remained untouched but the ache was something he could do without.

Varl studied her from where he lay on the bed. The blonde hair was cut short to form a helmet framing her skull, the face which showed a hardness hitherto masked by the paint she had worn. The eyes, devoid now of silver and mirrored contact lenses, were a hard and vibrant blue. The mouth, while still wide and full, was firm, the lips compressed now as if she tasted something bad.

“Finished?”

He said, not moving his stare, “You remind me of someone.”

“I know. Erica. But we aren’t the same.” She added, more gently, “She’s dead, Kurt. Staring at me won’t make her come back. Nothing will do that.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“No.” She became brusque again. “You’re a mess. Better clean up before you eat.”

“After you’ve explained something. Why take me to the party if you intended to save me?”

“They wanted you dead,” she said. “They wouldn’t have rested until you were. On Ceruti or some other world they’d have arranged it. The only way to make you safe from them was to fake your end. Now they can sleep at night.”

“And you?”

“I sleep well enough.” Her lips quirked, softened a little. “That’s more than you can say.”

It eased as he washed away the mess, rinsing his mouth and letting a cold stream numb his cheek and scalp. A dispenser provided dressings and he sealed both wounds with a flexible, transparent film. Dried blood stained his blouse the smears falling from the material as he held it beneath the faucet. Washed, clean, he looked twice the man who had risen from the bed.

In the salon Edallia was waiting.

Varl strode towards her, pausing as he neared her table, eyes narrowing as he recognised her companion. Normal clothing made him look smaller but there was no mistaking his bulk, the rich sheen of his ebony skin.

Sabatova lifted a hand. “Peace, brother. We’re on the same side.”

His words were slurred, his jaw swollen, eyes reddened with recent pain. Before him on the table stood a bowl that had contained soup—now empty. A phial of tablets lay beside it and he swallowed a couple as Edallia waved a hand in introduction.

“Meet Ian, Kurt. My backup.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“He tried to save you,” she corrected. “Knock you out and pretend to strangle you. Instead you got in first. You could have broken his neck.”

And would have done if the man hadn’t been so strong. Varl watched as he rose from the table, a little stiffly, but he seemed to bear no animosity. The touch of his hand was firm, cool, and his smile was genuine.

“I misjudged you,” he said. “I was there to stop you getting hurt but I was the one who took the bruises. Well, it happens. The next time I’ll be more careful.” To Edallia he said, “Watch yourself. This man is a killer.”

“I know that. Thirty times over.”

“That talk is for fools,” Sabatova was curt. “For those idiots back on Ceruti. I saw his face when he attacked me. I read his eyes. There aren’t many like him now. Be warned.”

Varl took his seat as the giant walked away, saying nothing as a waitress cleared the table, setting a dish of various morsels before him. The salon was half-full, the tables occupied with a score of men and women, most of middle-age, some young, a few old. The usual types to be found on most vessels plying between the worlds. Among them Edallia was a goddess of some ancient time.

“There’s no one here to be afraid of,” she said. “You can relax.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I was watching your eyes. You’ve checked every person in the room. A habit?”

He shrugged and helped himself to a scrap of pastry dusted with spice and filled with a sweet combination of pulverised fruit. She followed his example, holding the morsel between her teeth, savouring it as she studied him. A big man, hard, his face like that of a pagan idol. A killer as Sabatova had said and not only in the line of duty. She watched as he ate, aware that every other woman in the salon was doing the same, as every man had looked at her. The penalty of being different in more ways than one. The superficial appearance was nothing; it was what lay beneath which made a person stand above the crowd.

She said, “Something is bothering me. You let yourself be picked up by a stranger in a street. Why?”

“You were a beautiful stranger.”

“That’s no answer.”

Varl selected another morsel, bit into it, leaned back as the waitress came to add another dish to the first. One filled with succulent meats, thin pancakes, a rich sauce and three kinds of vegetables. A pot of tisane accompanied it and he poured, sniffing at the herbal odour, tasting it before emptying the cup.

“Kurt?”

“I had the impression I was being followed,” he said. “Of being ushered into a trap. I was safer with company than without.”

“The hovercar,” she said. “I saw it.”

“One that had stopped without apparent reason. Another could have been ahead.”

“And you figured if I was bait it was better to walk into the trap than be carried.” She reached for the tisane and filled her cup. Stood thinking. “Who did you think was after you?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Would I ask if I did?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think you would. Let’s just say I was wary of your friends.”

“They weren’t my friends. I joined them for a reason.” She sipped at her tisane. “We’re sparring. Fencing. Wasting time. From where I sit it’s a game you don’t like playing. My guess is you were following a hunch. Another habit?”

“Maybe.”

“Habits are things to get rid of. They can be like markers. Most men who want to hide are found because of their habits. Know what I mean?”

“A man likes blondes, walks to the right, wears bright colours, sleeps with the windows open, sits with his back against a wall. Habits. What are yours?”

Varl concentrated on the meal when she didn’t answer chewing the meat well before swallowing, barely touching the pancakes, ignoring the sauce. When he’d finished the dish was still half-full. The tisane had grown cold and he signalled for more. After the waitress had left he stared at the woman.

“You’re right about one thing—I don’t like wasting time. So how about some straight answers? Where is this ship heading?”

“Pikadov.”

“And?”

“Then I take you to—”

Varl snapped, harshly, “Forget it! You’re not taking me anywhere—”

“As you say.” Her smile held no humour. “Let me put it another way. After Pikadov I escort you—if you agree—to another world to see a friend of yours. An old friend.”

“Why?”

“He wants to see you.”

“Why do you bother? Orders? Pay?” He added at her nod, “How much?”

“That’s my business, but it’s enough.”

“And if you can’t deliver?” He answered his own question. “You get nothing. A contingent fee—only a fool would employ you on any other basis. Well, if you hope to collect, you’ll quit dodging the point. Who and where?”

For a moment she hesitated then, meeting his eyes, said, “Earth, Polar North. Your friend is Nasir Kalif.”

An old friend—Edallia had revealed an ironic sense of humour. The Comptroller of Earth Confederation was certainly far from young. But a friend?

“Forget it.” Varl rose from the table, “I’m not interested.”

“He said you’d feel like that.” She rose in turn to stand close to him. “But he told me to tell you something. Not just that he needs you, that he does but that there’s a chance for you to get even. He said you’d understand what he meant. Do you?” She saw the sudden change of his face, the naked animal peering through his eyes and knew a sudden fear. “Kurt? Kurt, is anything wrong?”

“No.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m fine.”

“And you’ll come with me?” She smiled with genuine pleasure as he nodded. “Good. Let’s drink to that.”

She reached for the tisane, sipped, spat the liquid back into the cup. “To hell with this stuff. It lacks guts. Come to my cabin and let’s seal the bargain in real liquor.” Then meaningfully, she added, “The journey will last days yet—and you’ve still to enjoy your prize.”