The Quillian Sector

"I don't know you," he said. "Your name?" He nodded when Caradoc gave it. "You are young but are obviously clever. You should rise high and become a power in the Cyclan. My capture alone will assure that."

"You admit defeat?"

"Can I admit anything else?" Dumarest's shrug was visible evidence of his acceptance of the situation. "But I'm curious as to how you managed to trace me. It couldn't have been easy."

"A matter of simple application."

"For you, perhaps, but far from simple to anyone else. And after the Entil was wrecked? How could you have possibly known we would have reached this planet?" No cyber could be flattered, but Dumarest knew of the single pleasure they could experience, that of mental achievement. Caradoc was young, and had already shown a certain carelessness. If he could be persuaded to talk, to relax a little, and the acolyte with him-it would be the only chance he would get.

He nodded as the cyber explained; the emergency signals received, plotted, a line traced to Hyrcanus-work requiring the application of a dedicated genius made ordinary in the even modulation.

"And then, of course, you picked up our transmission." Dumarest pursed his lips, a man obviously facing the inevitable, one willing to end a futile struggle. "Well, I guess that's about it. If you'll bring the raft in closer, I'll jump aboard."

"No!" Bochner's voice was a snarl of anger. The knife he lifted an edged splinter of brilliance as he lifted it to rest against Dumarest's throat. "You take him then you take me, or I'll kill him before your eyes!"

"Yvan!"

Dumarest spun as the acolyte lifted his laser, turning away from the threatening steel, his hand dropping to his lifted boot, his own blade rising, flashing as it lanced through the air, the winking brilliance of reflected light vanishing as the blade hit and plunged into living flesh.

As the acolyte fell, screaming, Dumarest sprang forward, throwing himself into the air as the raft lifted, the tall figure of the cyber falling, to hang half-suspended over the edge, blood welling from the charred hole burned in his side.

Dead or injured from the accidental shot, he was powerless to help or interfere. Dumarest caught at the rail, felt one hand slip, hung by the other as the vehicle rose into the air. Falling, the acolyte had hit the controls.

Dumarest glanced down, saw the land now far below, the faces of the others on the summit small blobs which shrank even as he looked. Wind from the sea caught his hair and chilled his face, pressing against his body with invisible hands, adding to the strain on his hand and arm. Heaving his body upward, he managed to send his free hand to grip the rail and hung, panting from the effort, his weakened body radiating messages of exhaustion. He wanted to rest, yet to wait too long was to invite disaster. Already his muscles ached from the strain of supporting his weight, the tissues of shoulders and arms a burning pain.

Waiting, he felt the raft tilt to the impact of the wind and heaved, one leg rising, foot and knee striving to reach and pass over the rail. An attempt which failed, and fresh pain flooded his arms and back as they took the strain of his falling weight. Sucking air into his lungs so as to hyperventilate his blood, he waited, then as the raft tilted, tried again. Blood roared in his ears and he felt the pounding of his heart as he heaved once more, the rail slowly coming closer to his chin, to pass beneath it, to press like a rod of heated iron against the soft flesh of his throat as he worked to get an elbow over the rail.

When he finally managed to flop into the open body of the raft, he was trembling and drenched with sweat. Able to do nothing but lie and breathe and wait for the strength to move. When finally he sat upright, the peak was a blur on the horizon, the plume of smoke from the fire a wavering thread against the sky.

The acolyte was dead, lying in a puddle of his own blood, one hand gripping the blade buried in his chest, sightless eyes staring at the sun. Dumarest recovered his knife and threw the body over the side. As it fell, the raft lifted and he adjusted the controls, killing the lift and sending the vehicle back towards the peak.

Incredibly, Caradoc was still alive.

He breathed in shallow gasps, small bubbles breaking at his lips to form carmine circles, unconscious from shock and the loss of blood. Dumarest lifted him from the rail and lay him down beside the bundle in the body of the raft. The wound was deep, the edges charred and blackened, but the very fury of the blast had cauterized the flesh, staunching the wound and sealing it against further loss of blood.

Dumarest looked at the hypogun where it rested against the side just below the rail. He could guess what it contained. Lifting it, he aimed at the cyber's flaccid throat and triggered it twice. A double dose of drugs to send Caradoc into a deeper oblivion.