Earthblood (35 page)

"Get back!" someone was calling. The ceiling was a mass of boiling smoke and flame; each massive timber supporting the rafters blazed, crackling. Roan backed away, then turned and ran.

Behind him, the roof fell with a great thunder; a blast of scalding air struck at him, and sparks flew all around . . .

Later, he stood at the top of a broad flight of marble steps, where a group of men wheezed under the weight of a black stone statue of a man with a wide headdress and a straight-ahead gaze.

"See him, Roan?" Daryl called. "Isn't he wonderful? The labor, the hopes that went into that image. And now . . ."

The Pharaoh Horemheb went over with a resounding smash, tumbled down head over throne, pulverizing the steps as it struck them. The head flew off, struck a man standing below, who fell screaming, and a crowd closed around him like fish after a bait.

"Master, you're not well," Sostelle was saying. "Let me take you home . . .

!"

"Wait. Have to see Desiranne." Roan shook his head, started down the stairs. Daryl skipped ahead, dragging a picture in a heavy frame. At the foot of the stairs, he raised it high, brought it down on the bronze figure of a girl with a water jar; it burst into a cloud of dry chips.

"The Mona Lisa," he caroled. "The only one in the world—and I destroyed it!" He spun on Roan. "Oh, Roan, doesn't it give you a wonderful feeling of power? Those old ones—the ones that conquered the universe—they treasured all this! And we have the power to do as we like with it. They made it—we finish it! Doesn't that make us their equals?" Roan stared past him at a bigger-than-life white marble of a thick-bodied woman with her garment down around her hips. She was chipped and her arms were missing.

"Shame," Roan mumbled. "Shouldn't break . . . old things." He felt as though he were falling.

"I didn't do that one," Daryl said. "It was already broken—but I'll finish it!" He ran to the statue and pushed. It didn't budge. Daryl made a face and ran on to pull down a painting of a man with one ear missing.

"It's hot in here," Roan said aloud. The walls were sailing by, going faster and faster. He groped for support, sank down on the steps. All around, people were running like gracyls in molting time, carrying things that smashed, or broke, or were torn apart. Someone started a blaze in the center of the floor, and pictures went flying into it. The floor shook as heavy marbles toppled.

"Get a cutter," a girl screamed, "to use on the bronzes!"

"What a night!" Daryl exulted. "We did the Louvre long ago, and the Grand Palais d'Arte, and the Imperial Gardens; we were saving this one for a special occasion—and your being here—it's just made it perfect—" Roan got to his feet, fighting the blackness. "I can't wait any longer," he shouted over the din. "Where's Desiranne?"

"Roan, Roan! Forget her for now! There's her performance coming! There's lots of luscious sport to be had before then—"

Phrygette was there tucking back a strand of corn-yellow hair with a white arm smudged with soot.

"I'm bored," she said. "Daryl, let's get on to the performance."

"But there are still lots of things to do," he cried, dancing round her. "The books! We haven't even begun on the books—and the tapes, and the old films, and . . . and . . ."

"I'm going," Phrygette pouted. She looked at Roan. He stared back, seeing her face dancing in fire.

"Don't look at me like that," she said sharply. "You look so peculiar . . ." Roan took a deep breath and held one part of his mind away from the whirling dizziness that enveloped him. He produced something that could be defined as a smile.

"If you were a sixteen-thousand-year throwback, you'd look peculiar, too." He seemed to be watching everything through a view screen now; Daryl looked tiny and far away, and all around the floor curved upward. A wild singing whine rang in Roan's ears. His face felt furnace-hot. "I want to see Desiranne now," he said.

"Oh, all right," Daryl gave Phrygette an icy look. "Spoilsport!"

They were in a moldy velvet and chipped gilt room lit by tiny lights glaring down from above like stars as seen in Deep Space, set in a ceiling that slanted away toward a small, bright-lit platform below. There were seats ranked beside Roan's, and more rows lower down, and others swinging in wide sweeps farther up, and still more, perched like tiny balconies just above the stage, and all of them were filled with slim-necked, soot-streaked Men and Women.

"In all that you've told me of other worlds, Roan," Daryl said in a low, vibrant voice, "there has been nothing to equal what you will see Desiranne do here tonight."

"What will she do? Play some instrument? Sing?" The thought of seeing her again made his pulse throb in his head, driving back the sickness. He remembered Stellaraire and her erotic dancing. Surely Desiranne wouldn't do anything like that . . .

"Master," Sostelle whined at Roan's side. "Please—let me bring the doctor to see you now."

"The stuff you gave me is working," Roan said. "I feel better. I'm all right." A blue mist blew across the stage. Out of it, a little blue and silver dog emerged, singing an eerie, piercing little song in a register so high it was barely within hearing. The blue color faded, and now there were pale pastels—mauve, bluish pink, sunshine-yellow, rain-gray—swirls, clouds, blown foams. The blue dog's song ended in a tiny yelp, and behind Roan, Sostelle winced. Roan could make out another figure in the mist now, dressed in diaphanous robes, swathed from head to foot. It came forward and the scarf blew from its head. It was Desiranne and her pale hair swirled down about her shoulders.

The music was low and gentle, almost a lullaby, and Desiranne ran gracefully, girlishly about in the mists, playing. Then, by degrees, the tempo changed and a drum began to beat—an insistent, commanding beat. Roan began to be aware of Daryl's breathing beside him and he also remembered the fearful beat of the drums that night he stood frozen with fear by the high wire on Chlora, when he was with the circus. Was that it? Was that what was making the small hairs on his arms prickle, and bringing the smell of danger and the cold sweat in his stomach?

Something . . . he turned to Daryl to tell him to stop the show. Whatever it was going to be, Roan could feel it beginning to stink. Something was wrong. Something . . .

But Daryl was smiling expectantly and proudly at Desiranne.

"By the way," he said. "Did I mention that she is my daughter?"

"Your daughter?" Roan repeated dumbly. "You're not old enough," he blurted.

Daryl looked astonished. "Not old enough . . ." A strange expression crossed his face. "You mean—you're . . ." He gulped. "I remember learning once that long ago, men died like dogs, after only a moment of life. Do you mean, Roan, that you—that you . . . ?"

"Never mind."

On the stage, Desiranne had begun a slow, sensuous striptease. The music became more and more insinuating, erotic, then slowed as Desiranne removed her last wisp of garment. As she pirouetted, all pink and gold in the lights, the little silver and blue dog came mincing out onto the stage with something sharp that glittered silver where the light caught it. It was a knife, long and leaf-thin and sharp. Desiranne dipped in her dance to pluck the stiletto from its cushion, danced away, holding it high. Then the music began to change again, and now a savage tempo took over. An animal music. It went straight to some dark, forgotten part of Roan's mind and again fear began to swell in him insistently. He came to his feet—

Desiranne stopped, stood poised; she held the scalpel-keen blade in her right hand and with great grace and sure slowness, cut off the little finger of her left hand.

A terrible cry tore itself from Roan's throat. He plunged down through the crowd, not even aware of the screams and the smash of his fists on anything that impeded him. With a leap he was on the stage, snatching the knife from Desiranne's hand as she moved to stroke it across his wrist. He caught her, looked into eyes as vacant and dead as the glassless windows of a ruined city.

"Why?" Roan screamed. "Why?" Blood ran down Desiranne's arm. For a moment her eyes seemed to stir with returning life; then she wilted. Roan caught her up, whirled on the others who had crowded around the stage now, all shouting at once. The air reeked of blood; it was a taste in the mouth.

"Get a doctor! She'll die!"

Daryl's livid face was in front of him. He shook his fists over his head. His mouth looked loose and wet.

"Your daughter!" Roan said hoarsely, looking down at the small, gentle, beautiful face. "Your own daughter!"

"She felt nothing! She was drugged! Do you realize that her one chance for a perfect Death Performance is ruined forever? That this is all she has lived for and now she will never have it? I reared her for this, trained her myself!

All these years I've kept her perfect, waiting for the one, the ideal occasion—and now—"

Roan snarled and kicked him brutally, and Daryl doubled over, mewing, coiled on the bloody floor.

"Sostelle—get a Man doctor!" Roan jumped down, ran toward the rear of the theater. Desiranne hung limp in his arms, her face as pale as chalk. In a vast gilt room, Desiranne lay on a narrow couch of pale green silk with curved legs wrought of silver and ivory. A small crowd of eager-eyed Terrans stood by, watching. The doctor, a scrubbed-looking dog carrying a pouch, clucked and sprayed something from the pouch over Desiranne's stumped finger, looked over at Roan.

"She will survive. The tourniquet saved her from excessive bleeding. A pity; so fair she was. But, you, sir; you don't look well. Sostelle tells me—"

"Never mind me; why doesn't she wake up? Are you sure she isn't going to die?"

"She won't die. I'll see to a bud implant from self-germinal tissue, and in a year or two, with the proper stimuli, she'll be as good as new. Now I must insist, sir: Let me have a look at you."

"All right." Roan sank down in a high-backed chair; the doctor applied a smooth, cold metal object to him, muttered to himself.

"You're a sick master," he said. "Temperature over one hundred and four; blood pressure—"

"Just give me some medicine," Roan interrupted. "My head aches."

"I've heard a bit of your background, sir," the doctor said as he rummaged in his bag. "I think I see what's happened here. You've no immunity to the native diseases of Terra. And, of course, they find in you a perfect host. Now—"

"I've never been sick," Roan said, "not like this. I thought it was just the wine, but . . ." He tottered in the chair as a wave of dizziness passed over him.

"Master!" Sostelle was at Roan's side, "They are coming—Master Hugh and many others—and with them are the Enforcers. Kotschai himself—"

"Good!" Roan snarled, showing his teeth. "I need something to fight!

Terrans are no good—they just fall down and cry."

"Please, sir," the doctor said sharply. "You must stand still if I'm to administer my medicants—"

"Doctor," Sostelle whimpered. "Give him something to bring back his strength. See how he faints . . ."

"Ummm, yes, there are stimulants—dangerous, mind you, but—"

"Quickly! They come! I smell the odor of human hate!"

"The scent is thick here in this room," the doctor grunted. He sprayed something cold against the inner side of Roan's elbow.

"Master, you must flee now," Sostelle took his arm. Roan shook him off. "Bring 'em on," he yelled. "I want to crush the life out of something! I want to pay them back for what they did to Desiranne!"

"But, Master, Kotschai is strong and cruel and skilled in inflicting pain—"

"So am I," Roan shouted. Ice seemed to be pumping through his veins. The ringing in his head had receded to a distant humming. Suddenly he was light, strong, his vision keen; only his heart seemed to pound too loudly.

"Oh, Master, there are many of them," Sostelle cried. "You cannot kill them all. And you are sick. Run—quickly—while I delay them—"

"Sostelle—go and find Askor and Sidis. Get them and bring them to the ship."

"If I do as you command, Master, will you make your escape? The door is there; it leads by a narrow way to the street below."

"All right." Roan let his breath out in a hiss between his teeth. "I'll run. Just get them and send them to me—and take care of this poor girl."

"I will, Master!"

"Good-by, Sostelle. You were the best man I found on Terra." He opened the door and stepped through into dusty gloom.

The street was not like the others Roan had seen on Terra. It was unlit, with broken pavement through which rank weeds grew. He ran, and behind him dogs yelped and called. There was a gate ahead, a stark thing of metal bars and cruel spikes. Roan recognized it from Daryl's description. Beyond it he saw the ominous darkness, smelled the filth and decay of the Lower Town. Without pausing, he leaped up, pulled himself to the top, and dropped on the other side.

Roan didn't know how many hours later it was. He had run—for miles, it seemed—through dark, twisting, ancient streets, empty of people, with the police baying at his heels. Once they cornered him in a crumbling courtyard, and he killed two of them as they closed in, then leaped up, caught a low-hanging roof's edge, and fled away across the broken slates where they could not follow.

Now he was in a street crowded with faces that were like those remembered from evil dreams—Terrans, with scars, pockmarks, disease-ravaged faces, and starvation-wracked bodies. Women with eyes like the sockets in a skull held out bony hands, quavering pleas for bread and copper; children like darting brown spiders with oversized eyes and knobby knee joints trailed him, shouting in an incomprehensible language. A vast, obese man with one eye and an odor of old sickness trailed him for two blocks, until Roan turned, snatched up a foot-long knife from a display before a tumbledown stall, and gestured with it.

There were no dogs here, only the warped, crooked people and the evil stench and the glare of unshielded lights and the sense of age and decay and bottomless misery. Roan could feel the strength going from his legs; he stumbled often, and once he fell and rested awhile on hands and knees before he could stand again, shouting to scatter the ring of glittering-eyed people who had closed in on him.