A man revealing a weakness. Talking instead of acting and so giving his victim a chance. Dumarest backed as he reached for his knife, remembering the ban on weapons as he found only an empty sheath. The door of the salon thudded shut as someone from behind pushed him off balance. He staggered, was pushed again, pretended to almost fall. As yet they were playing with him, enjoying their moment, one he helped by an apparent helplessness.

One which vanished as Byrne attacked, metal-loaded fists reaching to pulp his nose, shatter his jaw, ruin his eyes, send him to the deck in helpless agony. To end the search which had taken so long. To rob him of his chance of reaching Earth. And he was so close. So very close.

Nothing and no one must stop him now!

Byrne shrieked with agony, doubling, falling as a boot smashed with pulping, killing force into his groin. As he fell Dumarest moved, striking out with a flattened hand, the fingers locked to form a blunted spear. One which crushed a larynx and filled the throat with blood. His hand jerked back, the elbow a ram which slammed against the torso of someone behind him, splintering ribs and driving jagged ends into the lungs.

Dumarest continued the attack, moving fast, fast, faster…

The boot again, rising to drive outward, to ruin a knee, the left hand chopping at the neck as the man went down. A woman, screaming her rage, dropped as he slammed his fist against her jaw. Another spat blood and broken teeth from the impact of his elbow as she clawed at his eyes. As she fell away Dumarest twisted towards a snarling face, his open hand rising, the heel catching the nose, crushing it, driving splinters of bone up into the brain.

Something hit his cheek. Something else struck his shoulder, his back, his head. Blows without effect and without pain. Wetness ran from his temple as a man went down before him. Another folded, breath rasping in his throat, blood where an eye had been. He kicked, the boot having a life of its own, as his hands had life, his skull used as a hammer, his elbows, his knees.

A time of madness. Of a blood-red world dominated by violence. One born of the stress, tension and strain of the journey. The hatred for those who would stop him, those who would ruin his dream, exploding into a berserk fury.

One which ended with the stunning scent of flowers.

"Earl!" Nadine was beside him, cradling his head on her breasts, her tears dewing his face. "Earl, for God's sake, come back to me!"

He stirred, fighting nausea, feeling aches and minor pain. He was on his bunk, in his cabin, the woman holding him in her arms.

"Earl?"

"I'm all right." He struggled to sit upright and sat with lowered head until the cabin steadied. On cheek, skull and temple he felt the slickness of transparent dressings. The side of his torso was dark with a patch of bruise. One eye was tender. His hands and fingers were sore as was a knee. "Slave gas?"

"Badwasi released it. They had closed the salon so the effects were confined. We had to wait until it was neutralized. At first I thought you were dead. As for the rest – Earl, it was horrible!"

A carmine shambles of dead and injured. Something she must have seen before, then he remembered that she had never been on a raid. Never known the berserk madness which could turn a human into a killing machine.

Voices murmured from the passage outside the cabin. Men going about their duties, tones muffled by the partitions.

"Did you see the mess? I've been in brawls but this beat them all."

"Crazy. Like a predator at work. One dominated by bloodlust. If he comes from Earth – what the hell are we getting into?"

Nadine rested her hands on his ears. "Don't listen to them, darling. Don't worry about it. It's over."

'The mutiny?"

"We don't call it that. It's logged as a fight. The dead have been evicted. Those who were hurt have been treated. The rest know how lucky they've been." Pausing she added, "Chagal blames you for causing him work."

"Because he had to care of the injured?"

"Because you didn't kill them all. The dead are easier to dispose of."

The physician had been honest if blunt and she swallowed as if to rid herself of an unpleasant taste. A woman reluctant to accept the grim reality of a universe in which, in order to survive, it was essential to kill.

Dumarest felt her warmth, that of the kitchen, the cradle, the kind which turned a house into a home. One which held care, concern and a genuine tenderness. She smiled as he touched her, turning towards him, softening to his caress. The door slammed open without warning.

"Earl! How are you, lover?" Zehava paused to inflate her lungs, breasts rising above the narrow cincture of her belt. Her hands rose to glide in a narcissic gesture over her hips and thighs. A beautiful woman, dominating the cabin as she displayed her charms. "You look well. I guess you've had excellent nursing."

Nadine said, "I was only trying to help."

"Of course. What else? But I can take care of him now. Why don't you go where you're needed?" As the door closed behind her Zehava said, coldly, "I can understand the appetite for something new, Earl. But I warn you – what is mine I keep."

"So?"

"I won't be mocked. It's obvious how she feels about you and others are talking. Soon they'll be laughing and that I'll not tolerate. You've had your fun. End it." She added, "If you don't I'll end her."

"Is that what you came to tell me?"

"No. The captain wants you. He said it was urgent. There's something odd in space."

Chapter Thirteen

There was nothing unusual on the screen. Stars, thinner now, made brilliant points of light against the dark space beyond the galaxy. Hanging like skeins of jewels other galaxies, incredibly distant, showed as luminous smears.

Patches of dust made enigmatic pools of darkness edged with stars scattered like a profusion of jewels. The normal visual spectrum as relayed by the scanners.

Together with something as yet unseen.

"Someone in trouble." Chapman touched a control. "Listen."

Sound murmured from the speakers. The whispering echo of tremendous forces blended into a susurration which held eerie connotations. The normal background radiation registering as sound, forming the siren-lure which could bring insanity. Over it, loud, harsh, demanding, rode a wailing ululation as if a hurt and wounded creature was crying in the void.

An emergency alarm from a vessel in distress.

"It's lying ahead and getting closer." Chapman studied his panels. "We'll be in contact before long.

Dumarest leaned closer to the screen. A wasted effort; no naked eye could pick a vessel from the immensity around them. Yet one lay out there, damaged, its field down, drifting and helpless, its radio-beacon calling for help. A forlorn hope. Rescue in space was rare. Here, so close to the Rim, those in distress were hoping for a miracle.

"Twenty!" Niall called the warning from his station. "We're almost on target. Nine! Mark!"

As the Erhaft field vanished and the Geniat ceased its hurtling progress a ship sprang into visibility on the screen. One small, battered, scarred, the markings blurred, the name barely discernible.

"The Evoy," mused Niall. "Too small for a regular commercial. It could be a free trader or a private vessel belonging to a wealthy House or ruler. In that case I'd expect it to be in better condition."

"Any communication?"

"No." The captain adjusted the image. "Schell's been trying ever since we heard the beacon. All we get is the alarm."

Which could mean that the ship was nothing but a drifting coffin. Dumarest studied it as it came closer. The hull was apparently intact so the damage had to be internal. A faulty ventilation system could have poisoned the atmosphere but would not have collapsed the field. Had the generator failed? Had there been some other reason? Mutiny? Murder? Madness? The impact of interstellar forces could give birth to bizarre consequences.