E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 17 - Prison of Night.pdf

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Chapter One
Kars Gartok was the last to leave, lingering in his cabin until the others had gone, unwilling to engage in
useless conversation, to hear again the empty threats and bitter denunciations. Only when the ship was
silent did he venture forth to step through the open port and head down the ramp to the field below. It
was late in the day, the sun low on the horizon, the air misted with a damp fog which pearled the mesh of
the perimeter fence and gave the tall figure standing just beyond the gate a blurred, ethereal quality as if it
were the figment of a dream.
But Brother Eldon was no ghost. He waited, dressed in a brown, homespun robe the cowl thrown back
despite the chill to reveal a face seamed and creased with age and privation. His feet were bare in open
sandals and gnarled hands gripped a bowl of cheap plastic chipped and scarred by usage and time. He
lifted it as Gartok approached.
"Of your charity, brother."
Halting Gartok stared at the monk then said, dryly, "Charity? Aren't there fools enough on Hyard
without you wanting more?"
"Is to give an act of foolishness?"
"What else?"
"Some would call it an act of virtue, brother."
"To give without hope of reward is the act of a fool," said Gartok, curtly. "A lesson a man in my trade
quickly learns."
"As those did who left the ship before you?" Then, before Gartok could answer, the monk added,
quietly, "It could be that you have already had your reward. You seem uninjured and you are alive."
"Yes," said Gartok, heavily. "I'm alive."
He was a big man, wide of shoulder and thick of neck, dressed in dark leather trimmed with scarlet,
polished patches showing at shoulders and waist where body-armor had rested. His temples bore
callouses from the weight of a helmet and his eyes, deep-set and hooded, watched from beneath beetling
brows. His hands were broad, the fingers spatulate. The knuckles knobs of bone. His face matched the
hands, broad, rough, ridged and seamed with scars. The mouth was a trap, the chin a rock, the nose a
predatory beak. He looked what he was—a professional dealer in death.
Watching him as he stood there, the mist dewing the stubble of his cropped head, the monk said, "What
happened, brother?"
"We lost."
"And?"
"What more needs to be said? We were out-gunned, out-manned, out-maneuvered. Eighty-three of a
 
hundred died on Craig. The details? What do they matter?"
"Even so, brother, I would like to know."
For a moment the mercenary hesitated then, shrugging, said, "It's the old story; two men snarling at each
other over a strip of land on a world not worth a woman's spit. Each turned to force and hired men. A
minor war and dangerous only to those involved. Or so it should have been but accidents happen. And
the locals were stubborn and refused to evacuate their villages."
And so they had died in blossoms of flame as shells had burst in crude houses and fragmentation bombs
had torn air and flesh with whining shards of metal. An old story and one common on Ilyard where men
came to talk and rest and seek employment. Common too on worlds cursed with ambitious rulers who
thought of men as pawns to be used in a complicated game.
"Craig," said the monk. "You said that was the name of the world?"
"Yes. One lying on the edge of the Rift. A bleak place of rock and water and cold. A world where the
rich burn turf to keep warm and the poor huddle together. But one the wealthier now for the bodies of
good men fertilizing the soil."
"But you are not one of them, brother," reminded the monk and lifted his empty bowl a little. "Those who
give to the poor often enjoy good fortune."
A direct appeal to the superstition inherent in all gamblers, and what was a mercenary but a man who
gambled with his life? Yet the monk felt no pride of achievement as Gartok plunged a hand into a pocket.
Trained in the art of psychology it was simple for him to manipulate the emotional triggers which all men
carried and to which they could not help but to respond. And the mercenary, like all his breed, must have
inner weaknesses, hidden guilts, invisible cracks in his external armor of competence.
As he threw coins into the bowl Gartok said, "It's all I can give, monk. If it isn't enough to buy a blessing
at least spare me your curse."
"I curse no one, brother."
"Then you are more saint than man. I curse people often. Captain Blasco who has a taste for killing. The
fool who hired us. The swine who—well, never mind. What is done is done and what point to dwell in
the past? But you, Brother, have you any news?" Then, as the monk made no reply, "I forgot, you do not
trade in war. But at least tell me this—have any persons of consequence and wealth arrived recently?
High lords with ambition and money to hire men?" His eyes narrowed as they searched the old face. Like
the monk he had a knowledge of psychology but could read nothing. Then a flicker of the eyes gave him
a clue. "They have? You do not deny it? Good. Fortune could be smiling on me at last Where are they
staying?"
"You can find out where, brother," said the monk. "As you say, I do not trade in war."
* * *
He shivered a little as the mercenary strode away, the wind was increasing and its chill numbed skin and
bone. He could barely feel the bowl in his hands and his feet were like blocks of wood yet he welcomed
the discomfort as a reminder of times past when, as a young man newly taken into the Church, he had
stood before gates like this begging for alms.
 
An essential duty but one which he no longer had need to perform but old habits died hard and, always,
it was necessary to guard against the sin of pride.
And to beg was to be humble.
A gust of wind caught his robe and drove it hard against his body, the damp material emphasizing the
chill of the dying day. From the distance came the shouts of men and the monotonous pounding of feet.
Raw recruits were at drill; men engaged on a scatter of worlds and transported here to Ilyard where their
contracts were sold at a profit. Those who had already been bloodied, who had been flung into combat
and who had managed to survive, fetched a higher price than the rest. Others, like Kars Gartok, long
freed of contractual restraint, sold their skills to any who would be willing to pay. Their skill and loyalty
for what it was worth, going out to fight, to kill, to bleed, to die if they must to live if they could even at
the cost of all they owned.
One day, thought the monk, he might be able to understand what drove men to act in such a manner, but
for now it was cold, the field was empty and work still waited to be done.
The shadows were lengthening as he reached the first of a litter of shacks and huts which sprawled away
from the town to the side of the field. Lowtowns were all the same no matter on which world they were
found. The refuge of the desperate, those stricken with illness, those cursed with poverty. The stench of it
rose like a miasma from the ramshackle dwellings; constructions of scrap and discarded plastic, of fabrics
salvaged from the garbage of the more fortunate, doing little but to keep out the rain and giving a scrap of
privacy.
The church was little better, but from intent rather than need. A building of brick or stone with solid walls
and barred windows, of thick doors and heated air would have been an affront to those it had been
designed to serve. As a monk wearing silk and gems would have insulted the wretch to whom he
preached the virtue of poverty. To gain the confidence of those in need they had to be met at their own
level.
Yet, even so, the church was bigger and better than others he had known. They had been the flimsy
shacks of portable churches: fabric and poles which could be carried on a back together with the
benediction light which was the heart of the structure. Yet tent or palace all were the same. All strove to
teach the same message. To persuade all who came to listen or who could be persuaded to pay attention
to accept the Universal teaching of complete Brotherhood. That no man was an island. That the pain of
one was the pain of all. That all shared the burden of a common heritage. That all belonged to the Corpus
Humanite . That once each could look at the other and say, there, but for the grace of God, go I , the
millennium would have arrived.
He would never see it. No monk now alive would ever see it. Men bred too fast and traveled too far for
that. They rested on too many worlds scattered throughout the galaxy and were subjected to too many
strains. But, eventually, it would come. It was an article of faith to believe that. The purpose of his being.
"Brother!" A man rose from where he'd been squatting in the dirt and mud at the side of the track. He
was thin, his face yellowed with jaundice, his teeth chattering with cold. He smelt of suppurating pus; the
sickly sweet odor of tissue-decay. The hand he extended was like a claw, thin, quivering. "Brother. For
the love of God help me!"
"Ask, brother, and if it is possible it will be given."
 
"I'm ill. Rotten with sores and something else. Starving. I can't get work. And I—I've…"
"The church is waiting," said Brother Eldon quietly. "Enter it, kneel beneath the benediction light, confess
and receive forgiveness. Medicines are available and they will be given."
"Brother, will you speak for me to Major Khaftle? He—"
"One thing at a time, brother." Eldon was insistent. "First you must be given what help we have. After,
well, we shall see. Come now."
He took the quivering claw into his hand, feeling the febrile heat of the skin, recognizing the fever, the
disease. The man was dying and would die despite the antibiotics they could give. But he would not die
alone and he would die in peace. Brother Veac would see to that.
The young monk accepted his charge and glanced sharply at his superior. It was not his place to
question or to criticize, but he would not have been human had he not made a comment.
"It is late, brother, and cold."
"Yes."
"There is food and warmth within. You should rest now."
"And stop trying to act the young man, brother?" Eldon smiled as the other looked abashed. "Am I so
old you think I have forgotten to remember how I thought when young? Take care of our friend now. Is
Brother Biul available? Good." Then lowering his voice he whispered, "The infirmary, I think. There is
room? Then see he has a place. I fear that he will not be with us for long."
But first came the easing of his heart and soul. To kneel beneath the swirling bowl of colored light, to
drift into a hypnotic condition, to unburden himself, to suffer subjective penance and then to be given the
bread of forgiveness. And if most of those coming to the church did so for the sake of the wafer of
concentrates then it was a fair exchange. For each who knelt beneath the light was conditioned not to kill.
"Brother!" Biul looked up from where he sat busy with papers and rose as Eldon entered the office.
"You must be frozen! Why must you be so stubborn? You are too old to act this way."
Older than Veac the monk cared less for diplomacy and long friendship had given him a casual
familiarity. Now he bustled around, fetching a warm blanket, filling a bowl with soup, standing over Eldon
while he ate. Only when the bowl was empty did he permit the older man to speak.
"Biul, you have all the attributes of a bully," said Eldon mildly. "If I didn't know you meant well I might
even be annoyed."
"As I will be unless you take better care of yourself. We need you—and do I have to remind you that
self-injury is a sin?" Biul cleared away the bowl, rearranged the blanket then said, "Well?"
"Little. A few coins."
"And?"
"Bad news." Eldon felt his shoulders sag. "War on Craig. The first engagements are over but there will
 
be others that is certain. Help will be needed. Contact the seminary on Pace and have them notify those
on Hope. A full medical team if possible, as many monks as they can spare at least. And perhaps
influence could be brought to bear on those responsible to cease the hostilities."
It was possible, the Church had friends in high places, and it would be tried, but inevitably there would
be delays and in a war situation delay meant suffering, disease, degradation and death.
To alleviate a little of it was the most they could hope to do.
As Biul left Eldon sank back in his chair, conscious of the warmth of the blanket, the snug comfort of the
room. It was bleak enough, the walls ornamented with small mementos and a few paintings of worlds
known when young, but it held everything he had come to value since, when a youth, he had applied for
acceptance into the church and had commenced his training.
There was trust there, and faith, and the desire of one to help another. There was truth and tolerance and
compassion. There was an acknowledgment that life was more than could be seen on the surface and
that, without the belief in something greater than Man, then Man could not be greater than what he was.
A point on which he had argued when young and had still not understood what it really meant to be a
monk.
Brother Hoji had stripped away his illusions.
He was old, stooped, withered, crippled, acid. He was in charge of indoctrination and had not been
gentle. Leaning back, half-asleep, Eldon could hear again the voice which had rasped like a file through
the confines of the room into which had been packed a score of youngsters like himself.
"Why did you apply to become monks? What motive drives you? That question must be answered
before any other. Look into the mirror of your soul and search for the truth. Is it in order to help your
fellow man? Is it that and nothing more? If not then you don't belong here. You are wasting my time and
your own. Rise and leave and none will think the worst of you. Be honest. Above all, be honest!"
Someone had coughed; strain triggering a near-hysterical giggle covered too late into the resemblance of
a normal expulsion of air.
"You!" The twisted fingers of. the old monk had been an accusing claw. "You laughed—why? Did you
think I was a fool? That I tended to exaggerate? That I distorted the truth? Don't bother to answer."
Then, in a lower voice, he had continued. "If you hope for personal reward or high office or the love and
respect of those you are dedicated to serve, then you do not belong here. If you yearn for power or pain
the same applies. Pain you will get and discomfort and suffering. You will know disappointment and see
the work of years destroyed in a moment. You will be scorned and held in contempt, robbed and beaten,
used and ignored, hated and despised. Yet, if in the deepest recesses of your heart, you long to be so
treated, then you have no place here. Man is not born to suffer. There is no intrinsic virtue in pain. Those
who seek it are enemies of the Church. If any sit here I tell you now to go. Go!"
No one coughed when he paused, no one giggled, but still there remained a little doubt. It vanished as
the old monk stripped off his robe and displayed his naked body. His flesh—and the things which had
been done to it.
"God!" whispered the man next to Eldon. "Dear God!"
 

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