Barrington J. Bayley

  We demand thaf you hand over the object.

  Impossible. Ownership is in the hands of our clients.

  Human ownership of the object is not admissible. Streall claim is absolute. You will notify of whereabouts.

  It is already in transit.

  We will intercept. Notify.

  Your claim must be made through the courts.

  Human courts mean nothing to the Streall. Either you comply or Streall fleets will occupy the Kantor system.

  Turn this book over for

  second complete novel

  by BARRINGTON J. BAYLEY

  AN ACE BOOK

  Ace Publishing Corporation

  1120 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, N.Y. 10036

  the star virus

  Copyright ©, 1970,

  by Barrington J. Bayley

  All Rights Reserved,

  Cover art by Kelly Freas.

  mask of chaos

  Copyright ©, 1970, by John Jakes

  Printed in U.S.A.

  The Star Virus

  Barrington J. Bayley

  I

  Suddenly Rodrone understood why the scene before his eyes held such fascination for him, and why he returned again and again to worlds like this one. Lurid, offbeat and infernal, it offered the exaggerated symbolism of a painting rendered by a schizophrenic; and so drew him to that attractive realm of mental aberration where thoughts and actions could all be bizarre without feelings of shame…

  The landscape had the combination of sharpness and gloom that typified an airless planet, and the grotesquely large ruby-colored sun gave it a gory glow in every shade from dark wine to cherry red. Except, that is, for the river of molten ore that slithered down die side of a nearby mountain like a writhing white-hot snake, lighting up the gloom for miles around.

  The mining technique was crude but effective. A beaten-up space freighter, centuries old, hovered on its tail low over the mountain, using its main engines to direct a blast of nuclear heat that smelted the metal directly out of the lode.

  Men in white spacesuits moved slowly along the banks of the metal river, gesticulating to one another. From his vantage point on the observation ledge of his spaceship, the Stond, they seemed like malicious little imps, eager to hurl one another into the deadly current to be swept along to where it cooled to a glowering red in the collecting bowl that had been blown out of the ground earlier.

  A mile away stood the third ship of his expedition, the Revealer. Rodrone lifted a space helmet he carried and placed it over his head; not because he needed its protection—the ledge where he stood was covered with a shimmering transparent film that clung to the hull of the ship like a soap bubble—but because of the communications set it contained. Faintly through the tuned-down speaker, he could hear the men on the ground laughing and daring one another to edge closer to the white-hot stream and take a chance on its suddenly changing course.

  He pressed a stud, putting him through to Kulthol down by the collecting bowl. By turning his head slightly, he could see the tiny screen inside the helmet; at the same time Kulthol's sandy-haired, stubbled face sprang on to the plate.

  "Anything?" Rodrone asked.

  "Not an atom. We're wasting our time."

  The molten stream was iron; but it was not iron they were looking for. Occasionally there occurred in ores of this type, on planets of this type circling suns of this type, silicon diamonds: denser and harder than ordinary diamonds and therefore useful industrially. With difficulty, they could be synthesized, but there was a steady market for the natural variety and Rodrone, against the judgment of his fellows, had decided to make a try. Kulthol was vainly sifting the molten metal through a detector grid for signs of the gems, and this was the third location in the past few hours.

  "The iron's good," Kulthol remarked. "Maybe we could do business in that."

  "Forget it." Iron was the commonest metal in the universe, and though there were rare times when its price in the metal exchanges made it just worthwhile to make deliveries, this was not one of them. "Pack up the gear," he ordered. "We've done enough."

  The huge ungainly freighter, shaped like two squat towers locked together, swung away from the mountain and settled its creaking bulk on the plain. Rodrone turned his back on the scene, which a moment ago had almost sent him into a psychedelic trance, and entered the hull of the Stond. The ledge withdrew after him, and as the port closed, the air-containing bubble—which was in fact composed of liquid and maintained by pressure—collapsed and vanished.

  He laid the space helmet down in an alcove and was confronted for a moment by a full-length mirror. Like many men whose uncertain temperament hid a secret vanity, he could not resist a second or two of self-contemplation. The image facing him was of a tall, spare man with dark skin and thick brown hair. A fringe beard framed a mournful countenance and made his sensitive, almost negroid lips and liquid brown eyes even more brooding, volatile, dangerous. It was the face of a vacillating dreamer, a wastrel and an adventurer. Even in space he wore a short black cloak and thigh-length boots to match the rich brown cloth of his other garments, and a small golden handgun was clamped to the front of his left thigh.

  "No dice, eh?"

  His revery was interrupted by a young baritone voice, and he turned to the figure who had entered the corridor from the other end.

  "No dice," he answered. The other laughed slyly.

  Clave Theory was about twenty-five years old and in appearance seemed to be made of chalk. His flaxen, almost colorless hair was combed back to spread carelessly over his shoulders. His bony frame was clad in loose-fitting, puce-colored clothing, and his broad face was so pale as to seem consumptive, a deathly impression exacerbated by its expression: the eyes had a staring, glassy quality and the lips were habitually drawn back in a half-grin of sinister amusement.

  But the deathly quality was belied by Clave's easy, quick movements and his obvious health and liveliness. He would take an interest in anything and dare anything, the more outlandish the better. Rodrone liked him immensely, partly because despite Clave's own picture of himself as an unwavering cynic he was in fact utterly ingenuous.

  "We'll probably have trouble from the bondsmen," Rodrone said, following Clave into the roomy compartment at the end of the corridor.

  "Well, I guess you can handle it."

  The trouble was not long coming. The chamber was one of several distributed through theStond, sandwiched between the control room and engine and storage spaces. Egg-shaped and about thirty feet on the long axis, it was well furnished but suffered from the chronic untidiness of men living casually. Rodrone sat down and helped himself from a dish of bread and assorted meats, half-aware of voices and the clumps of heavy boots from below.

  A door opened. A dozen men crowded through, some still wearing spacesuits, minus helmets. Others wore, on the breasts of tunics of coarse fabric, the insignia of the Merchant House of Karness.

  They were led by a burly black-haired man with a look of sullen anger on his face.

  "Don't you know enough to leave your suits downstairs?" Rodrone said mildly. "What kind of house-training did they give you in Karness's barracks?"

  The man flushed. "Enough of that, Rodrone. We want a reckoning!"

  "We don't have a complaints department," Rodrone said.

  "When we joined up with you we expected a better deal," another told him, struggling to get out of his suit. "After three months we've got nothing to show for it"

  "Oh no? I observed that you seemed to be enjoying yourselves down on the ground. Like a bunch of damned kids."

  "Now look here," the big man put in, his tone softening slightly, "there's plenty of material to be picked up in this cluster. Titanium, gold and beryllium just lying there for the taking. Then there are the organics. It all fetches a decent price, and it only takes a little hard work and application."

  "Oh, so it's work you're looking for," Rodrone sighed mockingly.

  "It all fetches a decent price!" the other repeated, his voice rising. "But no, we go chasing off to planets not worth a damn. Ferr told you there would be no gems here"—he gestured to one of their number—"and so did your own man, Harver. So why in hell did we come here?"

  "I like it here," Rodrone replied in a maddeningly bored, affected tone. "Pleasant spot for a vacation."

  They glanced at one another with looks of disgust, then seemed to stiffen as Kulthol entered with one or two of Rodrone's regular men. Kulthol cast a ferrety glance around the room, then walked across it to place himself strategically near one wall, from where he looked on with evident interest.

  Rodrone sighed again, this time to himself. He could see what was coming. The malcontents had originally been bondsmen to the merchant house of Karness and had reneged to join Rodrone's outfit at his last call on a Karness-dominated planet. Habitually careless as to whom he took on, he had accepted them without question.

  In a way, their dissatisfaction was saddening. Reared as serfs in the service of their masters, their notions of how freebooter gangs like Rodrone's operated were apt to be naive. They had expected to work to a steady schedule, mining metals and other minerals on unpopulated planets and selling them in the metal exchanges, feeding the trade network that extended indefinitely throughout the stars of the Hub. The idea of illegal operations against the merchant houses had probably not entered their minds, and they had certainly not reckoned on being under the orders of a wastrel who was little interested in work, who had set down on this planet by
whim and merely used the search for silicon diamonds as an excuse.

  In short, they believed in the orderly universe their former masters liked them to believe in. They did not understand the droves of individualists and misfits at large in the colorful, chaotic Hub worlds. Eventually, if Rodrone was right, most of them would crawl back to Karness and take their punishment. A few might stay free.

  The spokesman was steeling himself for the final confrontation. "We want to pull out," he said. "We're setting up on our own."

  "Go ahead."

  "We need a ship."

  Rodrone paused, appeared to be considering. "Sure," he said with a shrug. "You can take the old freighter."

  "Are you joking? We'd rot in that thing!" That was unfortunately true. Its ancient engines had broken down three times in the last month already, and Rodrone intended to scrap the old crate anyway.

  "Three months spent with me hardly entitles you to make off with the Revealer," he pointed out.

  "We know that." The black-haired man wiped his brow. "Name your price. We'll lodge a promissory note with any bank you like and pay off within a stated period."

  "You forget you are renegade bondsmen and the banks might not accept your signature. Besides, I don't wish to part with the Revealer. I am sorry you are so disappointed with your new life, gentlemen, and if you like I will set you free at our next port of call—even on a Karness planet, if that's what you want."

  The man spat. "We're not going back to Karness! We mean to take that ship!"

  "A pity you couldn't have come to the point sooner. Well, you know, there's only one way to get it."

  As he spoke, Rodrone rose to his feet, calmly lifting both hands palms outward to a level with his stomach, as if in a placating gesture.

  The bondsmen had probably counted on the fact that if it came to a fight they outnumbered all the loyal followers Rodrone had in the expedition. This was a situation into which most experienced freebooter captains would never have backed themselves, but which did not distress Rodrone unduly.

  Automatically the men measured the distance between Rodrone's hand and the gun on his thigh, at the same time keeping a nervous eye on Kulthol and the others ranging about them. All except Clave, that was. He was eating his meal, outwardly oblivious to the conversation.

  As it happened, several already had weapons in their hands, in pockets or behind backs. But as they brought them into view the little golden gun on Rodrone's thigh suddenly vanished and reappeared in his left hand with a slapping sound. All motions froze.

  They stared, incredulous. Rodrone worked his magic trick again, reversing and re-reversing the magnetic control field between the plate on his thigh and the one attached to his wrist. The gun reappeared on his thigh, then flew back to his hand again, quicker than they could move or even see.

  "My eye is as quick as my draw, gentlemen," Rodrone warned them in a low voice.

  "They can't take us all," growled the black-haired man. "Get them!" He fired, dropping to one knee.

  He never rose again. The shot from his bullet-firing weapon zipped past Rodrone, but the thin beam from the freebooter's tiny gun bored a hole through his skull.

  At almost the same instant there was a deafening crash. A flashing shaft of pure energy burned a smoking hole in the wall behind the bondsmen.

  Clave was standing, holding a two-handed beam tube before him. "The next burst takes you all," he said affably.

  Kulthol, lounging against a table, laughed.

  The bondsmen could scarcely believe their eyes. The beam tube was hardly a weapon for use indoors. They looked at the gaping, still-hot hole, then at the body of their leader sprawled on the floor. Silently, sullenly, they threw down their weapons.

  "That's better," Rodrone said, returning his gun to its place. "You have behaved very foolishly. Allow me to inform you that the penalty for mutiny, out here beyond the reach of law, is generally far more severe than anything you would suffer at the hands of Karness."

  "What are you going to do with us?" asked one, glowering and afraid.

  "Nothing. Punishment bores me." Rodrone flung himself on a couch, propping a booted foot on a low table. "You may decide for yourselves how you wish to spend the future. If you wish to remain with me, then you will have to accustom yourselves to my ways. Otherwise…" He shrugged. "There are other outfits more assiduous than we are in their search for an honest living. As most of you are trained technicians, in time you may no doubt find a place with them. However, I may as well tell you that I am not completely without plans for some acceptable pickings in the near future, and you can decide shortly whether my methods are really as distasteful to you as you currently imagine. Finally, let me say that it is a matter of complete indifference to me what you do. I don't care if you end up as slaves of the Vine."

  They all shuddered slightly at the reference to the notorious Dravian Vine, a vegetable growth that secreted a pearly mist instantly addictive to a number of species, of whom man was one, after which they became suppliant servants possessing an eager rapport with the Vine's wishes. Although lacking sentience in the true sense, the Vine had by one means or another succeeded in establishing itself on a number of worlds close to its planet of origin, and the number of men who spent their lives in its grip certainly ran into the tens of thousands.

  "And by the way," ended Rodrone, pointing with distaste to the floor, "please remove your friend. I'd also like you to repair the wall tomorrow. We like to keep things in good order."

  Saying nothing, the bondsmen picked up their dead spokesman and left the room. It had been very silly of them, Rodrone reflected, to heed the dead man's counsel.

  Kulthol all but spat. "Stupid groundhogs!" he said in contempt.

  "Don't blame them too much," Rodrone answered absently. He had, he realized, been unkind. It would have been possible to handle the situation more compromisingly. The reason for his behavior was no doubt the contempt he shared with Kulthol for the huge Merchant Houses and the limited lives they imposed on all their serfs from birth to death. A man had to be a rough-hewn individualist to be happy in the loosely-gathered band around Rodrone. Because it was easy to enter did not mean it was easy to live with, and the bondsmen were bewildered. Oddly enough, it was their lifelong habit of obedience that made them rebellious now.

  Shortly afterwards, a few others began to drift in, including some from the Revealer. They brought in the girls— another addition netted by a recent landing—and the atmosphere began to warm up. Wine was produced from somewhere. Pulsing music filled the air, and suddenly one end of the chamber dissolved into a three-dimensional picture screen showing wild, half-naked dancers that made the blood race.

  The bondsmen did not put in an appearance. Rodrone watched for a short while, then smiled wryly, got up and left. He was in no mood for the orgy which the gathering would shortly become.

  He withdrew to his private cabin and relaxed in its quiet, soothing atmosphere. Around him were his maps, his books on every conceivable subject—mostly science. A few scientific instruments were littered about, more for decoration than for any purpose they could serve here, and the smell of oiled steel mingled incongruously with the scent from a bunch of exotic pink orchids.

  Rodrone was a man caught in an unstable tug of war between the poles of action and thought. Here he could sink into the latter state, brooding and dreaming, seeking to satisfy the cravings of his imagination by erratic dabblings in history and the sciences.

  Idly he picked up one of his favorite tomes, a history of prehistoric Earth. It told of the drama of human nations in the confused period before interstellar flight, of Egypt, America, Pan-Asia. Turning the pages, he came to the lavish illustrations of Egyptian religion and gazed for the hundredth time at a picture that would never cease to hold him spellbound: the Barque of Millions of Years, carrying Ra and its crew of the lesser gods on a steady course through the universe.