Eric John Stark Read online

  ERIC JOHN STARK:

  OUTLAW OF MARS

  LEIGH BRACKETT

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  The Secret of Sinharat I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  People of the Talisman I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Eric John Stark: Outlaw of Mars copyright © 1964 by Leigh Brackett Hamilton

  All rights reserved. This book may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without written permission from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  ISBN: 978-1-61242-444-6

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  BOOK ONE

  The Secret of Sinharat

  I

  For hours the hard-pressed beast had fled across the Martian desert with its dark rider. Now it was spent. It faltered and broke stride, and when the rider cursed and dug his heels into the scaly sides, the brute only turned its head and hissed at him. It stumbled on a few more paces into the lee of a sandhill, and there it stopped, crouching down in the dust.

  The man dismounted. The creature’s eyes burned like green lamps in the light of the little moons, and he knew that it was no use trying to urge it on. He looked back the way he had come.

  In the distance there were four black shadows grouped together in the barren emptiness. They were running fast. In a few minutes they would be upon him.

  He stood still, thinking what he should do next. Ahead, far ahead, was a low ridge, and beyond the ridge lay Valkis and safety, but he could never make it now. Off to his right, a lonely tor stood up out of the blowing sand. There were tumbled rocks at its foot.

  “They tried to run me down in the open,” he thought. “But here, by the Nine Hells, they’ll have to work for it!”

  He moved then, running toward the tor with a lightness and speed incredible in anything but an animal or a savage. He was of Earth stock, built tall, and more massive than he looked by reason of his leanness. The desert wind was bitter cold, but he did not seem to notice it, though he wore only a ragged shirt of Venusian spider silk, open to the waist. His skin was almost as dark as his black hair, burned indelibly by years of exposure to some terrible sun. His eyes were startlingly light in color, reflecting back the pale glow of the moons.

  With the practiced ease of a lizard he slid in among the loose and treacherous rocks. Finding a vantage point, where his back was protected by the tor itself, he crouched down.

  After that he did not move, except to draw his gun. There was something eerie about his utter stillness, a quality of patience as unhuman as the patience of the rock that sheltered him.

  The four black shadows came closer, and resolved themselves into mounted men.

  They found the beast, where it lay panting, and stopped. The line of the man’s footprints, already blurred by the wind but still plain enough, showed where he had gone.

  The leader motioned. The others dismounted. Working with the swift precision of soldiers, they removed equipment from their saddle-packs and began to assemble it.

  The man crouching under the tor saw the thing that took shape. It was a Banning shocker, and he knew that he was not going to fight his way out of this trap. His pursuers were out of range of his own weapon. They would remain so. The Banning, with its powerful electric beam, would take him—dead or senseless, as they wished.

  He thrust the useless gun back into his belt. He knew who these men were, and what they wanted with him. They were officers of the Earth Police Control, bringing him a gift—twenty years in the Luna cell-blocks.

  Twenty years in the gray catacombs, buried in the silence and the eternal dark.

  He recognized the inevitable. He was used to inevitable—hunger, pain, loneliness, the emptiness of dreams. He had accepted a lot of them in his time. Yet he made no move to surrender. He looked out at the desert and the night sky, and his eyes blazed, the desperate, strangely beautiful eyes of a creature very close to the roots of life, something less and more than man. His hands found a shard of rock and broke it.

  The leader of the four men rode slowly toward the tor, his right arm raised. His voice carried clearly on the wind. “Eric John Stark!” he called, and the dark man tensed in the shadows. The rider stopped. He spoke again, but this time in a different tongue. It was no dialect of Earth, Mars or Venus, but a strange speech, as harsh and vital as the blazing Mercurian valleys that bred it.

  “Oh N’Chaka, oh Man-without-a-tribe, I call you!”

  There was a long silence. The rider and his mount were motionless under the low moons, waiting.

  Eric John Stark stepped slowly out from the pool of blackness under the tor.

  “Who calls me N’Chaka?”

  The rider relaxed somewhat. He answered in English, “You know perfectly well who I am, Eric. May we meet in peace?”

  Stark shrugged. “Of course.”

  He walked on to meet the rider, who had dismounted, leaving his beast behind. He was a slight, wiry man, this EPC officer, but there was about him the rawhide look of the planetary frontiers. Those planets, Earth’s sister worlds, were not quite as forbidding as they had once seemed when peered at from millions of miles away, and they had their peoples, descendants of some parent human stock that long ago had seeded the whole System. But they were still cruel worlds and even as they had left their mark on Stark, they had left it on this man, on his grizzled hair and sun-blackened skin, in his hard good-humored face and keen dark eyes.

  “It’s been a long time, Eric,” he said.

  Stark nodded. “Sixteen years.” The two men studied each other for a moment, and then Stark said, “I thought you were still on Mercury, Ashton.”

  “They’ve called all us experienced hands in to Mars.” He held out cigarettes. “Smoke?”

  Stark took one. They bent over Ashton’s lighter, and then stood there smoking while the wind blew red dust over their feet and the three men of the patrol waited quietly beside the Banning. Ashton was taking no chances. The electro-beam could stun without injury.

  Presently Ashton said, “I’m going to be crude, Eric. I’m going to remind you of some things.”

  “Save it,” Stark retorted. “You’ve got me. There’s no need to talk about it.”

  “Yes,” said Ashton, “I’ve got you, and a damned hard time I’ve had doing it. That’s why I’m going to talk about it.”

  His dark eyes met Stark’s cold stare and held it.

 
“Remember who I am—Simon Ashton. Remember who came along when the miners in that valley on Mercury had a wild boy in a cage, and were going to finish him off like they had the tribe that raised him. Remember all the years after that, when I brought that boy up to be a civilized human being.”

  Stark laughed, not without a certain humor. “You should have left me in the cage. I was caught a little old for civilizing.”

  “Maybe. I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m reminding you,” Ashton said.

  Stark said, with no particular bitterness, “You don’t have to get sentimental. I know it’s your job to take me in.”

  Ashton said deliberately, “I won’t take you in, Eric, unless you make me.” He went on then, rapidly, before Stark could answer. “You’ve got a twenty-year sentence hanging over you, for running guns to the Middle-Swamp tribes when they revolted against Terro-Venusian Metals, and a couple of similar jobs. All right. So I know why you did it, and I won’t say I don’t agree with you. But you put yourself outside the law, and that’s that. Now you’re on your way to Valkis. You’re headed into a mess that’ll put you on Luna for life, the next time you’re caught.”

  “And this time you don’t agree with me.”

  “No. Why do you think I broke my neck to catch you before you got there?” Ashton bent closer, his face very intent. “Have you made any deal with Delgaun of Valkis? Did he send for you?”

  “He sent for me, but there’s no deal yet. I’m on the beach. Broke. I got a message from this Delgaun, whoever he is, that there was going to be a private war back in the Drylands, and he’d pay me to help fight it. After all, that’s my business.”

  Ashton shook his head.

  “This isn’t a private war, Eric. It’s something a lot bigger and nastier than that. The Martian Council of City-States and the Earth Commission are both in a cold sweat, and nobody can find out exactly what’s going on. You know what the Low-Canal towns are—Valkis, Jekkara, Barrakesh. No law-abiding Martian, let alone an Earthman, can last five minutes in them. And the back-blocks are absolutely verboten. So all we get is rumors.

  “Fantastic rumors about a barbarian chief named Kynon, who seems to be promising heaven and earth to the tribes of Kesh and Shun—some wild stuff about the ancient cult of the Ramas that everybody thought was dead a thousand years ago. We know that Kynon is tied up somehow with Delgaun, who is a most efficient bandit, and we know that some of the top criminals of the whole System are filtering in to join them. Knighton and Walsh of Terra, Themis of Mercury, Arrod of Callisto Colony—and, I believe, your old comrade in arms, Luhar the Venusian.”

  Stark gave a slight start, and Ashton smiled briefly.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I heard about that.” Then he sobered. “You can figure that set-up for yourself, Eric. The barbarians are going to go out and fight some kind of a holy war, to suit the entirely unholy purposes of men like Delgaun and the others. Half a world is going to be raped, blood is going to run deep in the Drylands—and it will all be barbarian blood spilled for a lying promise, and the carrion crews of Valkis will get fat on it. Unless, somehow, we can stop it.”

  He paused, then said flatly, “I want you to go on to Valkis, Eric—but as my agent. I won’t put it on the grounds that you’d be doing civilization a service. You don’t owe anything to civilization, Lord knows. But you might save a lot of your own kind of people from getting slaughtered, to say nothing of the border-state Martians who’ll be the first to get Kynon’s axe.

  “Also, you could wipe that twenty-year hitch on Luna off the slate, maybe even work up a desire to make a man of yourself, instead of a sort of tiger wandering from one kill to the next.” He added, “If you live.”

  Stark said slowly, “You’re clever, Ashton. You know I’ve got a feeling for all planetary primitives like those who raised me, and you appeal to that.”

  “Yes,” said Ashton, “I’m clever. But I’m not a liar. What I’ve told you is true.”

  Stark carefully ground out the cigarette beneath his heel. Then he looked up. “Suppose I agree to become your agent in this, and go off to Valkis. What’s to prevent me from forgetting all about you, then?”

  Ashton said softly, “Your word, Eric. You get to know a man pretty well when you know him from boyhood on up. Your word is enough.”

  There was a silence, and then Stark held out his hand. “All right, Simon—but only for this one deal. After that, no promises.”

  “Fair enough.” They shook hands.

  “I can’t give you any suggestions,” Ashton said. “You’re on your own, completely. You can get in touch with me through the Earth Commission office in Tarak. You know where that is?”

  Stark nodded. “On the Dryland Border.”

  “Good luck to you, Eric.”

  He turned, and they walked back together to where the three men waited. Ashton nodded, and they began to dismantle the Banning. Neither they nor Ashton looked back, as they rode away.

  Stark watched them go. He filled his lungs with the cold air, and stretched. Then he roused the beast out of the sand. It had rested, and was willing to carry him again as long as he did not press it. He set off again, across the desert.

  The ridge grew as he approached it, looming into a low mountain chain much worn by the ages. A pass opened before him, twisting between the hills of barren rock.

  He traversed it, coming out at the farther end above the basin of a dead sea. The lifeless land stretched away into darkness, a vast waste of desolation more lonely than even the desert. And between the sea-bottom and the foothills, Stark saw the lights of Valkis.

  II

  There were many lights, far below. Tiny pinpricks of flame where torches burned in the streets beside the Low-Canal—the thread of black water that was all that remained of a forgotten ocean.

  Stark had never been here before. Now he looked at the city that sprawled down the slope under the low moons, and shivered, the primitive twitching of the nerves that an animal feels in the presence of death.

  For the streets where the torches flared were only a tiny part of Valkis. The life of the city had flowed downward from the cliff-tops, following the dropping level of the sea. Five cities, the oldest scarcely recognizable as a place of human habitation. Five harbors, the clocks and quays still standing, half buried in the dust.

  Five ages of Martian history, crowned on the topmost level with the ruined palace of the old pirate kings of Valkis. The towers still stood, broken but indomitable, and in the moonlight they had a sleeping look, as though they dreamed of blue water and the sound of waves, and of tall ships coming in heavy with treasure.

  Stark picked his way slowly down the steep descent. There was something fascinating to him in the stone houses, roofless and silent in the night. The paving blocks still showed the rutting of wheels where carters had driven to the marketplace, and princes had gone by in gilded chariots. The quays were scarred where ships had lain against them, rising and falling with the tides.

  Stark’s senses had developed in a strange school, and the thin veneer of civilization he affected had not dulled them. Now it seemed to him that the wind had the echoes of voices in it, and the smell of spices and fresh-spilled blood.

  He was not surprised when, in the last level above the living town, armed men came out of the shadows and stopped him.

  They were lean, dark men, very wiry and light of foot, and their faces were the faces of wolves—not primitive wolves at all but beasts of prey that had been civilized for so many thousands of years that they could afford to forget it.

  They were most courteous, and Stark would not have cared to disobey their requests.

  He gave his name. “Delgaun sent for me.”

  The leader of the Valkisians nodded his narrow head. “You’re expected.” His sharp eyes had taken in every feature of the Earthman, and Stark knew that his description had been memorized down to the las
t detail. Valkis guarded its doors with care.

  “Ask in the city,” said the sentry. “Anyone can direct you to the palace.”

  Stark nodded and went on, down through the long-dead streets in the moonlight and the silence.

  With shocking suddenness, he was plunged into the streets of the living.

  It was very late now, but Valkis was awake and stirring. Seething, rather. The narrow twisting ways were crowded. The laughter of women came down from the flat roofs. Torchlight flared, gold and scarlet, lighting the wine-shops, making blacker the shadows of the alley-mouths.

  Stark left his beast at a serai on the edge of the canal. The paddocks were already jammed. Stark recognized the long-legged brutes of the Dryland breed, and as he left a caravan passed him, coming in, with a jangling of bronze bangles and a great hissing and stamping in the dust.

  The riders were tall barbarians—Keshi, Stark thought, from the way they braided their tawny hair. They wore plain leather, and their blue-eyed women rode like queens.

  Valkis was full of them. For days, it seemed, they must have poured in across the dead sea bottom, from the distant oases and the barren deserts of the back-blocks. Brawny warriors of Kesh and Shun, making holiday beside the Low-Canal, where there was more water than any of them had seen in their lives.

  They were in Valkis, these barbarians, but they were not part of it. Shouldering his way through the streets, Stark got the peculiar flavor of the town that he guessed could never be touched or changed by anything.

  In the square, a girl danced to the music of harp and drum. The air was heavy with a smell of wine and burning pitch and incense. A lithe, swart Valkisian in his bright kilt and jeweled girdle leaped out and danced with the girl, his teeth flashing as he whirled and postured. In the end he bore her off, laughing, her black hair hanging down his back.

  Women looked at Stark. Women graceful as cats, bare to the waist, their skirts slit at the sides above the thigh, wearing no ornaments but the tiny golden bells that are the particular property of the Low-Canal towns, so that the air is always filled with their delicate, wanton chiming.