Child of Earth by E. C. Tubb

Author:E. C. Tubb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Homeworld
Published: 2008-06-28T16:00:00+00:00

Glows which faded in the sudden burst of searing brilliance from the field to become smears set against drab stone and stained concrete, moldering bricks and cracked flags. In the brilliance scattered figures stood out in sharp relief and clumps of vegetation dotting the central area took on the visage of carved ebony in intricate array.

As the searing brilliance died the gusting wind carried more than the rustle of stirring leaves.

"There! I saw him! There facing Eastlane! Let’s get him!"

The voice of a predator scenting an easy prey. One accompanied by the thud of racing boots and, hearing them, Dumarest ran across the intersection, aiming for a patch of scrub that marred the smooth contours of the area. Reaching it he halted, crouching so as to hide in its shadow. Listening he heard only the sough of the wind.

He had seen guards in the glare of the pyre but to call for their aid would be to invite attention and, if they chose to ignore him, he would have betrayed his position. If he froze, waiting, those after him might tire of the hunt. Or, knowing the area better than he, they might even now be creeping forward to take him unawares.

He reached out, hands flat, fingers and palms searching for stones. He found nothing but grit and loam. He gathered a handful of each and crouched, staring at the hues now again staining the buildings, watching for a silhouette to break their pattern.

Too late he heard the crunch of dirt beneath a boot.

"Well, now, what have we here?" The voice held the purr of a sadistic beast. "A smart little runner—but not smart enough. On your feet, scum! Stand so we can see you!"

The impact of a boot emphasized the command. It slammed into his side with brutal force, turning him to sprawl on his back, arms spread, legs bent at the knees. Above him a figure stood with shadowed menace.

"Up, I said! On your feet! Move!"

Again the boot, the flare of agony from his side, the sick feeling of helplessness, the mounting terror. He was a victim, the prey of a sadistic psychopath. A bully who took pleasure in tormenting the helpless.

Dumarest moved, rolling, shifting his legs so as to gain mobility, his hands emptying, pressing against the ground as he used the muscles of back and shoulders to lift his weight. Pain made it hard and he guessed at broken ribs.

He cried out as the boot lifted and swung towards him.

"No! Don’t!"

"So you’ve got a voice. That’s nice. Let us hear more of it." The boot again this time slamming into his side. "Talk, scum! Talk!"

Talk and be kicked to death for a joke, a momentary thrill, or stay silent and receive the same treatment. Either way he couldn’t win. Yet if he didn’t win he would die.

"I’ve got stuff," he panted. "Drugs. Kick and you’ll break the containers. You want them you can have them."

"Drugs?"

"That’s right. Enough for you both." Dumarest looked to see if his assailant was alone.

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