Michael Moorcock
The Blood Red Game
PROLOGUE
Renark was a wanderer in the galaxy for two years - but he was not lonely. Renark could never be lonely, for the galaxy was his omnipresent friend and he was aware of its movements. Even the peculiar control exercised on it by forces, which he could not sense, was as comforting as its presence. He moved about in it and contained awareness of every atom of it in his long, thin-boned skull. He wandered purposely through the teeming galaxy for two swift years and then, when ready, journeyed out towards the Rim…
ONE
The three of them met, at last, in a terrible town called Migaa on the harsh, bright edge of a wilderness. Both town and planet were called Migaa and it was the Last Chance planet for the galaxy's fugitives.
Renark disembarked from his cruiser, uncomfortable under the glare of the diamond-bright sun. He threaded his way through the great looming shapes of a hundred other ships, his mind searching the town ahead for his two friends. His skilled brain probed the shapes of streets and buildings, people and objects until at last he had located them, half a mile away on the other side of the town.
He strode briskly from the spaceport and there were no Customs officers to stop him here. He kept his friends' forms firmly fixed in his mind as he hurried in their direction. They were agitated and he guessed they might be in trouble.
People stared at him as he passed a very tall, very gaunt man with deep-set black eyes in a long skull a brooding face in repose. But they didn't stare at his face - they thought him remarkable mainly because he wore no apparent weapon. Almost all the men and women who came to Migaa came hurriedly - but they also came armed.
Only Renark walked purposefully along the metal-paved streets, through the glinting steel buildings. The others moved aimlessly, wearing dark lenses to ward off the glare of the desert reflected in the steel and chrome of the buildings. He noted little transport on the streets, and what there was moved lazily. He thought the town had an exhausted air - yet at the same time it possessed an atmosphere of expectancy. It was a peculiar mood - and it smothered Migaa.
He noted also a shared quality in the faces of the men and women, a set expression, which tried vainly to disguise the hope lurking in their eyes. They seemed afraid of hoping, yet evidently could do nothing else. Migaa - or what Migaa offered - was their last chance. It was Renark's too, but for other, less selfish, reasons.
When he reached the building where he sensed his two friends were, it wasn't the tavern he'd expected. This was called The Drift Inn, like hundreds of other taverns throughout the galaxy, but this one's name had a special significance.
He walked in to find tumult.
A fight was going on. He recognised several, who could be either thieves or spacehands judging by the white, metal-studded plastileather overalls they wore. They were thick, brutal shouting men and they were attacking two others, not of their kind.
Renark recognised the pah". Paul Talfryn and young Asquiol of Pompeii, their backs against the far wall of the noisy, overcrowded public room. For a moment he felt the urge to leave them to it, confident that they would survive, but then he decided to help them. He wanted them to be as fit as possible for the forthcoming journey.
As he moved forward, a spacehand, using the whole of his metal-studded body as a weapon launched himself at Renark. The spacehand had obviously learned his fighting techniques aboard ship or on a low-gravity planet. Migaa wasn't a low-grav world and the man's method of charging in an attempt to buffet Renark against the far wall didn't work. Renark skipped aside and the hand blundered past. Renark kicked against the base of the man's spine with a pointed boot. The spacehand collapsed backwards and Renark kicked nun sharply in the head knocking him out.
Swiftly Renark pushed towards his friends.
Talfryn looked almost panic-stricken as he warded off the blows of his attackers, but Asquiol - flamboyant, grinning and vicious - was enjoying himself. A set of knuckle-spikes gleamed on his right fist, and there was blood on them. One of Asquiol's opponents blundered back into Renark, clutching at a bleeding eye-socket.
'We're wasting time!' Renark shouted as the others saw him.
He moved into the crowd, pulling the tumbling spacemen aside with his large, ugly hands. Together, Talfryn and Asquiol punched their way towards him.
A growling giant swung a pocket-mace at Asquiol who ducked, crouched, then shot out his spike-covered fist deep into the spacehand's belly. The giant shrieked and the mace dropped from his hand as he fell to his knees.
The trio burst from the tavern and ran up a narrow side street until they saw the spacehands abandon the chase, shouting catcalls from behind them. They turned into an alley, running between the backs of the buildings, their boots ringing on the metal.
'Which way to the Salvation Inn?' Renark said.
'Thanks for breaking that up,' Asquiol grinned. 'I thought you Guide Sensers could tell where anything was. It's this way. Not far.'
Renark didn't bother to use his space sensing ability. The image of what he had done to the spacehand was still sharp in his mind. He didn't like violence.
Asquiol led them back on to a main way. As they walked, Talfryn turned to Renark, his expression embarrassed.
'Sorry about that,' he said. 'Those hands were looking for trouble. They picked on Asquiol because of his clothes. We had to fight. We managed to avoid a dozen others, but couldn't get out of this one. The whole damned town's the same - tense, nervous, impatient.'
'I'm afraid I encouraged them,' Asquiol said. 'Really, one can't have one's dress insulted by such a vulgar breed!' He collapsed his knuckle-spikes and put them away.
Lonely and time-begrimed for all his youth, Asquiol dressed with careful flamboyance. He wore a high-collared, quilted jacket of orange ny-fur and tight slacks of purple stuff, which fitted over his pointed, fibreglass boots. His face was pale and tapering, his black hair cut short in a fringe over his forehead. He carried a slender, anti-neutron beamer - an outlawed weapon.
Asquiol had once been a prince - independent Overlord of Pompeii, before the Galactic Lords enforced their powers and brought the planet into the Union.
Renark remembered that Asquiol had lost his title and estates for protecting him, and he was grateful.
He noticed that the younger man had lapsed into a brooding mood. It was his usual reaction and because of it many people thought him unbalanced, though Renark knew that Asquiol was the very opposite. His was a fine, delicate balance which only his will maintained.
Talfryn, lean-faced like his two friends, sensitive and bearded, was an unlicensed explorer and therefore a criminal. He was dressed conservatively - sleeveless jerkin of unstained hide, blue shirt and black trousers. He carried a heavy power-gun. He looked curiously at Renark, but since he said nothing Renark remained silent.
Then he smiled. His thin, grim lips quirked upwards and he straightened his back, turning his long head and looking hard at Talfryn.
Talfryn seemed disturbed by the look, and felt obliged to speak, so he said: 'When do we leave? I'm impatient to get started.'
Renark did not respond for a moment, and just kept looking.
Talfryn said: 'I can't wait.'
'I'm not sure yet,' Renark said.
As they reached the tall, many-windowed structure of the Salvation Inn, on the edge of town, Talfryn said to Renark: 'You told us we were wasting time back there. How much time have we, roughly?'
'Maximum, thirty-six hours,' the Guide Senser replied.
Asquiol looked up, startled out of his mood. He seemed troubled. 'Is that all?'