Banard was sweating as he powered down the ship. These mists into which they had landed were unnatural; somehow... curious, like probing fingers. There was a sound here, a hum or a cry of despair that rang around the mind. A warning to unwary travellers. A sound that crawled into the brain and probed for weaknesses. A sound like death.
Not for the first time Banard wondered if he had made a big mistake coming to Demigest.
He flicked through the visual monitors lodged in the base of the hull.
Outside, the surface was nothing but misty, barren, dead creases of rock littered with broken-teeth boulders. The occasional dry trunk of a blasted, petrified tree groped upwards; branches twisted and curled as talons. The mountains beyond were sheer white horrors reminding Banard of nothing less than the peeled fleshlessness of skulls. All in all, not a nice place. And whatever lurked here, well...
They had dropped through the atmosphere undetected by any electronic means, Banard knew that. It was his job. His ship went beyond stealth; it was stealth.
But whatever ruled Demigest was reputed not to need electronics to track down its trespassers.
No one came here. Not ever. Only Banard would dare, and even then only for vast amounts of money. Demigest was off limits, out of bounds to all but the inner core of the Empire's galactic cartographers. Something terrible happened here once; something Earth liked to keep a secret. This little lost planet, once supposed to be a colony and now locked up tighter than the emperor's mother.
Banard activated his ground camouflage mechanisms and waited as the black shutters slid down silently across his bridge-viewing plates. He resisted his natural human instinct to shudder. He was a professional and his reputation said that he was a man without fear. Without mercy and without morals too, but mainly without fear.
This job was a lot of money. Time to wake the guest.
If ever there was a man less suited to traversing this haunted terrain, Banard would have to search long and hard to find him. His passenger was like a florid barrel: big and round and stuffed with rich produce. Banard was stringy and lean, knocked into shape by a thousand covert missions. So how come, he thought as he swung his SMG round his sweat-drenched back, how come he's ahead of me and dry as a bone?
The passenger looked back, eyes dark and piercing. There was a strength in him, something tense and dangerous. He may have been a barrel but he was packed tight with muscles. Not as decadent as he liked to appear. Banard knew an assassin when he saw one. There was also a calmness about this stranger, clad as he was in his absurdly sumptuous black velvet robes. He looked like a stage magician, someone who knew show business. Banard knew nothing about show business. He only knew about business.
The pair clambered almost silently up the mountainside. The strange hum, that distant shriek, wailed louder now, unsettling Banard. A death cry that never died. He kept blinking and looking round, waiting for a dark shape to come out of the mist.
What did live here on Demigest? And why would this stage magician want to come looking for it?
Banard had picked up the passenger after almost a year of intensely complicated and secretive negotiation. Banard did not advertise his services. One didn't, unless the day came when they legalised smuggling, the slave trade, drug running and good old-fashioned safaris... well, new-fangled planet-hopping village-destroying peasant-shooting safaris, then. And, of course, going places you're not supposed to go. Otherwise known as trespass.
They had met, at last, in orbit around Proxima II, with Banard's stealth ship hidden inside an old EdStobb space freighter. The passenger had waltzed up to the hull under the noses of several gunpoints and said snootily, "Is this it? I had expected something a little more up to date."
Needless to say, Banard hadn't taken this dismissal of his stealth ship particularly well, especially since it had taken many years, a lot of money and even more bodies to piece together. "Still," the passenger had continued in his warm, amused voice. "I suppose it will do." And had proceeded to hand over the electronic transfer for a ridiculously large charity donation. Banard's charity.
The plan, in the end, was simple. Just fly the passenger to Demigest. No names, money no object.
It had taken three months to find out the planet even existed. A further one to establish that if ever there was such a thing as a planet that was as tightly guarded as a bank vault then this was it. Something really bad must have happened here.
Not that Banard gave a monkey's. Because in two minutes he was going to stop, see what kind of credit the passenger had on him, kill him and then get the hell off-world. Why not? He had the cash for the job - the transaction had been completed on the stealth ship just before their hike. Why hang around here climbing up a mountain waiting for whatever it was that lurked here to come knocking? This place gave him the creeps.
Watching the passenger begin to haul himself over yet another boulder, Banard stopped and unclipped the silenced auto he kept hidden inside his Kevlar.
As if sensing something, the meaty passenger ceased his climb and turned, staring at the gun as if this was the biggest joke in the world. Well, on this world it probably was. Banard found himself breathing hard and plastered with sweat. Must be the rarefied air; this thick clammy mist. The planet's wailing seemed louder now, drilling into his head. He blinked to keep his concentration. Just shoot him and get away.
"Time for a breather, is it?" asked the passenger, like he'd caught Banard stealing sweets.
"You got any money?" Banard wiped his forehead with his gloved hand. "Maybe I'll let you go. You know, if you've got money." He wouldn't, of course.
The passenger shook his head, as if disappointed in Banard. "Never carry cash." He smiled. "I'm like the king."
"We live as we dream, alone," said the passenger, his voice lowering just slightly. "Except on Demigest. Where our dreams catch up with us. The Warlocks have been watching us since we landed."
The passenger raised a jewelled finger and pointed. Banard heard a noise, a sickening overripe kind of noise as something moved towards him from what seemed to be the mist itself. Something black.
Banard had time to scream. The kind of scream that recalled long-buried childhood nightmares, all of them all at once; and the realisation they were all true.
The passenger sat back on the rock and munched an apple. He only occasionally looked over at what the creature was doing to Banard. It was whooping with an animalistic squeal as its busy rotten fingers in their flapping ancient rags went to work. It couldn't contain its excitement.
The passenger wasn't squeamish; just that this kind of activity gave him little pleasure or diversion. Luckily the mist muffled the worst of Banard's screaming. The mercenary lived a surprisingly long time, considering what the creature was doing to him.
When it was over, the passenger threw away the apple core, where it hissed and curled up brown on the damned rocks of Demigest.
"All done?" he asked. He hopped lightly off the rock and stepped over what was left of Banard. As he stared at the hooded creature hopping and capering in front of him, he became suddenly serious. "I brought you the offering. Take me to the Inner Citadel. I have all the seals and rituals of acceptance. You may not refuse me."
The creature hissed and took a step forward, expectant light glinting in its puffy, empty eyes. The passenger produced a small phial of a translucent golden liquid. The creature ceased its bony noise and fell to the ground. Its teeth chattered too quickly inside its skull. It sounded like a drill but the passenger guessed it was some form of talking.
"I'm on my way to a day at the races," said the passenger, light and friendly once again. "I want you to help make sure I win..."
