by Paul Darrow
Almost in spite of himself, Avon obeyed, his knife at the ready.
“So!” Reiss hissed. “Our moment has come.”
Avon eyed him warily. It was if he was studying an older version of himself.
Axel Reiss smiled and any resemblance between the two men faded and was gone. “Will you make the first move or shall I?” Reiss asked mockingly.
Despite the warmth provided by his coverall, Avon felt cold fingers of fear spreading across his spine. The game of death was about to begin.
“How like your father are you,” Reiss said. “The strong, silent type. We are about to discover just how strong.”
Avon said nothing. He did not move a muscle.
Reiss, brandishing his knife, took a step towards him. Avon produced the six projectile gun.
Reiss seemed rooted to the spot. “That’s not allowed,” he said politely.
Avon squeezed the trigger and the gun spat his reply. To his astonishment, the bullet, striking Reiss at about waist height, ricocheted from his body, whining away into the air. Reiss staggered backwards from the impact, but was otherwise unharmed.
Avon fired again and the gun jammed.
Reiss was on him in an instant. Their knives locked together, the two men fell to the ground and rolled like deadly lovers in the snow. Avon kicked out savagely and Reiss fell away from him. Avon’s left arm smashed against his throat, but Reiss too kicked out and caught Avon a blow in the groin that caused a searing pain reminiscent of his first encounter with Raher.
Both men sprang to their feet and crouched in the classic knifefighter’s stance. They circled each other. The gun, which had fallen from Avon’s grasp, lay in the snow some few meters distant.
Reiss feinted and lunged. Avon parried, but Reiss came forward again very quickly, ducked under his guard and crashed him to the ground.
Avon kicking out with all the strength he could muster, connected with Reiss’s chest and hurled him into the air.
Reiss landed like a cat and, as Avon scrambled to his feet, thrust the knife towards him and slashed him across his left arm. Blood stained the perfect white of the coverall.
Avon sprang back, Reiss in hot pursuit. Their blades clashed and sparks flew. Both men, breathless, stood facing each other, not more than two meters apart. Avon was standing on the gun. He lunged and Reiss stepped back. In a micro second, Avon snatched up the weapon and levelled it. Faint from his wound, his aim was unsteady, his vision blurred.
“That won’t work,” Reiss said casually.
Avon shook his head to clear it. Flourishing his knife, Reiss darted forward. Avon fired. There was a deafening roar and Reiss, an expression of sweet surprise on his face, was flung to the ground, blood spurting from his breast.
Avon stepped forward and straddled his fallen opponent. He levelled the gun once more. Reiss looked up at him and smiled. Avon shot him in the head.
As the echoes of the sound of their conflict faded away, an awful silence descended.
Avon took his knife and cut away Reiss’s clothing. He saw the metal girdle that had substituted for manhood. It had been scored and dented by the first bullet.
Avon sat in the snow with the naked corpse and wept.
Later, he took the phial of nitrogylcerine, broke it and fired the body with the liquid. He used branches and twigs from pine and fir trees to boost the flames. A crooked pillar of smoke climbed into the sky.
This was a prearranged signal. This was how Tynus would locate him.
The fire consumed Reiss’s body. The smoke grew dense as there was no wind to disperse it.
After a while, he heard again the drone of an engine and the tiny heliplane came into view.
Avon stood clear of the trees. The plane was approaching from the South. To the east, studding the horizon, were a dozen or more grotesque figures. Steljuks!
Tynus put the plane down some three hundred meters away. The Steljuks, if that was what they were and it was unlikely they would be anything else, charged towards it.
With great coolness, Avon ejected the faulty cartridge from his gun. He had three shots left. He went down on one knee, took careful, steady aim and fired in rapid succession. Two of the fast approaching figures fell, but the others came on without hesitation. Avon dashed for the heliplane.
Tynus, sensing the danger, began to lift off. Avon ran as fast as he could. It was touch and go whether the Steljuks would reach the aircraft before he did. He leapt forward and, just as the machine drifted lazily into the air, he grabbed one of its landing skis and clung on for dear life.
The heliplane rose vertically.
Avon looked down. The Steljuks were directly beneath him, but he was beyond their reach. The plane, its engines snarling, turned away, gained height and settled to its course.
Avon’s hands gripped the ski like iron clamps. He prayed to an unknown god for deliverance.
Slowly, desperately, with enormous effect he dragged himself upwards. At last, he was able to straddle the ski. The heliplane, unbalanced by his weight, tilted dangerously. The ground beneath was a blur as the craft rushed over it. The sky above was still and blue and cold. Avon gritted his teeth and hauled himself upwards until, his fingers cracked and bleeding, he managed to crawl into the cockpit.
“Sorry about that,” Tynus said. “I didn’t like the look of your friends.”
Avon gasped for breath. His left warm was limp. He had lost a good deal of blood. Every fiber of his being shuddered with pain.
“Congratulations!” Tynus said. “You’ve won. And to the victor must go the spoils.”
“Nobody wins.” Avon said hoarsely. But Tynus didn’t hear him.
9
The rains had come and Lupus was shrouded in mist.
This suited Avon and Tynus admirably.
Zig-zagging the aircraft through sentinels of rock carved out of the jagged mountains, Tynus skillfully maneuvered their way past attack detection devices and landed them safely. They were in a quiet location, designated by Maco, close to the business sector of the capital.
Avon had managed to staunch the blood that flowed from his arm wound and, although his hands were like bloody claws from the effort of trying to hold on to the heliplane’s ski, he could still use them.
Once landed, Tynus helped him by providing clean water and by applying a transparent healing paste to the exposed cuts.
A steady drizzle and dusky clouds combined to obscure a fitful crescent moon. It was a dark night.
Before they parted company, Tynus said, “My life is in your hands. If your enterprise should fail and you are closely questioned—I mean, tortured—can I trust you not to reveal my activities in the banking system and the assistance I’ve given you in cheating the combat?”
“Any man has his breaking point,” Avon said.
“You are not any man.”
Avon smiled slightly. “You have my word.”
“Good enough!”
Tynus did not offer to shake hands. He nodded, smiled and walked away through the rain, disappearing into the thick night. Avon was alone.
Once Tynus had gone and he was sure he could not follow, Avon set off for the house where he and Maco and Anna had agreed to meet.
Though the pain he felt was almost unbearable and the loss of blood had taken its toll, he found strength sufficient to allow him to traverse the wet city streets unobserved by occasional patrols of the Iron Guard police.
The house was in the heart of the financial district and was used by one of the corporations as basic accommodation for visiting functionaries or by anyone who was required to work through the night on Seventh family business.
Avon had a key, passed on to him by Tynus. He glanced around to make sure that no one else was in the vicinity. The streets were deserted. He let himself into the house and, having climbed a steep flight of stairs, found himself in a cheaply furnished apartment.
Having checked for unwanted visitors and surveillance, he made his way to a bathroom. Hot water sca
lded his aching body. Soothing creams sealed his scars.
Thoughtful and efficient, Maco had left him a full change of clothing and some food and drink, but, to his surprise, there was no weapon.
He must have occupied himself for close on an hour. When he entered the main room of the apartment, it was in darkness. A dim figure sat at a desk by a shaded window.
Avon tensed, ready to fight or run or both.
The figure switched on an elaborate lamp that stood on top of the desk. Avon breathed a sigh of relief. It was Maco.
“You caught me off guard,” Avon said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“What happened?” Maco asked. His voice had a hard edge.
“I killed Reiss.”
Maco smiled. “By fair means or foul?”
“What does it matter, so long as he’s dead?”
“Quite!”
“Do you have the travel papers?” Avon asked.
Maco nodded.
“When should we expect Anna?”
Again Maco smiled. “I’m afraid she’s not coming.”
Avon’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“She’s dead.”
Avon stood quite still. Any observer would have said that he appeared unmoved. In reality, he felt as if his entire spirit was draining out of him. “How?” he croaked.
“What does it matter, so long as she’s dead?” Maco said, at the same time producing a gun and pointing it straight at him. “Well done,” he continued, his eyes unblinking behind his thick-lensed glasses, his attention completely devoted to Avon, his gun hand never wavering. “You have fulfilled your purpose. Now your usefulness is at an end.”
Avon flopped against a wall, his face haggard. It seemed all his energy had drained away and that he was accepting defeat.
Maco stood and walked around the desk. “You have been the perfect dupe,” he said.
Avon turned his face to the wall.
“Not only have you provided me with a bogus company on Jupiter,” Maco continued, “a company with considerable assets, but you have also removed Vasht’s champion from the scene. The Seventh family will ensure she is, shall we say, persuaded to retire from office and I, who have carried out this plan so neatly, will assume a position of importance hitherto unexpected. Thank you! Tynus, of course, about whom I know every compromising detail, will remain silent and subservient. However, your faithful and unsuspecting service must not to unrewarded. I’ve been toying with the idea of handing you over to Raher and the other Death Squad bullies but, on reflection, I must admit to having accumulated a certain amount of admiration for you. An admiration that Sabbath once shared. Look what happened to him! I think it would be dangerous to leave you alive. Don’t you?”
Avon seemed overcome with anguish. “Was this planned right from our first meeting?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you kill Anna?”
Maco shrugged. “I left her to the tender mercies of others.”
Avon shook his head wearily. “You had me completely fooled.”
“Yes, didn’t I? You’re good Avon, very good, but as long as I’m around you’ll always finish second.”
Avon, using the wall at his back as a springboard, leapt forward. Maco fired. Avon, consumed by a terrible anger, ignored the bullet that tore into his clothing and smashed the gun from his hand. He and Maco grappled. Maco’s glasses fell to the floor and were crushed under Avon’s heel.
Avon took hold of Maco by the throat and, like a rabid dog, would not let go. Maco’s sightless eyes bulged in their sockets. His face turned vivid red, then bruised purple. In no longer than it takes to tell, Avon strangled him and he was dead.
He lowered the body to the floor and sank, exhausted, into a chair. Blood oozed from a fresh wound in his side. He examined it carefully. The bullet had only grazed his flesh. The flow of blood was easily staunched.
Avon sat for a long time. Regaining his strength, he thought of Anna, of Reiss, of his mother, of the father he had never seen. He wished he had never been born.
Suddenly, the room was filled with light. Fierce neon searchlights were directed into the apartment so that every nook and cranny came into plain view. There was nowhere to escape their suffocating brilliance.
A disembodied voice spoke to him over a loud speaker. “You will walk down the stairs and through the open door into the street,” the voice said. “You will lie down in the street and spread your arms and legs so that it can be seen you are unarmed. You have two minutes to comply. If you do not, a toxic gas will be released into the house and you will die in agony. Move!”
Avon had been as startled as a rabbit would have been when the lights came on, but now he was calm.
Maco was dead, Reiss was dead, everyone he had ever loved was dead. He stood, stepped over the corpse at his feet and walked down the stairs and into the street. He lay down on the wet ground. He raised his head slightly. Raher was smiling down at him.
“I expected Maco,” the officer said. “I set a trap for a fox and snare a wolf. My masters will be pleased!” He laughed, but seemed unwilling to share the joke.
10
The cell was large enough and contained the usual amenities. Avon sat on a thin mattress that almost covered a metal cot.
Raher stood by the door. He smiled patronizingly. “I’m sorry for you. You don’t deserve this,” he said.
“We rarely get what we deserve,” Avon replied, his voice a dull monotone.
“It would seem that your family has—had—an unfortunate weakness,” Raher went on. “You are—were—too easily gulled. Like son, like father! My professional respect for you notwithstanding, it is—was—a grievous fault.”
“What happens now?” Avon asked.
“Certain influential members of the nine families asked for Vasht’s removal from the High Council. She saw the writing on the wall and beat them to the punch. She slashed her wrists while in her bath and bled to death. A pity! She was a handsome woman. Maco, of course, was too ambitious. Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.”
“Anna?”
Raher frowned. “What about her?”
“How did she die?”
Raher pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he said cautiously. “Aren’t you more interested in what’s going to happen to you?”
Avon said nothing.
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway,” Raher said. “You are to be transported to a prison planet.” He paused for a reaction. When there was none, he continued, “Newly acquired by the Federation, it could be described as the worst place in the Universe. A vote was taken and, by a narrow majority, your life was spared. But our masters are nothing if not subtle in their vengeance. They have condemned you to a living death.”
Still Avon said nothing.
Raher, who clearly liked to talk, went on. “Of course, there’s a certain amount of political turbulence at the moment. Human rights have become a major issue and the Federation is behaving with remarkable restraint. Nevertheless, you’ll have a goodly number accompanying you to where you’re going. Sooner or later we’ll get back to normal and my kind will step out of the shadows to assume control.”
“When do I leave?”
“Some time yet, I’m afraid. There’s a major trial going on. One of those high-minded liberals who has appealed a little too effectively to the rabble conscience.”
“The trial will be rigged, of course?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll probably meet this dissident.”
“Oh, I don’t think you and he will get along.”
“In the meantime?” Avon asked.
“In the meantime—make yourself comfortable. Believe me, the time you spend here will seem like days in heaven compared to your ultimate destination? Paroch will take good care of you.”
Avon concealed his surprise on hearing the name.
“Unlike you,” Raher said, “Paroch, once a revolutionary, saw the error of his ways and
returned to the Federation fold. You couldn’t find a more eager convert to its absolutism.”
“I doubt that I should look forward to meeting him,” Avon said drily.
Raher laughed. “I’ll leave you to reflect on what might have been,” he said. “While I attend to what, for me, will be.”
“You expect promotion?”
“Absolutely.” Raher gave him a mocking salute and left him. The iron door of the cell thudded into place behind his receding back. It was as if Avon were suddenly entombed.
But, true to his word, the Death Squad officer left him plenty of time for reflection. He waited patiently for his inevitable meeting with Paroch.
After almost an Earth month had passed, he saw him.
Dressed as a junior officer in the Iron Guard, the former courier for the Prospector on Nereid approached him when he was walking, slightly apart from other prisoners, in the prison exercise yard.
The Nereidian fell into step beside him and spoke softly, his lips barely moving. “Keep walking! Look downcast if you can manage it. As if I’m giving you a tough dressing down.”
“I’ll try.”
“You’re to be transported. But you know that.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t like it.”
“So I gather.”
“There’s little I can do to help.”
“Why should you?”
Paroch smiled wanly. “For old time’s sake? Starets, the Prospector, persuaded me to go over to the enemy. I think you inspired him. The cancer within the body politic does greater harm than attempts to destroy it from without. You’ve proved that to an extent.”
“I’m flattered,” Avon said.
Paroch snorted. “Don’t be. I’ll do what I can for you. If I give you only a slight chance of survival, I have a feeling you’ll take it!”
Their next furtive conversation came when Paroch was detailed to brief Avon on his immediate future.
The prisoner was to be taken under heavy guard to the court of the Council and formally arraigned. The death penalty, as a sop to the liberalism currently in fashion, was to be commuted. But fraud coupled with extreme violence was a sufficient conviction to ensure his promised transportation from Earth for the rest of his life. Federation justice would be done.