As the column moved off, it was Marcus who noticed that Karissa was no longer with them. He glanced round and saw her pony, alone and deserted, trotting in a series of circles away from the cliffs. The Mutants who had gone after the little animal had become alarmed as it moved away from them and had not wanted to expose themselves to these new roaring enemies. They had therefore retreated and allowed the creature to escape them for the moment.
Marcus reined his horse out of the line and approached one of the Enforcer guards who was riding slowly alongside them. He kept a tight rein on his horse so that it would not shy at the sound of the machine.
“We have lost a little girl. She is the young daughter of the Guide you killed. I fear she may have been taken by the Mutants. We must go back and try to rescue her.”
The Enforcer glared.
“Get back in line. We have no time.”
Marcus pressed the question:
“But she is just a little girl. Please speak to your leader. We should try to rescue her.”
The Enforcer, who was, in his private life, a happily married man with a large family of his own, dropped the glare as unproductive and nodded.
“I can promise nothing, but I will speak to our leader.”
With that, Marcus had to be satisfied and he went back into the line as the guard revved up his machine and moved forward to come alongside Polna, riding ahead of the column. Polna snapped:
“Report.”
“One of the Statemen. He says that a little girl has been taken by the Mutants.”
“A Stateman girl?”
“No, he says she is the daughter of the dead Guide.”
Polna frowned, not entirely hard-hearted. But his orders had been clear. He had been out to capture Guides, not to put men and machines in danger by a battle with the Mutants. He shook his head.
“We have no time. The girl will be already dead and we must get back to the City before dusk.”
The Enforcer saluted and dropped back. He had done his best. Polna squinted up at the sun. It was already beginning its descent. Another few hours and the wastelands would be in darkness, a darkness that made the Mutants the masters outside the Cities.
Already Ankar Moor would be angry. He had lost a man and a machine, all for the capture of one Guide. He could only hope that his captive was enough to quiet the man’s anger—or the uncontrolled anger that he had witnessed in the Lord Zirpola in recent months. He was not returning to Helix a happy man.
CHAPTER THREE
As the sun slowly dropped like a great burning coal in the sky, the domes of Helix City gleamed as they clutched the towns like a great mother turtle with her little ones grouped around her. They were like silvered warts on the face of the landscape.
Ankar Moor and his depleted team had already arrived back in the City, and, after he had supervised the delivery of his unconscious Guide prisoner to the prison level of the City in the depths of the building, the leader of the Obedience Enforcers had gone straightway to make a personal report to his master, the Lord Zirpola.
He found the ruler of Helix City in his office, seated behind his huge, ornate desk. The waves of pain in his head had receded somewhat and he was in a comparatively relaxed mood.
As the door closed on Ankar Moor and the latter bowed gravely before coming forward to the desk, he asked:
“Well?”
Ankar Moor rasped:
“We have a prisoner.”
Zirpola inclined his head.
“And the other teams?”
Ankar Moor replied:
“They have not yet returned, but I have radio reports. Team Three has captured two of the Guides. Polna is now returning with the Triton caravan and one prisoner.”
Zirpola rubbed his hands together and nodded, not entirely displeased. He had hoped for more and faster results, but it was a start.
“Were there any losses?”
Ankar Moor hesitated for a moment, then:
“Eleven casualties, all annihilated.”
Zirpola grimaced, impatient.
“Not the men. They are not important. We have enough. The machines, Ankar Moor—they are safe?”
This was the moment of greatest danger. Ankar Moor was afraid of no man as a general rule, but, with his plans so close to fruition, he did not want to fall foul of Zirpola.
“We lost two machines.”
As he had feared, Zirpola reddened before exploding in a blind rage, his voice rising:
“Two machines for four prisoners. The men are worth nothing, but the machines are everything. We cannot afford to have any losses. You have failed me, Ankar Moor.”
The other man controlled his proud anger. The leather mask that covered his ravaged face helped him to hide his true feelings for the man who sat before him and he averted his head so that Zirpola could not see the anger that blazed up in his eyes. For the moment the other man was the master, but one day soon he would have to bend his knee to Ankar Moor or die. That was one promise to himself that the leader of the Enforcers was determined to bring true.
“I am sorry, Lord.”
Zirpola was satisfied that his message had got through, he took the averting of the other man’s head as a sign of shame, and his anger subsided as quickly as it had come. In truth the rush of blood that had come into his head with his temper had brought back dizziness and the beginnings of a wave of pain.
“It is fortunate for us all that Sarnoff is working so well and that the hundred machines are built. I will see if he can make good the loss. You may go now. I have plans to make and may need you later.”
A minor hesitation, then Ankar Moor bowed and retreated to the door. Zirpola reached out a talon-like hand and pressed the button on his desk that allowed the door to slide open so that Ankar Moor could back out of his presence without turning.
As soon as the man was beyond the door, Zirpola pressed again and the door slid shut on him. He cried out and lay back, clutching his head. The pain was back, worse than before and it made the Lord Zirpola, master of all he surveyed, the all-powerful Lord of the City of Helix, begin to be mortally afraid for his life and the completion of his plans, the fulfilment of his ambitions.
The prison level of Helix City was in a self-contained level of its own, with a cells area, kitchens and all the refinements of a cruel society, such as the most modern disorientation chambers as well as the most ancient of torture devices. There are some skills that mankind never forgets, however great the tragedies that overcome the world.
In the main entrance to the cells area, the huge sadistic jailer who was in charge for the day leant over his television console, his completely bald head gleaming in the light, and checked the cells on the videos. His desk was placed just inside the huge main security doors, of solid steel, that were the only entrance to the cells area.
From where he sat the man could see the corridors radiating off to the cells, with their steel doors and tiny observation slits. On the monitoring console, he could see the interior of each cell and he checked them constantly. Many of the cells were empty, ready for the prisoners that it was hoped the Obedience Enforcers would bring in.
The Enforcer paid particular attention to the screen that showed the interior of the cell in which Ankar Moor’s unconscious Guide prisoner had been placed. He was beginning to stir into life and the man allowed himself a cruel, thin-lipped grin. Soon he would be able to make a start at teaching this stranger the meaning of the words “obedience” and “discipline”. Punishment and training were pleasures that the chief jailer never failed to enjoy.
Inside the cell, Kaz Oshay blinked his eyes open and stared up at the blank white ceiling of the tiny cell. The steady lights kept it overlit and the brightness hurt his eyes in this first moment of re-awakening, but he had soon acclimatised himself to it. It was little different from the burning sun of midday. After a moment, he sat up on the cold metal floor and glanced round, his keen eyes and brain absorbing every detail of the situation in which he found hi
mself.
The cell was a small, box-like room, all in white, measuring some ten feet by twelve. The only broken spot was that of the steel door and this too was painted white. It was the smallest enclosed space in which the Range Guide had ever found himself and he was forced to sublimate the feeling of fear that flitted through his mind. Fear was an enemy, for it clouded his judgement.
He overcame it by slowly allowing a rage to build within him, giving him renewed strength and courage. The code taught him that rage had its uses, as did calm. He rose to his feet, waited a moment until his head was clear and steady, with the blood pounding through his temples, then, with a sudden savagery, he gave the scream of challenge and launched himself into the air, his feet thudding against the locked steel door of the cell, the smash of impact reverberating down the corridor before he fell back on to the floor like a cat that had made some huge leap to safety.
The bald jailer watched this action on the console and smiled even more widely. He adjusted the discipline lever that was on another console, readying it for his first message to the cell.
To his annoyance he was interrupted in these preparations by the lighting of the wall lock by the main doors and the blipping sound of the opening code being pressed out. A moment later, the great door swung open and a group of Enforcers entered, carrying the bodies of two male Guides, both as unconscious as Kaz Oshay had been when he was brought in. Their leader reported to the jailer:
“Two more for you. They can go in the same cell.”
The man nodded. The scope for his use of discipline was widening and he no longer resented the interruption.
“Put them in cell fourteen. Next to the Guide we already have.”
The Enforcers moved forward with their dead weights and walked down the corridor past Kaz Oshay’s cell to the one the jailer’s console had opened for them beyond.
Kaz heard them coming and pressed his eyes to the observation slit in his cell door. He recognised both of the Guides who were being carried in. In the past Kaz Oshay had been in temporary Union with both Varros and Ikar. They were older, more experienced than himself, both much scarred by battle and the dangers of the wastelands and Kaz knew them to be amongst the best fighters in the Guides.
His fists beat against the door and he raged:
“I am Kaz Oshay, the Range Guide. I am my only master. Who dared to put me in this place?”
The Enforcers ignored him, not even bothering to glance in his direction. They dumped their load, then returned along the corridor as the cell door was rolled shut automatically.
He shouted after them:
“I am Kaz Oshay of the Guides. I demand an answer.”
He jerked his eyes upwards as a voice seemed to boom out above him. It was the loudspeaker system that operated throughout the cells and the jailer had turned it on:
“The next time you touch that door, Range Guide, I will scramble your brains for you.”
As if to show the imprisoned man that this was no empty threat, he pressed down the lever for a second. At once a violent shock of electricity was released both through the metal of the cell door and of the floor, a shock that was violent enough to knock Kaz off his feet and bring him crashing to the ground, disorientated and almost unconscious again.
So shocked was he by this mysterious attack from a direction that he could not comprehend, that he lay where he had fallen, not wanting to move until he was sure that the pain would not come again, for he knew that he was helpless to resist it.
It was close to the coming of darkness when Polna and his men escorted the caravan of Statemen back into the City. The shadows of mountain and bluff were already long over the parched earth.
Once inside, the Statemen were left to disperse and it was Polna himself who accompanied the two Guards who were carrying the unconscious Deneer down to the prison level of the City.
Left to themselves, the Statemen dispersed quickly, no complaints coming from them, as they started back to their quarters, leaving Marcus, a hot anger welling up inside him at the docility of other members of his party. For himself, he made straight for the transportation offices to complain. He had paid the fees for his journey and was determined that at least he would not lose the chance to go on the next caravan. His other complaints could wait.
The effete Stateman who was in charge of the transportation passes looked up placidly as Marcus stomped over to his desk, his eyes blazing.
“Our caravan has been forced back to the City. When is the next one due to go?”
The man shrugged amiably.
“I have no information.”
“But there must be one soon?”
The official sighed.
“There are no plans for the moment. The Lord Zirpola has told us there is trouble in Triton, civil disturbance or some such danger. All travel is cancelled and those wishing to go must wait until we have information about an all-clear.”
Marcus absorbed this. He still had no reason to believe that Zirpola’s pronouncements did not carry the ring of truth. The action of the Enforcers had been puzzling, but perhaps the Guides had become the enemies of Helix. They were a strange people, difficult to understand.
“But I have paid for my trip.”
Inwardly, the man sighed. Ever since the order barring travel had been sent to him that morning, he had been dealing with more complaints than he could stand. He was sure that his superiors would think twice about making decisions like this if they had to deal with the results. Outwardly, he gave the stock answer:
“The amount of your payment will be credited for your next journey after the ban has been lifted.”
“But—”
The man held up a manicured hand.
“Those are the rules. If you wish to appeal, you can ask for an appointment with the Lord Zirpola.”
That should stop that angry young man in his tracks. No one would be able to obtain an interview with the Lord of Helix on a matter so trivial as that, he was sure.
But Marcus Karl was determined not to be put off as easily as all that. His father would be able to speak to the Lord Zirpola on the matter. He knew that he saw him regularly, was treating him for some small malady.
He left the transportation office and braced himself to start the long journey across the City to his father’s quarters. Since the coming of the fuel shortages only the officials of the administration were permitted to use the complicated system of elevators, walkways and travel tubes that could carry a person quickly from one part of the City to another. For a civilian like Marcus a long walk was indicated.
This time, Kaz Oshay did not rise as he heard the sound of the Enforcers bringing in the new prisoner, though he was aware that the cell door that opened and closed was immediately opposite his own. There would be time enough to assuage his curiosity when he had formulated some plan that would help him to escape from these alien and threatening surroundings in which he found himself.
The closing of the cell door on the newly arrived prisoner was followed by a lengthy silence which gave Kaz some more time to recover himself from the electric shock treatment he had received and to allow his mind to go into a limbo of consciousness from which earthly manifestations of such pain would not be able to jolt him. It was a trick of suspension peculiar to the Range Guides, a manifestation that was central to their philosophy, and of which only they were the masters.
It was later, much later, when he had been in this state for long enough to find renewal, that the voice of the jailer again boomed out through his microphone link-up:
“Range Guides. You will stand by your cell doors now that you have all returned to consciousness. You will stay quiet—move!”
Kaz Oshay, returned abruptly to a worldly level of consciousness. Still seething and defiant, he remained lying on the floor, determined not to obey the order. After a moment and the sound of movement in the cells next to and opposite him, Kaz once more heard the voice of the jailer booming out:
“My orders include you, K
az Oshay, if that is truly your name. Or do you want me to hurt you again.”
Every fibre of Kaz Oshay’s being cried out that he was his own master and should obey no other, but his mind told him that this was not the time for such disobedience. That time would come if he would only wait. Meanwhile the man’s powers were strong and he knew that he could not fight them face to face.
He rose slowly and went to the door of his cell, peering out into the corridor. Then, having his eye caught by a glint of light in the slit of the door opposite his own, his eyes locked on to those of the prisoner watching him across the way, the Guide who had been placed in the empty cell opposite him while he was trying to recover from the electric shock treatment on the floor of his cell.
Once their eyes were together, both Guides turned them into the mirrors of each other’s soul. Deneer, for that was the prisoner, transmitted to her fellow-prisoner the story of her capture. With his mind’s eye, Kaz Oshay saw the caravan making its slow way down the canyon; then the fear from the strange sound and cloud of dust behind them, with the caravan halting and the Statemen milling round in panic. He saw, recognised and understood the reason for the fear, machines similar to the ones that had finally effected his capture. He saw the battle laid out, the annihilation of Adriann and, most especially, the taking of the child Karissa by the Mutants. He saw Deneer’s last desperate leap, then the winging darts and the blackness of her capture.
When her story was finished he transmitted his own, together with all the information he had about conditions in the place they found themselves, particularly a warning with regard to the strange strength of the door and floors that could lay them out, an attack against which there was no defence that he had worked out.
His story told, he whispered in a low tone that could be heard only by another Guide:
“Our Union is limited.”
The eyes in the cell opposite were lowered for a fraction to denote agreement:
“I agree.” The sound of her voice told him of a soft caressing quality in her.
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