Deathsport

by William Hughes

  A moment later, the code played through, the great steel door swung open and the newcomer entered.

  It was Polna and, taking in what was happening at once, he strode over to the console and knocked the man’s hand aside before he could press down the lever yet again:

  “Stop that!”

  He looked down as the man rubbed his wrist and whimpered in pain, more hurt in his dignity than physically:

  “But he required it. I must have my orders obeyed. I must have order in the cells.”

  Polna leant forward so that his face was thrust into the other man’s, threateningly close:

  “We do not want him too hurt. He must be kept in good condition. He’s got to be able to fight. Why the hell do you think we went to the trouble of knocking out and capturing the bastard, instead of just killing him out in the desert?”

  “But he has destroyed the video.” The jailer’s protesting voice was a squeal.

  “But nothing.” Polna reached past him and switched off the controls of the punishment console altogether:

  “That is enough.”

  The jailer was sweating, afraid of his superior:

  “It was just for discipline, Sir.”

  Polna grabbed the man by the throat, half-lifting him, in spite of his bulk, from his seat.

  “Don’t you let me catch you doing that again without my permission, unless you would like to join the other prisoners—and perhaps take part in the Death Sport yourself?”

  He let go and allowed the man to sink back down into his chair. He had the satisfaction of seeing him go grey with fear:

  “Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir.”

  “Just remember then.”

  It dawned on the jailer that no senior Obedience Enforcer would come to the cell without good reason. He asked timidly:

  “You wanted something. May I be of assistance?

  Polna nodded.

  “In a moment. The guards are coming down with an important prisoner. We will have to place him with one of the Guides. We are saving him for a special death in the Sports. He is not to be hurt any more than he is already, is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  There was a silence, then the man asked timidly:

  “May I ask who the prisoner is to be?”

  Polna shrugged.

  “Why not give yourself a surprise. You will recognise him soon enough. He is a Stateman, a traitor.”

  A moment later there came the sound of Enforcer guards coming towards the open door. They were moving slowly, as if dragging a heavy weight. The jailer’s question was answered as Doctor Karl was dragged through the doorway into the central hall of the cells. He was battered and bleeding from the beating he had taken at the hands of the guards, who had obeyed Zirpola’s instructions to the letter, but he was struggling to walk by himself, though incapable of doing so, most of his weight being supported by the accompanying guards.

  The jailer gasped and his mouth hung open in surprise.

  “But that is Doctor Karl; who will run the clinic?”

  Polna shrugged:

  “That is not your problem, jailer. The Lord Zirpola will see that it is taken care of. This man has betrayed him. He will not be so difficult to replace.”

  Privately, his inner question was the same as the other man’s; there was no other doctor in the whole city as qualified or as expert as Karl.

  “What was his crime?”

  Polna again turned to glare at him.

  “That is not your concern. Suffice it to say, he was a traitor. Now you must keep him fit and safe for the Death Sport—understand?”

  The threatened man could only nod dumbly. He directed the guards to the cell that they were to put Doctor Karl in, the cell that contained Kaz Oshay.

  They went down the corridor with their burden and he worked the mechanism that would unlock the door without the occupant of the cell being aware that it had been done.

  Kaz would not have noticed anyway. He was still rocking back and forth in pain on the floor, trying to bring all his faculties back into focus to help him recover from the pain the punishment had brought to him, and had no time to notice what went on around him. He hardly even looked in the direction of the door as it opened and the body of his intended cellmate was thrown to the floor at his side. The door clanged shut again and was secured from the central console.

  The doctor lay face down where he had fallen and the sound of the guards’ feet on the metal floor of the corridor slowly retreated. After a pause, this was followed by the echoing clang of the great steel door that led to the prison shutting and being made secure.

  Kaz Oshay continued to concentrate on bringing himself out of shock and back to a state where he might stand and flex his aching muscles. Only when this exercise was completed and he felt himself again did he turn his attention to helping the man who had been so unceremoniously dumped on him. The new prisoner was lying, shaking his head as if to clear it, his face still streaked with the blood of his beating. Very gently, Kaz, having seen that he was a Stateman and therefore not so well able to bear pain, lifted him up and seated him with his back to the wall, before squatting in front of him and looking into his dazed eyes:

  “Who are you?”

  The man cleared his throat before speaking painfully through cracked lips. He had been hit in the mouth and dried blood ran down his chin.

  “I am Karl, Doctor Adam Karl.”

  Kaz Oshay had heard of this man. He was known to be a man of great accomplishment, a true scholar among the Statemen:

  “You are a doctor?”

  Yes, I run the clinic of Helix City.”

  Kaz nodded, though surprised that such a man, a Stateman, was capable of the work that Doctor Karl was reputed to have done. To the Guides, such medicine was foreign; they had their own means of cure in the great wastelands and needed not the medical magic of the Statemen. He waited for the man to be a little more recovered, then:

  “Why have you been brought here?”

  Doctor Karl shrugged:

  “The Lord Zirpola ordered it. He is mad. I made the mistake of telling him so.”

  There was a silence, then Doctor Karl got enough strength to lean forward and grasp Kaz Oshay’s arm.

  “His madness is dangerous to the whole world. He intends to make war on Triton, for their fuel.”

  Kaz looked at the other man in silence, digesting this snippet of information. He understood what was being said, but was not quite sure how he should respond. He knew, of course, what war had been, and how it had become an unthinkable concept. Yet if that was the wish of the Statemen, how could he, who would have nothing to do with them if he could help it, do anything about it—or wish to, even if he were not imprisoned? The result would be that the Statemen would destroy each other, leaving the world free for the Guides and the Mutants. Doctor Karl’s grip on his arm became firmer.

  “We must find some way to stop him. We cannot have war. It would kill us all.”

  Kaz Oshay shrugged:

  “You Statemen, who do not know how to live by your words, can never have the knowledge to know the ultimate truth that is peace.”

  Doctor Karl, who was becoming more aware of his surroundings with every moment that passed, said:

  “Good heavens. You are a Range Guide, aren’t you?”

  Kaz stared hard at him, but seemed to be going to ignore the question. He was very still for a moment, then rose and went over to the door of his cell, moving on silent feet. With the video ripped out, the all-seeing jailer would not be aware of his movements. But he knew that Deneer would be able to hear him and would respond.

  Her eyes appeared at the slit in the door of her cell almost as soon as he looked. When he spoke, it was in a firm, loud voice, as if he had no fear of any other punishment this defiance of orders would incur:

  “We must break—or die.”

  Deneer nodded and answered him with equal determination and courage:

  “Yes. I am my only master. It is
my choice.”

  They braced themselves for the shocks that must inevitably come. But the jailer had been thoroughly intimidated by Polna’s threats. He had too high a regard for his own skin and could only sit impotently and curse the breakdown of discipline under his command. Perhaps the Lord Ankar Moor would come. Then he would be able to appeal against Polna’s decision. Ankar Moor was less fastidious in his attitude to the punishment of prisoners, however close the day of the Death Sport might be.

  At that moment, the leader of the Obedience Enforcers was just re-entering the City. It was the first time that he had taken any of his men out for a night run on the Death Machines. It was something they would have to get used to, for the journey to Triton would take more than one calendar day. They had been afraid of the strange landscape that had been presented to them, the dark shapes and shadows of the moonlight making frightening ghosts of the rocks and the plains, a landscape entirely foreign to them. Even the bright lights on the front of their machines had done little to alleviate their nervousness.

  They could only follow their leader, who was not afraid. Ankar Moor had known the wastelands both by night and by day, until his ambition and his betrayal of the code had brought him to work for his own greater glory, through his attachment to the Lord of Helix and his own, longer term, plans for conquest and power.

  He had ridden out, far ahead of the men he was training, to be alone with his own thoughts. His use of the Lord Zirpola to further his own ambitions was rapidly coming to an end. Until the conquest of Triton, the Stateman would remain useful. After that there would be time enough to eliminate him and be declared the lord and ruler of both Triton and Helix in his place. By then, there would be none who would dare to oppose him and his ambitions.

  He looked up at the dull moon, hanging hugely in the sky, which provided what little natural light there was. He felt a whole person under its wan glow. He glanced round. In one direction stretched the open plain which was the first step on the six-hundred-mile ride to Triton, in the other, the shadows of the domes of Helix City.

  He let the time come into his brain and gave orders for the men strung out behind him on their machines to follow him on the turn that would take them back to the City. He followed his path, leading them in a wide circle, then glanced back to watch the pools of light that came from their machines as they moved cautiously forward. The moon was at his back now and he could almost feel the power that flowed in from it to him, as if it was taken from the whole universe, just to make him stronger.

  As they approached the domes of the City, he slowed down to allow the men to come up with him in close formation, but still in single file. Now he went past the domes, taking the riders round the edge of the City until they came to an outcropping of rock beside which stood a small, semi-circular, bunker-like concrete structure, disguised, but paler than the surrounding rock in the moonlight.

  It contained the entrance to the ramp that would take the machines back down to their storage area, without anyone in the City who did not already know of them being aware of their existence.

  The men waited on their throbbing machines of death as Ankar Moor dismounted from his machine and went silently forward. There was a small slit by the metal door and he placed a special card in it, a card that activated the machinery which would open the door and reveal the artificially-lit ramp to the depths below. He then waited by the door and watched as each of his men descended the ramp, secretly disgusted by the pallid fear he saw in their faces and the relief that showed as they entered the familiar well-lit environment, out of the dangers of the dark wastelands.

  Only when they had all entered and the sounds of their machines were fading into the depths below, did Ankar Moor remount and drive his cycle inside. He did not have to dismount this time, just stop his machine and reach out to press the button that re-closed the camouflaged door at the head of the ramp, Then, gunning his machine, he roared down as fast as he could. Woe betide any hapless guard who had been too slow in his descent.

  He dismounted in the store and ordered his men to service their machines before being dismissed. The door to the assembly shop swung open and Sarnoff hurried through, mincing towards him. Ankar Moor was surprised. At this time, the scientist was normally getting what he coyly referred to as his “beauty sleep”.

  He snorted.

  “What keeps you up at this time, Sarnoff?”

  The scientist puffed to a halt and bowed.

  “The Lord Zirpola said I was to wait for you. He wants to see you the moment you return.”

  Ankar Moor shrugged.

  “It is late. He will be sleeping now. The morning will be soon enough. I will see him then.”

  But Sarnoff shook his head.

  “I would hate to argue with you. After all, I am merely the carrier of the message and the great Ankar Moor is bound to know better than I. But I think that now would be a better time. He has stated his intention to wait for you. He seemed very angry.”

  He accompanied this information with a small moan and Ankar Moor’s eyes glared out disdain. Unable to bear the hatred that he saw, the scientist turned and scuttled away, back to his assembly shop and comparative safety.

  Ankar Moor shrugged and went to set an example by going to service his own machine with infinite pains and slowness. After a while, his anger at the summons subsided and he thought more rationally. Perhaps it would be better if he went to the Lord Zirpola now. The longer the delay, the greater the man’s anger would be, and Ankar Moor had enough to deal with without having to put up with that as well.

  Zirpola, the Lord of Helix, sat alone in the innermost room of his private chamber, waiting for the chief of his Obedience Enforcers. Spread out before him was the detailed map that showed the main features of the terrain between Helix and Triton. He was studying it intently, making sure that he remembered every detail, an important facet of his conquest of Triton. From the history computer he had heard again and again about an early fighter called Napoleon, who had led a warlike state of people called the French and who had fought his battles in the most primitive of fashions and yet had managed to get a whole continent under his sway. Planning had been his secret, careful planning and preparation.

  Only the perfidy and treachery of the greedy men who had surrounded him had eventually brought him down and delivered him to the mercy of his enemies. It was something that the Lord Zirpola had taken to heart and learnt well. It was not something that was going to happen to him. Once he had conquered Triton and had made himself irresistibly powerful by the fuel he would then control, he would deal with any problem of that kind.

  Recently, he had seen signs of treachery even in Ankar Moor. The man was becoming less and less respectful to him, more independent in his decisions and advice. Zirpola knew the signs. His servant was gaining in greed and ambition. But for the moment he was needed. Once Triton had succumbed to him, he would be able to pick and choose a good General to replace him.

  He pored over the maps, remembering each detail and storing away the memory in his decaying brain. The room was in darkness apart from a spotlight above and behind him. This was the easiest way he could read his maps these days. The light hurt his eyes more and more, but by hiding its source he obtained some relief.

  So concentrated was he on his task that he almost jumped as there came a firm knock on the door. The guards had allowed his visitor to come that far and it was only Ankar Moor who was allowed such freedom. He reached forward and pressed the button on the huge desk that would release the door mechanism:

  “Enter.”

  Ankar Moor marched inside and the door slid shut behind him. He walked straight to the far side of the desk over which the map was spread, and stood waiting with as great a show of patience as he could muster. The Lord Zirpola had returned to his study of the maps and looked down at them in silence. Slowly the patience slipped away from the leader of the Obedience Enforcers and he became more irritable and uncomfortable, not even being invited to sit. He cl
eared his throat:

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “In a moment.”

  The Lord of Helix did not look up and there was another silence as he continued with his studies. At last he sat back and surveyed the standing man through his watery, blue eyes:

  “You have been out on night training?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “You are not wasting too much of our precious fuel, I hope?”

  Ankar Moor swallowed his anger:

  “The training is necessary. They will have to travel by night.”

  Zirpola nodded:

  “True. The men, they are coming along well?”

  Ankar Moor drew himself up proudly:

  “They are becoming better and more competent with every day that passes, My Lord.”

  The Lord of Helix snorted:

  “But not competent enough. Not with the disasters of yesterday. How can you face me and make such a boast?”

  Ankar Moor was puzzled.

  “But we achieved our aim, My Lord. We captured four of the Range Guides for the Death Sport.”

  Zirpola glared and slammed his hand palm down on the surface of the desk with a loud crack.

  “And at what cost?”

  Beneath the mask, the Enforcer’s mangled flesh reddened.

  “Well, as I told you yesterday, the combat cost us some eleven men altogether. But there are plenty more. Men are always expendable.”

  Zirpola came to the point he was making. He screamed:

  “But my precious machines are not.”

  “But Sarnoff has more spare parts.”

  “Parts, yes. But he reported to me this evening. There are not enough parts to put together any more complete machines.”

  This information was stunning even to Ankar Moor, leaving him bereft of speech for a moment.

  “But it has only cost us two of them.”

  “That is two machines too many. Damn it, do you think that such a loss is an accomplishment? And how many more machines do we risk losing in the Death Sport?”

  Ankar Moor shrugged:

  “We will still have more than enough to take Triton. In the depths of their City we know they will have the same storage rooms as we uncovered, and our spies tell us they have remained sealed and have never been opened. We can make more machines when we have captured the City.”