Deathsport

by William Hughes

  Zirpola brushed this truth aside:

  “But if too many of the machines get destroyed in the Death Sport, the result could be catastrophic. None must be destroyed, do you understand that? They must be seen to vanquish all comers.”

  Ankar Moor tried to temporise:

  “But we cannot account for accidents that will happen. Anyway, what is the Death Sport if there is no edge to it?”

  The man was genuinely puzzled by Zirpola’s attitude. Every gamble carries the seeds of some risks within it. He had always made the assumption that even someone as blinded by ambition as the Lord of Helix could see that.

  His master disillusioned him further now.

  “But the object is that the people must be made to believe that riding a Death Machine will make them as powerful as any of the Guides. We have to use the Death Sport to build that confidence. It is crucial to our war effort.”

  In spite of his disdain for the weak, ageing man before him, Ankar Moor understood his reservations and fears. But there seemed to be no way to get through to him the risks that were involved. He leaned forward across the table, resting his huge palms face down on the surface of the map, blotting out the features on it. When he spoke, his voice was as hard as granite:

  “I understand you perfectly, My Lord. Believe me, the way I have planned it, the Death Sport has been carefully structured this year and although I cannot guarantee one hundred per cent that no machine will risk being lost in combat, I can absolutely guarantee that none of the Guides will survive the day’s sport.”

  Zirpola was leaning right back in his chair as if the other man posed an immediate physical threat. But his watery blue eyes showed no fear and his anger at the other man’s attitude was building up within him, preparing to erupt.

  “Your life is my guarantee of that, Ankar Moor. Never forget it for an instant.”

  As Ankar Moor backed away a little, Zirpola came abruptly forward, clutching his head in his hands. To the other men it looked merely like frustration and anger at work, but in fact the pain was returning to him as the doctor’s injection was beginning to wear off.

  For the first time he felt a weakness in his resolve, regretting the way in which he had had the doctor arrested and locked up, beaten and condemned. Who would relieve him of the pain he felt? There were no other good doctors in the City, certainly not one who could be trusted to the extent that Doctor Karl had been. True, Karl had trained the people in his clinic so that they were able to carry out the routine work of treatment, but Zirpola would not like any of these bunglers to know about the pain from which he suffered.

  More than just the fuel of Helix City was running out now for the Lord Zirpola. Perhaps time was as well; perhaps Karl had been speaking the truth; perhaps he was going mad from the pain, even dying.

  The wave of pain receded a little but it still showed in his eyes as he looked up. His voice was filled with despair:

  “The Death Sport must bring me volunteers from among the people. We must have enough men for every eventuality, or the conquest of Triton may still not be sure.”

  He stood up, not waiting for an answer and began to pace up and down, more to take his mind off the pain than for any effect. Ankar Moor felt the time had come to soothe him. He was getting tired of the interview and had much business of his own to take care of:

  “The volunteers will come, My Lord.”

  “Are you guaranteeing that too?”

  Ankar Moor nodded.

  “They will come forward after they have seen the Death Sport. They will fall over themselves to be part of the conquest of Triton, for the glory and the rewards.”

  “How can we be sure that that ambition still burns amongst the ordinary people. There has been no war for nine hundred years, not since the great holocaust that came close to destroying us all. The people, perhaps they do not understand what is at stake. They are fearful, they do not have the vision to see ahead as you and I do.”

  Those last words told the masked man that he was back in favour.

  “But you will give them that vision, My Lord. You and the demonstration of the power of your machines.”

  Zirpola stepped back into the pool of light and banged his fist down on the desk.

  “I must wage war with a solid front, my people must be made to believe that they are invincible, that they cannot suffer harm in the war that is to come or I will not just lose the chance for an army, I will have an insurrection to deal with and then what will we do?”

  For this, Ankar Moor had no reply. After a moment, Zirpola wiped a shaking hand over his brow and collapsed back into his chair as if the tirade had exhausted him. The pain in his head was getting stronger by the minute and he knew that he must soon terminate his discussion or Ankar Moor would find out what was the matter with him. The two men eyed each other in silence for a moment and at last the Lord of Helix leant forward again. Now his voice was soft, as if the anger had been washed out of him.

  “Now do you understand my fears, the burden that is placed upon me as a leader?”

  Ankar Moor modulated his own rasping voice to bring reassurance to his leader.

  “You have no need of fear, My Lord. Normally, one Guide might destroy an incalculable number of Statemen in the Death Sport. But this year we are going to pit two Guides against a number of men mounted on their machines. They will only have their own weapons and the people will see them quickly destroyed.”

  “Yes, I am sorry to have doubted. They will be convinced. I am sure of it. My fears are only the fears of one who must lead.”

  Ankar Moor could have reached over at that moment and squeezed the life from the man’s scrawny neck. But he held his rage in check, the time was not right, as he had to keep reminding himself.

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  Zirpola rose with difficulty.

  “I am tired, I must rest now. You should do the same. You have worked hard and well for my cause and there is more to do on the morrow.”

  He pressed the button on his desk and the door slid open again, a signal that the interview was at an end. The two men walked to the door together and Ankar Moor said:

  “There will be no rest for me yet, My Lord. I must go and see how the prisoners are faring—and perhaps make the arrangements for the Guides to enjoy the pleasures of the disorientation chambers. That will underline my guarantees.”

  “Go then. We will meet again on the morrow, before the Death Sport is due to commence.”

  Ankar Moor bowed again and walked forward. A moment later, the door slid to, blocking out Zirpola’s view of the back of the huge Enforcer leader.

  The stricken man turned and almost raced across the open space, only just making it to his chair before he collapsed, giving in to the waves of pain that were washing over him. He was able to scream aloud for relief now that there was no other person within earshot.

  After a while, the pain receded a little, and the curtain of redness lifted partially from in front of his eyes. There was one thing keeping him going, keeping him from giving in. His plans for his conquest of Triton. Perhaps when they had taken that City he would find a doctor who would not only stop the pain, but would cure him for ever. Karl had been no good. Karl had been a traitor. He could not be going mad, he could not be dying. He was the Lord Zirpola, ruler of Helix and, soon, conqueror of the world.

  He leant back against the rest of the huge chair and slipped into a fitful doze. He would stay here for the night, if the pain would let him alone for so long.

  Marcus Karl was tired too. He seemed to have walked for hours, but at last he had reached the level on which were housed the privileged technicians, in quarters larger than those of most of the workers in the City.

  It was here that he had grown up, looked after by his father after his mother’s death. In spite of the lateness of the hour, people were still wandering, apparently aimlessly, in the corridors, pausing in small groups to look up at the Public Service Television screens that were set at intervals in the
walls and were giving out the usual formula of bland, banal programming.

  At the moment, Carol Rabids and Howard Koslow, the two commentators who specialised in outside broadcasts of events in the City, were showing a programme of clips from Death Sport—“Great Kills of the Past”—in preparation for the annual Death Sport the following afternoon. They were a popular couple for most televideo viewers, but Marcus had never understood why and did not even glance up at them as he hurried along.

  He turned one last corner and found himself in the almost deserted corridor that contained the entrance-way to his father’s privileged living quarters. He was so preoccupied in the triumph of completing the journey without rest that he failed to notice the printed announcement that was pasted across the door below the seal that had been put on it. His hand went to the automatic palm plate that would open the door and he glanced up at it only when nothing happened. Then he paled.

  PUBLIC NOTICE. THESE QUARTERS ARE SEALED BY THE SPECIAL EXECUTIVE ORDER OF THE LORD ZIRPOLA, LORD OF HELIX. THE OCCUPANT HAS BEEN IMPRISONED FOR CRIMES AGAINST THE PERSON OF THE RULER.

  Below this was a list of crimes, of which treason to the person of the Lord Zirpola was the first. Marcus could not believe his eyes, and, as he read down the list, his hatred for Zirpola hardened and a bitter anger began to well up within him. No man should have such arbitrary power over his people. Even now, he did not question Zirpola’s right to rule, only the manner in which he carried out his duties.

  He turned, almost blinded by his rage, and walked the short distance to the entrance to the clinic, which was maintained on the same level as his father’s home. It was late and there would be few people on duty at this hour.

  The duty nurse on the entrance desk looked up as he blundered in.

  “Marcus—”

  As she rose he pushed past her and half-walked, half-ran down the corridor to his father’s office. He opened the door and blundered in on the occupant.

  His father’s personal nurse was sitting by the desk, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. There were files piled everywhere and she had obviously been overcome by her emotions as she cleared his office. Zirpola and his men did not waste a moment once a man had been thrown into the Helix prison.

  The nurse, Embra, was a middle-aged comfortable-looking Statewoman who had been with his father for as long as Marcus could remember. He had even been under the impression that her devotion had been motivated by more than just a desire to serve. Her tears stopped at once as she looked him up and down.

  “Marcus! What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to find my father. A notice on his door says he has been arrested.”

  “But you were on your way to Triton—to be married. What has happened? You couldn’t possibly have heard.”

  “The Enforcers followed us on strange machines. They killed one of our Range Guides and captured another, then they turned us all back with some story that the Range Guides were in league with the Mutants.”

  She was surprised.

  “That cannot be. The Range Guides would never do that. It would be a breaking of their code.”

  He frowned.

  “Strange things are abroad in Helix. Why has my father been taken?”

  This was enough to set Embra bawling again and Marcus put a comforting arm around her shoulder, soothing her.

  “Tell me, I must know.”

  She managed to hold back the tears for long enough to respond.

  “They say he was a traitor to the Lord Zirpola, working against him, and that is fatal for any man.”

  “My father would never dream of involving himself in politics. He is an honourable man, serving all mankind within the City. And any who would come to him from beyond its confines.”

  “Nevertheless, he was taken. There must be something behind it.” The woman was unable to believe that Zirpola was anything but the purest of fair men. Marcus snapped:

  “Has he been taken to the prison?”

  “Yes. There was no trial. An arrest on Lord Zirpola’s orders is a statement of guilt.”

  “You mean he is already condemned without a hearing?”

  The woman nodded.

  “The next time we shall see him will be in the arena for the Death Sport games tomorrow.”

  If that was what she thought, Marcus Karl was determined to change that outcome. He was not going to await the death of his father with tranquillity. He sat down, his brows heavy with thought. After a while, the crying of the woman became more subdued, then died away altogether. She recovered herself enough to ask:

  “What will you do now—wait for the next caravan that is going to Triton? You can stay with us until you go.”

  Marcus managed to smile his thanks at Embra for her generous offer, but shook his head. A plan was beginning to take shape in his mind.

  “No, I intend to be gone from this City long before that—and not alone, either.”

  A shocked gasp came from the woman.

  “What are you saying? No Stateman has ever made the journey across the wastelands alone and survived.”

  Marcus stood, his mind made up.

  “With God’s help, my father and I will. Also one of the captured Guides if I can free her too. Embra, your husband, he was once a guard in the prison?”

  The woman was frightened for the young man she had loved as much as she would have loved a son of her own.

  “He was once, but he has been dead for nigh on five years.”

  He seized her by the shoulders, as if prepared to shake the information from her if she did not answer him freely.

  “Where are the kitchens from which the prisoners are fed?”

  Her answer was speedy enough:

  “They are on the same level as the cells. But Marcus, no one can get on to that level without the proper identification. Only the Enforcers may go freely to that level.”

  He looked grim.

  “Then, Embra, I am about to become an Enforcer and you will aid me. Get on the video and put out a call for a guard.”

  “Please, no, Marcus, I beg you.”

  “You will do it for my father, Embra.”

  She ceased to protest and he went on:

  “Tell him that you have found something strange among Doctor Karl’s files—some evidence of treachery that Zirpola will want to see, something important.”

  “But . . .”

  “Do it now.”

  Reluctantly, the woman went over to the desk and pressed down the emergency button that would put the nearest Enforcer guard in contact with her immediately as he hurried to the source of the emergency. Lord Zirpola had introduced an extremely efficient policing system to the City with the help of Ankar Moor.

  A man was in contact almost at once and Embra blurted:

  “Doctor Karl’s office at the clinic. Come quickly. There is evidence of treachery.”

  Marcus smiled his thanks. That should bring the man on the double. He glanced round for a suitable weapon and found it in a large paperweight of fused carbon. He picked it up, before placing himself out of sight to one side of the sliding door.

  He did not have long to wait. The guard entered, his weapon at the ready and, seeing only a sobbing woman by the desk, strode forward into the room, reholstering it. Marcus stepped forward and the paperweight smashed down on the guard’s head. He lay very still on the floor and when Marcus bent over him, he felt sick. The force of the blow had crushed the man’s skull and he was dead.

  Marcus had already steeled himself to divest the guard of his uniform and weapon when Embra recovered herself enough to speak.

  “Marcus. You will be condemned yourself for this.”

  The light of battle shone in Marcus Karl’s eyes.

  “Not if they do not find out—and I know that they will not from you. Get anyone else you can trust and have his body taken to the morgue. It will seem to be just an accident.”

  As he spoke, he hustled her to the door, knowing that if she stopped for a momen
t he would have a woman in a state of complete collapse on his hands.

  “Perhaps we will see each other again, one day, Embra.”

  “I hope so, Marcus. I will pray that it is not in the Death Sport arena.”

  The door slid shut behind her and he turned back to make a hasty finish to his grisly job, putting the guard’s clothes over his own. The anti-matter blaster he picked up and held gingerly in both hands. He had never used such a weapon before. Now a new idea occurred to him. He aimed the deadly weapon and fired. At once the dead body disappeared as if it had never been on the office floor. He was ashamed not only at killing a man, but at the thought of destroying the man’s body. When that happened, he had been taught, the soul can never find peace, but goes to live among the Mutants. However, it might help to save his father’s life and any step was justified if that was to be the result.

  Another moment and he was out into the corridor and down to the front of the clinic. He was at first surprised to see that people moved out of his way as he went forward in the direction of the elevator banks and it took him a little while to realise that it was the uniform they feared. Morale had sunk to a low ebb amongst the population of Helix. He walked into an open elevator and, using the over-rider that he found in the pocket of his new, official outfit, he set it to move down into the bowels of the earth, to the prison level.

  The next part of his plan was not entirely clear in his mind, but if it involved killing, then so be it. He had to get to his father and get him out alive.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On those occasions when Ankar Moor went in person to visit the prison level of Helix City, a warning was always flashed to the men in charge of each section well in advance, so that all could be ready for his visit. Such warnings were usually inclined to put fear into the hearts of the men who ran the level, for Ankar Moor was a cruel task master. But on this occasion, the man in charge of the prison area was pleased by the warning; with any luck, the head of the Obedience Enforcers would overturn Polna’s orders with regard to punishment. Someone, anyway, would be worse off for his visit. That was always the case when Ankar Moor called on the prisoners.