Deathsport

by William Hughes

  Marcus and the doctor shuddered as they saw the results of Zirpola’s manipulation. It had been a beautifully calculated effect. The crowds in the arena rose and cheered their leader to the echo and they could imagine the people in their homes leaning forward in excitement to watch the machines as they were ridden powerfully round the arena.

  The prisoners made two circuits, then brought their machines to a halt, as they had been instructed, immediately below the box that contained the leader of the City. Now he stepped forward again.

  “For months these men have been perfecting their skills, learning the full power and use of the Death Machines, readying themselves for the danger and excitement of this contest, this trial of power and wits—and the greater struggle beyond. Now, here in the arena, you are to be privileged to witness the power that these machines can give to ordinary Statemen. Later you will see the machines overcome even the powers of the Range Guides in deadly combat. But first a traditional gladiatorial duel between two equally matched Statemen—let the Death Sport begin.”

  He took a proud pose as the camera moved in on him for these final words, his head held high to emphasise his strength and vision. Amid a poorly recorded fanfare of trumpets, his face slowly faded from the screen and was replaced by a shot of the whole arena, as the cameras waited for the contest to begin.

  The crowd fell silent in expectation and the only sounds came from the low hum of the blaster shield and the roar of the enormous cycles.

  Far below, still in the depths of the City, the two Guides were pushed into the tiny security elevator and the controls were set. As the elevator started to move, one of the guards communicated a signal to the empty changing-room where other guards stood ready to receive them.

  Inside the little cage, the glazed look fell from the eyes of the two Guides and they looked at one another, their stares locking on to each other as they pulled themselves upright in the confined space.

  Both of them were aware how much the disorientation chambers had weakened them and Kaz managed to gasp: “Deneer, we must try to rebuild our strength.”

  Deneer nodded.

  “I agree. We must do it together.”

  Each of them reached up, gently touching the temples of the other with their fingertips, each pulling the other’s head forward so that their foreheads rested against one another, their eyes still locked on to each other’s.

  The deep hum started up from their throats, in key and in unison. All of their attention and the attention of the consciousness became focussed into them.

  Deneer began to chant softly:

  “Float with me.”

  “I float with you.”

  “Let your thoughts float together with mine.”

  “I let my thoughts float together with yours.”

  “Let all noise and torment wash from your mind.”

  “All noise and torment washes from my mind.”

  “Bring peace.”

  “Bring peace.”

  They floated in through the windows of each other’s soul. Their eyes became mirrors behind which they were renewed, cut off from the reality of the small cage that ascended with them.

  After a while, they floated back to reality. Deneer said:

  “Feel me, feel yourself.”

  Kaz echoed her:

  “Feel me, feel yourself.”

  There was another moment of silence between them, before Kaz intoned softly:

  “I am one with you. We are together through time and space in the silence and power of the consciousness.”

  Their foreheads remained together as they reached up and touched each other on the temples once more, gently, with their fingertips, feeling each other’s pulse, so that the beating of their hearts slowly came together and synchronised with one another, the sound of it communicating through their foreheads, blotting out all other sound, taking them over.

  Deneer intoned:

  “Listen as you grow . . . Listen as you grow with every beat . . .”

  “I listen as I grow . . . I listen as I grow with every beat . . .”

  “You are more powerful . . . More powerful . . . More powerful . . . Now you can feel it within you . . . You are become as powerful as you need to be to overcome.”

  “I am as powerful as I need to be to overcome . . .”

  There came another period of inner sound and outward silence as they continued to stand together, their foreheads still touching, neither of them moving in spite of the swaying rise of the elevator cage. Both felt stronger and more sure with every second that passed. At last, Kaz Oshay said quietly:

  “I am restored. I am as powerful as I need to be.”

  “I too am restored.”

  Once more they touched each other on the temples before their foreheads parted and the ritual of renewal of strength was at an end. They floated back out through the windows of their souls and their breathing and heartbeats separated and returned to normal in their individual bodies. They were healed in mind as well as body, themselves again.

  The elevator was slowing up as if it had completed its journey. Kaz said urgently:

  “We must pretend that we are still affected by our treatment in the disorientation chambers.”

  Deneer nodded. “It is vital. At least until the contest.”

  They assumed the same blank, bewildered expressions that had been on their faces below. The elevator jolted to a halt and the door slid open, letting in the strong, cruel artificial light of the changing-room, bright enough to hurt even their eyes, causing them to cover them for a moment in order to adjust—which only went to underline, for the guards, the poor condition they were in.

  They were pulled from the elevator and fell in a crumpled, bewildered heap on the floor. The guards looked at one another.

  “Poor bastards. They won’t last a minute in the arena.”

  Kaz and Deneer were able to see each other’s faces and they exchanged a wink; it was just the effect that they had wanted to create.

  Outside, in the arena, the crowd was waiting with growing impatience for the contest to begin. The hot sun beat down through the blaster shield as they waited to see the first demonstration of the Death Machines.

  The delay had occurred following the end of Zirpola’s speech. While he had given the order for the whole games to begin, he was needed to signal the start of the individual contest.

  The delay seemed perfectly timed, as if calculated to heighten the tension that gripped the City. But Carol Rabids and Howard Koslow knew better when the pan-out had been for the events and they were puzzled as they filled in as best they could, describing every detail they could see of the machines that idled under the Royal Box, the crowds, the excitement and the weather, that final stand-by of any commentary on an outside broadcast.

  The truth was that all was not well. As the cameras faded on his visage, the Lord of Helix had staggered suddenly and grasped the front of the box to hold himself up. He was fighting off his first strong attack of pain for the day. He turned to Ankar Moor:

  “You start the contest.”

  The other man, puzzled by the look of pain that had crossed Zirpola’s face, was more mystified. He shook his head.

  “No. You must. It is important.”

  Zirpola made a supreme effort and drew himself up. Over the picture of the arena, Carol Rabids interrupted Howard’s dissertation on the heat of the sun.

  “Thank you, Howard. Now I can see that the Lord Zirpola is coming to the front of the box to give the signal for the first contest to begin.”

  Zirpola managed to hold himself upright. He raised his hand and the crowd cheered afresh. Only Doctor Karl could see what was wrong on the video. He turned to his son.

  “He’s in pain. He may collapse.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Not soon enough.”

  Zirpola snapped:

  “You fight for your freedom. Let the contest begin.”

  The two men gunned their machines and turned away from each other to zoom round th
e arena before letting their battle of power and wits commence.

  In his box, Lord Zirpola reeled backwards, unable to hide his feeling of pain any more. He collapsed into his chair and looked up at Ankar Moor, who was staring frankly at him, surprised by this sudden show of weakness.

  “How did I sound?”

  The other man’s eyes held questions behind the leather mask. He put none of them into his voice. “Fine, My Lord.”

  Out in the field both audience and television cameras watched in a breathless hush of anticipation. The two men had reached points on the far side of the arena from each other.

  Now they turned their machines and began to charge at top speed across the open space towards each other. A head-on crash seemed inevitable and if they went for the kill they would only succeed in blasting each other out of this world and into the next. But neither the blue-helmeted man nor his yellow opponent seemed willing to be the first to back down from the confrontation as they approached the central hill of the arena.

  At the last possible calculated moment, when they were on the periphery of their effective blaster range, the prisoner wearing the blue helmet swerved suddenly to one side, taking a hard ninety-degree turn in a shower of sand and dirt, before halting his machine. At the same moment, the yellow-helmeted gladiator hit the hillock and took off over the brow of it, flying entirely airborne. Blue helmet fired his rear blasters, but the other man sailed safely over the top of the attack, landing with a thrusting swerve that threw up another cloud of dirt.

  The crowd let out its breath in one echoing blast of tension relief that filled the microphones that were playing the sound through to the televideo audience as the two riders fought for the control of their machines and prepared to make another death run at one another.

  In the main changing-room, Doctor Karl and Marcus were unable to take their eyes off the huge monitor for a second. They knew they had to absorb every tactic and trick that was used in this first contest to learn what they could if their turn was next.

  On the smaller monitor in their quiet changing-room, the two Range Guides were also watching the screens above them. For the benefit of their guards, their faces showed only a blank foolishness as if they were merely attracted by the movement and the colours that they could see, but inside, their brains were turning over, absorbing every movement, learning all they could about these machines that they would have to fight.

  Carol Rabids was almost showing an interest as she commentated breathily:

  “That was an excellent attacking manoeuvre, but the contestant in the yellow helmet had the better position and in this contest, position is nine-tenths of the trick. Close enough to kill is most often close enough to be killed. Now, to hit your opponent without being in a position to be hit yourself, that seems to be the trick.”

  The two men were roaring around the field of battle again, each jockeying to get the position of advantage over the other.

  Deneer observed in an undertone that was low enough for only another Guide to hear: “It takes a much finer balance and reflex and co-ordination than to ride a horse.”

  Kaz was in agreement. “And little of the instinct.”

  Their blank eyes went back to the screen to observe another charge between the two men. This time the riders roared at one another, then veered away at the last moment to avert a crash that would have been fatal to them both. Neither man used the death-dealing blaster pods and both had difficulty in keeping control of their machines. Deneer was continuing to learn.

  “The hand and foot controls look easy enough.”

  “Yes . . .” Kaz would have said more but his attention was suddenly elsewhere. His eyes went to look out through the tunnel and the electric shield beyond, straining his eyes at the small patch of sky he could see.

  He had detected some subtle change in the natural atmosphere and he now concentrated his mind upon it, slowly letting the sound of combat and the reality of his surroundings dissolve away until he became one with the atmosphere outside. After a little while he slipped back into the present consciousness and then he reached out surreptitiously to touch Deneer on the arm, lightly, but with an urgency that at once communicated itself to the girl.

  “Can you not feel the wind?”

  For a moment she tried to feel what he had felt, but nothing came to her and her brow was furrowed as she turned to him.

  “I feel nothing. What troubles you?”

  “A Flash Wind.”

  “I feel no sign of it.”

  “It is there, nonetheless. It is coming towards us across the plains of the wastelands.”

  She took his word unquestioningly:

  “When does it come?”

  “Tomorrow—I think late tomorrow.”

  Deneer gave a subtle shrug. The smile on her face was wry, almost a Stateman smile.

  “It is too bad that it lingers for so long. We could have used it this afternoon.”

  He smiled comfort at her: “We can use it tomorrow.”

  Deneer absorbed his confidence. She was still not sure of her ability to survive this day.

  “You think we will be living on the morrow?”

  He was taken aback by her lack of assurance. She was not thinking like a true Guide.

  “Can you doubt it?”

  High above them, in the tallest tower, the Lord Zirpola was concentrating on the fight below him, trying to squeeze enjoyment from it, to combat the feelings of nausea and dizziness that now accompanied his pain. He felt as if there was a great bubble of force within his brain, that seemed about to lift his head from his shoulders.

  Suddenly, it became too strong to allow him further concentration. He seized his head and groaned, his interest in the contest suddenly wiped away.

  Ankar Moor turned to glare at him, half-pleased by this sudden show of weakness, but puzzled by the apparent suddenness of it just the same.

  “Are you all right, My Lord?”

  Zirpola shook his head in anger.

  “It is nothing. Just the heat, the brightness of the light. I will be myself in a moment.”

  He made himself look up, his watery blue eyes flashing a challenge at the other man, trying to prove that his weakness was but a temporary manifestation. Ankar Moor stared back at him for a moment, then turned away abruptly to renew his interest in the contest below. Zirpola tried to renew his concentration as well, but could see little with the red mist that swam before his eyes.

  Below them both men were still riding and fighting for their lives. Their manoeuvres were becoming slower, more sluggish, as if the strain of driving and controlling their machines was slowly weakening them, driving the will to win from their tense bodies.

  The man in the yellow helmet charged his machine almost directly under the tower that contained the Royal Box, while the man in the blue helmet gunned his engine at full speed down the hill that was in the centre of the arena, to try to cut the other rider off as he headed for higher ground.

  Yellow helmet, seeing that the other man was bound to succeed in this aim if he kept to his present course, spun around abruptly and charged back the way he had come.

  Taken by surprise, his opponent braked too hard to try to cut back and follow, and in doing so, he hit a small hillock before he had regained his balance and was ready for it and, losing his moving equilibrium entirely, he flew upwards and out of control on the far side.

  His landing was totally incorrect and he immediately tumbled from his falling machine, falling away and rolling over so that it would not fall on him.

  A quick glance over his shoulder told the other man what had happened to his opponent and he spun round again, speeding up and moving in for what would obviously be the kill.

  With certain death charging down on him, the man in the blue helmet picked himself up and lunged desperately towards his fallen machine. He had time to reach it and pull it upright as the man in the yellow helmet hit the other side of the hill and flew up into the air, his finger on the blaster button, re
ady for the coup de grace as he landed.

  The man in the blue helmet, apparently doomed, had one chance and he took it now. He snatched up the handlebars of his machine and raised it from the ground to line up a rear shot at the point where he estimated his opponent would land.

  As yellow-helmet’s wheel touched the ground, he pressed the button. There came the bright green flash of the anti-matter blaster pods and, with a strangled shriek that echoed and re-echoed around the vast arena, the man in the yellow helmet, together with the Death Machine on which he rode, disappeared from Stateman sight, vaporised into his constituent atoms as he was annihilated.

  A great roar of triumph went up from the crowd. The sight of complete destruction was almost as exciting and compelling to them as the sight of blood had been to their ancestors, so long ago in, the forums at the games of the great empires.

  So great was the excitement that, in the changing-rooms, the prisoner Statemen cheered too, as if they did not realise that what they had watched was the annihilation of one of their number. Doctor Marcus and Karl, alone amongst their number, shuddered with a combination of fear and disgust.

  The victor, after acknowledging the plaudits of the crowd, remounted his machine, started the dead engine and began to make a circuit of victory of the arena, as they rose, clapping and cheering. His circuit would bring him to a halt under the Royal Box to receive word of his reward. The commentary oozed out of Howard Koslow this time.

  “Well, Carol, that was an incredible display of skill and courage, wasn’t it.”

  “Yes, Howard. It was one in the great tradition of the Death Sport. We’ll have action replay in a moment. That man surely deserves his freedom. It was a great performance.”

  Doctor Karl was disgusted by this bland dismissal of the barbaric ritual murder he had seen take place on the screen. Could not the free citizens of Helix realise that this was no voluntary duel or display of murderous skill—that the prisoners had no choice, but were forced into putting on these displays of murder? They were held on the word of the Lord Zirpola. There was no chance of trial for them, and no appeal against their forced imprisonment. This was the only chance they had to regain their freedom—and even the risk of death was preferable to rotting away in the Helix City prison complex, their lives playing out beneath the constant bright lights of their small cells.