Deathsport
Page 18
The screen now showed the victor of the first contest coming to a halt in front of the Royal Box. He switched off his machine and dismounted to stand proudly beside it, waiting for Zirpola to acknowledge him and rise to give him the reward that was due to the victor.
Above him, Zirpola was close to screaming out from the waves of pain that were attacking him. Ankar Moor glanced across, impatient at the delay and unconcerned with any weakness in the other man; weakness was to be sneered at.
“My Lord, the victor is waiting.”
Zirpola made a superhuman effort. By clutching at the arms of his chair with his talon-like hands, he was able to push himself upright, though shaking from head to foot. He let go and staggered rather than walked to the front of the box. His face was ashen from the pain and his voice quavered as he spoke, even though he put all his strength into the effort to control himself under the eye of the cameras.
“Well done. We are proud of you.” With a great effort he managed to raise one shaking arm in a kind of benediction. It fell back to his side and even the crowd became puzzled by the pause that followed.
A minute and he was strong enough to continue:
“You have won your freedom bravely, Stateman, and your fellow citizens can be proud that you will be among them again. You have made a place for yourself on my Obedience force by the quality of your efforts. Be loyal to your lord and the State. You are, from this moment on, a free man.”
The man saluted his lord, then began to wheel the machine back to the tunnel entrance to the changing-rooms and away from the field of death.
Zirpola forced himself to stand straight as he watched the man go, clutching the front of the box to stop himself from falling and waiting for the cheers of the crowd to die down. When they were done with their acclaim, he had more to say on the subject of Triton and the Death Machines, to ram his earlier message home. The cheering died down and he forced his voice to be firm by a sheer effort of will.
“Now you Statemen of Helix have seen what the Death Machines mean, what they will do for you. With them we can have pride in our City. Triton cannot stand against us, no one can stand in the way of our destiny.”
He waved his hand once more, then backed away from the sight of the crowd as the cameras cut away from him again. The moment the red light on them had gone off, he slumped back into his chair and lay back, closing his eyes against an even more intense wave of pain.
There was to be a short delay before the next event of the Death Sport—when six men would go out on machines to fight the two Guides who had been captured. Before that time came, Ankar Moor wanted just one last chance to gloat over Kaz Oshay and Deneer. He swept from the room, not bothering to ask leave to go from the stricken man who ruled him.
As the victor reached the anti-blaster shield, it broke for a moment and he was able to wheel his machine up the tunnel and into the changing-room where his fellow-prisoners of a few moments before were waiting to greet and congratulate him. There was pandemonium as he came into view to be crowded round and applauded by the other men. Only Marcus and his father remained seated, not joining in the general euphoria.
Polna was waiting in the tunnel, taking his right to be the first to congratulate the freed man and to give him his instructions for taking up his post as an Obedience Enforcer. He grasped the man’s hand and slapped him on the back—the last time he would ever have to be nice to him.
“Congratulations—you fought and killed him fair.”
The man turned a dazed stare on his erstwhile captor.
“I’m really free?”
Polna grinned.
“Damned right you are. You are as free as the day you were born and an Enforcer now, to boot. You must be very proud.”
The irony of this method of getting out of the frying pan and into the fire was lost entirely on both the victor and the man who had spoken. But it was not lost on either Marcus or his father, who glanced at one another and allowed a shudder to pass between them as they contemplated the “honour” of a life’s entrapment in the Enforcer guards that had been thrust upon the man.
Meanwhile the other prisoners were pressing and surging round him, offering their congratulations. Polna, who had detached himself and was now standing back, the grim look returning to his face, glanced at his chronometer. Time was getting short. It would not be long before the next item on the afternoon’s display of murder would be due to start.
He snapped on his communicator and talked to the men who were guarding the Guides in the other changing-room.
“Are the Guides there and waiting?”
“We have them ready. Shall we issue weapons to them?”
Polna snapped: “No, not yet.”
“What will they have?”
“They will only have their own weapons. They will be supplied to them just before the Death Sport begins.”
The guard, who was not without humanity and was already worried by the dazed condition of his prisoners, gasped:
“But how will they defend themselves against the Death Machines? It is no contest.”
Polna snarled:
“We will be the judges of that. That is their problem and need be of no concern to you.”
He snapped off the communicator, making a mental note that the guard he had spoken to would have to be disciplined later. It was time for him to select the six men who would fight the Guides.
The prisoners were still crowding round the victor of the last battle. Polna signalled his men to move in in case of protest and shouted:
“Right, that’s enough. Move back and shut up.”
The men obeyed with reluctance, seeing the electric prods their guards held in case they were too slow to obey.
Polna waited until he had silence.
“None of you will gain the right to freedom till you have fought like this man did. But you will all have a chance. That is why you are here.”
He glanced round until he had spotted Marcus and his father. There was the young man who had instigated all the trouble at the prison, being instrumental in bringing the prisoners as close to a successful escape as they had ever been. He beckoned him over.
Marcus glanced at his father but the older man just nodded briefly, his eyes containing a message of love and blessing. Polna pointed another five men out of the group of prisoners, including the huge figure of Durc, with the vicious scars down his face.
When they were grouped round him, he said: “Get changed and select your machines. You six will be fighting the Guides.”
Marcus felt a stab of almost physical pain through his heart. The moment of decision and truth had come at last.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kaz Oshay and Deneer knew that their moment of testing was on the way. They had been made to stand and they had been pushed into the tunnel that led to the entrance to the arena. Now they stood together, keeping the glazed look about them, surrounded by nervous guards, their weapons at the ready in case either Guide made a wrong move.
They could still hear the commentary over the televideo and were listening harder than their guards knew, as Carol Rabids said:
“Now this next one should be very exciting. We have two of the Range Guides and, without any handicaps, they are challenging six of our own Statemen on Death Machines. The purpose of this event is to introduce you, in the most dramatic way possible, to the real power of the Death Machines. The idea of Statemen beating Guides would have been unthinkable until these machines were created, isn’t that right Howard?”
“It sure is, Carol, but, now you’ll see the difference the machines make this afternoon, all right.”
“Thank you, Howard. Now the crowd is waiting. Yes, I think we’re about due for the start of what promises to be a very exciting contest . . .”
Behind them came strong footsteps. The guards came quickly to attention but the two imprisoned Guides turned only slowly, still keeping up their pose. The moment they saw the newcomer they could pretend to be broken no longer.
“I came to wish you farewell, Kaz Oshay, as you prepare for your journey into the beyond.”
Kaz’s voice was equally harsh, full of steel.
“Ankar Moor, I wish only that I could finish the work my mother began on you.”
Ankar Moor glanced now into the blazing eyes of Deneer. He was taken aback: both the prisoners seemed full of strength and poise. What had Polna been thinking of? Was he not supposed to have given them treatment in the disorientation chambers?
On the surface he gave no sign that he was puzzled. He snapped out in challenge to the looks he had received: “You are so close to death and yet you still defy me. I who have the power of life and death over you?”
Kaz snarled: “We would defy you even in death, Ankar Moor.”
He laughed. “And you are about to have the chance to make that boast true. You are doomed, Kaz Oshay, son of Oshay.”
“And you are an animal, Ankar Moor.”
The chief of the Obedience Enforcers came as close to Kaz as he could without touching him.
“It does not matter what you think of me, enslaved one. Your death will be your salute to me.”
But if he thought he had had the last word, he was mistaken. The hatred and determination of Kaz Oshay was greater than that:
“And yours will be to me when you accept the code and fight me, useless animal.”
For a moment, Ankar Moor was silent, then he threw his head back and laughed at the bravado of the imprisoned man. After a moment he got himself under control and rasped: “Salute your mother for me, I will see you both in hell.”
He turned away abruptly and gave an order to the chief guard:
“Do not arm them until the Statemen have positioned themselves on the field.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Ankar Moor strode away from the little group and back to the elevator that would take him up again to the Royal Box. Only when he was inside did he let himself give way to his anger. He took a communicator from his pocket and tuned it in to get Polna. His assistant answered after a moment:
“Yes, Sir.”
Ankar Moor roared: “I ordered disorientation for those Guides.”
Polna was silent. He did not understand. At last, “I did as you ordered. Their brains are partially destroyed.”
The huge man snorted into the machine.
“They have tricked you. They have tricked all of us. Only the machines will put the matter right. Mark my words, Polna, you will pay for this after they are dead.”
He switched off the communicator as the elevator continued its upward path.
It took Polna a little time to do the same. His hands were clammy with sweat and he was shaking with fear. Perhaps he had at last made the error that he had always dreaded.
A guard ran up, holding some anti-matter blasters. Polna was so afraid he did not even see the man until the latter coughed politely and said:
“Sir?”
“What is it?”
The man was taken aback by the viciousness of his superior’s tone:
“The hand blasters, Sir.”
Polna managed to soften his tone.
“Good. Put them down.”
The guard laid them at Polna’s feet and the senior man watched as the six Statemen prisoners finished dressing themselves. This time there was no differentiation between them, there was no need for it. They all wore the riding coveralls and had white protective helmets. All seemed in order and Polna got their attention, pointing at the small pile of blasters at his feet:
“Each of you can take one hand blaster and lock it to your belt. If for any reason you get dismounted from your machines, do not hesitate to use the blaster.”
The Statemen went one at a time to obey the instruction. If any of them had it in their minds to use the blasters now and make a break for it, the number of armed guards around would have discouraged it successfully. Marcus was the last of the men to pick up the deadly weapon and, as he backed away with it, his father, feeling him in need of comfort and afraid of the loss of his beloved son, came up to him.
“How do you feel?” He could have told the answer from the look on Marcus’s face, but still felt the question should be asked.
Marcus answered it a dull voice:
“How would you expect me to feel—with a choice between my own life and the lives of a man and woman I respect and trust?”
Doctor Karl sighed. There seemed to be little that he could say, he felt exactly as his son did.
“You must act for the best.”
“Do you mean I should kill?”
His father frowned. “Only if you feel you must. Sit back, try to avoid the choice.” Even as he spoke he felt ashamed of his words, but there really wasn’t anything else to think. His son had little choice. Either kill or be killed. It was an impossible dilemma.
Marcus seemed calmer, though he had reacted badly to his father’s words.
“There may be a way.”
“How?”
Marcus even managed a smile.
“It is likely I will die, but I have a choice to make.”
“But there is no choice other than to allow yourself to kill or be killed in the battle.”
Marcus smiled more broadly, but with the sinking feeling growing inside him as he wondered whether he really had the strength to do what had come to him.
“There is a choice. That choice is what side I will be on when I die.”
Doctor Karl understood and admired his son more for his courage in that moment than he had in all his life, in spite of all the boy’s good qualities. He put a hand round his shoulder and smiled bravely.
“You’ll make it, son . . . You’ll come back to me, I am sure of that, if of nothing else.”
They embraced, then Marcus turned away so that his father would not see the tears in his eyes. He had made his decision in his own heart already, there would be no need to review it once he was in the arena.
Ankar Moor was still smouldering with rage at the failure of the disorientation treatment on the two Guides as the elevator came to a halt and he pushed the door back to step into the Royal Box.
The situation up there had deteriorated since he had left. The members of the television crew were trembling in fear. Obviously, Lord Zirpola had gone into one of his rages during the Enforcer leader’s absence. This was borne out when he saw the girls. One of them was bleeding from the mouth, her face a livid red down one side where the Lord of Helix had struck her.
As for Zirpola himself, he was slumped down in his chair, his head in his hands, sobbing and groaning with pain from his head.
“What happened?” snapped Ankar Moor.
One of the girls spoke.
“It was Marda. She saw he was in pain and went to help him. He just lashed out at her. We haven’t been near him since.”
Ankar Moor turned his attention to his master, who tried to rise, fell back and groaned: “The pain. I have to stop it. I can’t stand it any more. Please help me stop it.”
Ankar Moor leant down to the chair and grasped the stricken man by his arms, shaking him into some semblance of normal behaviour.
“Do you want me to call a doctor?”
Zirpola giggled, his breath hissing with a horrible sound between his teeth as he made the effort to reply.
“There is no doctor any more. I had him arrested, remember. He lied to me about what was wrong.”
“And what is wrong with you?”
“I’m.” Zirpola stopped himself, suddenly aware that he was about to place himself entirely in the other man’s hands. “It is nothing. Headaches brought on by the strain of waiting for our plans to mature.”
Ankar Moor did not believe this unconvincing answer. No matter, he could question the doctor, take him out of the Death Sport and torture him for the information if necessary. For now, tho
ugh, it was important that the next game in the Death Sport be called—the game that would put the two Guides against the Death Machines:
“Pull yourself together. It is time for the main event to begin.”
Zirpola tried to rise, but fell back and gasped: “I can’t. You must call it for me.”
Ankar Moor let him fall back and snatched up his communicator. To hell with the crowd knowing or thinking anything was wrong when the games started. He got Polna on the other end: “Bring on the machines.”
“But the game has not been announced.”
Ankar Moor roared: “I’m announcing it now. Bring on the machines.” He snapped off the communicator before Polna could give him any further argument.
Polna switched off his communicator and shouted the order to the guards to get the men lined up on their machines and get them started. In a little while they were ready, the large figure of Durc at the head of them, Marcus having made sure he got the last spot.
Polna moved over to the controls of the anti-blaster shield, then turned and shouted to the prisoners on their great machines: “All right. Give them hell.”
With that, he lifted the shield for a moment and gave the signal for the prisoners to move forward into the arena. They made their way slowly out, in single file, going across the arena so that the whole crowd could get a clear view of them. They then went up to the far end of the blaster-shield enclosed arena and stopped their machines to wait for the arrival of their opponents of the day.
Kaz Oshay and Deneer had been given helmets for protection and their Whistlers. They were to get no other help than this—and what good was a helmet against a blaster? The odds had been balanced just as the Lord Zirpola had wanted.
They glanced at one another for reassurance. Deneer said quietly:
“Our Union is real.”
His eyes locked on to hers and he echoed her with emotion: