The Soterion Mission

by Stewart Ross

  “Taja,” he asked eventually, looking up at his one remaining companion, “what do you think really happened to – well, you know who?”

  “Roxanne?”

  “Yes, Roxanne.”

  “I’m sorry to say it, Cyrus, but I was probably right all along.” She spoke so reluctantly, with so much understanding, that for the first time Cyrus wondered whether he should have paid more attention to her from the beginning. Her judgement had generally been sound on previous occasions.

  “You don’t honestly think they’ve buried her, do you?” Taja continued.

  “That Ozlam’s capable of anything.”

  “Maybe. But don’t you think those Magi who came here this morning sounded genuine?”

  “Perhaps. Yet what if Ozlam had lied to them?” Cyrus saw where her line of reasoning was leading and was trying not to follow.

  Taja shook her head. “That little group, Ozlam and his Magi, seem to run the place. The only other people we’ve seen helping out were those boys who ran off with our weapons. They’re probably future Magi under training.” She sighed. “No. The only real possibility is that your friend found out what she wanted – about us or about this place – and is now passing it on to Timur.”

  The mention of Timur reminded Cyrus of what Roxanne had said in her sleep on the day she arrived in Della Tallis. He couldn’t imagine for one second that she had anything but detestation for the leader of the Grozny Zeds. On the other hand, might he have some sort of unspoken hold over her? Could she have agreed to act as his spy to avoid further torture? Even the bravest human beings have their breaking points…Poor Roxy! It was just possible, he supposed. Anything was now possible.

  “You remember how she told you not to touch the gates, Cyrus?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, that was after those bits of plastic had been thrown over the fence, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ve thought of that,” said Cyrus. “She understood the power of the fence, didn’t she? There’s something she didn’t have time to tell us.”

  “Which means she may have worked out how to escape.”

  Cyrus shook his head, still refusing to accept Taja’s cruel logic. “She was locked in a room. How did she get out of that?”

  Taja shrugged. “No idea, Cyrus. But we don’t have to worry, do we? It’s just you and me now. Like it was before.” A smile flickered across her face. “Just you and me.”

  Cyrus looked into her black eyes. There was one matter he had to get straight. “Taja, tell me honestly why you joined this mission.”

  She tossed her curls of ebony hair and laughed. “I’ve told you, Cyrus. I didn’t trust Roxanne and…” She paused, expressionless, staring him straight in the face.

  “Go on.”

  “You know the answer. I came to be with you.”

  “Oh, Taja!” he sighed, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have done it, should you?”

  “Why not? I’m not made of wood, Cyrus. Yes, there are some things I can’t control. Besides, it was worth it. I’ve got you all to myself now, haven’t I?”

  Cyrus turned away and said nothing. Her tone alarmed him more than her words. It had sounded so confident, so sure of itself, almost obsessed. Shocked, he realised it reminded him of another voice he had heard a lot of recently.

  Never had Cyrus felt this low. Everything he had set his heart on had crumbled away. He was in agonies of loss and uncertainty over the disappearance of Roxanne, wary of being by himself with Taja, and depressed by Navid’s desertion and the failure of the Soterion Mission. Had he been left in this state, imprisoned and deeply sad, the suffocating blanket of his depression may have enfolded him entirely.

  As it turned out, he was not alone with his melancholy for long. In the middle of the night, the door of the room where he and Taja were held opened silently to admit a most unexpected visitor.

  Jumshid’s geographical knowledge proved more accurate than Sheza’s. After he had fed his rival to the crocodiles, he advanced quickly up the bank of the No-Man until, rounding a bend, he found himself staring at the broken ruins of the bridge with its central span of two rusting rails.

  The Captain scratched his head. What were his orders? Break the bridge down or shoot anyone trying to cross. That should be easy enough, even though there was now just one of him. First, he’d have a go at destruction. If that didn’t work, he’d position himself on the other side of the river and shoot dead anyone who set foot on the bridge. He grinned, congratulating himself on having picked up Sheza’s bow. Timur would never know what had happened to its owner – and all the glory would be Jumshid’s!

  Choosing a comfortable tree to sleep in, the Captain settled down for the night. He would start work on the bridge in the morning.

  While Jumshid was preparing to destroy the mission’s escape route, Timur was supervising the other element of his plan. He was cheered by the discovery of Zavar’s body, already rendered unrecognizable by the scavenging of birds and wild animals, because it told him he was now tracking four Constants, not five. That would make things easier when it came to a fight.

  The settlement of the Children of Gova, which Timur came across shortly after they had found the remains of Zavar, presented a fresh problem. His dogs had picked up human scent near the edge of the canyon. He pondered the significance of this. Might it be Roxanne and her Tallin companions? Possibly. Well, if they had gone inside that murderous fence his quest was over and he could turn his mind to other matters. No one who passed through those shining gates ever came out again. On the other hand, the chances of his Constants having found the remote colony were slight. Even if they had, they were almost certainly too sensible to enter.

  No, he concluded, whether the scent was that of the group he was after or not, it must be still ahead of him. Nevertheless, as a precaution he ordered two men to stay behind and report back to him immediately if they saw anything unusual. It wasn’t a sensible plan. Having hung around the perimeter of the ravine for several days and seen nothing untoward, the men eventually wandered off with the intention of re-joining their tribe. Hopelessly lost, they died of thirst two weeks later.

  Pressing on past the Gova settlement, Timur had spread the rest of his men out like a net, sweeping across the landscape. If the Constants got wind of where he was and tried to double back or flee to the side, his warriors would intercept them. With every moment that passed, the closer they came to the river and the tighter they drew the net. This time, he told himself, there would be no escape.

  Nevertheless, getting Zeds to do anything other than fight was no easy matter, and keeping them in some sort of straight line was taxing Timur’s leadership skills to the limit. Whipping those who strayed slowed the operation down too much. He had greater success rewarding those who stayed in line with a night among the breeding slaves. The idea worked as an incentive but an orgy of violation left the men slow and listless the following morning.

  Nor was Timur helped by the absence of Sheza and Jumshid. Both of them, although far from bright, would have been capable of taking control of part of the line. Still, the situation gave others an opportunity to show their mettle, and no one benefited from this more than Giv, the willing youth who had first come to the Malik’s notice beside the stream.

  Words are not exactly Giv’s strength, Timur reflected one hot afternoon as they combed through an area of scattered thorn bushes, but he’s loyal and keen. Somewhere, deep inside his thick skull, he probably has a brain, too. Quite a sharp one. Why, if Sheza fails me, I might do worse than train up Giv as my successor. In fact, I might prepare them both. Nothing like a bit of rivalry to keep a Zed on his toes.

  Timur’s musings were interrupted by shouting from the hill to his left. Though he needed to go and see what was going on personally, rapidity was tricky. To keep the sun off his pearly white skin when in the open
, he was accompanied by four men holding a canopy of scarlet cloth above his head. Now, as he hurried up the slope in the direction of the noise, the bearers struggled to keep up with him.

  “Quicker, snails!” he screeched as the men lurched this way and that across the rough ground. “And keep the shade over me, vermin, unless you want to cook your Malik!”

  The ungainly procession had not gone far before Timur saw someone running down towards them. “Stop!” he cried. “Wait!”

  As the figure drew closer, Timur recognised it as Giv.

  “Malik!” the youth panted as he reached the canopy. “Giv seen! Giv seen!”

  Timur rolled his eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh. Really, he must teach this mudbrain to speak. “Well, Giv, what have you seen?”

  7: Old Friends, New Dangers

  Taja woke first. She lay still for a few seconds until the dreary chanting reminded her where she was. At the same time, she became aware that someone or something was moving to her left. When she opened her eyes to see what it was, a grubby hand closed over her mouth.

  “Shh! Don’t say nothing, lady!”

  She obeyed the command more out of surprise than fear. No one had ever spoken to her like this before – the term “lady” was almost unheard of in Della Tallis – and the hand that now withdrew respectfully from her face was small, much smaller than an adult’s.

  Cyrus, exhausted by the turmoil of the previous day, remained sound asleep. The stranger bent down and gently shook his shoulder. “Wake up, mister! Wake up!” Cyrus opened his eyes. What was going on? He blinked, glanced across at Taja, then peered up at the figure bending over him.

  Although clouds filtered the full brilliance of the moon, there was sufficient light for Cyrus to make out a small, lean figure with a ball of black curly hair. He recognised him at once. It was the boy with the impish expression who, at Ozlam’s command, had taken away their weapons to be burned.

  The boy raised a finger to his lips and, with his other hand, beckoned Cyrus and Taja closer. “Want to get out?” he whispered.

  Cyrus nodded, instinctively trusting the lad’s eager tone. Taja was more cautious, “Who are you?” she hissed. “Is this some trick, because if it is – ”

  The boy shook his head vigorously. “We got no time,” he said, his face suddenly furrowed with anxiety. “If we gets out, I’ll explain. Promise. But we got to move quick.” He made as if to stand.

  Taja stopped him. “We? Are you coming with us?”

  “Of course! You can’t get out without me – and I can’t get nowhere outside without you. See? You in or not?”

  Taja looked across at Cyrus. “Well?”

  “Please!” the boy urged in a tone that had changed suddenly from confident to pleading.

  “Alright,” said Cyrus. “Come on, Taja. Anything’s better than staying here, isn’t it?” He turned to the boy. “And what about our friend?”

  “Which one?”

  “Navid, the man who was with us when we came in. The one with the long shaggy hair.”

  “Oh, him! You think he wants to come too?” Cyrus nodded. “OK. I’ll see what I can do. Follow me. We’s mice, OK?”

  Cyrus looked at Taja and smiled. The situation, although perilous, was also most bizarre.

  As they passed through the door and advanced cautiously along the side of the building, Cyrus struggled to make sense of what was happening. Why was there no one around? Where were the guards? How could this eccentric boy get them through that deadly fence? For one accustomed to taking charge, he felt unsettlingly powerless, carried along by a current of strange events over which he had no control.

  At the edge of the hut in which they had been held, the boy paused. Indicating to them to stay where they were, he sprinted across a dusty courtyard to what looked like a veranda. Taja and Cyrus watched as he inched along in front of it for a few paces before disappearing. In the gloom, Taja felt for Cyrus’ hand and gave it a squeeze. He responded half-heartedly, wishing she would keep her hands to herself. The situation was complicated enough as it was.

  Moments later, the boy came padding back across the courtyard. He shook his head. “Can’t get to your friend,” he whispered. “Guarded.”

  Cyrus’ spirits sank once more. They had been lifted slightly by the thought of meeting up with Navid, though he might not be able to persuade him to join them – but now even that was impossible. He sighed and followed the others to the end of the building, across what seemed to be a street, and into the shadows of a windowless barn. The sound of the chanting was getting louder. The mystery deepened when the boy whispered “Gova” and signalled to them to look round the wall they were leaning against.

  Taja went first, then Cyrus. There, some fifty paces away, was what looked like an enormous piece of shiny glass. In front of it, sitting cross-legged on the ground, was one of the Magi. From his mouth came the endless, mournful wail of the chant.

  Cyrus stared for a few seconds then turned back to the boy. To his surprise, the lad’s face was split by a wide grin. He raised two fingers to his head and tapped it. “Mad!” he mouthed. “Mad Magi!”

  They continued until the shape of Gova Hall loomed out of the darkness ahead. The boy led them stealthily along the nearest side as far as the broad entrance. Here he stood and listened for a moment before pulling open the right-hand door. Then he slipped inside, beckoning them to follow.

  The interior smelt of dried flowers. At the far end, raised on a wooden stand carved with symbols of the sun, a single candle burned. Its yellow light shimmered eerily across the crude images on the walls. The boy went down on his knees and, just below where Roxanne had seen the enamel notice with faded writing on it, began scrabbling around on the floor. Taja and Cyrus stared in astonishment as, very slowly and carefully, he raised a hinged concrete panel to reveal a dark hole beneath it.

  The boy pointed to the opening. “Go on!”

  Taja, who was nearer to the hole than Cyrus, hesitated. “Is it some sort of cell, a prison?”

  The boy shook his head. “Prison? Don’t be daft, lady! It’s a tunnel!”

  Taja shrugged and lowered herself into the opening. Cyrus indicated to the boy to go next. He was sure the lad was honest, but all the same…Didn’t the Children of Gova get rid of people by burying them alive? They may even have disposed of Roxanne in this very pit.

  The boy shook his head. “You’re the important one, mister. I’ll shut the door after me.”

  “No. Sorry, boy. To be on the safe side, you go in front of me.” When Cyrus folded his arms to show he meant what he said, the boy took a step towards the hole.

  Before either of them realised what was happening, a tall figure sprang out from behind Cyrus and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. It was Ozlam!

  “Stop, my child!” he ordered in a furious whisper. “This is a terrible heresy you commit! Oh my dear child, you have betrayed me and the secrets of the Great Gova!”

  The boy struggled to free himself. “Get off me, Ozlam! I ain’t your child! And I hate you and I hate your stupid Gova!”

  The exchange lit up the darkened landscape of Cyrus’ mind like a flash of summer lightning. Two things became clear immediately. Whoever he was, the boy was on their side; and Ozlam knew about the tunnel but wanted to keep it a secret. Why else would he whisper instead of calling for help?

  The boy’s pitiful remarks stirred Cyrus into action. He launched himself at Ozlam, wrenching his hands off the child and pushing him heavily backwards. The High Father recovered his balance and felt for something inside the folds of his robe.

  “No weapons, eh?” mocked Cyrus as the bully drew out a glimmering blade.

  The man’s mouth arched into an unholy sneer. “Only for killing heretical and ungrateful vermin!”

  Battle experience had taught Cyrus how to sum u
p an opponent in an instant. This one, he realised, was neither brave nor a fighter. Muttering over his shoulder, “Get in the tunnel, boy!” he advanced across the hall. After all he had been through, he finally had a chance to express his pent up fury in action.

  Ozlam was slashing at the air in a futile effort at intimidation when Cyrus’ foot slammed into his hand. The knife spun in a broad arc and clattered to the floor. The kick was instantly followed by a deft combination of punches. The first hammered into Ozlam’s jaw, jerking his head backwards. The second thudded into his stomach, emptying the air from his lungs and folding him up like a penknife.

  The final blow, delivered with the side of the hand, cracked into the back of Ozlam’s neck. Without a sound, he sank senseless to the floor. Moments later, Cyrus and the boy had climbed through the hatchway, closed the trapdoor after them and were fumbling their way along the cobweb-tangled walls of the tunnel. They had gone no more than a couple of hundred paces before the boy stopped, took an object from a ledge and handed it to Cyrus. Feeling with his fingers in the blackness, he recognized the familiar outline immediately. His spear! The lad had not only rescued them – he had managed to save their weapons, too. He really was a most extraordinary character!

  With Taja leading the way, they edged along the musty-smelling passage for a considerable distance. Every now and again Cyrus paused to listen for the sound of pursuit. Nothing. Cyrus wondered how Ozlam was explaining his injuries, and the disappearance of his prisoners and one of his precious boys. Even he would find it difficult to lie his way out of that one.

  The tunnel’s exit was ingenious. Over the last one hundred paces the passage sloped steeply upwards until it came to a halt at the foot of an iron-runged ladder. This rose inside a tall, vertical shaft closed at the top by a heavy trapdoor. Pushing his way through and closing it behind him, Cyrus found himself on a platform high up in a tree made of fibreglass and concrete. The model was so well built that despite a century’s weathering, it remained almost indistinguishable from the natural trees around it.