by Ste Sharp
Olan searched for guards in the crowd, wondering what they would do to get them fighting. He’d seen pacifists killed before and the crowd wouldn’t stand for a battle without death. The oval-shaped arena dipped at one end so the full majesty of the glass tower could be seen by everyone and, for a second, it caught his eye.
A swishing sound made Olan duck to one side as an arrow buried itself in the red soil behind him. His ear burned where it had clipped him. Bowman had already singled Olan out as his most dangerous opponent. Good thinking, Olan thought, as he weighed up the men. Bowman had great eyesight, but his ‘thinking’ arrows had been confiscated, while the Chinese soldier, if Olan remembered rightly, was endowed with the ability to heat his body to great temperatures, so was no threat from a distance. Smith, on the other hand, was armed with a lightning spear Olan had seen used by a tall, metal-clad soldier some days back. No problem with that, because Olan could see the energy pulses rising and falling before each strike, but what tricks did Smith hold within his visor? It had to be fixed to his head or the guard would have ripped it off.
Another arrow flashed past as Olan ran at Smith, to the pleasure of the crowd, the volume of which rose a notch. He stepped around the huge lumps of metal strewn across the arena floor, hoping some might deflect the arrows. The Chinese warrior had been waiting for someone to make a move and now closed in on Smith, presumably hoping Olan would distract him.
‘Choose your own battle,’ Olan hissed, too far away to be heard.
Steve Smith was already lowering his spear at Olan, who remained focussed on the energy patterns in the shaft. His chest plate was at work again, he thought, as a surge of blue rushed up to the spearhead. Olan dived to his right and rolled away, leaving the blast’s crater behind him. With a curse, he was back on his feet, ignoring the taunts and laughs from the alien crowd. The rise in volume accelerated his heart rate and gave power to his muscles. He used it, just as he had in previous battles, and rushed at Smith, but the Chinese warrior was nearer, warming up like he had a cauldron in his chest. Olan was tempted to strike him down first, but a set of new arrows came thudding down between them.
‘Bowman!’ Olan bellowed. ‘Fight like a real man, or don’t fight at all!’
The crowd loved that and Bowman responded with a low, fast arrow which glanced off Olan’s chest plate with a solid clunk, just missing his cheek. Olan knew he had to keep this entertaining or the evil bastards in charge of the arena would send in new creatures. Smith was busy keeping the Chinese warrior at bay with energy bolts, so Olan turned to Bowman and ran at him.
From this distance it was hard to concentrate on a small figure when there were hundreds of shouting, sparking and yelling aliens in the stands behind, but Olan tried, dodging when Bowman’s bow was loaded and running straight when his arm bent for a new arrow. In the time it took to cover half the distance, Bowman had released three arrows, one of which clipped Olan’s forearm, which dripped warm blood down his wrist.
Olan knew this was wrong, but he closed in just as he had done in foreign lands. Don’t think of the man you’re killing, he told himself, just think about the consequences. It was instinctive – he had to stay alive. As he closed in, Olan felt a lull in energy. Bowman had noticed it too and paused shooting. No time to be weak, Olan thought and raised his axe, ready to leap and swing at the English longbowman. But Bowman wasn’t looking at him any more. Neither were the crowd, whose roars had shrunk to a wave of low murmurs.
Olan cast a quick look over his shoulder and saw Smith and the Chinese soldier staring into the distance as well. He skidded to a halt, checked Bowman’s bow was empty, then followed the gaze to the tower. Tiny silhouettes could be seen at the tower base. A metallic crash made him turn as the arena entrance doors smashed open and the guards came rushing out for a better look. The crowd were leaving in their droves.
‘What’s going on?’ Olan shouted to Bowman.
‘Not sure,’ Bowman replied and climbed one of the metal hulks. ‘But you see those people?’
He pointed and Olan squinted to make out a huge shape walking next to a tiny humanoid.
‘Lutamek?’
‘Yeah,’ Bowman said, ‘and that little one is John.’
Olan gripped his axe tighter. It was the first time he’d seen or heard about anyone else from their army, other than those who had died in the arena.
‘What shall we do?’ he asked, with a glance at the guards, who had left the doors unattended as they tried to get a better view.
Bowman shrugged. ‘Could be a good time to make a move?’
Olan nodded at the nearest exit and they walked over as naturally as possible. So far so good, Olan thought, as the guards stared at the tower base. Olan sidestepped the decaying bodies from previous fights and slipped into the darkness of the exit. If they could get through one more set of doors they could mingle with the crowd and disappear.
‘Stop!’ A white-skulled Bensha guard stepped out of the gloom, blocking their path with its long sword. ‘Nice try,’ it growled, ‘but that’s far enough.’ It tapped the back of its neck. ‘I’d hate to lose tomorrow’s entertainment so cheaply.’
Olan held his axe tight as the two of them stared each other down for long, silent seconds until finally, knowing he couldn’t win this one, he let the axe drop. Their captors always had the advantage over them, but Olan felt he and his comrades had gained something extra today. They knew the rest of the army were alive, which gave him hope there would be a way out of this hellhole.
*
John rubbed his forehead with his good hand and reread the message carved into the stone of the immense obelisk inside the glass tower. It was written in the same script as the obelisks inside the dome and, like those messages, remained equally cryptic:
Enter to complete your path of ascendancy.
Seven words? John thought. All the battles and the deaths were all for these seven words? And this was why this group of kidnappers and pirates called themselves ‘the Ascent’?
John scanned the glass wall of the tower for other locks or entrances – anything that would give him a clue about what to do. But there was nothing. Just one metal circle in the side of the tower. He was beginning to feel the frustration the Ascent leaders had shown and he wondered how long they had been here, stuck outside the tower, knowing they were one final step away from completing the puzzle.
A creaking noise behind him made John turn to see Ten-ten, who gestured at the lock again.
‘Right,’ John said and stepped forward, lifting what had become of his gun-arm.
His metal fist looked about the same size as the dark hole at the centre of the metal ring. Nothing around it showed signs of a door or hatch; it was just a depression in the glass ringed with metal. John held his breath and slowly pushed his hand into the hole, feeling a tingle of excitement run through him.
Was this it? If this worked, he would become a hero. Thousands of soldiers from countless worlds would know his name… his shoulders sagged at the thought, remembering how his mates had treated him after the night of the crater, setting him apart and always expecting more heroic exploits from him.
No, John thought, this was way bigger than just him. If he opened the lock all these species would be led to the next level, and humans would be known across the galaxy for the part they had played.
John felt a click and bent down to peer into the dark tube, where his little finger had magnetically linked to a small tab at the back of the lock. There were four others and when John’s digits connected his fingertips warmed. Here we go, he thought, and pushed his hand forward.
Nothing.
He twisted his wrist to the right, hoping the lock would turn with him, but it didn’t budge. The same happened when he twisted to the left.
John felt his cheeks flush. All eyes were on him and here he was with his hand stuck in the wall. He pushed again, and twisted. He was starting to feel desperate. Why had the Lutamek chosen him? Surely their metal arms could be changed
to fit the lock? Was it because his arm was a gun too? John started the process of spinning a bullet. The parts which used to make up the chamber were separate now, but he could still feel them. He let energy build and, although he couldn’t visualise it like before, he could see a light glowing inside the lock.
‘Something’s happening,’ he said to Ten-ten, who didn’t reply.
John wasn’t sure if it was the heat, but he was sure he felt a new itching sensation now. It tickled, like when Ten-ten had put those drops of oil on the muzzle.
‘Oh no,’ John whispered and peered into the lock tube, where a grey oil ran along his fingers and over the tabs in the lock.
John pulled his arm, but it was still magnetised. Something felt wrong, so he let the energy dissipate and pulled harder. It was stuck. Panic was setting in and he felt his heart racing. He put his metal foot on the tower wall and pulled on his arm as hard as he could.
‘What have you done?’ John shouted at Ten-ten, who took a step forward.
‘It won’t work like this if–’
A flash of light and a wave of winter cold rushed through John. He felt himself flying through the air. Then all was dark.
When he came to his senses, John saw shapes moving around him and heard the insect leader of the Ascent barking orders.
‘Too much time has been wasted,’ it clacked.
‘It was our strongest response yet,’ Ten-ten replied.
‘Enough,’ the Rassum leader barked. ‘Throw him in the mines.’
Chapter 13
Isao leaned against a rock to catch his breath. Just as he had done countless times before, he waited to make sure the coast was clear before slipping into what had become his home these past few days.
The cave was an air pocket hidden under the rock, large enough for him to crouch in and lie down. He’d only found it after a close encounter with a scouting party who’d been scouring the land for survivors from Gal-qadan’s army. He had dived into the sand at the rock’s base, only to find his head pop through into the hollow.
Isao knew he could slip into the shadow world if he was seriously threatened but, if the armies saw him, they would hunt him down for knowledge of his true abilities. Slipping his eyes into the shadow world was useful enough, he found, and had given him enough advance warning when an enemy approached, their hearts glowing like red coals.
Since finding shelter, Isao’s main focus had been finding food. No animals lived in the desert outside the domes, and the only plants able to scratch a living out here must have arrived as broken stems or seeds stuck to some victorious soldier’s boot or claw. From his tiny sanctum, Isao was able to search the land for discarded food and tools, and to keep an eye on his comrades, now imprisoned by this faction of desert dwellers who called themselves ‘the Firstborn’. From what Isao had seen, the Firstborn lived in a string of forts which led from the open desert to the huge tower.
Isao ducked, pushed through the sand which blocked his cave’s entrance and kicked a pile back in place once he was inside. It was dark, but he could see clearly when he let his eyes slip away. Here were the meagre rations and weapons he had scavenged from what was left of his army’s supplies after the Firstborn had ransacked them. Anything of use and small enough to secrete away – clothing and blades, storage tins and bottles – had been stashed here.
Isao unscrewed the lid of a metal canister, carefully poured in a vial of water, reclosed it and tapped the last drip into his mouth. He unwrapped a piece of cloth and picked out a leather-like strip of tocka flesh, which he wiped the inside of the vial with, searching for any hidden moisture, before chewing. This was what he had been reduced to: sipping water squeezed from roots and chewing on dead allies.
Now, as he prepared for another excursion, Isao let his thoughts wander as he would whilst meditating. Nothing was new, so his thoughts took him back to when Das and Pod had given them to the Firstborn. This feeling of betrayal was new to Isao. He had seen former allies change sides during many of his long wars, but that was in reaction to the political dynamics of their Daimyos. What had taken place with the Firstborn was a cold-blooded trap. For their own gain, Das and Pod – and maybe Peronicus-Rax – had led them into slavery.
When Gal-qadan’s soldiers and tocka had been chained and marched to the nearest fort, Isao had trailed them from the shadow world and watched as Das and Pod were welcomed like heroes. Victors, returning with the spoils of war. The pair had told tales of their prowess and the hard-fought battles won, how they had bravely entered a new dome, located the strongest army and made sure they won their battle. Throughout it all, Gal-qadan had squirmed, unable to break from his chains. Isao had been close to attacking when they had slit the throat of the first tocka, but managed to hold back, knowing he was more useful if he was free.
As the days passed, Isao had learned about the Firstborn’s territory. They governed a wedge of desert radiating out from the central tower and guarded both borders with passion. What lay close to the tower, Isao didn’t know, but here, in the desert, their string of black metal forts were complete with moisture absorbers to water the soldiers.
No food production though.
Isao sighed. His rations were meagre and wouldn’t last long. Soon it would be time to leave this refuge behind. There was little he could do for his comrades on his own. He needed help.
As he curled up to sleep, one last vision came to Isao: Peronicus-Rax. The tall soldier was an enigma to Isao, like a piece of a puzzle that never seemed to fit. He had been aloof during their journey and had returned but sat apart from Das and Pod after the army’s capture. Since then, Isao had seen him talking with members of the Firstborn, and on one occasion he’d given them one of his many weapons.
What deal has he struck? Isao wondered as he drifted off to sleep.
*
Althorn sped away from the metal behemoth, wondering why one Lutamek was out on its own so far out in the desert. He had to slow down or he would run out of energy, but avoiding capture took precedence after what had happened back in the dome with Belsang and the Brakari. He paused to catch his breath, took a sip from his canteen and adjusted the headband which covered his missing eye. His depth of field was still poor, but he was amazed at how his balance and senses had adjusted.
He took a second to scan the horizon. There was nothing in sight here in the featureless landscape, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched, so he ran off again before anything spotted him. He painted a wide arc around where he had spotted the Lutamek and found no sign of other scouts. His curiosity was too strong – he had to find out why it was here. Was it a deserter? Had it been cast out? If it was, Althorn was torn between drawing it towards Euryleia and Lavalle’s bandit group and destroying the metal beast for being a traitor.
When Althorn found the Lutamek again, his anger rose. He remembered the slaughter these robot giants had carried out. He remembered the line of carts carrying their new slaves. He remembered his lost friends. But there was no way he could take it out by himself.
This one did move awkwardly though. Was it damaged?
Althorn closed in, trying to keep his movements snappy so he didn’t register on the robot’s sensors, a method he’d tested with Ten-ten during their time camped by the starships. As long as Althorn had the energy, he could remain invisible.
Closer up, Althorn could see this Lutamek was larger than any he’d seen before and moved with less grace; it jolted and clunked along like it was about to fall apart. Then there was the sound. The clicking and crunch of metal was clear to Althorn from a hundred paces away, and he heard new sounds the nearer he got: whooshing and ticking, along with what sounded like voices.
Althorn rushed past and caught a muffled voice say, ‘More oil on the caspet!’
‘Ease up the falloo-finator,’ said another when Althorn sped past again.
It was hard to tell, given the language fungi which translated all communication in Althorn’s brain, but he was sure they were human voices
. He took another run past and tapped a grey leg with the hilt of his knife, then sped off and watched from a distance.
The Lutamek stopped and a hatch opened in its back, followed by a pair of human eyes. The hatch slammed shut again, followed by a call of ‘Forward!’
Althorn laughed for the first time in what felt like months. How had they managed this? He ran to stand in the path of the mechanical giant.
‘Stop right there!’ Althorn shouted and stood, arms folded.
A stifled voice called out, ‘Slow to halt!’, which was followed by a tiny bell ringing.
A puff of steam belched from an unseen pipe in the robot’s back and a dozen portholes opened up across its body, revealing a number of gun muzzles.
‘Name?’ A distorted voice called out.
‘Althorn. And you?’
‘I am Troy,’ replied the voice.
‘Troy?’ Althorn asked. ‘There’s no need for weapons – I’m a friend. Do you recognise me?’
Silence.
‘I’m Althorn. We met when you were siphoning fuel from the ships,’ he said, remembering the red-coated soldiers. ‘I’m with a band of survivors from our army. You can join us if you wish.’
The Lutamek wobbled on its feet and buzzed as its crew shuffled within, discussing and chatting.
‘No, Carter,’ one voice raised a level above the rest said, ‘Elliott’s right…’
Althorn pressed on. ‘You are the soldiers in red coats, am I correct?’