by Ste Sharp
‘Stick it where your pin was,’ she said.
John could feel the weight of his pin in his pocket and shook his head. ‘I’m not having that in me again.’
‘It’s a fake,’ Falen said. ‘Wear it or the guards will know we’ve broken the technology.’
John fiddled with the coin and took a peek. It looked like the thick end of the pin and one side felt tacky so, swiftly, he pushed the matted hair aside and stuck the coin on the wound. The scab felt raw now and John realised the pin must have numbed pain when it was inserted.
‘How many others have you fixed?’ John whispered.
He didn’t get a reply and, when he turned round, Falen was gone.
*
Delta-Six was taking every precaution possible. The Lutamek had almost killed him once and he didn’t want to give them another chance. Plus he knew little about the other species within the Ascent. The farm guards and scouts he’d encountered were not their best warriors and, if their punishment regime was anything to go by, their top soldiers would be safe in the centre of the city.
Covered with his chamelo-cloth, and with 90 per cent of his energy set to defence and sensors, Delta-Six crept into the makeshift sprawl of the Ascent city. More like a slum, he thought, remembering the pictures he’d been shown during his training: the European asylum seekers huddled on the edge of their desolate continent, desperate to get to the oasis states of northern Africa and the Middle East. Here was no different. Soldiers, with their former lives behind them, forced to work and wait. For what, nobody really knew, but Delta-Six was sure the tower was the key to understanding this constructed world.
And that was where he was heading.
A group of gargling quadrupeds set his sensors off and information flashed in his vision: species unknown; danger level – low due to inebriation. At least someone was having a good time, he thought, and sidestepped into the shade of the nearest metal shack. After a quick scan of the sleeping occupants, Delta-Six pocketed a white object left on a table, then crept out again.
The sun was still low, which suggested the majority of the free workers would be rising now and would flow towards the main workplaces. From what Delta-Six had seen on his scouting missions, the Ascent might have built a society on fear and slavery, but the majority of the citizens were free as long as they worked in one of three installations: the hydration plant; the Lutamek research lab; or the entertainment arenas. In return, the free workers received credits for food, drugs or for visiting the same entertainment centres they worked in. The closest Earth culture he could find in his databanks was the ancient Roman civilisation. But every one of these citizens, Delta-Six forced himself to remember, was a warrior and had been victorious in their battles in their respective domes. He had to treat them all as dangerous.
Delta-Six crept further into the cluster of shacks and adjusted his clothing and shield settings to give him the shape and look of a Rhil, a species he’d seen in the farm, and which the guards had been wary of. Delta-Six hoped the species’ reputation meant they were feared throughout the Ascent.
As the sun rose, more workers ambled out of their dwellings, soon outnumbering those heading back from their late-night entertainment. Delta-Six’s stride mimicked the Rhil’s powerful gait as he followed the stream of foot traffic past larger buildings – shops and food-distribution centres – towards the largest buildings near the tower, which overshadowed the whole city.
Everyone walked in silence, deep in their own thoughts, and Delta-Six was no different. His systems remained on high alert as he let his many unanswered questions circle his mind like vultures on the wing. He thought of the dome cap, pushing away feelings of guilt over his accident with the Tathon, and wondered why the Synchronisers had screens for accessing information if they communicated through data-waves? For that matter, why was the dome cap unguarded? Sometimes the most bizarre answer, Delta-Six thought, is the truth. Maybe whoever built this place – the discs and domes – was expecting visitors to the dome caps.
A series of towers up ahead marked a checkpoint in a fence, and Delta-Six pulled out the ID card he’d stolen from the sleeping workers’ hut. There was no picture or species identifier but the colour coding suggested he would be limited to the next ring of the city and would have to find another way to get into the central area closest to the tower.
‘Keep moving!’ a guard in one of the towers shouted as the mass of soldiers funnelled through the gap, where other guards scanned the workers’ cards with what looked like Lutamek technology.
Delta-Six held his breath as his card scanned. The machine bleeped and he carried on, maintaining his awkward and arrogant Rhil walk, and let his 360-degree sensors scan for any giveaway movements from the guards.
Nothing.
The crowd fanned out, so Delta-Six quickly chose a stream to follow. Anyone caught dithering or looking lost would stand out and attract the guards’ attention.
In the distance he could see the Lutamek research centre, heavily populated with the turncoat robots. So many more than before, which suggested all their scouts had been recalled.
Fearing the sensitivity of their scanning systems, Delta-Six turned down his array. We’ll get our vengeance, he thought and pictured the neck-pin mirrors he had created for the freed farmers. If they worked as planned, any guard triggering the device would receive a message directed at their own pin instead. That would give Lavalle and Euryleia’s party a good chance of getting into the city and building an army of resistance.
Delta-Six concentrated on the alien soldiers around him. Very few were from his dome, but he recognised some from the farms, and soon realised why they were more excited than the other groups. They were headed for the arena, enjoying their free time. Poor mindless drones, Delta-Six thought. The fun would be short-lived and they’d soon be back working their shift. What sort of life was this?
‘Payment here!’ A set of guards stood by the entrance to the arena, which curved over their heads.
The card Delta-Six had pilfered was from the lowliest part of the city, so he doubted the owner had been flush with credit. He would just have to risk it, he thought, as he walked up to one of the white-skulled Bensha guards.
‘Payment,’ it barked and scanned Delta-Six’s card, only taking his eyes off him at the last second. Something about his demeanour suggested this guard would invite a fight with a Rhil. ‘Insufficient,’ the guard growled and pulled a blade from an armoury hanging around his waist.
‘That’s Rassum shit,’ Delta-Six replied, mimicking the gruff voice of the Rhil farmer.
It worked, catching the Bensha off guard long enough for Delta-Six to give the card a quick ultraviolet burst from his palm sensor. He raised it again and said, ‘Try again.’
The Bensha’s eyes were fixed on Delta-Six this time as he swiped his device over the card. A light flashed and the guard’s face clenched.
‘Proceed,’ he said, turning the blade in his hand.
Delta-Six strode off, head held high, through the main gate and into the dank darkness of the building. He followed a set of ramshackle stairs to an opening where fresh air wafted over him. Long benches ran to his left and right, populated by scores of soldiers who were ready for the main event. All eyes were fixed on the oval arena, where a maze of palisades surrounded an open area in the centre.
‘Here come the fighters!’ a voice called out.
Delta-Six shuffled along to find a space on a bench and watched as doors opened in the arena walls, spilling out the gladiators… human and Sorean.
*
John spotted Crossley in the crowd and pushed through to talk to him.
‘Have you seen Falen?’ he asked, trying to get a glimpse of Crossley’s neck pin.
‘No, but I told you she’s a genius, right?’
John realised it was the first time he’d seen Crossley smile in days.
‘She fixed yours too?’ John asked.
‘Yep,’ Crossley tapped an object in his chest pocket. �
��It was my idea to stick the caps on everyone – I found a bar of metal and Falen did the rest. Did she tell you how she released the pins?’
‘No.’ John shrugged.
The crowd was slowly shifting forward and John kept his eyes peeled for guards.
‘I’m still working it out, but I’m sure she used the neuro-connectors from your Luta-leg to talk to the pins, but I’ve got no idea how she switched them off.’
John thought back to the previous night with Falen and asked, ‘The oil in my arm?’
‘What oil?’
‘The stuff Ten-ten poured inside to change it to this,’ John said and held up his robotic hand.
There was an energy churning within, John could still feel it, but would it be able to fire like his old gun-arm had done?
‘Falen took some,’ he said.
Crossley nodded. ‘Okay, must be some kinda pre-programmed manipulator,’ he said, ‘so she just told the oil what to do and it talked through the neuro-connectors. Neat.’
‘But what now?’ John asked. ‘We can’t risk another revolt.’
Crossley shook his head. ‘Not until we’re sure everyone’s free,’ he replied. ‘And then we need to arm ourselves.’
‘Kill one guard, take his controller and we can blow all their heads off,’ John said, with a nod at the nearest guard.
‘Sure,’ Crossley replied.
John felt a vibration through his metal foot. It was subtle, so his organic foot barely registered it, but small puffs of dust fell from the cave roof. He gave Crossley a look.
‘Probably just explosives,’ the American said and looked cross. ‘Although I told ’em not to do it too far down. I’d better check,’ he whispered and sidestepped away and out of the cave.
Another vibration followed and this time other miners felt it. The crowd slowed and soldiers were pointing to cracks in the walls where small stones crumbled free.
‘Keep moving!’ a guard bellowed.
John had to get out. Crossley was long gone, so he turned around, searching for Falen and Yarcha or any face he recognised. Others were turning and walking back up the ramp to what felt like the safety of the main cavern. The guards looked confused too and were losing control.
‘Stop!’ one shouted. ‘Stay exactly where you are!’
The miners listened and the whole group slowed to a standstill, waiting for the next rumble. John stared around and froze when he spotted the morose, one-eyed face of Peronicus-Rax. Had he been captured too? The last they’d heard, just before the Lutamek had betrayed them, Gal-qadan’s mini-army had been attacked, so he thought he’d been killed.
John watched the large alien as he paced the top of the ramp, scanning the crowd of miners. When Peronicus-Rax saw a guard and talked in a friendly, but authoritative, manner, John knew he wasn’t a prisoner. The guard pointed across the crowd and John stretched up to peer over the smallest species. He caught a glimpse of Yarcha’s shaved head and… Falen. Two guards pushed through and grabbed Falen, pulling her uphill to Peronicus-Rax. Had they discovered her plan?
Peronicus-Rax pointed to a flat area in the next cave and started to remove his cache of weapons, piling them neatly by the wall.
John pushed through the migrating crowd to get a better view. Falen had been brought to the space and, to John’s eyes, seemed bigger now. Swollen. New shell linings had thickened her arms and legs.
Peronicus-Rax threw a weapon on the ground before her and slowly, moving like a predator, she picked it up. Then they fought.
Chapter 19
Olan rolled to his right as an energy blast from the young Lutamek ripped into the spot he’d been standing on, spraying stones and red desert dust across the Viking’s back.
‘They’re too powerful!’ he shouted to Steve Smith, who was hiding behind a metal palisade.
‘The weapons still don’t work,’ Smith replied, shaking his rifle with frustration.
Olan looked at the axe he’d picked up. Rusted and pitted, its single-headed blade had seen plenty of action, and had caused its own share of injuries no doubt.
‘This doesn’t need any power,’ Olan said.
‘Good luck,’ Smith replied, ‘if you can get close enough.’
Olan could tell he was smiling behind his mask and gave a little laugh, momentarily easing the tension. He took a deep breath and tried to block out the jeers and calls from the crowd. It was hard enough fighting against an unbeatable enemy without having a mass of alien soldiers baying for your bloody death. He rolled over to Smith and peeked through a gash in the metal; the two young Lutamek were sat back to back in the centre of the arena floor where the tocka had risen from the depths on their ramp. The tocka stood at the far end now, away from any flying debris, but Gal-qadan’s army of humans and Sorean remained on the other side of the Lutamek, taking as much fire as Olan’s side.
‘I’ll be in Valhalla before nightfall,’ Olan whispered. Thoughts of his wife and children invaded his mind, his eyes welling up as he visualised their faces. A few seconds later, the rush of nostalgia passed though, and Olan blinked his tears away. As quickly as the emotion had come, it vanished.
What was happening?
Olan searched the crowd for anyone using their skills to influence the fight. He was sure his chest plate had just saved him from another attack. The guards were usually hot on that kind of thing – it affected the gambling conglomerates – so maybe it was a new power the Lutamek had created? Either way, it was affecting all the soldiers, who seemed ready to throw their lives away now.
Osayimwese rushed over, shouting, ‘We must attack before they change the rules!’
Olan peeked through the fence as a metal bolt flashed off an unseen shield around the Lutamek. Shapes behind their shelters suggested Gal-qadan’s group were moving in to attack the Lutamek, which was madness. Maybe the Ascent had released a fighting hormone? Olan had been in enough arena battles to know how the Ascent liked to do things – any sign of the crowd getting bored and they ramped up the stakes.
Bowman rushed over, carrying a bundle of grey and black weapons, and ducked as a red line of light ripped into his leather jerkin. He collapsed next to Olan with smoke coming from his lower back, though there was no smell of burned flesh.
‘That was close!’ he said and started rummaging through the weapons he’d collected.
‘Anything working?’ Osayimwese asked.
‘Not that I can see,’ Bowman replied. ‘Of course there’s nothing here like Li’s old rifle but I’m sure we can get something to fire.’
Lights were flashing around Smith’s visor and he checked an energy-rifle. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the components, just the energy source.’
‘So if we can get–’ Another red flash burst in Olan’s eyes and he stopped mid-sentence. He stared at Bowman, kneeling next to him, as two dark streams of black smoke poured from either temple. The archer’s eyes rolled down at different speeds. Then he collapsed onto the sandy floor.
‘This weapon’s working!’ Osayimwese shouted, oblivious to Bowman’s death.
‘They must’ve been waiting for one of us to die,’ Smith said as he carefully closed the Englishman’s eyelids.
‘Bastards!’ Olan growled, slipped the shaft of his half-axe through his belt straps and grabbed the nearest rifle. ‘Now we can fight!’
‘We’ll make sure we’re never forgotten!’ Osayimwese said as he aimed his chunky grey rifle.
Olan felt his head rush with adrenaline as he pictured blasting the Lutamek apart. He took a deep breath. He had to stay calm and think straight. He searched the weapons and saw the tocka milling about at the far end of the arena floor, dodging the empty water canisters thrown at them from the crowd. One tocka stamped a clawed hoof and gave Olan an idea.
‘There’s only one way we can defeat them,’ he said. ‘And we need Gal-qadan’s help.’
‘But they’re over there!’ Smith shouted and ducked as a laser blast dented the metal wall inches from his head.
‘Then we’ll find a way to talk. Osayimwese?’
‘Yes.’
‘This new power of yours… can you summon the tocka?’
*
John pushed his way to the front of the crowd, watching in disbelief as Peronicus-Rax and Falen grappled and wrestled. Despite the size difference, the Drauw’s strength was on a par with that of Peronicus-Rax’s muscular frame. The crowd of miners and guards circled around them, reminding John of the scraps the boys used to have in the schoolyards.
‘Why have they only got knives?’ John asked Crossley.
The American shrugged and shook his head, then nodded at a guard. ‘I think it’s good timing though,’ he said and slipped back into the crowd.
John’s eyes were fixed on the fight and barely registered the response. Blue lines showed where Falen’s shelled limbs had taken slashes from Peronicus-Rax’s blade but the large warrior looked worse off, with pitch-black blood oozing from wounds on his bare arms. Both were tiring but had enough energy to taunt each other when they broke free.
‘You should be ashamed,’ Peronicus-Rax said, switching his knife from hand to hand, waiting to lunge in.
‘For leaving the battle?’ Falen replied.
‘For the sins of your planet.’
Falen gave a caustic laugh and attacked with her bizarre dipping-and-rising style.
‘My species is far older than I,’ Falen said, ‘and I do not carry their burden.’
‘But you are the last,’ Peronicus-Rax said, sidestepping with his bulky frame to find a better angle to attack.
‘And you may be THE last,’ Falen replied and ducked Peronicus-Rax’s lunge, before leaping onto his back and slashing at his shoulder armour.
The crowd roared as Peronicus-Rax elbowed her off, along with his shoulder pad, which Falen now held as a shield. Free from the rule of the guards, the crowd were chattering and yelling.
Amongst the noise, John heard a guard say, ‘They were both Ascent once.’