And then, suddenly, there was light again.
Sharp, sudden, brilliant white light filled the atrium of the State Library. Blinding spheres of light, four feet in diameter—half the size of the one she had seen before—illuminated everything around Parker.
Parker saw two small spheres of light before her . . . then three . . . then four. Loose sheets of paper began to blow about all around her, just as they had done before.
She looked beyond the swirling sheets of paper, trying to catch a glimpse of the tall man in black. But amid the billowing pages and the blinding light, the horned man remained completely still, impervious to distraction.
And then, in a flare of white, Parker saw the man’s face.
He was staring at her.
Straight at her.
It was terrifying. Their eyes locked and a flood of adrenalin instantly rushed through Parker’s body. All she could see were deep blue eyes set against a harsh black face. Eyes devoid of emotion. Eyes that simply stared.
Stared right at her.
Sheets of paper fluttered wildly around his unmoving frame and then—
And then abruptly, darkness again.
The four white spheres of light had vanished instantly. The wind stopped abruptly, and all over the atrium, sheets of paper glided softly to the floor.
Parker spun to face the spot where one of the spheres had been—
—only to see something small scuttle away behind a nearby bookcase, its long black tail lashing against the bottom shelf of the bookcase as it disappeared from view.
An eerie silence filled the atrium.
The enormous room was once again bathed in the soft blue light of the street lamps outside.
Parker looked back from the bookshelf, saw the carpet of loose paper spread out on the floor before her. In the silence, she could hear herself breathing heavily.
‘Salve, moriturum es!’
A voice—a deep, baritone voice.
Echoing loudly in the atrium.
Parker’s head snapped up. It had come from the silhouetted man.
‘Salve, moriturum es!’ he repeated, loudly. His face was again masked by blackness, shadowed by the blue light behind him. Parker couldn’t even see his lips move.
She heard the words. Salve moriturum es. They sounded vaguely familiar, like something she had learned at school, something that she had long since forgotten . . .
The big man took a step toward her. A glint of gold flashed off his dark shadowed chest.
Now she could see the small white lump on his shoulder quite clearly. It was a man all right, a small man, held in a fireman’s carry over the horned man’s shoulder. The little man groaned as the tall horned man moved toward the Information Desk.
Behind the counter of the desk, Parker leaned back, and slowly—silently—eased her Glock 20 semi-automatic pistol from its holster.
The tall man spoke.
‘Greetings, fellow competitor. Before you stands Bellos. Great-grandson of Trome, the winner of the Fifth Presidian. And like his great-grandfather and two Malonians before him, Bellos shall emerge from this battle alone, conquered by none and not undone by the Karanadon. Who be’st thou, my worthy and yet unfortunate opponent?’
There was silence as the man waited for an answer.
Parker heard a soft, insistent scraping sound from the bookshelves to her left. It sounded like long fingernails moving quickly back and forth on a blackboard. She turned back to face him.
The man—Bellos—was looking at her, examining her, up and down, right and left.
Parker swallowed. ‘I don’t—’
‘Where is your guide?’ the deep baritone voice suddenly interjected. A demand, not a question.
‘My guide?’ Parker’s face displayed her incomprehension.
‘Yes,’ Bellos said. ‘Your guide. How will you confirm any conquest without a guide?’
Beneath the counter, Parker’s hand gripped her gun tightly. ‘I have no guide,’ she said coolly.
The big man cocked his head, his sharp horns tilting to the side. Parker watched him carefully as he pondered over her comment for a moment. He glanced down at the large metal band attached to his wrist. It had a green light on it . . .
The scraping sound behind the bookshelf got faster, more intense.
Impatient.
Bellos looked up from his wristband and levelled his eyes at Parker.
‘You are not a contestant in the Presidian, are you?’
He looked at the wide atrium around him, at the bookshelves to his left and right. Then he looked back at Parker, a glint of menace in his eyes.
‘Good,’ Bellos said, smiling. ‘Kataya!’
The attack came from Parker’s left. From the bookshelves.
The creature sprang forward, leaping at the counter of the Information Desk with frightening speed. It hit the counter hard, grabbing the edge with two vicious-looking foreclaws, baring twin rows of long, razor-sharp teeth, squealing a loud reptilian squeal.
Parker reeled back in horror, staring in shocked disbelief at the creature before her.
It was the size of a large dog, about four feet tall, with hard scaly skin that was gunmetal black in colour. It had four bony-but-muscular limbs and a long, black scaled tail that slithered madly behind its body.
Stunned, Parker just stared at the creature as it struggled to climb over the counter.
Supported by a thin black neck, its head was totally bizarre. Two lifeless black eyes sat on either side of a round black skull, whose sole purpose it seemed was to accommodate the creature’s enormous jaws.
The creature lashed out at Parker, clamping its pointed teeth down in front of her.
Parker pulled back from the counter, away from the creature, raised her gun—
—and then in a strange, flashing instant she saw the creature’s limbs on the counter.
It was not struggling to climb over the counter anymore—it was already there.
It lashed out at her again. Missed again.
Parker was momentarily startled.
It wasn’t even trying to get her. It was as if this creature were merely trying to keep her attention . . .
It was then mat a second creature hit her from the side. Knocking the wind out of her, jolting the pistol from her hand.
Parker stumbled from the impact, catching a split-second glimpse of what had hit her—another creature, identical to the first.
A third creature charged her from behind, pitching her forward, face-first onto the ground. Parker rolled quickly onto her back and suddenly felt a heavy weight slam down onto her chest.
A loud reptilian squeal pierced her ears as two rows of long jagged teeth opened wide in front of her eyes.
It was standing on top of her!
Parker screamed as the creature slashed its long foreclaw across her stomach and ducked its head.
And as she lay on the floor, helpless to resist the slicing of the creatures’ sharp teeth as all four of them began to feed on her belly, Officer Christine Parker suddenly remembered—quite irrationally—what the words ‘Salve moriturum es’ meant.
They were Latin words—words similar to those spoken by Roman gladiators when they were presented to the cheering crowd before combat—‘We who are about to die, salute you’.
However, as Parker sank to the floor, her strength fading, and the weight of the four creatures now pressing down heavily on her body, she realised that Bellos had changed the words slightly, changing the meaning.
‘Salve moriturum es’ meant: ‘I salute you, you who are about to die.’
‘I am not sure this is such a good idea,’ Selexin said as he followed Swain and Holly through the fire door into the stairwell.
Swain peered down into the shaft, ignoring Selexin. Holly, however, turned to face the little man.
‘If you’re from another planet,’ she said, ‘how come you speak English so well?’
Selexin said, ‘My native tongue is based of an alphabet compris
ed of seven hundred and sixty-two distinct symbols. With only twenty-six base letters to choose from, your language is exceedingly simple to learn apart from the dreadful idioms.’
‘Oh.’
Swain continued to stare down the shaft.
‘I was saying,’ Selexin repeated for him, ‘that I am not sure this is a very good idea. The chances of sequencing increase as more contestants enter the labyrinth.’
Swain was silent for a long moment.
‘You’re probably right,’ he said, looking down into the dark shaft. Then he turned to face Selexin. ‘But then again, if I’m going to be running for my life in this place, I don’t want to be doing it in rooms and corridors that I don’t know. At least if we look around, we might get to know where we can and can’t run if we are followed. I sure as hell don’t want to run into a dead end with some half-cocked killer behind me. And besides,’ he shrugged, ‘we might even find somewhere to hole up if we have to.’
‘Hole up?’
‘Yes, hole up. Hide,’ Swain said. ‘You know, escape. Maybe even just stay in the one place until everybody else has killed each other.’
‘That is improbable,’ Selexin said.
‘Why is it improbable? Surely it must be the best way to survive this whole damn thing. We just hide away somewhere, let the others do the fighting and maybe They’ll . . .’
Selexin wasn’t listening. He was just standing there, staring at Swain, waiting for him to stop talking.
Swain said, ‘What? What is it?’
Selexin cocked his head to one side. ‘If you remember what I told you before, you will understand.’
‘What? What did you tell me before?’
‘As I have said from the beginning, only one contestant leaves the labyrinth. And if not one, none.’
Swain nodded. ‘I remember. But how can that happen? If only one contestant is left in the maze, he’s safe to find the exit and leave, because there’s nothing left to kill him . . .’
Selexin did not answer.
Swain sighed, ‘. . . unless there’s something else in here.’
Selexin nodded. ‘That is right,’ he said. ‘The third element of the Presidian.’
‘The third element?’
Selexin stepped back into the study hall and sat down at one of the L-shaped desks. Swain and Holly followed.
‘Yes, an outside agent. A variable. Something that is capable of altering the conditions of combat instantly. Something that can turn victory into defeat, life into death. In the Presidian, the third element is a beast, a beast known throughout the galaxy as the Karanadon.’
Swain was silent.
‘It is a most powerful beast, like no other,’ Selexin said. ‘As tall as the ceiling, as broad as three men, and as strong as twenty—and its considerable strength is only matched by its unbridled aggression—’
‘Okay, okay,’ Swain said, ‘I think I get the picture. This thing, it’s in here too, right? Trapped inside, like the rest of us?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what does it do? Does it just wander around killing whoever it pleases?’
Selexin said, ‘Well, for one thing, it does not just wander around . . .’
Swain let out a breath in relief.
‘. . . all of the time.’
Swain groaned.
‘But if you will just look at your wristband for a moment,’ Selexin said, ‘I will explain everything.’
Swain looked down at the heavy grey band on his wrist. The display still read:
INCOMPLETE—4
‘You will remember,’ Selexin said, ‘that when I gave you your wristband, I told you it would be of vital importance to you, yes? Well, it is more than that. Without it, you will not survive the Presidian.
‘Your wristband serves many purposes, one of which is to identify you as a contestant in the Presidian. For example, you cannot win the Presidian unless you are wearing your wristband—you will simply be denied entry into the exit-teleport when it is opened. In the same way, other contestants will know that you are competing in the Presidian because they will see your wristband. This will protect you in the time before the Presidian commences—but it will also tell others that you are still a competitor who must be eliminated.
‘However, in addition to this, your wristband provides several other, more important functions. First of all, as you have no doubt already noticed, there is a glowing green light on it. That light answers your previous question: no—the Karanadon does not just “wander” around. The green light you see indicates that the beast is at present dormant, nesting some where within the labyrinth. Or more simply, asleep. Wherefore, movement throughout the labyrinth is, at least for the moment, uninhibited by the Karanadon. Hence the green light.’
‘The band can tell when it’s asleep?’ Swain said doubtfully.
‘It is done through a device, surgically implanted in the beast’s larynx, that electronically measures its rate of respiration. Respiration below a certain rate indicates sleep, respiration above—animation. That device, however, also provides some degree of control over the beast. It can, at official command, either secrete a sedative that will put the beast to sleep or inject a hormone that will rouse it immediately.’
‘When would that happen?’ Swain asked. ‘When would you want it to wake up?’
‘Why, when there is only one contestant left, of course,’ Selexin said. ‘Perhaps I can explain this another way. There have been six previous Presidia. Three have been won by Malonians, one by a Konda, and one by a Crisean.’
‘Okay.’
Selexin stared at Swain. ‘Well, that’s it. that’s the point.’
‘What’s the point?’
“There have been six Presidia, while there have been only five winners,’ Selexin said.
The little man sighed. ‘That is what I am trying to tell you. There may be no winner in the Presidian—unless one is worthy, none are worthy. There was no winner in the last Presidian, because the Karanadon killed all of the final three contestants when they happened upon its nest during combat. In the space of two minutes, the Presidian was over, due solely to the beast.’
‘Oh.’
Selexin went on: ‘And, as has always been the case, when only one contestant remains, and the exit-teleport to the labyrinth has been opened, the Karanadon is roused. One may choose to avoid it and search the labyrinth for the exit. Or one might attempt to kill it if he dares.’
Swain said, ‘And has anybody ever done that before? Killed one?’
Selexin looked at Swain as though he had asked the most stupid question in the world.
‘In a Presidian? No. Never. Not ever.’ There was a short pause. Selexin moved on. ‘But, anyway, as you will hopefully live to see later, when the beast is awake, the red light on your wristband will ignite.’
‘Uh-huh. And this beast, this Karanadon, it was teleported into the library at the same time I was?’
‘No,’ Selexin said, ‘the Karanadon is traditionally teleported into the labyrinth at least a day before the Presidian is to commence. But that does not really matter, because it would have been asleep all that time. Unless, of course, it was aroused. But that is unlikely.’
‘I have one more question,’ Swain said.
‘Yes?’
‘What if someone got out of this maze of yours? Now I know you think it can’t happen, but what if it did? What happens then?’
‘You credit me with a faith I do not possess. No, I accept your question quite easily, because it can happen. In fact, it has happened. Contestants have been known to be ejected from the labyrinth, either by design or by simple accident.’
‘So what happens?’
‘Again, it is your wristband that governs this situation,’ Selexin said. ‘As you know, an electric field covers this labyrinth. Your wristband operates in accordance with that field. If for some reason your wristband detects that it is no longer surrounded by the electric field, it automatically sets a timer for self-detonation.’
‘A timer for self-detonation,’ Swain said. ‘You mean it explodes?’
‘Not instantly. There is a time limit. You are allowed fifteen min—’
‘Jesus Christ! You put a goddamn bomb on my wrist! Why didn’t you tell me that before!’ Swain couldn’t believe it. It was incredible. He began to fiddle hurriedly with the wristband, trying to get it off.
‘It won’t come off,’ Selexin said calmly. ‘It can’t come off, you waste your time even trying.’
‘Shit,’ Swain muttered, still grabbing at the solid metal band.
‘Language,’ Holly said, waving an admonishing finger at Swain.
‘As I was saying,’ Selexin said, ‘If by some chance you are expelled from the labyrinth, you will have fifteen minutes to re-enter it. Otherwise, detonation will occur.’
He looked sadly at Swain, still fiddling with the wristband. Finally Swain gave up.
‘You needn’t worry,’ Selexin said. ‘Detonation will only occur upon expulsion from the labyrinth, and as I admit that it has happened before, I also add that it has not happened often. No-one gets out. Mr Swain, you must see now that whichever way you go there remains but one answer. Unless you leave this contest as the victor, you do not leave at all.’
Hawkins stood at the base of the stairwell, the beam of his flashlight the only light. There were no more stairs going down from here. Nothing but concrete walls and a large fire door that read: SUB-LEVEL2.
Must be the bottom.
Hawkins moved cautiously over to the fire door. The handle turned easily and he slid the door open. He peered around the doorframe and instantly felt a rush of bile rise up the back of his throat. He turned back into the stairwell and vomited.
Several moments later, wiping his mouth and coughing to clear his throat, Hawkins looked back out through the doorway.
Aisles of bookcases stretched endlessly away from him, disappearing into darkness, beyond the reach of the mouldy overhead lights. But it was the aisle directly in front of him that seized his immediate attention.
The bookshelf to his left—twelve feet high and twenty feet long—had been wrenched free from its ceiling mounts and was now leaning backwards against the bookcase in the aisle behind it. Like two enormous dominoes: one upright, holding up its fallen neighbour.
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