Godengine

by Craig Hinton

  ‘A healthy vegetarian diet,’ muttered Felice, standing next to him. ‘I suppose we’re lucky that we didn’t get raw meat and buckets of blood.’

  ‘The Ice Warriors are vegetarians,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘Despite all the myths about their eating babies during the Thousand Day War.’ Michael had told her of his amazement over the wide range of native vegetables, and the versatility of Martian cooking. Indeed, Martian chefs were highly prized in the caste structure. So it was with some regret that she looked at Chris. ‘I may be starving, but I’m not convinced that this is healthy.’

  ‘They’ve poisoned it?’ asked Felice.

  ‘It’s probably drugged,’ Chris agreed. ‘Which means that they’ll probably come for us – well, you and Rachel, anyway – in a few hours, when they think it’s taken effect. We’ll have to be ready.’

  ‘Ready?’ snapped Rachel. ‘Ready in what way, Chris? We’ve already been here for over two hours, and you haven’t been exactly forthcoming with a plan.’ As Adjudicators went, Chris wasn’t the most dynamic she had ever met. Then again, she hadn’t met that many; the ‘ravens’ of the Adjudication Bureau were an aloof lot.

  ‘That’s because I was waiting. And that’s what we’re going to do; wait.’ He sat down on his bed and began to pack lots of small, unfamiliar objects into a pouch that he had made out of the fabric of the rucksack. ‘Unless I’m completely wrong about this, I’d guess that you two are going to be forced to work on the manipulator, and I’m going to be shot.’

  ‘I’m glad to see that you’re keeping your spirits up,’ said Rachel.

  He smiled. ‘That’s the worst-case scenario, Rachel. But, knowing that, we should be able to take advantage of the situation ...’

  As dinner got cold, Rachel listened to Chris’s plan with mounting disbelief. It was outrageous, but understandable – and Rachel couldn’t see any alternative. Michael would be turning in his grave.

  ‘By your command, Your Excellency,’ Draan announced as he entered the Grand Marshal’s chambers. The summons had been an urgent one, and Draan knew better than to keep Falaxyr waiting. Not just because of the Grand Marshal’s rank, although the rigid chains of command were the foundation of the Martian military. No, Draan obeyed Falaxyr through a sense of honour, duty and respect. The first two were givens. But the third...

  Draan’s father had been ruthless, ambitious, and ultimately a failure. If his mission of a century ago had been a success, he would undoubtedly have been offered a place on the Eight-Point Table. Instead, he had died in disgrace, leaving Draan an orphan in the care of his nest. Such orphans rarely prospered; although the sins of the father were not formally passed down the generations, too many Martians considered failure to be hereditary. Draan could have ended up like that, had it not been for the patronage of his father’s commanding officer, Falaxyr.

  When Falaxyr had welcomed Draan into his home, he had been a Supreme Lord. But success and a thorough knowledge of the machinations of Martian politics had assured his rapid ascent to the Eight-Point Table. And, as Falaxyr rose through the ranks, so did Draan; just before the War, he had been promoted to Supreme Lord – a rank higher than his father had ever attained – and assigned to Falaxyr’s personal staff as his adjutant. He momentarily wondered whether he would have accepted the position had he known of the decades in isolation that they would have to face, but immediately chastised himself. He owed it all to Falaxyr, and would have followed him into the sun if ordered.

  Standing to attention before the Grand Marshal’s desk, he waited while Falaxyr finished reading something from the monitor inset into the cold stone surface.

  ‘Your analysis of the situation, Lord Draan?’ asked Falaxyr without looking up.

  ‘The taller male is an Adjudicator, and familiar with our culture, Your Excellency. It is probable that he suspects a trap.’

  ‘Probable?’ Falaxyr replied, smiling. ‘I would say it was inevitable. The Adjudicator has already neutralized our surveillance devices. Remember, the Bureau is a fearsome and honoured opponent – many of the most honourable conflicts of the Thousand Day War were those between our forces and the Adjudicators.’

  ‘I assume that the food has been drugged?’ asked Draan. Falaxyr seemed to be relishing the idea of having captured an Adjudicator; in Draan’s opinion, the human was of no possible value to them, and should have been executed immediately. It was almost as if Falaxyr expected him to provide some sort of welcome challenge.

  ‘Naturally. But it is just as inevitable that they will not have eaten it.’ He stood up. ‘Do you remember our games of chess back in the Fortress of Ooss-Ett-Jassiir?’ Draan nodded as Falaxyr walked over to a curtained alcove and pulled back the iridescent green drape, revealing the hexagonal shape of a chess board. ‘That was nothing more than one of my opening gambits.’ With his clamp, he picked up one of the pieces, an intricate carving of a Grand Marshal in yellow orbstone. ‘This is our Adjudicator, Draan; the enemy. And I am the opposing Marshal.’ He held up a similar but grey piece. ‘We are both aware of the other’s strategies and tactics, we are both familiar with the arts of war.’ He replaced the chess pieces and turned round.

  ‘The Adjudicator must be considered as dangerous as a Riis-utt-Ssethiss, Draan. He must be treated with honour, but given no quarter. That is why I did not execute him upon his arrival. It would be dishonourable.’

  Falaxyr’s obsession with Martian honour was legendary, but even Draan baulked at the idea that the Adjudicator should be treated as a Riis-utt-Ssethiss; the Bloodswords of Ssethiss had been the Martian assassination elite, trained killers whose order had been wiped out millennia ago in one of the Primal Wars, and their prowess was now the stuff of legend. This Adjudicator was only human, wasn’t he? In Draan’s opinion, the Grand Marshal was over-reacting. ‘What will you do, Your Excellency? Challenge him to a blood-duel?’

  Falaxyr’s clamped hand struck Draan across the face, knocking his helmet to the floor. ‘Do not insult me, Lord Draan. Despite our friendship, I am still the only remaining Supreme Grand Marshal on Mars – and your superior. It was misjudgement of the enemy that led to the death of your father and one wing of our space fleet, Draan. Unlike Slaar, I do not intend to underestimate my opponent.’

  Retrieving his helmet, Draan tried to hold back his anger. Some of that anger was due to the shame of being struck – his comment about the blood-duel had been insulting, since the duel could only be fought between Martians – but the major part was in response to Falaxyr’s insult. Draan’s father had been betrayed; if Slaar’s plan had succeeded, New Mars would have been founded on Earth, not on some Ssethiis-forsaken rock on the far side of Arcturus. But Draan kept his counsel; it was the wisest course.

  ‘We will make our move in an hour, Draan; I will instruct Cassaar to pump anaesthetic gas into their room in case they have not eaten the food. After it has taken effect, take four of your Warriors and bring the two scientists to the Brain-Rack.’

  Draan nearly questioned the need for four Warriors, but thought better of it. In Falaxyr’s mind, the Adjudicator had become an opponent of epic proportions; if four Warriors made the Grand Marshal happy, then so be it. ‘By your command, Your Excellency.’ He bowed, straightened, and walked towards the door. And then he stopped. ‘What of the Adjudicator, Your Excellency?’

  Falaxyr was standing by his chessboard. ‘Our Amber Marshal? Attempt to apprehend him alive, Draan.’

  Draan nodded and opened the door.

  ‘And Draan? If he is to die, ensure that it is an honourable death.’ Falaxyr tapped his clamps together. ‘I’m sure we understand one another.’

  ‘I can hear things,’ whispered Carmen, looking around the dark city with obvious trepidation. For once, Roz could sympathize with her; Sstee-ett-Haspar was decidedly unlike the relaxing, open city of Ikk-ett-Saleth. The gloom didn’t help: centuries of neglect meant that the bio-luminescent fungus was giving out barely a glimmer – even less than the faint glow that had illuminated the service
corridor. The members of the human expedition had broken out even more torches, and the Doctor had started playing around with his everlasting matches again, but all that the extra light did was show exactly how uninviting the city actually was. That included the smell: a musty, cloying odour that Roz couldn’t place – not that she really wanted to.

  It certainly lived up to its name as the Labyrinth of False Pride – that was obvious from the moment that they entered through the circular hole and the Plague Seal was replaced. There was no way of knowing exactly how big the city was, because it wasn’t possible to see for more than a couple of metres without there being a wall in the way.

  The walls of the Labyrinth lacked the smooth, decorated lustre that they had come to expect from Martian architecture; they were made of rough grey stone, carved with very primitive-looking hieroglyphics. The walls were also unbelievably tall, but their precise height was immeasurable since the upper reaches were lost in the shadows of the roof.

  The actual path through the city was only two metres wide, an uneven, dusty surface that constantly snapped through ninety degrees as another wall forced a change in direction. It made Roz feel like a laboratory animal.

  The creepy atmosphere was made even worse by the constant background noise of hisses and clicks which endlessly echoed around the Labyrinth, bouncing back and forth and ensuring that the true source was indeterminate.

  ‘The hissing is the mating call of the rock-snake,’ ventured Sstaal to Roz. ‘It is in a permanent mating frenzy.’

  ‘And that horrid clicking sound?’ asked Carmen.

  ‘That is the feeding triumph,’ Sstaal replied. ‘It usually follows the mating call. They are also permanently hungry.’

  Understanding Sstaal’s implication, Roz decided to change the subject.

  ‘Where’s the actual city?’ Roz asked. ‘At the centre of this maze?’

  ‘This is the city,’ said Sstaal. ‘The walls of the maze are the buildings.’

  ‘So why is the city built as a maze? Some sort of defensive strategy?’

  Sstaal shook his head. ‘Most certainly not. It is one of eight such cities built during the J’Kassaar Dynasty, four thousand years ago. They are all patterned after a map in the Blessed Apocryphal Glyphs of Oras.’ He lowered his stuttering, lisping voice. ‘They are considered blasphemous by certain Orthodox sects of my religion,’ he added guiltily.

  Roz quickly glanced around to check what everyone else was up to; the Doctor and the Abbot were conducting a subdued yet gesticular conversation about some subject or another, while Esstar was tagging along with Carmen, Sstaal and herself. That left Cleece and Madrigal, leading the party through the maze; the Ice Warrior’s concealed disruptor scanned directly ahead, while Madrigal looked from side to side, plasma rifle in hand. And then there was McGuire, trailing behind and guarding their rear.

  ‘How much longer have we got to go, Roslyn?’ asked Carmen. ‘I feel sick, knowing that there are those – those things out there.’

  ‘We’re going to be all right, Carmen,’ said Roz without the slightest trace of true concern; she just wanted to shut the woman up. ‘Those things won’t come anywhere near us.’ Roz waved her torch around to prove that they were alone.

  Santacosta screamed, pointing at the illuminated ground with a shaking finger. The desiccated body stared up at them with empty eye sockets set into yellow parchment skin. It was slumped against one of the walls, where it had presumably been since dying of sleeping fever, centuries ago.

  ‘The ghosts of our dead will watch over us,’ intoned Sstaal.

  Santacosta immediately burst into tears.

  Draan strode down the corridor towards the holding cell that contained Falaxyr’s precious ‘Amber Marshal’, flanked by his own personal guard. Ssell, Gaar and Ossarl were vicious, uncompromising Martians who were fiercely loyal to him; currently, loyalty was just what Draan needed. If the Grand Marshal thought that this was a suitable task for a Supreme Lord of the Martian aristocracy, then Draan had seriously misunderstood the relationship between them. No, he corrected himself; it was Falaxyr who had misunderstood. Draan’s gratitude to his patron was finite; the time was approaching when Draan would pay Falaxyr back for the humiliations which he had constantly heaped on him.

  Christopher Cwej would die, the subspace scientists would serve the Martian cause... and Draan would be remembered as the Martian who had forged a new empire.

  Draan sighed. Who was he trying to deceive? Falaxyr held his life in his clamps; one tug and Draan would be less than nothing. His hopes sublimating into anger, he continued down the corridor towards his meeting with the so-called ‘Amber Marshal’.

  Chris sat on the bed, trying to push away panic. Rachel and Felice were already unconscious – the colourless gas that had been pumped into their cell had been instantly effective. Chris’s nose filters had succeeded in keeping him awake, but the smell of the anaesthetic was rather too much for him, and he had to keep from retching – the room smelt like somebody had just had a very bad attack of flatulence.

  It was pretty likely that the Ice Warriors were on their way – why else would they have flooded the room with gas? Chris just hoped that his inventiveness – and imperfect memories of various courses on Ponten IV – would be sufficient. Returning his attention to what he had been working on, he tried to thread the filament through the small opening in the hastily rigged circuit, but he angrily realized that his hands were shaking too much. He grunted, and put the device down alongside him.

  Come on, Chris – get a grip. This is the opportunity that you’ve been waiting for. One man against the world, the hero who gets the girl. All you’ve got to do is outwit a group of Ice Warriors.

  He took a series of deep breaths – through the filters, of course – and was relieved to feel his heartbeat slowing. He had just one last thing to do; then he would be ready for them.

  He hoped.

  Roz’s insistence that they had nothing to worry about was suddenly torn apart, yet more proof that the universe had a pretty lousy sense of timing. The sharp retort of a plasma burst echoed around the Labyrinth, followed by the screech of a sonic disruptor and two screams. Only one was human, but both were death rattles.

  Roz ran the five metres to the nearest junction and stepped into a pool of light provided by somebody’s torch. She immediately saw what had happened. Madrigal’s body was still smoking from the attack and Cleece stood over her, unmoving, his disruptor still trained on what remained of a rock-snake in front of him. Its middle section was missing, but the plasma-hurling sting and the bulbous eye were still intact, twitching. Cleece tensed his clamp once more, and the rock-like remains of the snake buckled and warped under the sonic disruption, leaving nothing but charred ground.

  Roz fell to her knees and examined Madrigal’s wound, but even a cursory look showed it to be fatal: the bio-plasmic sting of the rock-snake had burnt through her jacket and body armour, virtually eviscerating her. Roz sighed; in her century, the rock-snake was almost extinct, but there were still reports of fatalities in the less-developed regions of Mars. The rock-snake was a vicious predator that served no purpose in the Martian foodchain, just one of those nasty quirks of evolution.

  ‘There is no brain activity,’ said Sstaal sadly. He was kneeling next to Roz, a palm-sized device made of glittering trisilicate in his clamps.

  ‘If you don’t mind moving back,’ said McGuire coldly. As Sstaal and Roz complied, he scanned Madrigal’s body with a micro-tablette. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘That was my diagnosis,’ muttered Sstaal. ‘I was not aware that human technology was any more sensitive than ours.’

  ‘Perhaps I wanted to prove it myself,’ McGuire snapped. ‘Just to be certain.’

  Roz could understand McGuire’s attitude; indeed, she had behaved the same way on more than one occasion. Losing somebody under your command was never easy, and if there was the slightest chance of a mistake... But the gaping, cauterized plasma burn in place of Madrigal’s
chest was undeniable proof that the last member of McGuire’s original expedition was dead.

  Roz stepped back towards the Doctor, who was staring at Madrigal’s body without a flicker of emotion.

  ‘Seems straightforward enough. Or was Madrigal killed by our mysterious assassin as well?’ she asked, well aware that her anger over the marine’s death was boiling over and she was having difficulty containing it

  The Doctor tapped his chin with two fingers. ‘No, Roz, this is just what it appears: a pointless tragedy. Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot of time to grieve.’ He moved out of the way to allow Cleece to continue patrolling round the party.

  ‘A trained colonial marine, taken out by a sodding rock- snake? Surely even you can see how unlikely that looks?’

  The Doctor gazed downwards, and it was clear to Roz that the events unfolding around him were somehow irrelevant. All that mattered to the Doctor was reaching the Pole and solving the mystery of the Vortex rupture; the fate of the joint expedition was beneath him, the pointless scampering of creatures as below him on the evolutionary scale as the rock-snake was below Roz. She turned her back on him and looked over at the others.

  ‘Find something to cover her with,’ said McGuire. ‘We’re going to have to leave her here, but it’s only right that we collect the body on the way back. I’d – I’d like there to be something left to bury back in Jacksonville.’

  Aklaar beckoned Sstaal over to him. After a brief exchange in their native language, Sstaal took off his hide backpack and reached inside.

  ‘Please, accept this warding shroud,’ he said to McGuire, handing over a folded bundle of metallic cloth. ‘In our traditions, the body of a fallen warrior is consigned to the flames with respect and ceremony. However, there are circumstances under which the body must be left unaccompanied for some time; to prevent desecration, a warding shroud is used. It is impregnated with chemicals which repel scavengers.’

  McGuire accepted the shroud with a grateful smile. ‘I am honoured, Pilgrim Sstaal.’ He began to unfurl the fabric, accepting Aklaar’s assistance with good grace.