by Douglas Hill
As before, Keill remained silent and watchful, idly hooking his thumbs into his belt – where his fingers trailed over the flat plastic of the grenades.
'I’m not taking any more chances with you,’ Miclas went on. 'You get to stay alive – but a bullet in the leg will take the fight out of you.'
Keill saw the tightening of the clone's forefinger on the gun's trigger. At the same time he saw another faint motion, on the cavern wall near Miclas's elbow.
'Do you know,' he asked idly, 'what effect the sting of a stonewhip has on a man?'
Miclas frowned. 'It's too late for your tricks now, legionary,’ he growled.
The knuckle of his trigger finger whitened as it put on the final pressure. And then several things happened at once.
Keill plucked a grenade from his belt and flung it, with a blurring snap of his wrist. With almost the same speed, the stonewhip that Keill had seen in the wall beside Miclas lashed out, the tendril stabbing at the clone's gun hand.
Miclas screamed shrilly as he fired, but his injured hand jerked aside, and the bullet sang harmlessly away into the darkness.
A fraction of a second later, the clone vanished in an eruption of dust and rock as the grenade exploded at his feet.
And then, as Keill desperately leaped for the tunnel, the roof of the cave fell in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A vast weight, which seemed to have a polished metal surface, was pressing down upon him, crushingly, irresistibly. He felt no pain – only a deathly numbness, a near-paralysis., so that his arms and legs moved as if held by thick, clinging glue. Yet still he tried to struggle against the pressure that was seeking to kill him. Somewhere near by a reedy, nasal voice was muttering, the words not clear. With a supreme effort he pushed upwards at the monstrous weight – and miraculously it lifted, as if plucked away by some godlike hand. And now the words of the reedy voice were plainer...
'We'll know soon,’ it was saying. 'The knife will tell.’
Keill opened his eyes, coming out of the dream into immediate full alertness. Yet it seemed that not all of the dream had been left behind. The gluey restriction still held his body, so that it was an effort even to move his eyes.
He was lying on a hard, narrow bed. His uniform and boots had been removed, and he was
'wearing only a thigh-length bed-kilt of a light material. There were synthaskin bandages on his injured left hand, and elsewhere on his body – where the rock fall must have gashed his flesh. And around him was a medical clinic of some sort, with banks of high-technology equipment lining the sterile white walls.
He tried to move, to lift himself, but without success. Every cell of his body seemed to ache, as if his body were one oversee bruise. And the feeling of being immersed in glue impaired every movement.
He wondered miserably if the rock fall had damaged his nervous system, left him paralysed...
With a huge effort he shifted his eyes further to one side and saw the owner of the reedy voice. A medic, in the usual white tunic – a narrow, bony man whose eyes and teeth protruded just as his hair and chin receded. The medic was making adjustments to a laser scalpel, and Keill remembered the words he had heard upon waking.
'If you touch me with that,' Keill said evenly, 'you'll regret it.’ His words sounded slow and far away in his own ears.
The medic jerked his head up, eyes bulging further. 'Ha! Awake? Sooner than you should.’ The thin voice and staccato speech seemed designed to grate on the nerves, Keill thought. 'But you can't threaten. The injection will hold for hours.’
Injection? With some relief Keill realised that his body seemed half-paralysed because he had been drugged. The medic read the look in his eyes and nodded, with an unsettling titter. 'Nerve relaxant.
Blocks the brain's messages. Slows you down, holds you back, keeps you quiet.’
'While you cut me open?’
The medic glanced at the scalpel in his hand, and set it down with another titter. 'A small incision.
Exploratory. You're very strange. Dragged out from under half a ton of rock – should have smashed you like an egg. Like poor Miclas. But you – abrasions and contusions. Not so much as a finger broken.’
'Lucky for me.’ Keill said ironically.
'More than luck. Freak bones, maybe. A mutant?’ A bony finger prodded Keill's ribs. 'The knife would tell me. But there will be time later. No shortage of time.’
You're wrong about that, too, Keill thought. 'How long have I been here?'
'Brought in last night. Now it's tonight.' The titter rose again as the medic moved away, busying himself at one of the machines, then bustling out of the room.
Unconscious for a whole day? Frustration and anger swept through Keill, and he sought to lunge up from the bed. But the gluey feeling held him. His body moved only slightly, in a terrible slow motion, and pain lanced through his stiff and aching muscles.
He sagged back, fighting down rage and desperation, gathering his thoughts – and finding that not all the thoughts were his own.
You are awake at last.Glr's inner voice held equal mixtures of relief and anxiety. I feared you might be in coma. What is happening to you?
Keill explained about the drug, and then told her what had happened, since the explosion in the cave, as far as he knew. 'They're probably going to interrogate me,’ he concluded, 'and in the end they’ll get round to killing me.’
What can I do?Glr asked.
'Right now I have no idea,’Keill said sourly. 'There's no way you can get in here past the force field.’
Glr was silent for a moment. I have to tell you, she said at last, the clones found Tam, earlier today. He tried to fight them, bravely, but he had no chance. They took him away – still aim – to the tower. I can detect his mind on the same level as you – halfway up the tower.
Keill ground his teeth with rage. If there were to be any kind of chance that he might escape, it would be even slimmer if he had to worry about Tam as well.
He is a well-meaning young human,Glr added. I visited him last night briefly – and he was surprised, but friendly and kind, even sharing some food with me.
'I know what you're saying,’ Keill said wryly. 'Don't worry – if there's any chance at all, I'll try to get him out. But I can't do anything lying here like a corpse.’
You will find a way,Glr said confidently, as her mind withdrew.
Then it's time to start looking, Keill said to himself. He lay perfectly still for a moment, breathing deeply, gathering his concentration and strength as his training had taught him. Then he began to do battle with the drug.
Sweat burst from his skin, and his braised flesh screamed, but he clenched his teeth and fought to move. Left arm first -bring it across the body. Slowly, maddeningly, as if it were not truly attached to him, the arm lifted, dragging itself over on to his chest. In the same cruel mockery of movement, his left leg bent at the knee, raising itself from the bed. And after what seemed an hour of gruelling, exhausting concentration, he had managed to roll halfway over.
Then he let himself roll back to his original position, feeling the sweat dry as he rested. Some achievement, he thought dourly. At this rate it will take me a year to cross the room.
He was gathering himself for another effort when the medic returned. The bulging eyes glanced over Keill, 'Good, good. Still and quiet,' The narrow head nodded several times with satisfaction.
'Injection will hold a while yet. Then another, and sleep again.'
He tittered as before and moved away. But a trace of satisfaction spread through Keill as well, among the frustration and urgency.
The medic believed that he should still be wholly unable to move. So it seemed that the drug was wearing off more quickly than was normal.
But then legionaries were not normal. Their training demanded a peak of health, physical condition and body control far beyond the ordinary. And that had always meant that a legionary was far more resistant to disease – and to the effects of drugs – than most people
. Keill remembered the surprise even of the Overseers, after they had saved his life, when he had regained consciousness days sooner than they had expected.
It wouldn't give him much of an advantage, he knew – not in this position, and not with another injection due before long. But it was all he had.
Cautiously he struggled to turn his head a fraction. The medic had apparently gone through another door, probably leading to an adjoining room. Keill wondered if that might be where they were keeping Tam. More immediately he wondered if he might chance another effort to loosen himself further from the relaxant drug.
That chance did not come. The medic scuttled back into view, still fussing with some equipment against the wall. And then he halted, jumping as if stabbed, as a voice spoke from the other side of the room.
'Has he regained consciousness?’
It was a carrying voice, though hollow and flat, totally lacking in resonance or richness. Keill could not see its owner, but a chill brushed his spine at the mere sound.
Then the speaker stepped into his view, and the chill deepened.
At first glance the person looking down at him was beautiful, in an inhuman way. A tall, broad-shouldered, imposing figure that seemed to have been carved from gold – or from some smooth and burnished metal that was the colour of gold. It might have been a sculpture of some mighty ancient god. Yet it moved – the flexible seams at the joints hair-thin and almost invisible. For an instant Keill thought the golden figure was a robot, but then he saw the face more clearly, and knew otherwise – sickeningly otherwise.
If the metallic body was that of a god, the face was that of a devil. A devil made of flesh, human flesh, and revoltingly ugly. The skin was a sickly grey, puffy and mottled. And the features were small, clustered in the centre of the grey face – close-set eyes that lacked brows or lashes, a nose not much more than two gaping slits, a small blubbery mouth held partly open to reveal tiny, blackened teeth.
A cyborg, Keill decided, staring at the being. A cybernetic robot body, with the organic human flesh of the face – and behind it, no doubt, a human brain – linked and melded perfectly into the smooth golden hood that formed its head.
The medic sidled forward anxiously. 'He is conscious. But no movement yet.’
'Are you certain?' The small eyes fastened unblinkingly on Keill. 'He is a man of many talents and resources. Watch him carefully.'
The medic jerked his head in a half-bow and scuttled away. Keill and the golden giant studied each other silently for a moment. Flat on his back and barely able to move, Keill had never felt so vulnerable in his life.
'I am Altern.' The hollow, eerie voice was as expressionless as before.
'And you're the boss here, from the Deathwing,' Keill said, striving to make the muscles of his mouth move properly.
A broad golden hand moved as if brushing the word aside. 'I am aware that you know that name.
I am aware that you have many pieces of information about the Deathwing that you should not have, I intend to learn what else you know – and above all how you came to learn what you know.'
Keill was silent a moment, remembering. In his most recent clash with a Deathwing agent, on the Cluster near the planet Veynaa, his enemy had been surprised that Keill knew anything at all about the Deathwing. It was inevitable that the facts of Keill's knowledge – of his very existence – would have been relayed back to the Deathwing leader, who was never called anything but The One.
'I learned it easily enough,' he said at last, mockery in his slow voice. 'I made a vid-call to The One, and asked him.'
Altern's puffy grey face did not flicker. 'That you did not. Equally, you did not learn what you know by your own devices. You are not so clever.'
'No?' Keill replied. 'Then maybe I'm just lucky.'
The hollow voice deepened slightly, sounding even more as if it came from beyond the grave.
'You survived the destruction of your world, though no others did. Twice you found your way to Deathwing operations on other planets, and twice you thwarted us. No one is so lucky. You have been aided, Keill Randor. And you will tell me how, and by whom.’
'No,' Keill said quietly, 'I won't.'
The slit nostrils flared. 'In a nearby room lies the Jitrellian officer. I can have him brought here and allow Doctor Rensik to operate on him in unbearably painful ways. The doctor enjoys the use of the scalpel.'
Keill kept his face blank, his voice level. 'I met the boy only a short while ago. He is clumsy, stupid and undisciplined. Do you really think that concern for him would make me say anything to one of the killers who murdered Moros?'
It was a bluff – but Keill had delivered it with an icy, convincing calm. The golden giant studied him a moment, then again gestured dismissively. 'Indeed. The boy is unimportant. And you seem to have rid yourself of some of the Legion scruples, since your planet died. I may find it even easier to make use of you.'
'Use of me?'
'The Deathwing is not wasteful.’ Altern's puffy lips twitched in something that might have been a smile. 'Some thought that you should be pursued and killed outright. But I believed that you might one day find your way here, to this operation – which would have peculiar interest to a legionary. And I felt that the last of the Legions of Moros would have much to contribute here, which would be a satisfactory way to put an end to your meddling. My opinion... prevailed.’
'So you were expecting me,' Keill said coldly.
'When our training programme extended to off-planet manoeuvres, computer predictions gave an eighty-eight per cent probability that you would learn about them.' The small eyes glinted. 'Yes, I have been waiting for you.’
'Training?' Keill spat the word. 'That murderous raid on the Jitrell spaceport was training ?'
'Quite so. And results were most satisfactory.’ Again the mockery of a smile.
'And you really think,’ Keill said bitterly, 'that you can somehow force me to work for the Warlord?'
'Warlord?' Altern said, as if tasting the name. 'That is what you name the Master? How suitable...
But yes, Randor, I can. This operation is one of the... Warlord's... central plans. The creation of an élite fighting force, as skilled as the legionaries from whom they were cloned. They have been created to fight
– whether as special task forces, assassination squads, even mercenaries like your Legions. But always they will serve the Master's purpose. And in the end they will spearhead the final assaults – they and more like them, soon to be developed – that will bring the Master to victory over the galaxy.’
Keill snorted. 'And I'm supposed to come along, carrying the flag?’
'You will fight at their head, Randor, after putting the final touches to their training. Especially now that you have caused the death of their captain – Miclas, who was bred and trained first, to aid me in setting up the operation and carrying it through.’ The evil little eyes grew cold. 'I intend to plumb your mind for what it knows – and how it knows – about the Master. Then I will empty your mind entirely, of identity, personality, will. And I will reprogramme you, Randor, and put your legionary skills to my use.'
Keill bared his teeth, straining to lift himself. 'You'll never do it! If I can't kill you first, I'll die first!'
'You will do neither.’ The smooth golden head swivelled towards the door. 'Rensik!’
The skinny medic hurried near, twitching nervously.
'Set up the equipment for a full mind-wipe,’ Altern ordered. 'But first prepare the drug that will make Randor answer questions freely, and bring it and him to me tomorrow. Until then, keep him immobilised.'
The medic nodded. 'Next injection is due soon...’
'Administer it now. Take no chances with this man.’
Rensik nodded again, and scuttled to one side, reaching for a compressor syringe on a nearby cabinet. He hurried to the bed, and before Keill could move within the gluey constriction of his body, the syringe hissed. The heavy numbness at once increased as the new dose o
f nerve relaxant entered Keill's system.
The golden giant stared down, again wearing the chillingly evil half-smile. 'You should be grateful, Randor. I will be freeing you from unpleasant memories, and giving you a chance to be a legionary again, on a winning side. A legionary of the Deathwing.'
PART THREE
THE MANY AND THE ONE
CHAPTER NINE
As before, Keill rose out of sleep with the cloudy shapes of dreams scattering from his mind – dominated this time by the image of a giant golden hand that closed crushingly on his helpless body. Also as before, he was fully alert the instant that he forced his eyes slowly open.
Little had changed, except that much of the physical pain from his battered body had subsided.
The prolonged sleep, and presumably ministrations by the medic – for many of the synthaskin bandages had been removed – had obviously aided his own remarkable resilience and speed of healing.
Yet his improved condition would be of small use unless he could free himself from the nerve relaxant. And he could tell, by the effort of opening his eyes, that he was as firmly held by it as he had been upon awakening before.
He strained to turn his head, enough to see that he was alone in the room. And to see a new piece of equipment against the far wall – something that made his stomach lurch.
A complicated console of machinery, focusing on a spray of long electrodes, emerging like tentacles, each fining down to a thread of metal that was nearly a monofilament. Electrodes that would soon be implanted in his brain...
It was the equipment for the full mind-wipe ordered by Altern – to destroy his personality, to put an end to the man that was Keill Randor and create in its place a Deathwing slave.
Now he had no choice. He had to move, had to get to his feet. He had no illusions that he could win – but he intended to fight so that they would have to kill him. At least then he would not give away the Overseers’ secrets, and would not go helplessly into the service of his enemy.
His mind formed Glr's name, and when she responded told her swiftly about the golden giant, and what he was going to do about the cyborg's plans for him.
