Deathsport

by William Hughes

  His son smiled.

  “I know you, you could have done no less. Is he really ill, then?”

  The doctor opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. He had his own battle of conscience to fight. The vows he had taken were similar to those of the medicine men of earlier ages and it went against the grain for him to reveal the secrets of the consulting rooms.

  But then, the Lord Zirpola had not respected the word of his doctor. The latter’s conscience was clear. Lord Zirpola’s action in stripping him of his office and imprisoning him had released him from any vows he had in regard to the ruler of Helix.

  To the Statemen of the City he was no longer their chief doctor, merely a condemned criminal. His answers should be guided by that.

  “He is in great pain. I have been treating him for months, but he had only allowed me to treat the symptoms, had never let me inspect the source of the trouble to see if I could effect a cure. Until today, then he allowed me to diagnose . . .”

  “And?”

  Again Doctor Karl hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. What harm could it do now.

  “He is a dying man. The tissues of his brain are rupturing. That is the cause of the pain.”

  Marcus nodded and thought for a moment. You cannot live all your life as a doctor’s son, with a love and respect for your father, without absorbing a little of his teachings, even if you are not interested in taking up his profession for yourself. He realised that he understood the meaning of what his father was saying.

  “That explains his strange moods and rages anyway. He must be going mad both from the pain and from the damage?”

  The doctor nodded:

  “Not going mad. He is mad already. I advised him that he must give up his power and hand over the reins of government to another before he is too far gone to take the decision for himself . . .”

  His voice trailed away and he was silent as he remembered the other things he had learned when he had had the Lord Zirpola on the examination table. Marcus waited for a moment. He knew his father, knew that there was more to be said:

  “What is troubling you? You have told me some of it only. You must tell me the rest. It may be important.”

  Doctor Karl sighed.

  “He is determined on his plans for war.”

  Marcus frowned, it was unbelievable.

  “But that is an outlawed concept throughout the world. No man lives by that code any more.”

  The doctor shook his head sadly. His son was still young, still an idealist. He had much to learn yet about human nature.

  “It is not true, my son. He told me of his plans.”

  “No man, even he, can be so mad as to do such a thing!”

  The doctor frowned.

  “No normal man, perhaps, but the Lord Zirpola is not a normal man. It was my own fault that I learned such things. I wish I had not succumbed to the temptation.”

  “What temptation?”

  “I wanted to learn more than the diagnostic machines were able to tell me, so I gave him a hypnotic drug and questioned his subconscious. It was then that I learned the distance down the path of madness he has already gone. We are running short of fuel in the City. That is why the power is cut and the lights go off now and again. He believes that Triton is deliberately withholding fuel supplies from us and he means to conquer that City and take them.”

  Marcus gasped, hardly able to comprehend what his father was saying:

  “But it is unbelievable that he should wage war in such a cause; no man will follow him.”

  “Believe me, his plans are far advanced. He will find a way to make them follow.”

  Marcus balled one hand into a fist and brought it down on his open palm so hard that it made a loud cracking sound that echoed around the cell like a gunshot.

  “We must get out of here and find some way to tell the people. If they knew about his insane plans for war, if they knew that they were led by a madman, they would rise up against him and make sure he was replaced before any more damage could be done.”

  His father shook his head:

  “He is supported by Ankar Moor and the Obedience Enforcers. That man is walking evil. It would not be possible.”

  “But father, the Federation of the other Cities would welcome it and allow them in. Zirpola has kept them outside the Federation, but he cannot fight the world. All that needs to happen is for the people to be told the truth.”

  There was a silence between father and son and, into this silence, Deneer spoke for the first time, giving an indication that, while the main part of her mind and concentration had been far away across the wastelands with Kaz Oshay, she had still listened and absorbed the conversation between the two men.

  “All that your people will need is faith in themselves, faith in their own power.”

  Marcus glanced up at her, surprised at her sudden contribution, but stunned at the truth of her words. All the time, his thoughts were ranging over his remembered experiences of Triton on the previous visits he had made there in pursuit of the hand of the beautiful Stategirl with whom he had fallen in love.

  At once he felt a tightness in his chest, a sadness. She would not yet be aware that anything was wrong, that he would not be arriving in time for their wedding. Only a few days more, however and she would know the worst, perhaps realise in the non-arrival of the caravan that he was lost to her forever and she to him. Such thoughts merely strengthened his anger at what had happened.

  But there were other things he remembered. The calm and peace of the City and of its people in contrast to the tension that was always present in the day-to-day lives of the citizens of Helix, thanks to the rules of the Lord Zirpola. Triton had been a place of advance, not stagnation. Both in culture and science, new discoveries were being made daily, raising the level of hope of society for the future of Statekind.

  It was then that he remembered and blurted:

  “But if we overthrow Zirpola and join the Federation, there will be no problem over fuel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They are working at this moment on a way to produce all the fuel they need artificially. There have been exciting breakthroughs and it is now only a matter of time before it can be produced in large enough quantities to satisfy all needs and prolong the survival of the Cities forever, even if the wastelands are never habitable.”

  His father frowned again and then nodded:

  “I have heard rumours of such things from travellers who have come to the clinic. I can believe that such things should be possible, but most of the people will not.”

  “If they do not believe, then they are lost men.”

  His father sighed:

  “But the system of Zirpola is very efficient. They are used to believing everything he tells them—and what he will tell them tomorrow will tip the balance and make the war inevitable.”

  Without turning, Deneer said quickly:

  “And what is it that your mad lord will tell them tomorrow?”

  Now it was time for the doctor to drop his biggest bombshell and he hesitated before doing so.

  “He will tell them that the Death Machines, which he claims his scientists have created, will make the people invincible and that they must go to war on them to get the fuel that will help Helix to survive.”

  Marcus interrupted.

  “Deneer and I have seen the machines. They brought about her capture. They are truly frightening.”

  Deneer nodded.

  “They are different, not frightening, but the people will not be familiar with them and what is not familiar is often frightening.”

  Marcus rose and began to walk up and down the tiny cell.

  “It is a lie, though. They will make no one invincible, just better able to kill and maim. We have to get out of here and get to Triton to warn them of what is threatened. If we cannot stop Zirpola now, we can at least make sure that all attempts are made to avert war.”

  The doctor sighed.

  “I cannot argu
e against you on that, Marcus, but it is easier to say such things than to do them.”

  Deneer had turned back to the door, but now she felt the moment had come to break her concentration. Some wave from the consciousness had told her that Kaz Oshay’s punishment was over and that he still lived, albeit his powers of preservation were stretched to the limit. But the powers would hold and he would survive his present ordeal.

  Her eyes were soft as she locked them on to those of the brave young Stateman.

  “Maintain calm.”

  Marcus almost shouted:

  “Maintain calm. That’s easy for you to say. It is not the problem of the Guides, but only of the continued life of the Cities of Statemen. Their tragedy will mean nothing to you.”

  Her rebuke was still gentle.

  “If war is to come again then it will surely destroy what little there is left of the world, which will mean the end of the Guides just as surely as it will wipe out the Statemen Cities and the Mutants. But for now, be calm. This is not the time or place for anger. It will accomplish nothing in this place, but feed upon itself producing more anger. For the moment, you must use your mind, not your emotions.”

  The doctor smiled up at her. Her words were wise.

  “What you say is true enough, Guide, but for a young man it is not easy. Youth is the time of ideals and anger.”

  Realising that his father was using Deneer in order to tease him out of his mood, Marcus exploded.

  “Do nothing. Be calm. It is just that attitude that has allowed Zirpola to get as far as he has already. Now is the time for action, not for contemplation.”

  Deneer looked momentarily affronted, but the doctor said quickly:

  “My son is hasty. Our talk has made him angry. Forgive him.” He beckoned his son. “Sit by me.”

  With a reluctant glower at the other occupants of the cell, Marcus eventually subsided, sliding down the wall to sit next to his father. The doctor tried to pour oil on the troubled waters that conversation had brought about.

  “All that Deneer is trying to remind us is that we should conserve our energies for the dangers that tomorrow holds. We need to rest, not spend ourselves in anger. Tomorrow is the day of the Death Sport. If we can win, survive the games, perhaps we will be rewarded with freedom and can then seize a chance to get to Triton and warn them.”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “You know that a man has to serve in the Enforcers if he is rewarded with his life after the Death Sport—and death is the only escape from their ranks.”

  “But it will give us time, and time is the most valuable thing we need.”

  Deneer spoke flatly.

  “The code teaches us that while life remains, then hope will remain alive.”

  Marcus was about to make a comment to the effect that the code need not necessarily be right, when he was saved from offering her real insult by the sound of the door-opening code being played on the console. Perhaps Kaz Oshay was going to be brought back to his confinement. Deneer turned her attention back to the slit in the cell door while the others sat and waited.

  After a moment there came the sound of the main door opening, then the slow footsteps of several people entering the prison area. Their slowness made it seem likely that they were carrying a heavy load.

  The loudspeaker system crackled into life and the voice of a new jailer, which contained no less threat than his now annihilated predecessor, boomed out at them.

  “Cell twelve. You will rise and stand against the rear wall of your cell.”

  With weary resignation, the Karls, father and son, heaved themselves to their feet, but Deneer stayed in her place, squinting along the sightlines of the door slit towards the main hall.

  With the video ripped out of the ceiling, there was no easy way for the jailer to check that his orders had been obeyed and she was willing to take the risk of disobedience. Now she could see Kaz Oshay. He was being carried by four guards, still naked, his beaten, bloody back visible. Another guard came alongside them, carrying the stricken man’s clothing—Polna, his gaze averted from the bloody wreck his men carried.

  Her hopes for Kaz Oshay’s return realised, Deneer went swiftly and joined the others at the far wall. There was a moment of silent waiting, then the door of the cell slid open and she allowed herself to relax.

  While Polna stood in the doorway, his blaster at the ready, the four men dragged the broken body of Kaz Oshay into the cell and dumped him face-down on the metal floor. He moved slightly, groaning as he came back to consciousness and the reality of the pain seeped back into his system.

  The men turned to leave and Polna threw the clothes into the cell just before the door slid shut and was automatically re-locked. The footsteps of the guards retreated and then there was a silence, followed by the echoing closing of the main door.

  As the echo died away, Deneer darted forward and knelt by the side of her stricken fellow Guide. After the lecture that she had given Marcus, she could still understand why her own anger grew as she saw the mess that had been made of Kaz Oshay’s back. It was too painful for anyone to look upon and remain calm.

  Kaz Oshay’s eyes flickered open as he groaned again and shifted on the hard surface of the metal floor. He looked round, then struggled to bring himself upright. She helped him, holding him up so that his back would not have to make contact with floor or wall as he rolled over into a sitting position. Neither of them seemed to take any notice of his nakedness. Deneer spoke softly:

  “Who did this thing to you? Was it Ankar Moor?”

  He gasped, “It was he.”

  “But why this? Would he not fight you?”

  Kaz Oshay winced in pain.

  “No. I called upon him. I called him out against me in the name of the code, but he refused.”

  She was surprised.

  “But he was once of the Guides, he followed the code. He could not refuse.”

  Kaz Oshay shook his head:

  “He is long banished from the code and lives and fights by his own code now. He felt no pull to accept.”

  Deneer was harsh:

  “He who has no code is an animal.”

  Amazingly, considering the pain he was suffering, a fleeting smile played on Kaz Oshay’s lips as he looked up at the girl:

  “You speak the truth. I told him so.”

  He shifted again, obviously in great pain. Deneer became at once absorbed in his condition.

  “Are your bones broken?”

  “I think not. Only my flesh.”

  Still holding him up so his back would not fall against the wall, Deneer knelt down so that she could look into his eyes. The girl used all her power to lock his eyes into hers, forcing the strength of the concentration of the consciousness into him, to dull and smoothe away the pain he was feeling and to move her strength to join with what was left of his and combat his suffering. After a while, she withdrew her gaze and whispered:

  “Together we will turn you over.”

  He tried, but could hardly move, from stiffness and suffering. Most of the effort had to be hers.

  “I will help you.”

  Their eyes locked on one another again, oblivious of Doctor Karl and his son sitting watching them. They went into a trance for the special ritual that joined the strength of the Guides under such circumstances. They were already awed at the sight of Kaz Oshay. The doctor knew that the wounds Kaz Oshay had received would have killed a Stateman.

  Deneer spoke:

  “Trust me, Kaz Oshay, son of Oshay. I am Deneer of the Guides. Our Union is real.”

  He nodded in desperate, pain-wracked agreement:

  “Yes . . . Yes . . . I need you.”

  She nodded in return, then took his face in her delicate, soft hands. It was a miracle that the hands of a warrior should become so gentle and soft. She reached forward and closed the lid over his left eye before planting a soft kiss on it, then performed the same ritual with his right eye.

  As the doctor watched, the man’s breat
hing gradually became more regular, the pain of his wounds vanishing from him, thanks to her magic. With this calming process completed, Deneer was able, alone, to turn Kaz Oshay over on his stomach, his eyelids still shut. He made no sign as he lay flat on the cold metal floor.

  Doctor Karl finally realised what was going on, and he felt a professional interest in what was about to happen. He had heard of the legends of the healing power of the Guides, but he had never seen them in action. Now he was about to have that privilege, which few Statemen had ever seen. He turned to his son and, holding a finger to his lips, he whispered:

  “Watch this carefully. You are about to see something that few Statemen ever witness.”

  Marcus frowned but kept his voice at a whisper:

  “What is she going to do?”

  “Just watch.”

  The two men leant forward in silence as Deneer, still oblivious to their presence, went about her work. First she bent over Kaz’s head, stroking his hair and the side of his cheek with tenderness. This was a formula that anaesthetised him for the medication that was to follow. She stopped when he appeared to have dropped into a deep sleep.

  Only then did she turn her attention to the hideous torn mess that had been Kaz Oshay’s back. Gently, oh so gently, she began to trace her fingers through the blood and over the outlines of each deep wound.

  Marcus gasped at the sight and would have turned away, wanting to vomit at the sight of her hands playing with the torn, bleeding flesh, but a glare from his father was enough to keep him silenced and under an effort-filled control.

  Deneer went on with her work, performing the healing magic of her fingers before their eyes. It was as if the touch of her fingertips alone was slowly kneading his broken flesh together. The body of the Guide beneath her remained absolutely still in a trance-like state, the sleep that she had induced in him.

  As she worked, she recited the ancient poem of healing of the code:

  “You come to me and you need me.

  I go to you and I join you,

  For now, our Union is real.

  I become you now,