And you become me,
And I heal you,
And I heal myself.”
All this was said in a sing-song high voice, like the chanting of the ancients, the magicians of the time before there was learning and the enlightenment of today.
With infinite patience and gentleness, she completed her job and, when she was finished, the last of the great wounds on Kaz Oshay’s back was closed. His skin gleamed in the bright light of the cell, healed, with no trace that torture or punishment had ever taken place.
Kaz Oshay remained in his deep sleep and Deneer slid down to lie beside him, totally exhausted by her efforts of healing. She too slipped into a sleep as deep as Kaz’s own.
Now Marcus turned to his father:
“What I have seen is like a miracle. Tell me it is real, not a dream I have had.”
His father smiled at him:
“It is real enough, my son, and it is our best hope for what is left of the world.”
Marcus’s face clouded over at this reminder of the problems that faced them.
“We will have to do something, my father.”
His father, who was equally worried himself, managed a thin smile as he pointed to the couple sleeping peacefully, close to one another on the floor of the cell.
“For now, the best we can do is follow their example. We are, after all, only Statemen, and we will need all the reserves of strength we can muster to survive tomorrow.”
With that, he lay flat on the floor and closed his eyes, preparing himself for sleep. Marcus could do nothing but follow his example, trying to empty his mind of both anger and fear and find sleep that way. A little later, the cell was silent as they all slept.
High above them, in the private quarters of the Lord of Helix, the situation was not in such good balance as the night moved inexorably onward towards a new day. True, Zirpola had achieved a rare hour of uninterrupted sleep, but the pain had rolled back into him, taking over his brain and had awakened him.
He rose from his chair, clutching himself in agony, holding on to his head as if he wished to tear it from his body and hurl it from him, anything to be free of the pulsing pain beating within it.
He staggered up and down the room, trying to control and suppress the spasm, trying to suppress a scream, a giving in to the pressure. Then, unable to control himself any longer, he crashed down to the floor, pressing his head against the cold marble and screaming:
“Stop it! Stop it! I can stand it no longer. I cannot endure.”
After a while, the pain gave him momentary surcease and he was able to drag himself to his feet once more. He staggered weakly back to the desk and snapped on the light behind it. Perhaps if he concentrated again on his plan of attack for the City of Triton, that would keep his mind enough occupied to ignore any return of pain.
He spread out the maps and began to study them closely once more, forcing all his concentration into the exercise, blotting out his constant fear that, each time the pain recurred, it would not go away again.
Eventually, he began to make a high-pitched giggling noise as he envisaged the attack he would make and the slaughter there would be. Triton would pay a hundred fold for the slights that the Lord Zirpola imagined he had received from the City.
Triton had been quick to join the Federation, but Zirpola had held Helix aloof, the truth being that one of the conditions of membership was that each City would have to elect its leader by a popular vote. To Zirpola, who knew that he was feared, not loved, by his people, it was merely a trick devised to wrest power from him. That was the secret behind his resentment of the Federation. That was the real reason why he would beat them by making war on them and showing them what a true leader was like. But he was impatient at any further delay in his plans.
Deep inside him, he had taken in the lies that the treacherous Doctor Karl had fed to him, had taken them in and absorbed them; subconsciously aware that the doctor had, in fact, spoken the truth. If he was to die, he wanted to be master of the world—to have taught them all—before that time came.
His other major problem at present was Ankar Moor. The cruel brute was useful to him—but only for the moment. Once Triton was subdued, enough strong men would come forward to join his cause to make Ankar Moor an unnecessary luxury. Only then would he be able to do away with the chief of the Obedience Enforcers.
The pain was coming back and he clutched his head again, his concentration ebbing away. The next afternoon would be the time of the Death Sport. God keep him free from pain until then.
He would have been even more worried had he been able to see Ankar Moor, sitting at his own desk, in his own chambers, and had been able to read his mind.
He too was taking advantage of the dead fastnesses of the night to review his own plans.
Once the Death Sport had stirred up the people of Helix City so that they attacked and overran Triton, then would be the time to strike. His master, the Lord Zirpola, was a weak man, filled with a sense of his own vanity which blocked out any true intelligence and cunning. It was Ankar Moor himself who had the foresight and strength that would defeat the Federation and make him master of the world, bringing even the Guides under his sway, so that he might destroy them, taking true vengeance on his tribe who had cast him out, with just the same feelings with which he would delight in the destruction of Kaz Oshay and Deneer on the morrow. With that happy thought he prepared himself for a little sleep to face the morning and the moving forward of his plans.
The great red eye of the sun heaved itself up over the horizon of the wastelands, blotting out and making unnecessary the weak reflected light of the moon that had lit the shadowy night.
In the cells in the depths of the City, the Guides had no sign to tell them that the dawn had come, but Guides require no such visual signals and they sprang into wakefulness the moment the great orb appeared on the horizon beyond the dome of the City.
They glanced over at the still-sleeping figures of Doctor Karl and his son, then rose silently and in unison, being careful not to disturb the tranquil Statemen. They would need more sleep to recover themselves than the Guides did.
Kaz slipped into his clothes. There was only the memory of his wounds in his mind. There was neither trace of them nor feeling from them in his back. Deneer had done her work well and he was whole again, as if the entire episode had not occurred, and he was as refreshed by her spirit and touch as he had been by the sleep itself.
They faced each other and then went down in a crossed-leg pose that the ancients’ called the Lotus position and their eyes locked together in Union. Then each of them allowed their eyes to glaze over so they were both locked into some point of infinity at the far end of the universe, that was also mid-way between them. Slowly they raised their arms, stretching them out in front of them so that just their fingertips met and touched for an instant. Then they let their hands fall back into their laps, palms upwards.
They concentrated on sinking into the level of consciousness that would prepare them for the battles of the day ahead. From deep in their throats, they started the humming that would raise them to the plane where their souls would become as refreshed as they had made their bodies, a level where they would join the whole state of consciousness and draw their strength from it.
Only when this state had been reached did they begin to speak. Their tones were low, as they enacted the spirit of the ritual that would prepare them for battle. Kaz spoke first, his voice soft and flat as if it did not come from within himself:
“I move in rhythm with the earth. I am held steady. My true path never wavers for an instant. My purpose is clear before me as a wide road.”
Deneer echoed him:
“My purpose is clear before me as a wide road. Of no more importance to the universe than a leaf is to a tree, I am still. I share the life. I am one with it.”
Now the echo came from the man:
“I share the life. I am one with it. I Guide upon the waste. I take no advantage. I give no quarter. I defend m
y own. I am as strong as I need to be.”
Again Deneer took up the chant:
“I defend my own. I am as strong as I need to be. Powerful or weak, I am become whatever I would choose to make myself. I give what I can, no one owns me.”
It was left to Kaz to complete the formula:
“I give what I can, no one owns me. I am sacred to myself. No one can touch myself. I am free. I am my only master.”
Once more the hum came deeply in their throats, fading away into a heavy silence. After a while, their eyes unlocked from their glazed state and they locked onto their mutual stare once more, each checking that there was strength and renewal in the other, each knowing that their Union was one though they were not yet joined.
After that, they rose and went into each other’s arms, embracing the flesh, one of the other, as they had already embraced their souls through the rituals.
Kaz now spoke in his normal voice.
“Now we are as ready as we ever will be for anything they wish on us. We will not break before them.”
Deneer nodded.
“No, we will not break.”
He sighed. “I hear the sound of our captors, they are stirring. They will come for us soon.”
Deneer whispered, more an ordinary woman than a normal Guide:
“We have till then.”
Kaz shook his head, still smiling. He indicated the sleeping Statemen on the floor.
“We cannot be joined yet. We must respect the scruples these people have about such things.”
Deneer grinned.
“They are strange, the ways of these City dwellers, these Statemen. Have they shame about their bodies—or are you afraid of me, Kaz Oshay, son of Oshay.”
For a moment his eyes blazed at the insult, then he realised that she was teasing him only for affection, playing with the strange emotions that were welling up in him.
“I fear nothing, but I have respect for these men.”
This brought back to Deneer the thoughts of what was facing them, the threat to them all contained in the Death Sport:
“Is there any way in which we can save them?”
Kaz Oshay shook his head sadly:
“I know of nothing. I am not even sure, except in my soul, that we will be able to save ourselves. But we will see what can be done. Much will depend on their own courage.”
Deneer sighed.
“So be it . . . but, if we can . . .”
He nodded his promise. “If we can.”
From outside they now heard the sound of the door-opening pattern being repeated on the lock of the main door. Their captors were coming for them and there was time only for another glance of reassurance to pass between them before they prepared themselves for their next ordeal.
Outside, the great door swung open and there came the sound of the steel hobnails of the guards’ boots.
Deneer said softly: “It is time.”
“Our Union is one,” murmured Kaz Oshay in return, to comfort himself as much as her, to keep them both calm, though he knew that her strength was as great as his, that she was the perfect mate for him amongst all of the tribe of Guides. She was as strong in herself as he could ever have wished a mate of his to be.
Like the men who were following him into the cell area, Polna held the tranquilliser dart pistol firmly in his fist as he strode down the corridor towards Kaz Oshay’s cell. They were halfway to their destination before the loudspeaker system crackled on and the sleepy jailer roared:
“Prisoners, waken. Prisoners waken. Stand by the rear wall of your cells for an inspection.”
The time for niceties was gone. As the Karls rubbed the vestiges of sleep from their eyes and heaved themselves to their feet, the jailer sent a mild bolt of electricity zapping through the cell floors, knocking the occupants of all the cells to the ground—a very effective way, however, of waking anyone who had not already obeyed his call. From the yells and groans that came from the other cells, it had proved an effective device.
Polna halted at the door to cell twelve. Once more the electricity was zapped through that particular cell to throw the occupants off balance. A second later, Polna slid the cell door back and he and his leading guards fired their darts. All found their almost helpless targets—Kaz and Deneer—and they slumped to the floor, drugged into unconsciousness. The tranquillisers were of the mildest type and Polna knew they would not be out for long. He stepped aside and signalled his men forward:
“All right, take them away. Be quick about it.”
The Enforcers so ordered hurried in and grabbed the two inert forms that were stretched out on the floor. Doctor Karl was galvanised into action. He picked himself up and stepped forward with a sudden access of courage that he was not formerly aware he possessed.
“I demand to know what you are going to do with them!”
Polna glanced at him, even smiled at the courage of the man.
“You are hardly in a position to make any demands, Doctor. But I think it will do no harm if I tell you. They are being taken to the disorientation chambers.”
The doctor paled and gasped. That would surely be the end of them. Surely not even a Guide’s mind could withstand the power of the disorientation chambers. No one was ever known to have left them with their brains intact. Polna gave him only a second to take this in, then:
“Now you two can come along with me.”
“But, if they have been through disorientation, they will stand no chance in the Death Sport.”
Polna grinned:
“I think that’s the idea, Doctor.”
Marcus snapped: “Is that where you are taking us?”
Polna chuckled again.
“Heavens, no. We want to teach you how to ride the Death Machines. It is the day of the Death Sport and you will be using them. Now hurry, you need all the practice you can get.”
As they moved outside the cell they could no longer see the unconscious forms of Kaz Oshay and Deneer, but the other prisoners were being herded from their cells for the practice riding on the Death Machines. Polna had them put with the others before he left them to hurry off and supervise the use of the disorientation chambers.
In the corridor outside the main door to the cells, the guards were strapping the two unconscious prisoners on to separate trolleys, making fast their wrists and ankles, before wheeling them down the corridor to their destination.
One of the men strapping down Deneer snarled: “Dammit, they’re coming round already.”
Polna snarled back at them as he joined them: “Then hurry—move them.”
They wheeled the trolleys quickly down the smooth metal corridor, Polna jogging along behind, stopping only when they reached the entrance to the chambers.
“Put them inside. I will set the monitors.”
The doors to two of the chambers were opened and the trolleys were wheeled inside before the doors slammed shut. Polna hurried on to a small door set in the wall of the corridor.
Using a light code, he waited for the door to slide aside, revealing a short staircase. He stepped inside, reclosed the door, then went up the steps, which led to a small chamber whose main item of furniture was a large control console, into which were set the inevitable video screens.
He sat down in front of the console and snapped the buttons that switched on the video screens that spied into the chambers where Kaz Oshay and Deneer were now lying. Both showed blackness.
Next, he snapped on the pulsing lights that lit the two chambers, the pulsing approximating a normal heartbeat. A special piece of equipment gave him a pulse reading on each of the Guide’s heartbeats—much slower than a human pulse—and he keyed the light pulse in each chamber into this.
Now all he could do was wait patiently until the two Guides came round. He sat back in his chair and started his wait, praying that it would not take too long.
In his own way, Polna was as cruel a man as his master, Ankar Moor, but he preferred this more sophisticated form of torture to the b
rutal physical kind that the Enforcer leader took so much pleasure in.
Kaz Oshay was the first to come round. Polna leant forward and peered into his screen as the man began to struggle against his bonds, before he realised that to struggle was useless and lay back to relax and concentrate his mind.
Polna chuckled and spoke in the empty room:
“There is no easy way out of there, Kaz Oshay. And you won’t want to find one by the time I have finished with you.”
A moment later Deneer too came back to wakefulness. Now was the time. Polna turned his attention to the controls.
In his tiny prison, Kaz Oshay ignored the pulsing blue light and tried to concentrate, though it seemed to be winking even inside his brain. Faintly, he could feel Deneer’s closeness, then a surge of power as she came round and did the same, so that their minds were linked, keeping their Union joined as they reached out for one another. They were trying to make an unbridgeable union of their minds to fight off whatever torture was now to be inflicted on them.
And yet Kaz was still a little afraid. He had heard of the chambers of disorientation, that may take a man’s brains and turn them round in his head and leave him a raving idiot. He had never heard of such a fate coming to one of the Guides, but that did not mean that it was only Statemen who were so affected.
Above his head, he could see the eye of the video and knew that he was being watched, so he lay still, giving no sign of his inner alarm.
The noise, when it came, flooded through his head at an intensity that almost made him scream out.
Above them, Polna pressed the buttons that would fill the chambers with the high intensity sound that was central to the process of disorientation. He smiled down at the video screens:
“Do what thinking you can now, Guides, for this is the last time that what you call the consciousness will be able to get through the scramble of your brains.”
He knew just how much of the torture to give them. They had to be on their feet and able to show some of their courage and fighting ability when the time of the Death Sport came. Only in that way could they be killed convincingly enough to make the civilians of Helix believe that the Death Machines made them invincible.
Deathsport Page 15
