And all the time, as the sound became louder and higher in pitch and less easy to bear, the two prisoners reached out for one another with their minds, keeping them joined against all the odds.
Deep in the recesses of their minds, they were both chanting the ritual:
“I am one. I am one. I am one. I am powerful. I am powerful. I am powerful. I am my only master. I am. I am. I am.”
And all the while, the pulsing of the noise came louder and louder and louder and higher in pitch so that it seemed to be cutting through their heads like a knife.
Just at the point before which a Stateman brain would crumble, Polna reluctantly threw the cut-off switches and silence came flooding back in the tiny cells. He switched off the lights and all the controls and let himself out of the tiny cockpit once more.
The guards were waiting for him in the corridor.
“You may take and hold them now. They will go up the special shaft to their changing room just before the Death Sport begins.”
The two prisoners were wheeled from the disorientation chambers, apparently unconscious. But their minds were still joined and, deep in their subconscious, both of them were whispering in unison:
“I am my own master. I am the one . . .”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The hours that the Statemen prisoners spent in preparation for the Death Sport were as frightening in their own way to Doctor Karl and his son Marcus as the disorientation chambers had been to Kaz Oshay and Deneer.
The arena where the games would take place was located on the edge of the City, outside the domes. It was dominated on three sides by tall towers, in which those members of the public and the officials of the administration who had been allocated tickets sat, the fourth side just being open to the wastelands plain beyond. The arena itself was as filled with small hills and dips as the plain all round, making the riding of the Death Machines a difficult feat.
At the top of the tallest tower was the special box in which Lord Zirpola and his special guests sat and from which he would make his normal speech, opening the games. The arena was made secure by an anti-blaster shield which would cover the whole area like an abstract dome and which it was impossible for anyone to get through.
There were two sets of changing-rooms with an archway, where the anti-blaster shield could be broken for a moment, leading to each. One of these changing-rooms was to be the home of the Statemen for the next few hours as they waited, first to practise, then for the Death Sport itself.
The end of this room was dominated by a huge colour screen on which those not taking part at any given moment could watch the activities outside as they were relayed on the television service of Helix City, courtesy of those ubiquitous commentators, Carol Rabids and Howard Koslow.
The Statemen had been shepherded by the guards into the changing-room area, where they waited to go out, in teams of ten, to practise and try to learn how to ride the machines. It was a tall order, but it was all the time that the Obedience Enforcer trainers had been given to train them.
Once they were seated in the changing-room area and waiting for their turn, Marcus Karl turned to his father:
“There’s no sign of the two Guides anywhere. What do you think has happened to them?”
His father sighed, his face troubled:
“They have been taken to the disorientation chambers for some special treatment. We won’t see them before the time of the Death Sport.”
“But that will drive them mad.”
His father nodded:
“It is part of Zirpola’s plan to make them easier to kill, to tip the scales.”
“We must do something.”
“There is nothing we can do, we must just wait and hope.”
At last the time came when their group was ordered out into the arena for their introduction to the riding of the great gleaming machines of black and silver that stood in a row before them. The anti-blaster shield had not been put on, so there were plenty of guards around to make sure that none of the prisoners tried to make a break for it into the wastelands.
Both Marcus and the doctor blinked as they came out into the bright, hot sunlight. Marcus had seen the machines before, so he was not overawed by them, having even seen one of them destroyed by a Guide, but his Father gasped in horror at the hitherto unimaginable sight.
Guards helped them mount the machines, then showed the prisoners how to start them. To Doctor Karl, both the roar of them and the feeling of suppressed power under him were more frightening than all the experiences he had so far undergone.
A guard carrying a clipboard walked up, one silver flash on his black sleeve denoting that he was a sergeant.
“Right you lot. You’re sitting on Death Machines. Once you’ve learnt a few simple tricks for riding them, you’ll be invincible, able to take on even the Guides. Some of you will fight each other, some of you Guides, this afternoon, so you haven’t much time.”
The murderer Durc was in the same group and he snarled:
“This afternoon. There’s not enough bloody time.”
The sergeant glared him back into silence.
“Nevertheless, you’ll bloody learn by then or it could be your head. Now, in case any of you have got any ideas for some smart move, you can see all the guards that are posted to stop you riding off the field, so don’t try it or you’ll never even see this afternoon.”
He went on to instruct them how to throttle and steer the machines before instructing them in the use of the weaponry.
“And before you lot get any bloody ideas about that, it’s only fair to tell you that the blaster pods have been put out of action for the morning’s practice. Now get riding.”
Marcus turned to his father, to try to give reassurance:
“I watched the Enforcers who chased after our caravan and captured the Guide. The blaster pods are only active at the front and rear. It is mainly a question of balance.”
He followed this up by starting off and immediately falling over, the machine on top of him. The sergeant and another guard helped him up. No word was spoken, but Marcus was aware of an undercurrent of ridicule on their faces.
He remounted and this time managed to keep his balance—at least until he came to one of the small hillocks in the arena. He went up fast, left the ground, then fell away from the machine when it landed. Once more he had to be picked up and helped back to the machine, which was still roaring, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air.
Meanwhile, his father was driving quietly around, getting used to the balance and controls, but making no attempt to engage in any fancy manoeuvres.
The sergeant had some words for him this time, many of which Marcus had never heard in his life before, but, from the man’s angry face, he got the general drift of them.
In the whole of the hour of practice they had before it was the turn of the next group, Doctor Karl only once lost control of his machine—and that was on the occasion when Marcus careered into him, not able to control the direction in which he was travelling.
As they walked back into the changing-rooms together, his father put a reassuring arm round his shoulder.
“We’ll survive somehow.”
Marcus sighed. “I hope so, but I don’t want to have to kill one of those Guides to do so. Do you think I’ll have to?”
His father frowned. Along with the general question of killing for his own survival, it was a specific question that he was trying to avoid, as he saw no way out of the moral dilemma in which it placed him. He could only practise what he now preached to his son:
“We will just have to wait and see if there is a way.”
The whole City seethed with preparations for the Death Sport. It was the most important entertainment and sporting fixture of the Helix year.
In his chambers, the Lord Zirpola, the pain under control this morning, put the final touches to the important speech that he was going to make at the opening of the proceedings.
In his headquarters, Ankar Moor ch
ecked out his own plans for the organisation of the Sport and what would follow. Polna, now grittily tired from lack of sleep, ran through the arrangements with him.
On the field, Carol Rabids and Howard Koslow checked the camera points and their own commentary positions as the television units set up for their coverage of the day’s events.
In the City, the Statemen either started to make their way to the stadium seats, or settled in front of the televideo screens to view.
In the changing-rooms, the Statemen prisoners tried to pretend to one another they were not nervous as they waited for the moment that would decide their fate.
And, in a small cell in the depths of the City, Kaz Oshay and Deneer lay, half-conscious, struggling to keep control over their minds, as the moment for their ordeal drew closer.
In the changing-rooms, the huge video screen sprang into colourful life, with the test card of the City television station—a huge multi-coloured pattern dominated in the centre by the symbol of the Lord Zirpola, a symbol that he had derived from the archives. The symbol was called a Swastika, the ancient eastern symbol of luck from the times before the great disaster. There was a moment of music, then the symbol faded and the face of Carol Rabids filled the screen, a hand microphone hovering just in front of her.
She was on a clear hill-top position overlooking the empty arena. A skinny woman in her forties, with a shock of unattractively-cut blonde hair and an expression of professional detachment, she, as usual, talked down to her public from a great height of intelligence.
As the doctor looked at the screen, he thought that it was no wonder she had never married. Any man who went with her would have to be suffering from an outsize inferiority complex. She began her introductions over his thoughts.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of Helix City. This is Carol Rabids reporting.”
As would occur again and again throughout the day, the cameras cut abruptly to her male counterpart, Howard Koslow. He was plump where she was thin, happy and smiling where she was grim and superior. They made a perfect team:
“And Howard Koslow. Welcome to our programme.”
The cameras cut back.
“Once again it is our privilege to welcome you to the Death Sport games.”
This apparently exhausted her because they were back with Howard Koslow again almost before Carol had finished.
“This year’s Death Sport games promise to be the most unusual, the most exciting and the most dangerous in the one hundred and forty-five-year-history of the games.”
Back to Carol.
“As in the past, Statemen prisoners will be set against each other to fight to the death—the prize for the winners: their freedom.”
Over to you Howard.
“Heroic contests will pit man against man in a struggle to the death for the most cherished luxury that life has to offer, but this year dramatic new changes have been made in the mode of combat which will completely alter the style of the contest, though not its purpose.”
Back to Carol, her expression even grimmer than before.
“This year the prisoners will fight each other on Death Machines. You’ll be seeing these marvellous new creations later, but I note that the Lord Zirpola is entering his box and he’s going to have a few words to say on the subject of this year’s competition when he opens the games. Ladies and gentlemen, I hand you over to our beloved leader, the Lord Zirpola, Lord of Helix.”
The shot of Zirpola’s box filled the screen as he entered, his emerald cloak around him. Ankar Moor stood ready to meet him, resplendent and frightening in his silver metallic outfit, the brown leather of the mask making him look all the more frightening. Also present, and very much on camera on a couch to one side, were four nubile young ladies, who grinned up inanely at their lord and master as he came in.
Watching the screen, Doctor Karl could not resist turning to his son and whispering: “You see those girls?”
“Yes.”
“All show. He’s been impotent for years, but he thinks an image of virility helps the people to admire him.”
Marcus glanced round.
“Quiet, father, watch the guards.”
From the moment Zirpola had appeared upon the screen they had moved in closer to the prisoners and were watching for any sign that they were going to treat the appearance of the Lord of Helix with anything less than the reverence it deserved.
Ankar Moor’s voice boomed out: “The Death Sport is ready to begin, My Lord.”
Zirpola nodded graciously and stepped forward to the front of the box and also to the dominant position in the forefront of the screen. It had all been carefully rehearsed. The doctor could see the tell-tale tremor on his left eyelid that told him the Lord of Helix was fighting off his internal pain:
“Statemen of Helix, my loyal citizens. Today we face a crisis of tremendous importance and proportions. It is a crisis for which we did not ask. A crisis which none of us sought to create. Nevertheless it has come upon us and we must all rise up and overwhelm it if we are to survive into a golden future.”
As he paused dramatically, one of the braver prisoners in the changing-rooms made a loud raspberry. At once the Enforcer guards were upon him, beating him to the ground before dragging him away. One moment of courage had lost him the chance to fight for his freedom for another year.
At the same time the guards in charge of Kaz Oshay and Deneer, who still lay, apparently mindless, on the floor of their tiny cell, got the signal to bring their prisoners up to the other empty changing-room for the start of their preparation. They were pulled to their feet and forced, with the use of cruel electric prods the men held, to walk up a small ramped corridor which seemed to lead endlessly upwards but which culminated in a tiny security lift that would take them up to the arena.
The Lord Zirpola was continuing.
“As you are all aware, our forebears saw to our needs with supplies of liquid fuel for the powering of the City. They are critical of our continued existence. For all this time they have fuelled our life-support systems, a total of over nine hundred years. These precious stores are close to being entirely used up and our very lives depend upon our being able to replenish them before it is too late.”
He paused dramatically to let the significance of his words sink in and Polna entered the changing-rooms at that moment. He glanced round and selected two prisoners from the group nearest to him.
“All right, you men. If you survive, one of you will be able to watch the repeats.”
Guards handed the two men overalls and helmets—one of the helmets blue, the other yellow.
“You two will be fighting first.” His eyes wandered round the other groups. “The rest of you can relax for the moment. I’ll be back to choose six of you to fight the Guides.”
Zirpola began again and the Karls did not let their attention waver from the screen.
“The solution to our problem is at hand. For centuries the people of Triton have stood in the way of that solution. They have vast hoards of stored fuel and, while they have squandered what they can, they have repeatedly refused to share their fuel with us in a vicious and calculated plot to bring about our downfall.”
While the two prisoners dressed, guards had wheeled forward two of the Death Machines, taking them to the end of the tunnel, just to the point where the entrance to the arena was blocked by the blaster shield which was now activated over the whole arena. Here they had activated the blaster pods and the two men were marched forward and placed on the machines, which were then started up, ready for the signal for the blaster shield to be lifted so that they could roar into the view of the crowds and the cameras.
Zirpola continued his tirade.
“The choice before us is stark and clear. We can either continue to deplete our limited resources and then allow ourselves to die a cruel death at the hands of the Mutants when they overrun the City—or we can strike now while we still have the fuel to power us and take from Triton what we rightfully deserve a
nd what our destiny demands that we take.”
In the depths of the City, the two Guides moved slowly forward, the men with the prods behind them. Deneer stumbled to her knees and was forced again to her feet by the cruel prodding of one of the guards.
“Get a move on, you bastards. You mustn’t keep the Death Sport waiting.”
He felt almost ashamed of his roughness as he saw the glazed, bewildered expression on the faces of the two Guides. It was almost a shame to be feeding these two to the arena, their minds broken, and their spirits with them. It was as if they were dead already. Still, he was just a guard and had his duty to do. He prodded them again:
“Get a move on.”
In the changing-rooms, Doctor Karl was watching the screen with a mixture of disgust and fascination. So far the speech had been a perfect rabble rouser, as clever a piece of manipulative propaganda as he had ever seen. Mad or not, the Lord Zirpola knew how to capture the minds and imaginations of his audience.
The doctor had heard and had been taught of men like this in the past, men with the power to mesmerise the masses in spite of their unprepossessing physical appearance and habits. His memory told him that the end result had usually been disastrous for those who became followers, but it had never been a lesson that mankind had been prepared to learn.
Zirpola was speaking again:
“To help secure our protection and future, I have chosen this Death Sport to reveal and demonstrate to you a secret weapon, created by our scientists, that will make our conquest of Triton not only possible—but inevitable.”
Here the man’s voice rose to a scream:
“Here is the key to our salvation.”
As he spoke, a portion of the blaster shield was lifted, allowing the two men in the tunnel to gun their bikes forward into the arena. As they appeared, Zirpola shouted:
“Citizens—the Death Machines.”
The cameras cut and zoomed in on the machines and their riders as they zoomed out into the arena, kicking up a tremendous cloud of dust as they went. Music blared out over the speakers, music specially chosen by Zirpola to heighten the effect that the first sight of the machines would place in the minds of the citizens of Helix.
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