by Greg Cox
The Exiles had given him no choice, however. The capture of the gorge demanded a swift and deadly response.
“Let us go to the armory,” he announced. A battle strategy was already forming in his mind, one that he hoped might catch Ericsson unawares. “There are preparations to be made.”
24
Three hundred years before, on his now-distant homeworld, Khan had found himself locked in mortal combat with his fellow superhumans. Now, on Ceti Alpha V, history seemed to be repeating itself in what Khan fervently prayed would be the final battle of the Eugenics Wars.
Lying prone upon the sand, Khan peered over the crest of a towering sand dune at the enemy’s stronghold. The cold of the desert night penetrated his robes, sinking into his bones. Overhead, roiling clouds blotted out the starlight, so that the only illumination came from the torches and campfires of the sleeping gorge. The wind howled in Khan’s ears; with luck, it would drown out their preparations for tonight’s sneak attack.
For perhaps the first time, Khan thought, I am grateful that Ceti Alpha V has no moon. The inky darkness would be a valuable ally, preventing the Exiles from realizing they were under assault until it was too late. ’Tis now the very witching time of night, when hell itself breathes out contagion to this world….
A handcrafted spyglass, its lenses painstakingly carved from clear volcanic glass, brought the entrance to the gorge within ready view. Nikore had not exaggerated the situation, Khan saw; the northern route into the ravine had been piled high with colossal boulders, of size and number enough to halt even the strongest superman. A robed sentinel, armed with a wooden bow and arrows of bone, patrolled a rocky platform built atop the barricade. Tarps and netting stretched over the top of the canyon, discouraging any attacks from above. Khan had to admit that the Azar Gorge looked ready to withstand any siege.
Khan lowered the spyglass. “It is as we expected,” he informed his troops, who were gathered on the slopes of the dune below him, safely out of view of the Exiles. Joaquin, Ling, Daniel, Zuleika, Hawkins, and some thirteen more adult men and women waited to do battle against the faithless bandits who followed Ericsson. Only four adults, all wounded or disabled to varying degrees, remained back in Fatalis to care for the children—and to preserve the colony should tonight’s campaign end in disaster. Nineteen full-grown superhumans, Khan had judged, should be enough to overcome how ever many Exiles opposed them.
Over his protests, Joachim had been left behind with the other youngsters. Bad enough, Khan thought, that I am putting both of the youth’s parents in jeopardy; I will not risk the future of Fatalis as well.
Every warrior was armed with a variety of weapons. Khan himself had a Colt automatic pistol, a silver kirpan, a double-edged bronze sword, and five bronze chakrams threaded upon his left arm. All save the pistol were traditional Sikh weapons that he had mastered centuries ago on Earth.
Forging metal under the primitive conditions at Fatalis had not been easy, but five years and superhuman intelligence could accomplish wonders.
“We will proceed as planned,” he announced. Through his visor, his eyes carefully gauged the distance between the top of the dune to the bottom of the barricade. He handed the spyglass over to Joaquin and reached for a carefully wrapped bundle, about the size of a medical tricorder. “Await my signal.”
“Please, Your Excellency,” Joaquin protested once more. “It is too dangerous. Let someone else perform this task!”
Khan shook his head. Five years ago, the night Marla died, he had delegated responsibility for apprehending Ericsson and his co-conspirators to others, and half a decade of bloody conflict had ensued. He would not make that mistake again. “No, my friend. My mind is set. This is something I must do myself.”
The worried bodyguard conceded defeat. “Be careful, Your Excellency.”
“It is Ericsson who should beware,” Khan said grimly, “and all his treacherous renegades.” Clutching the swaddled package closely against his chest, he crept over the crest of the dune and stealthily descended toward the gorge, counting on the blackness of the night and the ever-swirling dust clouds to hide his approach from the sentinel atop the barricade. He darted between wind-sculpted outcroppings of rock until he arrived at the base of the massive wall of boulders blocking the entrance to the gorge. Loose scree shifted alarmingly beneath his boots as he pressed his body into a crack between the bottommost boulders. Torchlight from the watch platform above filtered down through the hazy atmosphere. He could hear the footsteps of the sentry pacing roughly ten meters above.
Excellent, Khan thought. So far, he appeared to be undetected. His keen eyes scrutinized the imposing rockpile. Trained as an engineer centuries ago in Delhi, he quickly detected a potential weak spot in the deployment of the boulders. That will do, he decided.
Khan gingerly unwrapped the bundle beneath his arm, revealing a metallic food canister equipped with a lengthy fuse. He smiled behind his kaffiyeh as he contemplated the crude, but hopefully effective, bomb.
I trust Kirk would appreciate my ingenuity, he thought with bitter humor. Like the captain on Cestus III, Khan had taken pains to manufacture gunpowder from native materials: sulfur from deposits found along the banks of the late River Kaur; potassium nitrate from preserved bat guano and, later, human waste; coal extracted from Azar Gorge itself. Khan had been storing the raw materials in the armory for years, awaiting just such a challenge as this.
He wedged the bomb between two pivotal boulders. A spark from his flint ignited the fuse and he dashed for cover. In his haste, however, his heel dislodged a small heap of gravel, which rattled noisily onto the ground.
Khan froze, and glanced upward in alarm. To his dismay, he saw the robed sentinel staring straight down at him. The anonymous Exile reached for an arrow, but Khan’s reflexes were faster still; in an instant, he plucked a chakram from his arm and hurled it with his right hand. The bronze ring spun through the air until its razor-sharp edge sliced into the guard’s throat. The bow dropped from the sentry’s throat as he staggered backward, clutching his throat. A fierce gust of wind carried away his (her?) dying gurgle.
Had anyone noticed him dispatch the guard? Khan had no time to find out. Racing madly across the desert floor, he hurled himself behind a weathered outcropping only seconds before the bomb detonated.
A fiery flash, and thunderous blast, exploded at the base of the barricade, and the entire rockpile came tumbling down amid a rumble of crashing boulders. Smoke and dust rose in choking quantities. Khan heard the screams of injured Exiles.
He did not wait for the dust to settle. “Now!” he bellowed, running out from behind his temporary shelter. He drew his gun with one hand and his sword with the other, no longer afraid to let the enemy hear his voice. “Follow me—in the name of Khan!”
An answering roar, as from the brazen throat of war, arose from behind the dune. A second later, Khan heard the army of Fatalis stampeding down the sandy slope behind him. “For Khan!” they cried in unison. “FOR KHAAAAN!”
They charged the breach, leaping over the shattered remains of the barricade into a scene of utter chaos and disarray. Joaquin and Ling hurled gunpowder grenades into the enemy encampment. Exile bodies went flying as campfires and hot springs blew apart around them. Startled outlaws ran about frantically, snatching up weapons or children or both.
Sheltered by the canyon walls, few of the Exiles wore desert garb. Smoke and flames added to the confusion, along with the searing spray of detonated springs and geysers.
“Where is Ericsson?” Khan demanded over the din. A cloaked figure sprang up before, brandishing an axe, and Khan cut him down with his sword without a second’s thought. “Ericsson is mine!” he called out to friend and foe alike. Khan had no intention of being cheated of his revenge, not even by Joaquin or the others.
The traitor has overreached himself, Khan thought triumphantly, savoring the success of their assault so far. As long as the Norseman and his raiders had stayed on the move, staging lig
htning raids, then disappearing back into the wastes, Khan had never had the troops or resources to track them down. But when Ericsson walled himself up inside the canyon, he had finally given Khan the opportunity to launch a major offensive against the renegades. Now he had them boxed in, trapped in a dead end of their own making. I hope you enjoyed the water you found here, Harulf Ericsson. For now you will drink deeply of my vengeance!
Khan tossed his visor aside, the better to see the nocturnal melee. Dark eyes searched the bloody scene around him, hunting for his foe. His eager sword cut down Exiles right and left, as the battle for the gorge swiftly evolved into a profusion of hand-to-hand contests being fought all throughout the crowded ravine. Amid the flames and screams, Khan caught fragmentary glimpses of heated combat.
Daniel Katzel squared off against his rebel sister upon an elevated ridge along the eastern wall of the canyon. Their tragic conflict struck Khan as emblematic of the internecine warfare that had turned brother against sister, superhuman against superhuman, for the last five years.
“How could you do it?” Daniel accused her. “Plot against Khan? Betray your oath?”
“Get real!” Amy shot back. “This isn’t Captain Proton! Khan was leading us to destruction—and he wasn’t going to step down without a fight!”
The twins were equal in strength and skill, but Daniel had the advantage in weaponry. Amy’s obsidian-tipped spear of bone stood little chance against her brother’s heavy bronze mace; Khan watched out of the corner of his eye, as the sister’s spear shattered before the mace.
A follow-up blow knocked Amy from the ledge. She crashed to the floor of the canyon, where she sprawled motionlessly. Khan could not tell if she was dead or unconscious, nor did he much care. Amy Katzel had made her choice when she allied herself with Marla’s murders. Her fate was her own doing.
An angry shout called his attention elsewhere.
“There you are, Saraj!” Gideon Hawkins cried out. The loyal doctor had cornered Panjabi in a natural culde-sac formed by the craggy cliff face. Hawkins flaunted a trilaser scalpel while his former partner sported only a single sputtering torch. “I can’t believe you double-crossed our colony—and me!”
Khan watched with interest; he had long suspected the one-eared ex-cricket player of supplying Ericsson with the eel that had killed Marla. He would enjoy seeing Panjabi gutted.
“Come and get me, quack,” Panjabi taunted Hawkins. A patch of loose scrub covered the canyon floor between them. The doctor charged forward, just as Khan guessed what was in store.
“Wait!” he called out, but it was too late. The moment his feet hit the scrub, the ground collapsed beneath Hawkins, plunging him into a hidden pit. His panicked shrieks drew Khan to the scene. Tossing other combatants aside, Khan ran to the edge of the pit and looked down, his eyes widening in horror.
The bottom of the trap was filled with Ceti eels, dozens of them. The scaly mollusks swarmed over the fallen doctor like piranhas, tearing him apart with their vicious pincers. Blood sprayed freely as the eels squealed in excitement.
Some deaths are too foul even for war, Khan thought in disgust. Raising his gun, he used a precious bullet to put the unfortunate physician out of his misery, just as so many of Hawkins’ patients had been put down. Khan turned his outraged gaze on Panjabi. “Eels again, Saraj?” he snarled. “I should have taken your head instead of your ear!”
He bounded over the pit, landing only centimeters away from Panjabi. The murderous renegade swung his fire-brand, but Khan sliced the torch in half with one swipe of his sword. Shoving his gun back into his belt, he grabbed on to Panjabi and threw him headlong into the pit. New screams escaped the death trap, joining the frenzied squeals of the bloodthirsty eels.
Khan strode away. He was not about to waste a bullet on an Exile.
Several meters away, Zuleika caught Karyn Ericsson and her daughter trying to escape the gorge, along with Juliette Savine and some of the other Exile children.
“Forget it, girls,” the Amazonian supermodel announced, blocking the pass out of the canyon. She had discarded her headcloth and visor, revealing braided dreadlocks, but threatened the fleeing Exiles with a pair of matching bronze sais. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please, Zuleika,” Karyn begged from the forefront of the deserters, defending Astrid and the other youngsters with a crude spear. “We don’t have to fight. Just let us by—for the children’s sake!”
“So you can raise another generation of terrorists and thieves?” Zuleika asked mockingly. She jabbed the air between them with the sharpened points of her sais. “No way!”
Seeing no other choice, Karyn lunged at Zuleika with her spear. Zuleika deftly evaded the thrust by spinning to one side. Laughing, she came back at Karyn, her sais flashing in the torchlight.
It was a short battle. Zuleika was an ex-assassin, trained in armed and unarmed combat. Karyn Ericsson, although hardened by over a decade on Ceti Alpha V, was a former professor of linguistics.
The outcome was never in doubt.
Catching hold of Karyn’s spear with one sai, Zuleika disarmed the other woman with one expert move. Her right leg slammed in Karyn’s stomach, knocking Ericsson’s wife onto the ground. Zuleika stood astride Karyn’s sprawled form, staring down at her in contempt.
“Surrender,” she growled, “and I won’t have to kill you in front of your daughter.” Zuleika raised her eyes to shoot a warning glance at Savine, who cowered a few meters away, clutching her ten-year-old son. “Khan’s not much interested in taking prisoners, but he might be willing to make an exception where the kids are concerned.”
A rock came whizzing through the air, striking Zuleika in the temple. Stunned, she raised a hand to her head and was surprised to see blood dripping from her fingertips. She tottered unsteadily upon her feet. Blurry eyes spotted little Astrid Ericsson standing a few meters away, a leather sling in her hand. “You…?” Zuleika whispered in disbelief.
“Leave my mother alone!” the girl shouted. Fury blazed in her pale blue eyes. She let fly another rock.
The second missile struck Zuleika squarely between the eyes. The dazed Amazon toppled over, hitting the ground with a crash. Astrid sprang forward, drawing the tusk of a long-dead sabertooth from the folds of her small burnoose….
Moments later, Karyn and Savine hustled Astrid and the other children out of the gorge into the darkened desert beyond. Astrid clutched the bloodstained tusk like a favorite toy.
Khan was drawing his sword from the belly of a fallen Exile when he heard footsteps closing on him from behind. He spun around to see Paul Austin swinging a battle-axe at his head. The crazed American was naked from the waist up, exposing a lean torso liberally embellished with tattoos. “Die!” he yelled as the blade of the axe came slashing through the air. “Sic semper tyrannis!”
The speed of the attack tested even Khan’s superhuman reflexes. He was still reaching for his gun, unsure whether he could draw the Colt in time, when the butt of a rifle suddenly struck Austin in the side of the head, staggering him. “Do not fear, Your Excellency!” Joaquin shouted from the other end of the rifle.
Your timely assistance is much appreciated, my friend, Khan thought. I can always count on you to watch my back.
The massive axe slipped from Austin’s fingers. Joaquin raised his rifle again, as though to deliver a killing blow, but Khan had other plans. “Wait!” he forestalled the eager bodyguard. “Hold the cur instead!”
Shouldering his rifle, Joaquin obediently grabbed on to Austin, twisting the other man’s arms behind his back. The tattooed Exile struggled to free himself, but could not escape Joaquin’s unbreakable hold. Austin’s efforts left him panting, a consequence, perhaps, of too much smoking over the course of his unworthy life.
Khan stepped forward to confront the prisoner.
“Where is your master, renegade?” he demanded, his face only centimeters from Austin’s. “Where is Ericsson?”
Austin spit in Khan’s face. “Go
to hell!”
“Why this is hell,” Khan snarled mordantly, “nor am I out of it.” He pressed the point of his sword against Austin’s throat, determined to wring the truth from the man, one way or another. “Where?” he repeated. The tip of the blade broke the skin, drawing a single drop of blood. “Where is Ericsson?”
“Here I am, Khan!” a sardonic voice called out. Khan looked away from Austin, his blood racing at the sound. At last! he thought savagely.
Harulf Ericsson stood at the far end of the gorge, at the foot of the southern barricade. Steam rose from a bubbling hot spring directly behind Ericsson, giving him the look of a demon making a far-too-theatrical entrance. No kaffiyeh concealed his hateful countenance.
To his horror, Khan saw that the rebel leader was not alone. Suzette Ling was caught in Ericsson’s grasp, with one arm around her waist and a Colt pistol aimed at her head. Blood streamed from a bullet wound in her left shoulder.
An anguished grunt escaped Joaquin as he saw his wife in the enemy’s hands.
“I am sorry, Joaquin, Lord Khan!” Ling blurted. Shock and pain showed on her ashen face. “I wasn’t expecting the gun!”
“Quiet!” Ericsson barked at his hostage. Khan guessed that the revolver had been captured from one of the guards murdered when the Exiles seized the gorge. “Throw down your weapons,” the Norseman shouted at Khan and Joaquin.
Khan wavered. Ordinarily, he would not hesitate to sacrifice a soldier or two in pursuit of victory, but Joaquin was his oldest and most faithful supporter. Khan still felt the pain of Marla’s death. How could he ask Joaquin to endure the same torment?
He cast a sideways glance at Joaquin, who was maintaining his hold on Austin, seemingly frozen in place. Although Joaquin’s expression remained as stony as ever, Khan glimpsed the agony in his friend’s eyes.
