Sunlord (49 page)

Ashian stumbled for bracing and caught a strap as the
craft floor bucked. He clung tightly as metal chattered against
metal, vibrating his thoughts from his skull. And the small stubby
pod spun planetward, a thread of flame in its wake.

Chapter Sixteen

Riposte.

Rise like lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number,

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you -

Ye are many - they are few.

- P. B. Shelley.

"It's them! They've got the League!"

Locantar raised his head, ears prickling. The other
prisoners stirred from the darkness, muttering to one another as
word spread. The small boy stood at the front of the cage, his four
fingered hands wrapped about the bars, vertical slats of light
falling across his dirtied face.

"The Sunlords have got the League," was all the boy
could say.

Then a silhouette fell across the entrance - broad
shouldered, looming ominously. The boy fell away from the bars and
hurried back into the darkness as the Sunlord moved to slide a
keycard across the locking mechanism. The door clicked open
dryly.

The group of haggard currach laying nearest the
entrance moved away hastily as the Sunlord guard stepped partway
into the huge containment vessel. Over four hundred former citizens
lay confined in the giant transport cell, spread along the bottom
of the fifty metre long twenty metre wide floor like a sickly
uneven paste. The air was stuffy and hot in the darkness, deadened
sounds echoing from the walls of flawless steel.

The Sunlord held open the gate as thirty-six currach
were thrown in with the rest. The battle-armoured Sunlords hefted
the former Leaguesmen like sacks to haul their limp forms through
the door. Then the Sunlords were done and withdrew, locking the
gate behind them.

The new arrivals were suddenly the centre of
attention for the concerned citizens. Locantar had managed to weave
his way through. "Rest, my son," he muttered, his hands moving over
the nearest Leaguesman's body, probing for any signs of injury.
Even though Locantar was blind his hands enabled him to discover
more than sight could.

"He needs some water," Locantar announced. "He's lost
a lot of blood."

The blind old man paused as nobody moved. He
straightened in the darkness, milky eyes wandering.

"Has nobody any water for a dying currach?"

Mother's drew back, holding their children's hands
tightly in their own. Everywhere the reaction was the same; they
had no water to spare. They had been imprisoned since evening, and
it was now midmorning. The Sunlords did not allow them food or
water and nobody had thought to bring in their own supply.

"I know some of you must have a little," Locantar
pursued as the dirtied, huddled mass drew back, trying to look
nowhere. "Give, and you shall receive, as Abas says. All I ask is a
drop."

"I have some."

The boy stepped forward before his mother could hold
him back. The family had jealously guarded the small canteen of
liquid, keeping it from the sight of others.

Locantar took the proffered bottle. "I thank you."
His white eyes moved up to the mother. "I sympathise with you - I
myself would do all I could to protect my family. But my family is
the whole of the currach race. You must understand."

The mother nodded, insectile eyes downcast in
shame.

Locantar tipped the canteen to the lips of the
Leaguesman. The later let a few drops escape down his cheek before
he snapped alert and began to swallow greedily.

It wasn't long before other currach moved to help
Locantar. Very quickly all thirty-six Leaguesmen had been given a
mouthful of water and their bleeding wounds staunched.

Curiosity rose in the currachs' minds, and as they
patched up the Leaguesmen shreds of their story started to come
through. They learned of the failure of the poison gas that was
supposed to destroy their enemy and the League of Steel's
subsequent capture.

Josian was at Locantar's side. He had not once left
the old man's side since the Sunlords had captured them and felt a
growing kinship with the clergyman; he knew Locantar's strengths
and failings and he could conspire with him.

"The League has lost," he sighed. "I wonder what made
their gas fail in the end?"

Locantar smiled slightly, his head turned away, gaze
affixed somewhere in space. "There is an old saying about receiving
gifts without criticism. Who knows...perhaps it was the hand of
Abas intervening to save our race."

"It was the best thing," nodded Josian. "If that gas
had of worked it would have only stirred the Sunlords into a raging
fury."

The hunchbacked shadow moved so quietly neither man
hear nor saw it approach. Standing half the height of a normal
currach and dressed in a thick black shapeless robe his voice was
keen and insistent.

"So it was a good thing Shata failed, eh?"

Josian spun, surprised. Glancing uneasily at Locantar
Josian saw the blind man seemed unaffected. The hunchback drew
closer, smelling rank and unwashed. "Let me introduce myself," he
said, voice cold with poorly concealed hatred. "They call my
Mosata, Shata-Bera's loyal Adviser."

"It is good to see you survived Shata's foolish
attack," replied Locantar levelly.

"I'll kill you old man," Mosata whispered between
clenched teeth. "You traitorous mound of drusk dung."

Locantar's head snapped around, sightless eyes
blazing white. Mosata could not help but stare into the depthless
gaze.

"I have done nothing to harm you," growled
Locantar.

"Oh no?" rebuked Mosata in mock surprise. "It was you
who polluted the minds of Shata's warriors, making them leave the
League. And it wouldn't have been you who made the gas fail at the
city gate, would it? No, of course not." Mosata grinned
mirthlessly, his voice dripping sarcasm. "It was your fault
Shata-Bera was killed."

"I could not bring myself to cause injury to Shata.
Misguided though he may be, he is not beyond Abas' reach."

Mosata was infuriated. "Don't you see it? Shata-Bera
fought for his people!" Those currach nearest the group pricked
their ears and whispered uncertainly to one another. Seeing his
growing support Mosata continued the verbal abuse.

"It was you, Locantar, who lowered us to this. Your
preaching turned our minds - polluted it with Religion - until our
people's army was lost."

His last comments drew a wave of murmurs for, as a
prominent Church figurehead, Locantar was held in high respect.
Seeing his mistake Mosata back-pedalled hastily, knowing in his
cunning mind that he needed to pass a test before these people's
eyes before they, too, saw the hollowness of the Grand Teachings
and the pretension of the Council.

"Very well, old man," snarled Mosata, now speaking
for the benefit of those surrounding. "You say Abas can haul us out
of our troubles, mmm? That was why you disbanded the League, wasn't
it? Because Abas can look after us...?"

Locantar nodded slowly and deliberately.

"...then let him free us from this prison," finished
Mosata triumphantly. He gestured to the locked gate with an angry
flourish. "Let him command that door to spring open."

"Abas' hand has steered us through troubled times
before, and will do so again," said Locantar with unwavering faith.
"I know our prayers will be answered and we shall walk free."

Mosata turned to the crowd of confused citizens. "It
is done. If the door does not fall open by sunset Locantar falls
from office, and you take me for you leader. We shall band together
to form another fighting force - one that will this time win!"

Stunned silence settled as Mosata slipped into the
shadows and disappeared, intent on thoughts and plans of his own.
Josian glanced sidelong at Locantar, his gaze silent and imploring.
He knew Locantar had put himself on thin ice.

For a long time Locantar was silent, simply sitting
crosslegged and head bowed, black hood pulled over his head. Very
slowly the crowd pulled away. Josian found himself listening to the
sounds of breathing and muted, echoing speech. Someone close a
child started to wail, shushed by a mother. Towards the back of the
huge transport cell somebody had started a small fire to ward away
the numbing cold, a few chanting hymns for comfort. When Locantar
spoke his voice was soft.

"My heart is torn in two, my son. How can our proud
race fall into this..." His voice choked out as he bowed his head,
sobbing gently.

Unit sub-commander Ryloth paused in his task as the
pitch of the grinding machine changed. The bullnecked Hartrias
solider cursed under his breath, standing and reaching for the
communicator at his belt. He slid the visor of his helmet up and a
blast of hot air filled the air-conditioned interior of his
warsuit.

"Ryloth reporting," he said briskly. "It sounds like
the generator has thrown a belt again, I'm going to check it
out."

The two-way showered static for a second before the
reply. "Ryloth, where the frugging hell are you?"

Ryloth's eyes wandered over the interior of the large
workshop, which had been converted from the stone basement of one
of the currach buildings. "I'm supervising the fitting of the
radar," he returned defensively, eyes narrowing in anger. He knew
it was against regulations to curse over the comm-link, yet the
jock on the other end seemed oblivious to the fact. "Who is
this?"

"Sub-commander, everything's gone crazy up here. The
computers have all gone down and the power is dead. Nothing's
responding t-"

"Shut up!" barked Ryloth into the receiver. He hear
the panic edging into the other's voice and knew he had to choke it
quick. "Cut into the auxiliary power-"

"-it's off! Nothing works-"

"-then put a contact through to Avatar," finished
Ryloth. "She'll be able to patch up the systems."

"Sir, I've tried that. Avatar is not responding."

Ryloth paused, eyes widening. "Hold on, I'll be there
in a second."

He moved quickly to slam the communicator back into
his belt and brought the front of his visor snapping back down. A
trickle of sweat ran down his face and he knew everything was
coming apart - the generator was whirring unnaturally high and the
jury-rigged lights overhead had dimmed noticeably. His face set in
determination Ryloth strode into the elevator and punched the
button. The machine rose quickly and Ryloth stepped out before it
had come to a complete rest.

A young Hartrias technician dressed in a dirty white
helicasuit sat at the computer terminal, large six-fingered hands
moving quickly over the keyboard. As he stepped closer Ryloth read
the name tag on the right shoulder of the other's helicasuit.

"Techman Logrid, what's going on?"

The young officer spun. "Sir! The entire system's
gone down."

Ryloth leant over the bank of VDU's, eyes narrowing.
As he watched the indicator statistics dropped lower and lower.
Ryloth's finger jabbed the touch sensitive screen and the computer
responded to bring up a display of a multi-layered map of the newly
invaded city, blotches of red rising through blue outlines.

"The droids are overheating," he cursed angrily.
"What's got into them?"

"That's just it, sir." Logrid moved closer to
keyboard and attempted to send a message through to Avatar. "You
see, sir. All of a sudden nothing works."

Ryloth listened only partly to the young technician.
He concentrated on running the search program which gave a full
update on the systems. It was showing a negative on all counts.

"Do you think it's the natives again, sir?" asked
Logrid. The first gas canister had killed nearly two hundred
soldiers, and another unused canister had been found near the main
gate.

"No," returned Ryloth. "It can't be the natives.
Something has shorted command link to Avatar - either that, or
Avatar herself had been destroyed."

"Impossible."

"Then how do you explain this mess?" barked Ryloth.
His eyes never left the screen as he spoke to Logrid. "Have you
tried to get through to the Rplore?"

"Several times." Logrid himself had been assigned to
the Rplore, as had many of the footsoldiers, but nearly all the
equipment was controlled by the superior computer system of the
Urisa. "The Rplore isn't connected to our network here, but I
managed to get a manual signal through. The Rplore is trying to
re-connect and take over from Avatar."

Ryloth nodded. "How long until the Rplore takes
over."

The young technician shook his head. "She's busy
hooking up to the Dropzone. Computer control has been lost there,
too." Logrid paused. "Sir, Force Master Loakar is ordering a
retreat."

"Affirmative," Ryloth said. "Overheating has reached
critical - if we don't shut down the generators everything will
go."

"But sir, shutting down the generators will terminate
the robot sentries, the air-scrubber, the perimeter fencing-"

"I know," interrupted Ryloth. "There isn't much
choice. Shut her down."

Logrid hesitated. "On whose authority? To turn the
generators off I need authorisation from Ava-"

"You've got my authorisation. Do it now!"

The warning signal had been sounded over the complex
and the intense wailing assaulted their ears as soon as they
emerged from the building. Ryloth dimmed the auditory monitor on
his warsuit, fading the volume to a more tolerable level. Together
he and Logrid raced down the stone stairs, through defunct rows of
machinery, heading for the vehicle bay. Ryloth had sealed his
warsuit as soon as they had stepped outside and Logrid had fitted a
white, angular helmet to his padded helicasuit.