Helix (30 page)

Kaluchek
looked at him, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thought. It was the
black uniforms, and not so much the fact that the creatures were armed with
primitive rifles, that struck fear into his heart. He wondered if dark uniforms
symbolised the brutality of authority on this world, too.

The
armed aliens, evidently some form of police or militia, surrounded the sledge,
and one of their number yipped a high command. Seconds later another dozen
militia hurried from the building and took up positions next to their comrades,
rifles levelled.

It
was impossible to tell from their facial expressions how they were reacting to
the presence of aliens in their midst, but their body language suggested
unease, even fear. They appeared skittish, fidgety. At a movement from
Carrelli, easing herself into a more comfortable position, they backed off and
raised their weapons nervously.

Carrelli
said, under her breath, “No heroics, Friday, okay? They have us surrounded, and
those weapons might look like antiques, but I don’t want a head full of
buckshot.”

“Yes,
ma’am,” Olembe muttered.

One
of the mountain-dwellers was in conversation—a frantic exchange of high yelps
and barks—with one of the militia. While the militiaman spoke, he never allowed
his eyes to stray from the sledge and its human cargo. He flung his head back
once or twice, made side-wise chopping gestures with his paws. It was
impossible, Hendry thought, to guess what might be passing between the
creatures.

The
exchange ended and the militiaman made a slow, cautious circumnavigation of the
sledge, staring at the humans one by one. It returned to its original position
beside the mountain-dweller, then yipped an order to one of the armed militia
who hurried across the cobbles to what turned out to be a garage.

A
minute later an enclosed cart was hauled out and dragged across the courtyard
to stand beside the sledge. It appeared too small to contain all the humans,
but Hendry guessed that this was its purpose. Yet another transfer, another
destination, their fate deferred for a while yet.

Olembe
whispered, “They’ve got to untie us, yes? If we’re gonna make a move, that
would be the time to do it.”

“And
risk getting our heads blown off?” Kaluchek said. “Forget it.”

Carrelli
said, “There’s no need to take risks yet, Friday. Let’s see what happens,
okay?”

Olembe
swore. Kaluchek reached out and took Hendry’s hand.

He
watched as one of the militia swung open the doors of the enclosed truck.

Olembe
was right in that the transfer necessitated their being unfastened from the
sledge, but how the aliens went about it was ingenious. The militia leader
yelped at an underling, who shouldered its weapon and approached the sledge
with caution. Instead of climbing into the cart, as expected, it ducked beneath
it and scrabbled across the cobbles. The iron rings in the middle of the boards
began to turn as screws securing the rings to the sledge’s timber floor were
unfastened. A minute later the rings came loose. The humans were free of the
sledge, but their ankles were still shackled by the leather thongs. It would be
impossible to move at much more than a constricted shuffle.

The
leader approached the sledge, yelled at them. Behind him the militiamen
gestured with their rifles, and one of them pulled down the sledge’s tailgate.

Olembe
first, followed by Carrelli, Kaluchek and Hendry, climbed from the back of the
sledge and approached the prison wagon. Hendry winced at the pain in his back
and legs, his muscles unused for so many hours. He glanced left, then right.
Their progress was watched by the militia, weapons levelled vigilantly.

He
watched Olembe, fearing that the African might ignore Carrelli’s warning and
attack the militia. He could see that Olembe took the indignity of capture with
bad grace, but to his credit he kept his head and climbed dutifully into the
wagon.

Hendry
was the last aboard, Kaluchek turning to help him, and as he stepped into the
confines he winced, expecting a blow to the back of his head.

He
seated himself next to Kaluchek, taking her hand, as the doors were slammed
shut and barred. In the darkness they could hear preparations being made to
transport them onwards. A team of draft animals was attached to the wagon, and
minutes later they lurched into motion across the cobbles and out into the ice
canal.

“Where
now?” Kaluchek asked.

Hendry
said, “Maybe this was a militia outpost. We’re being taken to the headquarters.
We’ll soon be meeting with the people in control.”

“Yeah,”
Olembe said, “the bastards who say whether we live or die. We should have tried
to escape when we had the chance.”

“For
fuck’s sake shut it, Olembe, okay?” Kaluchek yelled. She was, Hendry sensed,
close to tears. He gripped her fingers.

“Temper,
temper,” the African replied in the darkness.

The
wagon slid across the ice, its motion rapid, throwing the humans from side to
side. Hendry felt Kaluchek’s face against his upper arm, felt the silent sobs
that shook her body.

“At
least we know one thing,” Carrelli said.

“Which
is?” Olembe asked.

Into
the silence, Carrelli said, “The water is safe on this world.”

“If
that’s supposed to be funny, Carrelli...” Olembe said.

Ten
minutes after setting off, the wagon slowed. The transition from ice to cobbles
was made again, the wagon jolting for a minute before it came to a halt.

“This
is it,” Olembe said.

A
minute elapsed, then two. Hendry wondered if this was some sophisticated form
of torture in itself.

Then
the doors opened, and the grey light— dazzling after the absolute darkness of
the wagon—flooded in, blinding them for a moment.

Only
then did they see their reception committee.

Hendry
was dragged from the wagon by means of a pikestaff that snared the thongs at
his ankles. He yelled, fell painfully to the cobbles, and was aware of the
others tumbling out after him.

Then,
before they had time to get up, twenty uniformed militia armed with clubs and
rifle butts set about rendering them incapable of opposition.

Olembe
cried out—something about how wrong you bastards were—before a crunching blow
silenced him.

Kaluchek
screamed Hendry’s name, as if pleading for his help, and the last thing he saw was
a rifle butt falling towards his head.

In the early
hours of
the morning following their return to Agstarn, Ehrin left his room in the attic
of the Telsa foundry and hurried down to the shop floor. There, in the shadows
of the great silent crucibles and furnaces—usually alive with noise and
fire—Kahran hailed him, and they left the foundry and moved quickly through to
the hangar.

In
the illumination of the gas-lamp that Ehrin held before him, the rearing shapes
of a dozen dirigibles filled the hangar, ranging from the small one-man
skyships to the mammoth freighters. The hangar was silent, like a museum, and
for a second Ehrin imagined far future generations looking back and smiling at
these exhibits of a backward technological age. He had never thought that
before—had always assumed that the dirigibles were the leading edge of
scientific innovation—but Havor’s interworld machine had changed all that. How
primitive all this must seem to the strange alien pilot!

They
had made the return journey to Agstarn without incident. Ehrin’s fear that a
curious geologist or engineer might question their story about the alien ship,
or worse actually try to board it, had proved unfounded. He had refrained from
entering into any further theological argument with Elder Cannak, but something
the Elder had said on parting had sent an icy shiver up the fur of Ehrin’s
spine. “I have noted our conversations, Mr Telsa, Mr Shollay, and,
notwithstanding the success of the mission, I will be forced to make a report
upon your conduct, and philosophical views, to the relevant bureau.”

“Mere
words,” Kahran had said once the Elder had departed, but Ehrin had seen the
shadow of doubt in the old man’s experienced eyes.

They
hurried across the oil-stained hangar floor to the looming shape of the
freighter. Ehrin had earlier taken the precaution of locking the cargo hold,
and now he turned the key with fumbling fingers and hauled open the double
doors.

They
crossed the hold to the streamlined shape of the golden ship, and Ehrin rapped
on the triangular viewscreen.

Seconds
later the hatch hissed open.

They
passed down the corridor and entered the control room. Havor was lying upon the
couch, staring at a screen above him. He glanced at Ehrin and Kahran and
grimaced in greeting. “I’ve been assessing the damage, which isn’t as extensive
as I first feared. I’ve managed to repair a relay system, but the main drive
suffered physical damage on reentry.” He looked from Ehrin to Kahran. “I’ll
need to replace a component if I want to get the ship running again. And
then...”

“The
deathship,” Ehrin said.

Havor
inclined his great head. “The deathship indeed,” he said, grimacing.

“How
can we help?” Kahran asked.

“I
will need a precisely tooled part, which should not be beyond your capability
to produce.”

“We
will do what we can,” Ehrin said.

“And
if Kahran might describe in detail the whereabouts of the Church’s mountain
hangar, I will leave here and do what I must do.”

“Better
than that,” Kahran said, “I’ll come with you, guide you to exactly to the where
the Church keeps the deathship.”

“And
if Kahran comes,” Ehrin said, “then I will come too. The ship will hold three?”

Havor
grimaced. “Capacity is not the problem, my friend.” He looked at them with his
inscrutable black eyes. “I must warn you, there will be danger involved in the
mission. If the Church has studied the weapons systems aboard the deathship,
even the secondary systems, then they might have their stronghold well defended
against even aerial attack.”

Ehrin
asked, “You call it a deathship, and speak of terrible weapons...”

By
way of a reply, Havor said, “My friends, what is the most fearful weapons your
race possesses?”

Ehrin
looked at Kahran, who shrugged and said, “Perhaps the projectile cannon. It can
hurl a shell which detonates on impact, killing dozens.”

“The
deathship,” said Havor, “is well named. One strike from its primary weapons
system could destroy a city the size of Agstarn, and all in it. The secondary
system is defensive, something similar to your cannons, though it can fire a
dozen projectiles a second.”

“And
your weapons?” Kahran asked.

“A
similar projectile capability,” Havor said. “I trust that half a dozen strikes
on target will destroy the Church’s hangar and the deathship.”

Ehrin
glanced across at Kahran. “I would still like to accompany you,” he murmured,
and Kahran nodded his agreement.

Havor
pulled an even uglier grimace, and held out his big, hairless hand for Ehrin
and Kahran to touch.

“And
then?” Ehrin said. “What are your plans once the deathship is destroyed?”

The
alien turned its head from side to side. “I do not plan beyond the attack. That
has my sole attention.”

“You
spoke of other worlds,” Ehrin said, tentatively, “other
levels...”

Havor
made a rumbling guttural sound, which Ehrin took for a laugh. How ignorant he
must seem to this otherworldly being! How young and ignorant!

Havor
said, “Later, my friend. First, I will show you the damaged component, which
perhaps you might replace...”

Havor
led the way from the ship. In the light from Ehrin’s lamp, they moved along the
golden flank, Havor pausing from time to time to lay an affectionate palm on
various hieroglyphs and decals.

Ehrin
noticed that the alien was walking without even the slightest limp, and
marvelled again at the miracle of Zorl technology.

Havor
indicated a panel in the flank of the ship, blackened as if scorched by a
blowtorch.

“A
burn-out on re-entry,” Havor explained. He reached up and touched the panel,
which ejected itself slowly from the body of the ship. Ehrin made out a mass of
burnt-out wiring and charred metal.

Havor
inspected the damage, then reached in and extracted the remains of a silver
cylinder, perhaps nine inches long. He held it out for Ehrin and Kahran to
inspect. “I can replace the circuitry and some of the other damaged components,
but not the compression duct.”

Ehrin
took the cylinder, turned it over and passed it to Kahran, who inspected it and
said, “I don’t foresee a problem. It’s finely turned, and the threading at this
end is finer than we usually need,” he shook his head, “but we can do it.”