Helix Wars (15 page)

“You will tell me now where the pilot is, or I will be compelled to use this. A guran. It will be painful, but it will make you tell the truth. Now, which is it to be?”

The oldster held the Sporelli’s gaze. “There was no human pilot. We found two bodies, no more.”

The sergeant reached out, lightning fast, and grabbed the Phandran’s collar. He forced the man to his knees, to the audible consternation of his watching fellows. Several of them turned away, weeping.

Kranda watched, promising herself that if the Phandran died, then she would – in the near future – execute the pot-bellied soldier.

The Sporelli dropped the skullcap onto the Phandran’s head where it sat lopsidedly, three sizes too big. “The controls!” he called to one of his men, who passed him a hand-held device inset with studs.

“Now, where is the pilot?” the soldier demanded.

The Phandran stared at him. “There was no pilot,” he said.

The soldier’s finger hovered over a stud. “If you don’t tell the truth, you will live to regret it. Have you ever experienced pain, Phandran?”

The oldster remained tight-lipped, staring up at his tormentor.

“Because this will be painful beyond imagining! Now, the pilot?”

“There was no pilot,” the Phandran said again, slowly, emphasizing every world.

“Very well,” the Sporelli said, “but I did warn you...”

The thin, blue forefinger came down on a stud. The Phandran oldster grimaced and moaned in pain.

“The pilot?” demanded the soldier. He jabbed the stud again.

The oldster, on his knees, spasmed and fell face down on the grass.

A Phandran woman rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside the oldster. She reached out, feeling for a pulse, then let forth a high, anguished keening.

The soldier looked across to his men and, much to Kranda’s disgust, smiled. “Even weaker,” he said, “than humans.”

He climbed to the top of the hill and looked down on the village. He called out to one of his men, pointing. “Bring me that rope.”

The Phandrans had gathered together in the grave-hollow, holding each other in terror as the soldier returned with the rope. The fat Sporelli took it and turned to survey the natives. “You,” he said, selecting a male Phandran whose face bore a deep scar running from temple to jaw.

The man stepped forward with a lack of apparent fear, and Kranda vowed that she would not stand by and watch this Phandran die too.

“Here!” ordered the Sporelli.

Obediently the Phandran climbed the hillside and paused before the soldier.

The Sporelli looked around, found what he was seeking, and gestured towards a nearby cloud-tree. Kranda closed her eyes briefly, knowing what was about to happen.

“Follow me!”

The soldier led the way from the grave hollow and across to the cloud-tree. He slung the rope over a low branch. The Phandran stood by, watching what the Sporelli was doing with apparent ignorance. The soldier took his time in fashioning a noose from the end of the rope.

Kranda noticed the other troops; they were nudging each other and smirking like schoolboys.

“Come here!”

The Phandran stepped forward. The soldier looped the noose around the Phandran’s neck, then adjusted it as if he were fussily attending to the knot of a necktie. Something about the Phandran’s docility, as he stood and allowed this to happen, fuelled Kranda’s rage.

“We have an old custom on Sporell,” said the soldier. “It’s called hanging. It was very popular at one time, though less so these days. We’ve developed finer means of punishing criminals. Still, as they say, the old ways are often the most efficacious.”

He tugged on the rope, jarring the Phandran’s head to one side and causing him to choke.

“Now, for the very last time – what happened to the pilot?”

On tip-toes, his neck stretched, the Phandran managed a strangled, “I... don’t... know.”

“Where is the pilot!” the soldier yelled.

“There was no... pilot...”

Down in the hollow, the villagers looked on with horror.

The sergeant, frustrated beyond endurance, yanked the rope and the Phandran shot into the air, letting out a strangled scream.

Kranda moved.

She stepped behind the dangling alien and reached up, taking a handful of smock at the top of the Phandran’s spine. She lifted, taking the small man’s negligible weight, easing the bite of the rope.

At the same time she leaned forward and whispered, hearing the varnika translate her words a moment later. “Do not be alarmed. Act dead. Close your eyes and act dead!”

The Phandran started with surprise, then slumped as instructed.

The gathered Phandrans moaned as one, some turning away while others held each other and wept.

One of the watching Sporelli troops laughed and called out, “Weak as
groi
[untranslatable].”

The soldier spat in disgust and released his grip on the rope. Kranda allowed the Phandran to drop to the ground, where he played dead.

“What now, sir?” one of the troops asked.

The fat soldier looked down at the gaggle of cowed Phandrans. “Perhaps the bastards are telling the truth,” he said in Sporelli, then addressed the Phandrans in their own language. “I’ll give you one last chance – what happened to the human pilot? Tell me now, and be spared the fate of your fellow.”

A young female Phandran stepped forward, ineffably elfin and graceful. “Kill me first, before the others. Then kill us all, one by one, if you gain pleasure from doing so. For I tell you this – we do not know where the human pilot is, so believe our words when we tell you.”

Another fairy-like alien stepped forward, “And then kill me...”

“And me,” said another.

“And then me...”

“And me...”

“And me...”

Kranda was to recall this moment for many years, this show of astounding bravery in the face of such brutality, as one by one the Phandran villagers stepped forward and offered themselves for sacrifice.

Soon all the villagers had stepped forward, including the children, and stared up at the Sporelli quintet with unwavering intensity.

“So... what’re we going to do,” asked one of the soldiers, “string them all up?”

Enraged, the sergeant stared at the gathered aliens, considered his words, then said, “I will give you until sunrise tomorrow to consider your future. I will be back, and if you still withhold the information” – he spat on the ground at their feet – “then I will personally kill you one by one.” And as if for emphasis, with each word he spoke, he patted the butt of his holstered pistol.

Then he turned away and marched down the hillside, followed by his men. Kranda watched him climb into the car. The engine roared and the car shot off down the track, trailing a cloud of dust.

At the foot of the tree, the ‘hanged’ Phandran was sitting upright, much to the astonishment of his fellows. He pulled the noose from his neck and looked around quizzically for his saviour.

Kranda approached and knelt, commanding her varnika to deactivate its visual shield.

Her sudden appearance, as if from nowhere, caused cries of consternation from the adults and whimpers from the children. They stepped back, staring in bewilderment, then with increasing bravery edged forward, staring at her all the while.

Kranda helped the hanged Phandran to his feet. Even kneeling, she still towered over the little alien.

She said, “Do not be alarmed. I am Kranda, a Mahkan, from another world on the Helix. My people are the Engineers, and we attend to the smooth running of the Helix.”

They gathered around her, one or two of the younger ones even plucking up the courage to reach out and touch her strange, scaled skin. She must have appeared as a hideous giant to these people.

“You saved my life,” said the hanged Phandran.

“And I would have saved your friend, too, if it had been possible. But understand, had I acted against the Sporelli, then others of their kind would have visited your village and sought revenge.”

The Phandran said, “As it is, they will still come at sunrise and expect an answer to their question.”

“Your show of collective bravery shamed the tyrants, but I think it would be wise to relocate your village. Here, by the track, you are vulnerable to passing Sporelli.” She gestured to the high hills and distant mountains. “I would advise that you leave the area and seek the refuge of the foothills.”

They conferred amongst themselves, and then the scar-faced Phandran said, “We will do that. But first, a question. Why are you here, Mahkan – to fight the Sporelli?”

She smiled. “The Sporelli will pay for their transgressions, but I cannot exact punishment alone. I have come simply to find a friend, a friend who once saved my life. On my world we observe
Sophan
, which means a debt to another that must be repaid. I owe this brave man my life, and he is in danger now. It is my duty to rescue him.” She looked around the staring group. “The man I seek is the human pilot, and it is a great pity that you do not know what became of him.”

She sensed a stirring among the Phandrans; they whispered to each other, exchanged inscrutable glances. The scar-faced Phandran stepped forward and said, “Kranda, but we do know where the pilot is.”

She stared at the man, considering the villagers’ collective bravery in light of this information. She gestured towards the grave-hollow, where one of their people lay dead. “But he gave up his life so that my friend might remain free...”

“To have told the Sporelli the whereabouts of the human,” said the scar-faced alien, “would have been dishonourable. Better death than the shame of dishonour. Frear has gone to another place, Mahkan, to a life beyond this life.”

She said, “And the human?”

“We found the human in a yahn-pod. He was injured, but alive. We took him on our cart, but he fell violently ill, for he had eaten poison berries by mistake. We gave him ker-fruit, the only antidote to the poison, and transported him to the Retreat at Verlaine.”

“But he lives?” Kranda asked, heart pounding.

The alien hesitated. “We do not know. He was very ill when we last saw him, and few survive such poisoning, even with the administration of ker-fruit. But your friend is human, so perhaps it will be different with him. At any rate, the Healers at the Retreat will do their very best to save him.”

“And where is this Retreat of Verlaine?” she asked.

The Phandran pointed along the track. “Five days rurl-ride to the west,” he said. “You will approach a steep mountain to your left, and high upon it, fashioned from the very pinnacle of the mountain itself, you will behold the Retreat. If he lives, then the human will be there.”

Kranda reached out and took the Phandran’s hand. “I promise that my people will act to stop the Sporelli violence.”

“Their actions,” said the scar-faced alien, “are inexplicable to us.”

Before she left their village, she urged the Phandrans to take to the hills and not return until the Sporelli had left the area. Then she activated her varnika – smiling at the gasp that went up from the diminutive aliens – and left their village at speed.

She returned to the cloud-tree grove and boarded her flier. In short order, she powered up the engines, lifted the ship and set off in the direction of the Retreat of Verlaine.

S
EVEN
/// L
EAVING
V
ERLAINE

1

T
HEY LEFT THE
Retreat of Verlaine well before dawn and took a yahn-cart to the town of Trahng. An honour guard saw them off from the castle, two lines of Phandrans bearing lamps in the darkness. Calla dispensed with her red robe and wore instead simple brown leggings, a jerkin of the same colour, and a dull grey cloak.

This time he did not make his bed among stacked pods bearing the carcasses of hapless forest creatures. The cart was piled with skins, under which he buried himself and attempted to catch up on his interrupted sleep. Calla lay at the far end of the flat-bed, staring up at the stars.

He awoke as the sun was coming up over the mountains and the stars were being washed from the dawn sky.

Calla had bread and fruit ready for him, and icy water, and they sat side by side on the furs and ate while travelling across the gossamer-tree plain he had seen from Calla’s room the day before. He watched her, seated upright and moving with the loll of the plodding turtle-beast. She stared ahead, her expression impassive.

For the most part they passed through countryside familiar from his earlier journey on the yahn-cart: fairytale glades of gossamer-trees set amid meadows of crimson grass. From time to time they passed villages, scant collections of two-storey timber buildings raised on stilts, beneath which domesticated animals lived. If the Sporelli had passed this way, there was no sign of their desecration.

At one point he asked, “If the Sporelli are bent on invading D’rayni, then they will be ahead of us by now, on the western coast?”