Helix Wars (27 page)

Were the D’rayni attempting to repel the invaders, she wondered, or was this some kind of atmospheric storm unknown on her world?

The flier tilted, and through the slit screen she made out a stretch of flat land far below. Down there, tiny against the featureless grey plain, she made out a line of military machines. From time to time they spat fire, which then exploded around the Sporelli flier.

They were under fire from D’rayni ground forces.

She closed her eyes and said to herself, “I survive hardships both physical and mental, and I will be reunited with the human, Jeff Ellis.”

The barrage seemed to last for an age, though she knew that perhaps only minutes had elapsed. Then they passed through the turmoil and into a sudden calm, which seemed almost silent at first and then was filled by the droning of the flier’s engines.

An hour passed, and at last the flier lost height. Calla peered through the sidescreen and made out a severe, ice-bound landscape, patched with forest here and there, but for the most part bare and rocky. As she watched, the lights of a town came into view, forlorn in the surrounding greyness.

The flier landed and the Phandran prisoners braced themselves collectively for the ordeal which awaited them. After long minutes of silence the rear hatch clattered open and the ramp banged down onto stone. A guttural Sporelli ordered them out, and wearily they climbed to their feet and shuffled down the ramp.

They were in a compound surrounded by a wall which was topped by two lines of bright blue light. The flier stood before an ugly, rectangular building with barred windows set along its length. She wondered if this was to be their prison, for the time being, until they were transferred to the battle-front. Or was this the battle-front?

A guard shouted at them to move into the building. Calla led the way inside, still gripping the young boy’s hand.

The dimly lit interior was bare but for a brazier situated in the middle of the floor. They hurried over to it and huddled round, warming frozen limbs and fingers.

Behind them, the door clanked shut and was locked.

Calla moved away from the others and walked around the building, inspecting the barred windows. An icy wind blew in, and all she could see was the surrounding grey wall topped by the bright blue lines of light.

She was in a prison in a cold and distant land – and yet Diviner Tomar had reassured her that she would be reunited, at some point, with Jeff Ellis.

At the moment, that was very hard to believe.

She returned to her fellow Healers huddling around the brazier.

3

N
OTHING HAPPENED FOR
an hour, and the waiting was the worst part of the ordeal.

The bone-aching cold seemed to increase, despite the brazier. They huddled in a seated circle around the fluted iron dome, first attempting to warm their fronts, and then turning to warm their backs. At one point the door at the far end of the room opened. They looked up together. A Sporelli soldier slipped in, locked the door behind him, and stood to attention, pointedly ignoring the prisoners.

A little later, a woman climbed to her feet and approached the alien. She appeared ridiculously small as she stood before him, peering up at his impassive blue face.

She spoke a few words in Phandran, then supplemented them by raising her fingers to her mouth repeatedly in the gesture for food. The guard snapped something at her. The woman spoke again, and again brought her small fingers to her lips.

At this, the guard lashed out, backhanding the woman across the face. She cried out and reeled away. Calla was on her feet, rushing over to the woman and escorting her back to the brazier. She laid the woman on the ground and inspected her face: the blow might not have been a terribly forceful one, but Phandran bones were delicate. The woman’s jaw was broken.

Calla closed her eyes and touched the woman’s face, and, joined by another Healer who took the injured woman’s hand, murmured a Healing litany. Calla sent the woman into a deep sleep, the better to ease the pain and aid the healing process.

An hour later the door opened again and a Sporelli soldier entered carrying two large flagons of icy water and a bucket filled with coarse grey bread.

They ate hungrily. For all that the bread was rough and tasteless, and the water brackish, Calla was grateful for the meagre sustenance.

Later, as they sat round the brazier which now seemed to produce little or no heat, the first of her fellows fell sick. The young boy she had comforted on the flight here groaned and rolled over, emptying the contents of his stomach across the floor. A minute later an old man did the same. Calla felt her own belly cramp, but fought the pain. She suspected the water was responsible, though the bread might have harboured bacteria just as harmful.

Those Phandrans not stricken aided the others, sent them into deep sleeps, and worked to quell the grumbling in their own bellies.

She was sleeping, a while later, when the door crashed open and a dozen Sporelli soldiers burst into the prison. Calla sat up, disoriented, and saw that the soldiers were carrying stretchers.

Four injured Sporelli were ferried across to the brazier and set down on the floor, and one of the stretcher-bearers snapped a command to the staring Phandrans.

Calla approached the closest injured soldier and winced at what she saw.

The Sporelli was naked from the waist up, and his stomach had been bound tight in a bandage now soaked in blood, suggesting that the wound was still open underneath. Calla looked up at the nearest soldier and said, “We are Healers, not surgeons...”

More Sporelli entered the prison, these bearing medical supplies which they deposited next to their injured comrades. Clearly none among them were qualified to treat the wounded. She wondered if they had come under surprise attack nearby and she and her fellow Healers were the only immediate option.

She organised the Healers, dividing them into teams of three or four to treat each Sporelli soldier. She had performed simple surgery before, and so had two other older Phandrans, and the three of them treated the worst injuries as best they were able with unfamiliar Sporelli equipment.

The soldiers were young, and as Calla worked she reminded herself that despite what these people had done on her world, she had a duty towards her injured charges.

She and two other healers worked on the soldier with the lacerated stomach. They replaced the innards that had spilled, stitched the muscle and then the flesh, doing their best to clean the wound. The soldier had lost a lot of blood, and there was nothing they could do about that, but after their ministrations he was in a better condition than before. There was, she thought, a possibility that he might live.

She sent him to sleep and did her best to soothe his pain. It did not help that he was alien, that she could not enter his mind and effect more radical care. Had he been Phandran, she would have melded with him, given him some of her own strength, and he would have stood a greater chance of pulling through.

The three other soldiers were not as severely injured, suffering bullet wounds to limbs. Her fellows treated the injuries with a combination of Phandran healing techniques and Sporelli medical equipment, and the chances were that they would survive.

Calla stood and approached a watching soldier, aware of what had happened to the previous Phandran who had dared to address a Sporelli. She gestured to the brazier, and asked if there was any way – for the sake of the injured troops – that they might increase the heat.

She had no illusion that the soldier might understand her words, but the meaning behind them was obvious, she hoped.

The Sporelli turned away and spoke one of his fellows, who hurried from the room.

Fifteen minutes later the brazier gurgled, and heat radiated from its ugly flutes. The warmth cocooned the sorry group, and her fellow Healers murmured their thanks to Calla.

She sat cross-legged beside her injured charge and laid a hand lightly on his chest, closing her eyes and concentrating on the life-force flowing through the alien.

A short while later she was surprised to hear a single, spoken phrase. “Thank you...”

She opened her eyes in surprise. The soldier was looking up at her.

She said, “You speak our language?”

“I am a... translator,” he replied in badly accented Phandran.

“Rest,” she told him, “and you will be well.”

He made a facial gesture similar to the one Jeff Ellis had used, a quick lifting of the lips to denote pleasure. A smile, Jeff had called it.

She said at length, “Why have your people invaded my world and this one?”

The soldier blinked, then said, “Because... our leader said it was our destiny. We were sent here to bring liberation to D’rayni. The people here... they live under...” – he searched for the word – “harsh conditions. They are impoverished, often starving. Under the rule of our leader, they would live better lives.”

She inclined her head, and said softly, “Is that why the D’rayni attacked you?” and she gestured at his injured comrades.

He stared up at her. “They were mistaken. They were acting on orders from leaders who did not know the truth – that we came to liberate them. Their leaders... they want only to retain power.”

She considered his words, and wondered how much the soldier knew about the truth of his situation. “And why did your people invade my world?”

“We did not invade Phandra,” he said, “we merely crossed it in order to reach D’rayni.”

“You killed many of my people, innocent villagers, men, women and children. I saw the carnage with my own eyes.”

“Then... we must have met opposition, and fought to save ourselves.”

She felt despair open like a pit within her. “We did not oppose your invasion,” she said. “We did not fight you. We are a peaceable people.” She paused, then said, “Some of your soldiers were looking for an alien from another world, and in order to find him you threatened my people, and killed them.”

“I know nothing of this. I only know what our leader told us, that we are here to help the people of D’rayni, and that in time we will rule the world and make it as successful as our own.”

Calla murmured, more to herself than to the deluded soldier, “I pity you.”

An hour elapsed, and then the door opened once again and three Sporelli strode into the prison. They spoke briefly to the guard, who led them across to the injured troops. Calla watched as the trio examined the injured men with unfamiliar instruments and strange devices, and she wondered if these people were Sporelli medics; Healers, in their own way.

They spoke among themselves, then looked at the Phandran Healers.

At her side, the soldier murmured to Calla, “They are... surprised at the level of your... success.”

Calla inclined her head. “We treat everyone with the same degree of care, even people who have invaded our land, and killed innocent men, women and children.”

One of the Sporelli medics barked an order, and the guards lifted the stretchers and carried the injured soldiers from the building. Calla’s charge smiled at her and lifted a hand briefly in farewell, and she inclined her head and watched as they carried him away.

The door was locked behind them, and the lone guard stood by the door, clutching his rifle and watching the Phandrans with what might have been new respect.

Calla returned to ministering to the needs of the sick among her own people.

F
OURTEEN
/// C
ONFRONTATION

1

E
LLIS STOOD BEFORE
the picture window of his A-frame and stared out at the waters of the Great Western Lake. He had a beer in his hand, the house behind him was silent and empty, and he found it hard to believe that just two days ago he’d been fleeing the Sporelli on Phandra.

He drained his beer and moved through the house. Despite its familiarity, it felt like a stage-set, his possessions taking on an unreal quality in light of recent experiences.

On the coffee table in the lounge he came across a holo-cube of Maria and himself, taken on holiday shortly after they’d met: it showed a younger version of himself, and a beautiful, raven-haired woman in her early twenties. He touched the surface, and the younger version of himself laughed at something Maria had said, back then, and smiled out at Ellis. Maria had pulled him to her and planted a big wet kiss on his lips, telling him how much she loved him. He touched the cube again, stopping it. The image froze, showing them locked in intimacy. Sickened, he touched it again, allowing it to play on, and only when the scene panned away from them and across the sea did he freeze the image. He had placed the holo-cube in a drawer, out of sight, more than once over the past year, but Maria had always retrieved it – as if, he thought, taunting him with this reminder of how things once were. Now he left it where it was on the coffee table, no longer playing the game by allowing her to see how much the images hurt.