Starhawk (31 page)

Most of those in attendance were men; that's just how these guys were. Literally thousands of different battle suits and uniforms were in evidence, a perfect if badly stained mosaic of the disparate groups that had banded together to overthrow the First Empire. Chaos and violence had reigned inside the arena since midnight, and in the streets outside as well. Hundreds murdered certainly: shot, stabbed, poisoned, suffocated. Old disputes settled, new ones begun. Thousands more were wounded or maimed. The noon hour was approaching, and in this era before absolute atmospheric engineering had been discovered, it was a brutally hot day.

At the stroke of noon, a large orange air car appeared over the stadium. The crowd quieted down some, but in no way did it lapse into silence. The arrival of the air car was just a minor distraction to the roughhousing going on in the stands. Even when the air car descended to the small landing platform set up at midarena, and its doors opened, the crowd took only a passing notice. Only when the Emperor himself stepped out of the vehicle did the crowd finally fall silent.

This was Brother Michael in the flesh. The new
caesar
of the Galaxy. The crowd let out a thunderous cheer at first sight of him. He was short, stocky, muscular, a red face with an even redder nose. He was surrounded, as always, by a small army of personal bodyguards. Some bald, some hairy, many missing eyes, ears, fingers, toes, they were all thugs and very dangerous. These men were taken to wearing tight uniforms made of black faux leather, draped with thin chains between front and rear pockets, and always with a short, five-inch dagger hanging in a sheath held on the right side of their belts. Many also carried razor blades on the tips of their jackboots.

Those in attendance maintained the drunken ovation for five minutes. They knew it was wise to give Brother Michael and his gang their props. The stands were thick with Michael's hated undercover security teams, on hand with only one mission: to identify anyone who might not be showing the requisite amount of respect toward the new regime. These security men were well-known for meting out their own kind of instant justice, on the spot, for anyone displaying even a sniff of disloyalty toward the new boss. The means of execution was not by electric pistol or crude blaster but by stabbing the victim with knives, usually more than once, always from behind. The victims rarely had a chance to fight back.

With this a fact of life here on Earth as well as every planet in the Galaxy, for Michael's reach now touched every swirl, every arm and inward to the Ball, cheering long and loud served as a way of prolonging one's own life in this dangerous gathering, a song of self-preservation.

When the cheering finally calmed down, though, it petered out in a strangely cautious way. The new Emperor was heard to belch and then seen to spit. He was as intoxicated as those around him. Staggering up the steps as opposed to ascending them, it took him some effort to reach the throne erected nearby. Once there, he fell into the seat in a very nonimperial manner. No sooner was he down when he stood again and performed a mock bow to the crowd. The place erupted again in a chorus of grunts and laughter.

A trio of frightened, scantily clad girls was brought out. Each was bearing a golden tray with a full cup of wine on it. At the first appearance of the girls, many of the cronies of Brother Michael quietly slipped their daggers from their sheathes. A whiff of misogyny mixed with lust wafted through the imperial reviewing stand.

The first girl was pushed toward Michael, shaking and alone. Anything could happen at this point, and she knew it. The Emperor, however, only saw yet another cup of wine coming his way. He grabbed it and downed it in one noisy gulp, perhaps forgetting that drinking this cup was the signal to begin the first of two big events that were to take place this day.

There was a large form standing, covered, in the middle of the arena's oval racetrack, right across from the reviewing stand. Seeing Michael drain this first cup of wine, those people out on the infield took their cue and lifted the covering from this form. Beneath was a block of burned glass, a material that had absolute clarity with a strength approaching that of ion steel. It had been built right into the body of a small ion-ballast rocket. Locked inside the chunk of burned glass was a man. He was still alive, even though there was no air inside the
glassica
, nothing that could support any life at all. That didn't make any difference. The man inside had always claimed to be immortal, though he'd been known to tell a tall tale or two in his long lifetime.

It was Jimmy, former Emperor of the former First Empire, the man who first settled the Galaxy and then lost it. The deposed brother of the new man in charge.

Brother Michael burst out in laughter at first seeing his brother's plight, so much so, he involuntarily spat out half of his mouthful of wine. The bawdy crowd erupted again.

Those immediately surrounding Michael began a spontaneous mantra of "
Maccus! Maccus
!" The crowd took up the chant in lockstep, and soon the multitude was screaming as one. Jimmy the
maccus
. The fool. The clown.

The second girl bearing a golden tray was pushed forward, the first girl having been swallowed up by the nearby crowd. This second tray held a cup of wine plus a remote control device with a huge orange button on top. Did Michael pause a moment to stare soberly at his brother, who was staring right back at him from his tomb of burned glass? Did their eyes meet? One set bloodshot, the other wet with the tears of betrayal? That's how some romantics would later characterize the scene.

But it did not happen. Michael simply downed the cup of wine and in the same motion punched the orange button. The ion engine of the small rocket was lit, and the craft blasted off, gaining more speed with every foot it climbed. It was very quickly a mile above the stadium; then a second later, it was in orbit; ten seconds later, it had passed the orbit of Venus; ten seconds after that, it plunged into the sun. The death rocket had been equipped with a special ion reflector, which allowed its trajectory to be followed by the naked eye until the very end. Everyone in the stadium, indeed just about everyone on the day side of Earth who was able to shield their eyes properly watched as Jimmy was hurled into the sun, where his glass coffin would eventually break down, but only slowly, guaranteeing him several normal lifetimes of excruciating pain until his body itself was reached and consumed. The telltale red spark splashing into the sun told of the deed done.

The Emperor fell back into his seat again, waving goodbye and locked in the throes of laughter once again. He summoned the third girl bearing a tray. The small army of hangers-on drew even closer around her. Still victim to hysterics, Michael downed his third cup of wine, then waved his hand to a gaggle of nearby flunkies.

This message was clear: The second half of the festivities should commence. "Let the race begin!" Michael bellowed.

Thirteen air cars appeared on the oval track a few moments later. They'd emerged from a door located just below the imperial throne. Though the crowd had gone back to its brand of mass pandemonium, there was a huge, bawdy ovation when the vehicles were first spotted. Each air car was painted in garish colors and festooned with caricatures of broken skulls, perforated hearts, slashed and degraded women. These were known to be the favorite images of the new Emperor.

The air cars were all of the same design, long thin tubes, stiletto in style, riding an invisible cushion of compressed atoms. Each had a thin, burned-glass cockpit and a slightly rotund aft section where the very primitive small-power ion engine was held. Just the barest hint of two wings were visible about halfway down the twenty-foot fuselages. Each car was also sporting a huge ray gun beneath its very pointed nose.

The vehicles were noisy and smoky, and each driver seemed intent on being louder than the next. More than a few times, two vehicles would intentionally bump each other, causing even more engine noise and an increased ruckus from the crowd. The poisonous exhaust of ionic-dispersal waste filled the already smoky air.

Though hopelessly disorganized on first appearance, the thirteen air cars eventually lined up at a starting point of sorts set before the imperial seat. Another scantily clad female, one of the very few left alive in the arena, was pushed forward before the throne, holding another tray with another a golden cup. With little flair, Michael gulped from the cup, then simply turned it over. A red liquid that might have been blood poured out and splattered the steps before the throne. Another roar from the crowd. A gigantic door opened at the far end of the stadium. Exactly 666 people stumbled out into the brutal heat and intense sunshine. They were men, women, children. All ages, all races. A horn sounded from somewhere in the arena. At this, the people on the track were told to run. The air cars revved their engines on cue. Michael turned the cup upright again. The air cars took off.

The race was on. The air cars whooshed down the track, their nose guns blazing. Many of those unfortunates out in the open were cut down immediately; those who were able to move quickly did so, but in terror, for their lives were surely about to end. Go as fast as you can; while killing as many human targets as you can; that was the aim of the race.

Only the strongest were left alive after the first few seconds of this bloody competition. Anyone hit but not killed was usually dispatched by one or more air cars lowering themselves to barely ground level and incinerating the wounded by the flames of their rocket exhaust. Points were given for this, too.

Those survivors naturally ran in the direction away from the advancing air cars. Farther down the track, at the last turn, large blue barriers made of a cardboardlike substance had been set up. Those human targets still alive were now faced with trying to break through these barriers, weakening further with each one. The air cars were on them quickly though, firing their ray guns at the last few souls and then crashing through the blue screens themselves.

Now it was a mad dash for the finish line; the human targets were simply the obstacles. There was much crashing and sideswiping, but finally, at a time of just thirty-nine seconds, a sinister-looking all-black air car staggered over the finish line. Its nose was both bloody and smoking, its frame dented and charred. Its driver alone had killed more than 250 of the unfortunates sent out on the track. A huge cheer went up as it broke through the last blue barrier and came to a split-second stop before the imperial reviewing stand.

The crowd erupted again as the rest of the air cars crossed the finish line. The winner was taken from his car and brought before the Emperor. He was handed a box full of money and the girl who had carried the cup of blood to Michael to begin the race.

The Emperor bestowed a sloppy, slurred benediction on the winner and then went back to drinking himself stupid. The crowd roared again. Bedlam returned. The other air cars sulked off the track. The first ever Earth Race was over.

The gruesome festivities would continue every day for the next month.

The goal was to use up the 100,000 people that had been rounded up around the Earth to provide human prey for the racers. Selected capriciously, with no consideration to age or gender, these random souls died for no more than the new Emperor's perverse entertainment. And anyone who tried to rescue these unlucky people, anyone who tried to hide them, or tried to save their lives after learning of their selection, paid with their own.

Thus was life under Brother Michael.

Now that the very first race was over, all that remained was the task of clearing the 666 dead bodies from the track. This job was left to the dozen sanitizing squads that had spent the whole time in holding pens at each end of the arena, sweating beneath the broiling sun.

Another horn went off. The doors to these holding pens opened, the cleanup squads waiting for the final word to go to work.

There were forty-three persons per squad. Standing at the rear of holding pen number two, equipped with large metal hooks that would be used to pick up the dead, were Hunter and Joxx, living the most horrific part of the mind ring compendium so far. They had witnessed the whole gory spectacle, Hunter for the thirty-seventh time, still wincing at the sickest parts, Joxx in stunned silence, not quite believing what his eyes were seeing. Not quite believing the gruesome, cruel display was real. He was getting his education at light speed now.

A whistle was blown, a gun was fired. The signal for the cleaners to get to work.

"Is it always our fate to pick up and dispose of the dead?" Joxx asked Hunter wearily.

Our hero didn't reply.

He simply nudged Joxx forward, and they trotted out onto the track and went about their grisly jobs.

Flash!

It was dark inside the catacomb.

Cold, too, even though it was still very hot up on the surface, ninety-five feet above.

It was five years later. Hunter and Joxx were now dressed in threadbare combat suits. They were two of several bodyguards protecting the thirty-six men sitting around a crude table in the middle of the dank, underground compartment. This place was located in the most isolated ring of tunnels cored out for drainage beneath the massive sports arena. The men at the table were all dressed in rags. They wore scraggly beards, and their hair was matted and unwashed. They looked like just three dozen of the billions of indigent beggars who had sprung up on the streets of Earth and throughout the Galaxy, one more consequence of the brutal regime of the still-new Second Empire.

Appearances were deceiving though; these men were not beggars. They were all high officers of the old Earth Forces, the huge army that had once provided on-planet security for Emperor Jimmy. These men had once worn silver braids on their shoulders, their tunics weighed down with dozens of space medals. They had commanded thousands of spaceships and millions of men. They had maintained peace and stability on Earth, proudly protecting the crown jewel of the First Galactic Empire. But all that had been swept away once darkly enlightened Brother Michael arrived on the scene.