The Distant Suns by Michael Moorcock & Philip James

Author:Michael Moorcock & Philip James [Moorcock, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Science Fiction
ISBN: 9780575074088
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2013-04-11T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

ON EARTH, SHE would have died. Even as Jerry hurled himself at Lae-Varka, he saw the man’s fingers tighten upon the butt of the weapon aimed at the girl’s head. It was all very clear and very far away, out of reach. And then his flying body hit Lae-Varka and the smaller man went sprawling.

Gravity was the answer, Jerry thought, while he scrambled to retrieve the neurogun. Two-fifths of one G, the difference between the pull of this world and Earth, the difference between life and death. A foot came swinging at his head. He dropped flat, caught the foot, twisted it and rolled. The owner crashed to the platform with a startled whoop. Two down and one to go. Lae-Varka, however, was not ready to be counted out. He came up, wild-eyed and breathing hard, as Jerry rose. The sight of the neurogun in the other’s hand did not seem to register upon his mind. He rushed in, fingers hooked like claws. The Earthman took one pace forward, pivoted to the right. There was a meaty thud. Lae-Varka fell as if hit by a hammer. Jerry’s left fist felt numb. He backed towards Lae-Pinu, bringing the gun to bear upon the audience.

“The next one to move will get this!”

The Sev-Kalan crowded to the base of the platform, surging to and fro as if checked by an invisible wall. He could almost feel their hatred beating up to him in waves. He looked sideways at the girl, at her taut, bloodless face, and realised with a sick horror that the hatred was directed as much at her as at himself. With deliberate curtness, he snapped: “You know this place — show me a way out! Hurry, girl!”

Lae-Pinu stared back at him. Her throat muscles worked convulsively but no sounds passed her lips. A small bright missile flashed out from the forest of waving arms below and rebounded from the console, missing her by inches. It was a thin-bladed knife. Jerry swallowed his pity, reached out and grabbed Lae-Pinu’s tunic, shaking her small body like a doll.

“They’re going to kill you! Run, girl! Run, damn you! I can’t stop them!”

Colour flooded back into her face.

“To the left,” she said. “The stairway over there leads to an upper gallery —”

He was moving before she could finish the sentence. As they sprinted for the stairway, a roar of fury broke from the crowd. In a multicoloured wave the Sev-Kalan swept across the platform. Four men appeared at the foot of the steps as if from nowhere. Steel blades glinted. Coldly, Jerry squeezed the neurogun. The crowd, following after, parted and flowed around four stunned, twitching figures. Jerry pounded up the stairway, half-carrying the girl.

From that point onwards, Lae-Pinu took charge. A breathless succession of corridors, ramps and dusty rooms made Jerry’s head reel. The howling of the crowd faded, muffled by the intervening stonework. Finally, in a room grimier than any they had previously crossed, Lae-Pinu halted.

“Up there,” she panted, pointing. He looked up.

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