every one of them was downed in a matter of seconds. Some of the stray shots even hit the control panels. I thought, well at least that will be less work for later on.
I briskly walked over to the downed technician who was trying to crawl away from me as quickly as his condition would allow. He was begging for mercy. I gave him the same mercy that Adema and Kronos had been given, which was absolutely none. I fired one solitary shot into his back after which his head slammed hard onto the floor with a thud. If truth be told, I actually enjoyed it, feeling that at last I was able to effectively hit back instead of just being a passive spectator as I had been up until that moment. All was now quiet as I surveyed the control room and found my bearings. It was identical to the mock-up back on Sontral, the only difference being the real thing behind the main control panel was a see through Perspex screen. Behind it, stretching as far as the eye could see, were rows upon rows of power generators. Red and blue in colour, they were apparently powered by an underground river system, a perpetual source of hydroelectric power at the Kaytons’ fingertips.
I made my way over to one of the main supporting pillars, placing my rifle against it and then took my rucksack off and opened it. I noticed then that I was sweating like a pig and my hands were shaking like tree branches in the autumn wind. I shook my head to get myself under control. Then, as I had been trained to do with the rucksack, I ran over to the control panels, methodically placing the four charges in the correct positions at the power relay points, working my way from left to right as I did so. Then I scurried back behind the supporting pillar, adopting a secure position. I took out the detonator and then discarded the rucksack. “Right,” I said as I pressed down the arm button. The plunger then appeared and I pressed it firmly in. “This is it,” I said as I released it just as quickly, after which there was an almighty explosion as the shape charges punched their way remorselessly through the power relay systems. The noise was deafening but even before the dust and smoke had settled, I dropped the detonator. Then I grabbed my rifle and stepped out from behind the supporting pillar and methodically began to spray the control panels, working my way as before, from left to right. Sparks were flying as well as mini-explosions taking place.
“Come on, come on,” I kept saying to myself as this part of my assignment came to its inevitable conclusion. Then at that precise moment I saw movement from the corner of my left eye. It was the first of the Drones appearing. They had finally caught up with me. I quickly turned to my left, depressing the trigger mechanism of my rifle to its maximum for the most rapid rate of fire so as to give me the initial tactical advantage. But these weren’t unarmed middle-aged technicians; they were all members of the elite first strike division. With it being a relatively narrow entrance I was downing a good number of them. I was stepping back slowly at the same time to put as much distance as possible between me and them. But time and space was running out.
“Oh, frig this,” I said to myself and then I shouted, “Why aren’t they rebelling?” as my back was now very close to the main control panels. Then one of those crafty Drones dived to the floor as he entered the room. He took aim at me and fired one shot that hit me in my upper right arm. I yelled out in pain, my rifle flying out of my arms and ending up on the floor many yards away. As for me, I was lying on the floor with my back propped up against one of the main control panels. It had only grazed me, but it felt like someone had placed a red hot poker on my arm. I knew then what my Aunty Lucy had felt like. My mother had told me that during the war, Lucy used to date the American soldiers but she was coming home far too late for her father’s liking. He used to wait behind the front door for her with a red hot poker and then when she arrived home, he was ready for her. He chased her up the stairs, telling her that he would teach her to stay out late with American service men.
As for me, I was no sooner sitting helpless on the floor than who should come flying out of the shadows into the main control area, but Drakos. At that moment everything seemed surreal and went into slow motion again as had happened before in the main reception area with Adema. The only explanation I can offer for this experience is that I think when you are directly threatened, the brain automatically switches to this mode.
As Drakos ran towards me he said, “Blade out.” His right fist was clenched as a laser-like blade extended from what looked like a watch but was worn reversed so that the round mechanism was on his pulse on his wrist. The laser blade itself was exactly the same length and width as a knitting needle as it extended menacingly from his cuff. Events for me now started to move at normal speed again as Drakos raced towards me, yelling as he did so.
He was just about to lunge his blade into my face when a loud voice shouted, “Halt! Stand back immediately. Drakos, stand down, that’s a direct order.”
The voice came from a member of the Supreme Council who was a few yards away from us, hovering about six feet above the ground on his anti-gravity disc.
Drakos came to a halt with his blade only a few inches away from my right eye. I briefly stared directly at him and then I spat in his face.
“That,” I said, “is from Kronos, you traitor to your own kind.”
“I will have you soon enough, Guardian,” he replied. “You can mark my words on that.” He smiled and waved the blade in front of my face and then wiped his face clean as he walked back a few yards before coming to a stop in front of the Drone that had shot me. He was flanked on either side by his two Lieutenants, still with his laser blade extended, ready to finish what he had started as soon as the appropriate order was given by his masters.
All the time this was playing out, hordes of Drones and Kaytons were pouring in to form a semi-circle around me, pointing their weapons in my direction as they did so.
In the S.I.S command centre, everyone was still anxiously waiting for that all-important verification message from Raygel, but to no avail. There was just a stony silence. They say no news is good news… well, not so in this case as some people began to lose hope, the Foreign Secretary remarking to the Prime Minister, “It’s been too long; we should have heard something by now.”
“You don’t know that,” the Prime Minister replied. “You’ve got to give them more time.”
After that exchange, everyone was looking even more anxious than before. The Chief of General Staff, General Siliax, kept saying to himself, “Come on, come on.”
Horace who was on the lower level could be heard, at least by some, whispering the Lord’s Prayer. Freema could only wait helplessly, hoping all the time for the best.
On the upper left hand balcony, Chris grabbed hold of Alana’s hand tightly and smiled as she returned the compliment. Professor Zinnerman, who had noticed, smiled in approval. At least there was one happy story unfolding amid all this turmoil.
Oh, and there standing on his own on the lower level, was the Hellertron Ambassador in his pyjamas and dressing robe. I suppose he was now just a mirror image of how far the Hellertron Empire had sunk, fighting this debilitating war. With very little dignity left, broke and militarily bankrupt, you wouldn’t think that at one time the Hellertrons were regarded as the natural successors to the Kultarn legacy, being the leaders in new technological advances and enriching the galaxy with their art and culture. Now it was all too reminiscent of Oliver Twist, but in this version it was the Hellertrons holding out the begging bowl to the Solarans, asking for aid in ever-increasing amounts to keep them afloat. Oh dear, what a once mighty empire had been reduced to. Although he was still upbeat, he was thinking about the Hellertrons’ equivalent of Operation Marita which had been formulated in conjunction with the Solarans some time ago in the event they could successfully jam the signal that was being transmitted to the Drones. Like the Solarans, they had given it a Kultarn name. Their version was called Operation Verenfunken, which was the Kultarn word for vengeance and that was exactly what he hoped his people would be exacting on the Kaytons before very long. The Kaytons had conquered over half of the Hellertron Empire, pill
aging, looting and enslaving them as they went. Now the ambassador thought it would soon be our turn to give the Kaytons some payback as he stood there waiting intently for that all-important news to come through.
Commander Vadoran was just standing passively, hands behind his back, showing no outward sign of emotion. He just stared straight ahead at the viewing screens.
The Foreign Secretary said to the Chancellor, “Oh, look at Commander Vadoran; his icy cold exterior gives nothing away.”
The Chancellor nodded in agreement.
Twenty-three
Back on Tyros, the beacon on top of the Citadel was still turning just as fast as before, continuing to spin its web of evil and subjugation throughout the Galaxy. As for me, I was just sitting there, completely helpless and in utter disbelief as to what had just transpired. Dejected and defeated as well as thoroughly exhausted, I bowed my head in utter disappointment, saying to myself, “It hasn’t worked not; enough damage has been done. All the sacrifice has been for absolutely nothing.”
Then I heard that familiar humming sound again. It was another member of the Supreme Council appearing on the scene. I