Adventure stories; Prophecies -- Fiction; Science fiction; War stories
"You!" I said, and gazed at her. That lost former life was creeping
back, like a dream becoming plain and fusing into reality.
"You, Doriza! I--remember you--"
"You should," she murmured, pink-cheeked. "We used to say kind things
to each other. With the Newcomers--remember?"
"You were one of us--a year ago! A technician in the synthetics
department! But you vanished--and now you're here! Why?"
"I--I--oh, don't ask me that!"
I clutched her elbow, so fiercely that she whimpered. "Did you turn
traitor? Answer me, Doriza!"
"You hurt me--don't--Barak, before you call me a traitor, answer this.
Are you wholly for destruction of this people of Dondromogon? Haven't
you changed?"
"Why--why--" And I paused. "I want to crush the Council, but the
people--"
"Barak, I want to help them, too! The people--and you, Barak!" She
looked at me beseechingly. "Can't you trust me?"
My heart flopped over and over, like a falling leaf, but I could not
steel myself against her. "You were sweet once, Doriza, though you went
away from me." As if by long practice, my arm encircled her.
"Believe me, I'm not a traitor," she whispered against my shoulder. "I
want to save you--and others--and myself--"
I shook my head. "They want to kill you. They shan't. Let's defend
ourselves."
For answer, she pointed to the door. A quiet humming sounded. I saw
that a panel bulged and vibrated.
"Disintegrator," she whispered in my ear.
I thrust her into a corner and moved close to the door-jamb. A moment
later the rayed panel fell away in flakes, and a man stepped through,
the officer who had tried to arrest Doriza.
I clutched the wrist of the hand that held his disintegrator pistol,
and almost tore his head off with an uppercut. He went down, and
Doriza caught up his weapon as it fell. There was a spatter of sparks
as someone fired through the hole with electro-automatic pellets, but
already Doriza was using the ray to knock a lock from a door beyond.
"One side," I heard Gederr growl from the corridor. "I have a
disintegrator, too. I'll open a hole too big for him to defend!"
But we had hurried through the door Doriza opened. Beyond was a
vehicle, the same that had carried us earlier in the day. "In," she
said, took the controls.
We rumbled away, not daring to speed and thus attract too much
attention. Doriza drove us toward the point where conflict was being
centered, and at a deserted stretch of the tunnelway braked us to a
halt.
"We must know what they're doing about us," she said, and began to tune
the televiso apparatus.
Figures leaped into view on the screen. I stared. Members of the
Council--I recognized them--were marshalled against a wall, as if for a
firing squad. And a firing squad faced them. Someone lifted a hand as
a signal. The line of soldiers lifted their electro-automatics. I saw
the play of sparks, heard the whip and thud of pellets. A form fell,
another, another.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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