Another Turn of the Wheel

Another Turn of the Wheel

by

Tarry Ionta

Copyright 2002

1st edition paperback 2002 ISBN: 0-595-25262-1

E-book edition 2010 ISBN: 978-1-4523-4388-4

2nd edition paperback 2014 ISBN: 13: 978-1495994838

License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the owner and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

The original image used to form the cover of this book was supplied by

Terry Sunday (C) www.zianet.com/sundayt

with grateful thanks.

C h a p t e r 1

The long narrow corridor stretched ahead of him, its smooth metal floor slapping against his bare feet as he ran. He could feel the pleasantly cool contact with every stride he took. It would be a tough, dangerous match, the hardest of his career. With the odds stacked heavily against him there was every possibility he would not survive it. One way or the other it would be his last. No one got a second chance.

Hobart Fenn felt no fear, no apprehension. For too long he had looked towards this point in his life to let anything stop him, least of all his own fears and emotions. Now they were no longer terms in the equation. For the past year the contest had been uppermost in his mind. All other considerations, all other desires had been suppressed. He knew it was necessary, if he wanted to carry off the outstanding prize that was essential to the progress of his plans.

It had been a year of discipline, hard training, and self-denial. But it would pay off if he was successful. If he wasn’t… Well, he wouldn’t be around to care. One way or the other he was determined to get off the God-forsaken lump of spinning metal. Everything had been leading up to this one confrontation. The time for fear, doubt, and thoughts of defeat had long since passed.

The previous matches in his career had paid him well, but the Exchange Units he had earned had never been enough. They had allowed him, among other things, access to the forbidden section of the library. And he had been able to pay for many other privileges that few could afford. This final bout would earn him far in excess of all his previous purses put together—or send his body to the recycling dome. It was the chance he had worked so hard for; the chance he had to take. There was no other way he could acquire sufficient means to allow him to complete his project; the one thing he really cared about. It was all, or nothing.

His breathing was becoming labored, his legs aching with the constant pounding against the hard flooring. He drew his arm across his forehead, wiping the sweat that dribbled into his eyes. The moisture felt cool on his arm as it was quickly evaporated by his body heat and the cooler air circulating through the long corridor. Freedom was the real prize. It was what he longed for most; freedom from the hard struggle that had kept him at the top of his profession for the past two years, and freedom from the metal prison that was his home.

Joining the Warrior Class had been an act of necessity, of desperation even. It had conflicted with his peace loving disposition; a legacy he had received from his gentle natured mother. He had always been more interested in acquiring knowledge, than in the physical pursuits of the Astra Dome, spending a lot of his youth delving through the data disks in the library. But his father had been a Warrior, and the above average height, muscular physique, and agility, had been his legacy to the only offspring prevailing population controls had allowed him. Following his father’s footsteps was the only way he could amass the E.U.s he needed. Now the end was in sight. One final conflict and he would have all he had aimed for—or oblivion. The final door had been slammed behind him, he could not turn back.

There were still thirty minutes left of his training schedule and it had to be completed. With only two days left before the Games, he could not afford to slacken his efforts. Nothing short of being one hundred percent fit would do. He was only too well aware that his life would depend on it.

The floor sloped upwards gently, almost imperceptibly. He was in the main service corridor, looping through the center of the enormous spinning wheel that had been the home of his race for many generations. It was deserted, as it nearly always was during the night period. Only essential repair work would bring the Crawlers out during those hours. And then there would be a burst of concentrated activity, rivaling the industrious ants he had read about in the central library. He turned his mind to other data he had assimilated, consciously making an effort to shut out the pain in his legs and rasping lungs.

Luna 2 had been built over two hundred years ago. After many years of cold war and mistrust, the major Earth powers had finally agreed to put aside their differences and collaborate in the massive undertaking. Originally, it was conceived as an international, self-supporting research station. But world-wide objection to the proposed immoral expenditure had put it on hold for many years, until eventually it was redesigned to include a mineral plant for the processing of Lunar ore. It was hoped that the massive cost of such an endeavor would, in time, be defrayed by the production of these minerals. Only in this way was the funding by the participating Governments considered justifiable.

Its original specifications had been for half a million people, research scientists, mine workers, repair crews, administration staff, and the hundred and one other occupations required to feed, clothe and run a self-sustaining city. Five hundred thousand, he thought sardonically. Now it was home to three and a half million.

But the horror and sadness conveyed to him by his reading, and the knowledge of how beautiful the Earth looked on the picture disks, had remained with him vividly. It had gnawed and worried at his subconscious, until he knew that life in confinement under the tyranny of the Forcers, was no longer tolerable. There had to be some other, better was of living. The Warrior Games had afforded him the only solution of pursuing his plans.

The great square hall was filled to capacity; not an unusual sight considering that it was the only venue for live entertainment on Luna 2. With space at a premium, most sporting activities had ceased to exist, except for those confined to the Hall of Warriors. And those were strictly controlled by the Forcers.

The air of expectancy was at fever pitch as row upon row of blood thirsty faces peered down at the central arena. The main contest of the evening was one rarely seen. It was not often that a Warrior held his position at the top for a full year, and thus earned the right to compete for the richest prize in the Games. Only four times in its history had the Top Warrior survived to claim the outstanding purse, and three of those had been maimed for life.

Hobart let these thoughts sift through his mind as he took the long walk through the corridor that led to the Arena. His father had been a Top Warrior, one of the best. And he had not survived for long afterward. So what chance would his son have. He put the thought to the back of his mind. Living within the confines of the satellite with hardly any freedom to speak of, had become intolerable. Better to go out fighting as his father had done, than spend the rest of his life in an existence that was only fit for morons.

A huge roar of approval met him as he entered the spotlight aimed at the entrance to the arena. It followed him to the center, where he raised two clenched fists in customary salute to the crowd. The roar redoubled and continued for several minutes, before suddenly falling to a subdued silence as the three opponents entered. Hobart looked them over as they came towards him and took their positions beside him. The crowd’s expectant hush was spontaneously replaced by hisses and boos. It was always on the side of the underdog. And for the first time in over a year, he was the underdog.

He knew two of his opponents, Dimitrius and Skull. They were survivors of previous contests he had won, both battle-scarred and mean. The third, a short bear-like man, head shaven and body covered in dark hair, was one he would have to watch. He knew what the others could do; knew some of their strengths and weaknesses. But this was an unknown quantity, a Warrior he had never been matched against. There was no telling what his particular talents were, or what strategy he would adopt. But he expected that neither he, nor either of the other two would harbor thoughts of mercy. The two known fighters would give no consideration to the fact that he had allowed them to survive previous contests, a weakness his trainer had often warned him against. Vengeance would be uppermost in their minds. It would be to the death, of that he was never in doubt.

They stood side by side, arms raised in salute until the roars from the crowd died down to a whisper. Then, on a signal from the control box, they turned and marched to the side of the arena where an array of vicious looking weapons were displayed. Hobart chose the classical Roman short sword and dagger for which he was noted. He raised them above his head, displaying them to the waiting crowd, and was met with a roar of approval as the familiar weapons were recognized. Without looking back at his opponents he jogged across the arena to his neutral plate, his oiled body, covered only by a brief loincloth, glistening in the bright lights.

He watched the others take their places, each on a neutral plate at the other three corners of the square that formed the arena. He paid particular attention to the commentator as he introduced the combatants. The unknown Warrior was announced as Grizzly Berman and he had chosen the nunchaku, a traditional Japanese weapon developed from a wheat threshing implement. It consisted of two metal rods joined together by a short chain.

With the introductory ceremony over, the noise from the audience dropped once again to a quiet expectant whisper. Total silence descended on the crowd as the antigrav columns were turned on. Nine had been chosen for this final bout. They were visible only as a slight shimmer of distorted air, rose for two meters, held for thirty seconds, then flicked out to be replaced by another nine, emanating randomly from the floor of the arena.

The audience lights dimmed and the start indicator came on, flashing at second intervals. There were thirty minutes between life and death; eighteen hundred seconds to possible oblivion. The thought entered his head as he placed the dagger in the waistband of his loincloth, watching every move of his opponents. He moved towards the center, his short sword held lightly in front of him.

The crowd urged him on as he carefully negotiated the spaces between the columns, his mind ticking off the seconds as he tried to anticipate the next change.

Skull was the first to move, his skeleton-like features set in a grim expression of hate. He held the three pointed spear in both hands, hugging it close to his chest. The other two held their ground, obviously following a prearranged plan. They met close to the center.

Hobart moved, keeping one of the columns between them as he counted out the seconds…twenty-eight…twenty-nine. He timed it perfectly, jumping into the space occupied by a column just a fraction of a second before. Skull was taken completely by surprise, his attention split between watching his opponent and the suddenly changing columns. The short sword struck out like a viper, piercing his left shoulder.

Hobart scarcely heard the scream from the crowd as the first blood was drawn. His attention was fully occupied by the sight of the other two opponents coming at him on both sides. Skull had been the bait, and although he had been wounded, had been successful in drawing out Hobart’s strategy. He would have to be more careful how he used the ploy in future. For several minutes he dodged back and forwards, jumping in between the flickering columns.

One end of the nunchaku miraculously whizzed past his ear as he dodged away from the advancing Grizzly, only to become aware of the trident as it flew at him from the other direction. Skull had been wounded, but he was by no means out of the fight.

Hobart side-stepped quickly, but one of its prongs skewered his left side. As he fell to the floor grasping the shaft of the trident, he was aware of Dimitrius coming in at him for the kill, his mace held high above his head. He pulled the trident out, almost passing out with the pain. Quickly forcing his mind to full awareness, he withdrew the dagger with his left hand, and with his elbow pressed hard against the wound, flicked it forward with unerring accuracy. It struck Dimitrius in the throat, and the mace dropped to the floor with a clatter. He collapsed in a heap, a brief look of surprise turning to a lifeless stare.

But Hobart wasn’t out of immediate danger yet. He could see Grizzly standing a few meters away, whirling the nunchaku. There was a strange look on his face as Skull jumped in and retrieved his trident, the left arm hanging uselessly by his side. He raised it with a look that said, now, I have you. Hobart rolled aside instinctively, straight into one of the antigrav columns. He was flung five meters into the air.

His last conscious recollection was of falling towards the upraised trident, and the evil smile on Skull’s face.

C h a p t e r 2

A ripple of alarm spread through the assembly and startled voices were raised in fear. The speaker held up his hands to signal order.

‘There’s no cause for alarm. The situation is under control. Please…’ he pleaded, raising his voice as the ripple of sound increased and threatened to turn into an uncontrollable cacophony. ‘Let Chairman Durell continue.’ He took his seat as the protestations diminished to a murmur once again.

The slightly stooped figure of the Chairman paused for a moment. He wrapped his cloak closer around his emaciated body, as though to ward off the cold. Then he continued in a strong voice that belied his great age and frail appearance.

‘As the Speaker has just said, there is no cause for alarm. You all know that the satellite has been under observation