Eighth Circle

Tom had it all worked out. There were six death trolls and like the famous nursery rhyme character they were in for a great fall. The intricate system of iron walkways, leading to the computer room, was vulnerable to sabotage. A single steel cable supported the lot. One carefully aimed blast from his ray gun would bring it tumbling down.

He steadied himself and counted the troll feet coming towards him. There were six pairs, converging from two different directions, and they were having difficulty staying on track. The spiral staircases seemed to disorientate them. They would emerge at one level and go off in the wrong direction, just as he had done earlier.

That was amusing. Death trolls were the living embodiments of brains in jars. The three-hundred-year-old guardians, who occupied their bodies, were meant to have superhuman intellects. Yet, after a few twists and turns, the superhuman sods didn't know which way they were going.

Tom's fingers tightened on his ray gun and he directed a high-energy beam at the cable, taking care not to deliver too much power. The beam cut through and the walkways peeled away from the walls of the laboratory with little damage to surrounding structures.

It was a master stroke and he watched, with satisfaction, as one death troll after another slipped from the collapsing structure and fell into the dolphin pool. The big brutes floundered in the water. They had looked so confident moments earlier. Now they were out of their element.

The dolphins were puny in comparison. They didn't have ray guns or knives. But they knew how to drown an opponent that couldn't swim. It was an example of how blind arrogance could lead to disaster. Tom felt vindicated. There had been occasions when he feared that the guardians were getting the better of him. Now, he knew that his original opinion of them was correct.

The sods were so up themselves they couldn't understand how vulnerable they were. Tom savoured the moment. He had brought down the walkways with the finesse of a surgeon performing a delicate operation. His bit was left standing and he could feel justifiably proud.

A voice caused him to freeze.

'Your time is up, Professor.'

The surgeon's refined tones sounded in his ears.

'You don't know where I am ... do you?'

The voice was all around. It came from above and below and from all sides. Tom's military training kicked in. When you are totally confused and don't know what is happening, you hang on and play for time.

'In your ignorance you despise the immortals.'

Tom hung onto the remains of the balcony rail and was thinking of something clever to say when a tremendous force ripped his gun from his hand and sent it hurtling into space.