by P. K. Lentz
Fortunately, the Senek didn’t say that when next his voice issued clearly through the pane via the alien witchery of speakers.
“I am Baron S’tanavik. Welcome to the Moon of Sorrows,” he said. His even-toothed mouth formed what Ivar presumed must be the lizard equivalent of a smile. “I’m sorry that your stay has not been more pleasant thus far. I hope that will change.”
Ivar cleared his lacerated throat. “We don’t plan on staying long, Baron.”
“Not to threaten,” the Baron answered, “but you may find that decision is not entirely up to you.”
“Are we prisoners?”
“The Pentarchy certainly wishes you make it so.”
“Will you hand us to them?”
“Honored Baron, before you speak,” Cinnea interrupted. “My brother and I are not members of this group. We’re residents of Nemoora and wish to have our case considered separately.”
“She speaks truly,” Ivar said, begrudging Cinnea not at all for wishing this truth to be known.
“For the moment, there are no cases,” the Baron said. “Only castaways in need of nourishment, which you shall shortly receive as guests at my residence.”
Four
The Dawn’s ride in the crawler’s windowless compartment was long, but not nearly so long as any single hour had seemed in the caverns. They had light and vision and heat and unbarbed air to breathe. They even had water, which they were advised only to sip.
This breed of boredom was sheer ecstasy compared to the last. They didn’t speak much, merely enjoying what seemed like a pleasant dream, even if they sensed, as Ivar did, that they must soon wake to some harsh reality. It was a fool’s dream to think they had simply been saved, with no price to be paid and no reversal yet to come.
Travel in the Baron’s crawler was smooth considering the roughness of the terrain just a few feet below the floor. Occasionally the compartment’s floor gently tilted to left or right before leveling itself soon after. Other than that, they might have been traveling over a paved road. Some of the Scythians surely felt different, but Ivar didn’t miss horses any. This was the way to travel overland, not thumping up and down on a bruised backside.
Eventually the feeling of forward motion stopped, and the rumbling of the vehicle decreased in volume. Then were other rumbles from outside the walls, and a different, subtler sense of motion.
A minute later, the Senekeen guards stood and opened the compartment’s rear hatch to reveal not the moon’s surface but a well-lit interior space comprised of a smooth floor and walls. It resembled one of the hangars on the Sagaris, although it looked to be constructed of stone or stone-like materials.
The dismounted guards took up positions flanking the exit, and the Baron’s guests filed out of the compartment. The Baron, distinguishable by the finery he wore rather than any subtle variance in his reptilian facial features, came round to the crawler’s rear from some other exit. An entourage of armed Senekeen accompanied him, and so did Andromache. Her hand with the black fingers was neatly wrapped in purple dressings.
Leimya approached the Hellene and embraced her.
“You are right to show this one gratitude,” Baron S’tanovik said.
“If I may, Honored Baron,” Cinnea asked, “how did you manage to communicate with this woman?”
“An agent of mine on Nemoora used a sample of her speech to identify it as one in limited use among the Gorosians there. He then transmitted the data needed, and our devices were enabled to translate. But enough talk for now. We must see to your medical and other needs. When that is done, I look forward to learning more of your ordeal.”
The Dawn was well-tended to. In a different room of the Baron’s smooth-walled, underground dwelling, Senekeen physicians examined each human. Those whose extremities had started dying of cold were given treatment. Others who were weak were laid on couches and connected to machines. Some Dawners were reluctant to entrust their bodies to the lizards but some gentle persuasion by Ivar and Tomiris won them over. Most didn’t know Nexus and so had to rely on those few who did to translate the aliens’ instructions. No doubt this barrier made it even harder for those individuals to trust the Senekeen.
Ivar hoped he wasn’t wrong in encouraging them to.
The entire party was provided with new clothing in the form of a stack of identical, loose-fitting shirts and trousers made of soft, light fabric. They were black with white trim, and the shirt was worn like a jacket which fastened at the front.
In Ivar’s mind, it was what a prince might wear, or what Leimya might have been used to in her palace. When he put the observation to her teasingly, she didn’t disagree.
The clothes were made for Senekeen, clearly. Their long sleeves required rolling up on humans, but they fit comfortably, even if they weren’t practical for much else than lounging about in a palace—or bunker, as Cernach named this place. S’tanivik’s attendants called it the Barony.
Ivar made sure those attendants who carted away the Dawn’s old clothing understood that they wanted it all back—along with their weapons.
Other than some casual chatter, the rescued Dawners didn’t speak much. Silence, for some, was an effect of exhaustion. For others, judging by their blank stares, it came from homesickness, even a loss of hope.
Ivar stayed quiet largely because they had no privacy. He had plenty to say, just not in front of their hosts. They had Scythian as a secret language—Andromache confirmed the Senekeen didn’t know it, only Greek—but Scythian was of no help in communicating with the ones Ivar most wished to consult, the Eraínn.
What he could do in Scythian was question Andromache about what she had learned about the Baron and this place, and so he did at first opportunity.
“At first I only told them I was hurt and needed help,” she recounted. “In Greek and Scythian. Nothing more. When we reached this place, they used a device that let them speak to me in Greek. An unfamiliar dialect, but I understood it, mostly. They asked where you were. I said nothing. I wanted to test whether they would threaten or... hurt me.
“But they didn’t. They treated my fingers and gave me food and water. They kept asking about you. I stayed silent as long as I dared, then I told them you’d rather die than be prisoners of the Jir. The Baron told me he hated the Jir and wouldn’t cooperate with them, if he had the choice.”
“If he had the choice?” Ivar echoed worriedly.
“It seemed honest of him to admit that,” Andromache said. “More than if he’d made promises. It was a chance at least. Better than certain death.”
“You chose right,” Ivar agreed, then scoffed. “I suppose I’ll be forced to forgive your brother now. Just swear you’ll never let him make decisions for you again. Yours are better.”
Andromache smiled and made the pledge.
More than once while the Dawn was being thawed and treated, Ivar requested audience with the Baron. Each time, he was told to wait, either curtly or politely depending on which lizard he asked. Finally, an attendant entered and informed the guests that they were invited to dine with Baron S’tanovik.
Under escort, the guests were led through the smooth, square hallways of the Barony to a chamber almost as vast as the hangar but rather less utilitarian in appearance. Curtains, plaques, murals, and various other displays left hardly a patch of bare wall visible. Occupying a central place of honor on the far wall was a giant, brightly colored version of the circular snake-and-lightning crest painted in green on the vehicle. Elsewhere stood a collection of what might have been realistic sculptures or stuffed and mounted alien wildlife.
The place was decorated to alien tastes, that much was sure, but what Ivar recognized instantly were the low tables spread with laden platters of foodstuffs and surrounded by bench-like cushions. Granted, the foods were not ones identifiable to the Earth-born, but presumably it was edible, since humans had been invited.
The dishes available to them on Nemoora had varied from vile to delectable, as food anywhere would, bu
t the Dawn had stuck mostly to dining in the Gorosian ward, where meals generally were not sold or prepared by lizards.
But after days of starvation, taste and appearance were hardly any obstacle. This was food, and the Dawn would eat anything it could swallow. Now that they could see and smell it, it was beyond Ivar’s authority to hold the war band back. Arixa might have managed. She probably would have. But not her Norther surrogate.
On entering the room, all but a few of the Scythians charged past the escorts and up to the table, skidding onto or into the flanking cushions, where they commenced grabbing handfuls of unidentifiable items covered in unidentifiable sauces. Some hesitated, others did not, but within a few seconds there was no man or woman left who had failed to cram something into his mouth. Some choked, others did not, but none stopped trying.
The Dawners who had hesitated, seeing that the guards made no move to stop their comrades, hurried to join in. Of the Dawn, only Ivar and three women—Tomiris, Leimya and Andromache— remained standing by the entrance. Ivar and Tomiris held back out of familiarity with a concept called diplomacy, while Andromache had already been fed, and Leimya had grown up in a palace and had manners.
Unsurprisingly, the two Eraínn also knew diplomacy or manners, for they likewise refrained from joining the frenzy.
“Let me do the talking,” Cinnea whispered.
Ivar replied, after giving it a moment’s thought, “No.”
A curtain on one wall was pushed aside, and three new Senekeen entered. One was the Baron, dressed in subtly different finery than before. He beheld his guests’ gorging and stopped short.
“Apologies, Baron,” Ivar said hastily.
“Needless!” he said. “I’m pleased. My chefs researched and did their best to accommodate the Gorosian palate. I see they met some success. Please, join your fellows.”
Ivar and the remaining holdouts needed no more encouragement than this to approach the table.
“However,” the Baron said loudly as they found places, “I caution you against partaking too much too quickly. The effects could be unpleasant.”
Ivar acknowledged the warning even while grasping the futility of trying to enforce it on the Dawn.
Sampling the dishes, he found most to be too sour by half. Most didn’t smell quite right either. Quickly he noticed that the least offensive items were also the ones vanishing most quickly from the platters. He grabbed the last handful of some dripping, orange strips and set them in front of Leimya, who to her credit seemed none too intimidated by the savages at either elbow.
When Baron S’tanovik took a cushion away from the table, Ivar realized that some Scythians had usurped his seat of honor at the table. He yelled at the men there to move until the Baron interrupted, telling him not to bother.
“I eat well enough,” he said, and contented himself to watch.
Mindful of the Baron’s warning not to fill their bellies too quickly, as well as of the very real danger of the Jir yet hanging over them, Ivar stopped eating and addressed their host.
“The Dawn thanks you immensely, Honored Baron,” he said, adopting Cinnea’s term for him. “I hope you won’t thi—”
“Baron, if I may ask,” Cinnea interrupted, earning a glare from Ivar, “do you know why the Jir forces called off their search?”
“You would have to ask them.”
“What is their current presence in the system?”
“Minimal. There was a destroyer, which must remain in the system considering we’ve spotted a lander or two.”
“No more ships Shifted in?”
“There has been some traffic,” the Baron said, “but nothing stayed for long. To my imperfect knowledge, anyway.”
“Forgive my bluntness,” Cinnea said, “but has the Pentarchy contracted you to capture us?”
“I appreciate bluntness,” the Baron said with a lizard smile, “until someone calls me a liar.”
Ivar put on a lizard smile of his own. Let her do the talking, indeed.
“To answer you, no. I act fully on my own behalf,” the Baron declared. “As I ever have and will.”
Ivar found himself inclined to believe this Baron S’tan. He liked him, for an alien. But he accepted that his judgment might be off. It was known to happen. Bowyn came to mind.
“I’m sorry, Honored Baron,” Cinnea said bowing her head. “Please forget I asked.”
She took another mouthful of food, making it appear for the Baron’s sake that the matter was closed. But the conspiratorial look she gave Ivar immediately afterward said otherwise.
“If one or more of you is ready for a break in your meal,” the Baron began, adding, “which I think is advisable for your health, perhaps I might learn more about my guests. What brought you to my lonely moon? I have learned a bit, but I would much prefer to hear it directly.”
Ivar asked Tomiris in a low voice, in Scythian, “Any reason not to be honest with him?”
Tomiris pondered and returned in like tones, “Probably best not to be caught in a lie.”
He looked next to the Eraínn for objection, and when neither gave it, he told their story.
He explained that the Captain of their war band on Earth—Goros-3—had learned of the impending devastation of cities, including the Scythian capital, by the Jir. He told how Arixa had emptied Roxinaki to save it and then laid plans with a space-born ally to raid the ship sent by the Jir.
He told how the Dawn had captured that ship, which they renamed Sagaris, and taken it to Nemoora for supplies, only to be caught there by the Pentarchy. The Sagaris had been forced to Shift away, or so he dearly hoped, leaving this group behind on Nemoora.
At great cost in lives, the twenty before him had managed to escape the Jir and reach the Moon of Sorrows to await eventual rescue.
“You are certain that this Arixa will return for you?” the Baron asked after listening to the story with evident fascination.
“No, if I’m honest,” Ivar said.
He might have answered differently had the conversation been held in Scythian, for all of the Dawn to comprehend. But only a few knew Nexus.
“If she doesn’t, I know she’ll have good reason. Either it won’t be her choice or it’ll be the right choice.”
“Or she will have decided it’s impossible,” the Baron suggested.
“No, not that. Arixa doesn’t decide against something only because it’s impossible.”
“Judging by how you got here, I see that to be true. Then what would she rate as higher priority than your rescue?”
“A rebellion,” Ivar said. “She plans to end the Pentarchy.”
“End the...?” Baron S’tan repeated incredulously, failing to finish. “With one stolen ship? And how many in your...”
“Battle bunch?” Cinnea suggested.
“—war band?” the Baron finished, recalling the proper term.
“Too few,” Ivar confessed. “Arixa plans to recruit. I gather you’re not fond of the Jir. You could join us.”
“I could,” the Baron said, “if I made decisions with my trin’sit. But I didn’t get where I am by following that.”
“You mean under a rock on this lonely moon?” Ivar asked before tempering his insolence with a compliment: “Not that your operation here fails to impress. You have a beautiful home, Baron.”
He wished more Nexus-speakers were present to witness his mastery of the art of diplomacy. When he got back to Arixa, perhaps he would appeal for an envoy position in her horde-to-be, talking to and enjoying meals with aliens instead of killing them.
After all, he had lost his ax.
“I had a much lovelier home once, on a lovelier moon,” Baron S’tan lamented. “My family controlled six Satranium refineries. Unfortunately, we also had enemies. Jealous ones who convinced the Pentarchy to act on their behalf. Now those enemies claim the refineries as their own, and I dwell here... under my rock.”
Ivar seized on the bitterness of the alien’s words. “The Jir wronged you. If you help
us, perhaps one day the Dawn can help you take back what was stolen.”
The Senek emitted a sharp squawk. “I don’t mean to laugh,” he said, “but you must get used to it if you plan on making such statements often. Take no offense. I find your ignorance eminently charming.”
“I freely admit my ignorance,” Ivar said. “Do you?”
The alien stirred on his cushion, perhaps in agitation. “In what way does my guest find me ignorant?”
“He doesn’t mean that, Honored Baron,” Tomiris inserted.
With a shrug and a bite of something stringy, Ivar permitted her rescue mission to proceed.
“He only means to point out that even if one man... or Senek... thinks himself powerless, together in great numbers, the seemingly weak can defeat a much greater enemy.”
The Baron squawked. “You speak well.”
The compliment to Tomiris made Ivar quietly bristle in jealousy.
“I do sympathize with your cause,” Baron S’tan went on. “So greatly, in fact, that I have already taken incredible risk on your behalf. Every moment I fail to report your presence is another in which I knowingly harbor fugitives from the Pentarchy.”
“That is most brave of you, Honored Baron,” Cinnea spoke up again. “We have no wish to expose you to further risk. Might we discuss next steps?”
One of the many subjects on which Ivar admitted ignorance was alien body language and speech patterns, but something about the Baron’s initial silence and expression seemed ominous.
“Now is not the time,” he demurred with a Senek smile. “Allow me to enjoy watching you enjoy my hospitality. I don’t often have guests.”
“Honored Baron,” Ivar addressed him loudly, rising from the low cushion at table’s edge.
Tomiris and Leimya followed his lead, while the Dawners who didn’t speak Nexus ceased eating and looked around in an effort to figure out what was happening. Then, one by one, they too began to stand, as did Cinnea and Cernach, until all of the dinner guests stood facing the seated Baron, whose armed attendants shifted warily to his side.