What would a Kresh space station be like? Chengal Ras called us herd beasts. That meant something important. Cyrus lay on his cot and thought it through.
First, from what he’d seen, the Kresh treated their servants horribly. Second, the inquisitor wondered who gave Earthlings illumination. Might the man mean the Kresh gave the humans here guidance? That seemed right from what he’d seen. The Kresh figured humans were beasts. You didn’t expect much from a beast, except that he or she acted like one. So they must think some other creatures ruled Earth’s humans.
From his days in Level 40, Cyrus had learned that pride often came before a fall. The alien’s arrogance might help him.
Three more successful seconds in the tele-chamber and I would be on my way home, a hero.
He hadn’t thought about that for a while. He realized that now wasn’t a good time to renew it.
The moment came when the acceleration lessened, lessened more, and then almost felt normal.
Are we almost there?
Cyrus felt mentally sluggish and he realized he’d been lax practicing his mind shield. Part of him never wanted to leave the cell because when he did leave, it would mean an ugly and brutal end. He started jeering himself, calling himself a coward and a weakling. Cowards deserved to die. If he were a man, he’d give the aliens something to remember.
He concentrated on the thought. He came up with a hundred scenarios about what he could do. That was funny in a way, because none of it happened how he expected.
He was lying on the cot, staring into space. His thoughts were empty, although his automatic mind shield was up. Maybe that’s why he was aware of a subtle difference. It was a tiny thing, but he was so bored that he noticed it in a detached manner.
The wall he was staring at disappeared because the aliens did it and he happened to notice the mental procedure.
Oh, so that’s how they do it. In that instant, he figured it out. Sure, it had to be the right kind of wall in order to do it. But now that he’d “seen” the aliens do it, he was sure he could duplicate the trick with his telekinesis.
He was so pleased with himself and his find that at first he didn’t notice the inquisitor and Vomags standing in the corridor.
“Are you unhinged from reality?” the inquisitor asked.
Cyrus blinked in surprise, sitting up. The inquisitor looked like the same individual who had questioned him days or weeks ago. He had no idea how long it had been.
“Are we at High Station 3?” Cyrus asked.
The inquisitor stiffened and snapped his long fingers. The Vomags darted into the cell and dragged Cyrus to his feet. They gripped his arms just as they had last time. Their fingers felt like iron digging into his flesh.
“Proper decorum is critical at High Station 3,” the inquisitor said. “Therefore, you will refrain from speech unless you are directly asked a question. Nod if you understand.”
Cyrus nodded.
“Proceed,” the inquisitor said, waving his long-fingered hand in a shooing motion.
The two soldiers marched down the passageway, taking Cyrus with them.
You’d better wake up and start thinking. This is it, and the aliens know it, too.
Instead of quailing at his plight—guarded by two fierce soldiers—Cyrus decided this was a good thing. It showed him escape must be possible. Otherwise, why bother with these precautions?
He began to observe, using his senses and thoughts to catalog the situation and to see what was there and what was missing. For instance, there was no background thrum. The engines must be offline. That would imply the ship had docked in some manner. Of course, that made sense if they’d reached High Station 3.
They entered the larger passageway and soon turned onto an even broader corridor, a huge passageway. Cyrus’s heart leaped in his chest. He spied Argon, Dr. Wexx, and Captain Jones, each of them guarded by two Vomags and trailed by an inquisitor. None of the inquisitors wore baans.
Wexx squinted badly as if she could hardly see. The aliens must have stolen her sunglasses. Jones’s features were slack as if he’d suffered brain damage. Argon glanced around and noticed him. Something powerful flashed in the chief monitor’s eyes. Argon nodded at Cyrus. The trailing inquisitor gave the chief monitor a verbal reprimand.
Cyrus couldn’t stop himself. “It’s good to see you.”
His Vomags tightened their grip.
“Silence, you fool,” the inquisitor whispered. “This is the docking procedure. We give thanks for another successful journey into the void and back. You sully the purity of the moment.”
“It’s good to see you, Cyrus!” Argon shouted.
The inquisitor behind the seven-foot giant pointed a clenched fist at him, pressing a switch. The chief monitor groaned, with his head arching back. The two Vomags gripping the arms held up the big man. Argon’s inquisitor relented and the chief monitor continued to march, but in subdued silence.
Cyrus seethed at the sight. He was sick of these aliens, sick of the Kresh and their arrogance. He wanted to strike back, to act. How could they have lost to these vicious bastards? It was as if he’d returned to a demented Level 40 Milan.
The Vomags marched their captives through the corridor until they reached a large hatch. When Cyrus’s turn came, the soldiers marched him out of the ship and down steps into a monstrously huge, steel hanger.
Cyrus cataloged what he saw. Looking back, he noted that their vessel was a squat and bulbous ship about five stories high. It couldn’t have been what had attacked Discovery, it was too small for that. No, this must be a massive shuttle. Yeah, look at the size of the engine ports.
He spied other bulbous shuttles. One moved on a sliding section of hanger, coming toward the others. The hanger was unbelievably massive. Lights went off into the distance farther than he could see. High Station 3 had to be the largest habitat he’d ever heard of. The number of vessels in here… he counted over three dozen.
The line of Sol captives and Vomag guards threaded toward a truck-sized entrance about half a kilometer away. There were other entrances, many vehicles, and humanoid workers.
Cyrus kept rubbernecking, looking around. Humans drove the various vehicles, hauling stuff from some massive shuttles and bringing containers to others. He didn’t spy any Kresh doing work, just people, hordes of laboring people. Everyone wore a uniform and seemed Earth-normal in form. The most divergent people were the Vomags and the inquisitors.
What had his inquisitor called himself before, a Rarified of the Third Order? As Cyrus mulled that over, a raucous horn blew. Then several other horns blared mightily in a louder version of the first.
“They actually come,” the inquisitor whispered. “Oh, this is exceptional. We are about to catch a glimpse of several Radiances together. This is glory, glory for their mighty feat of victory over you outlanders.”
The Vomags gripping Cyrus released him. He flexed his arms. The two soldiers fell onto their bellies. So did the inquisitor.
Cyrus glanced around. Everywhere in the cavernous hanger, movement and work ceased. Truck-like vehicles screeched to a halt. Drivers leaped out and fell prostrate onto the metal deck plates. Those dragging massive hoses dropped the lines and fell onto their faces. Mechanics, techs, soldiers, inquisitors, pilots, every human aimed his head toward five Kresh. The towering aliens rode a lift descending from near the top of a shuttle.
“Cast yourself down!” the inquisitor hissed at Cyrus. “Bask in their radiance and fill your soul with their brilliance. I will never forget this day. Five move together, and one of them is a Hundred. Blessed is Chengal Ras, my master, the 109th in the arts of philosophical excellence.”
Cyrus scanned the hanger. Dr. Wexx fell prostrate, so did Captain Jones. Argon hesitated. The chief monitor groaned then and sank to his knees, writhing onto his belly. Argon’s inquisitor must have applied the pain device. Cyrus wondered why he didn’t spy Roxie or Jasper.
“Are you daft?” the inquisitor asked Cyrus. “Why do you wait? Do y
ou wish to be singled out as the prize of the Docking Ceremony?”
“What happens to the prize?” Cyrus asked.
“Base and foul creature of the stars, do you not understand? The Kresh will sacrifice to the Ultimate for another safe journey into the void. One soul must pay with blood for the success of the whole. It is a matter of unity, a rare occurrence among the masters. Do you not see, a Hundred offers Chengal Ras the slaying wand?”
Cyrus glanced around. Movement everywhere had stopped. Humans near and far lay on their bellies to these alien lizards. The Kresh’s platform banged onto the deck plates. The five creatures strode off the platform and stalked toward the nearest clump of worshipful humans.
A screeching sound now reverberated through the hanger. It grew louder and abrasive, making Cyrus wince. The Vomags near him clapped their hands over their ears.
“Praise to the Ultimate,” the inquisitor whispered. Then he too clapped his hands over his ears. The mechanical screeching intensified.
Cyrus Gant of Milan watched the five Kresh approach the prone humans. He’d reached High Station 3, was out of the cell and surrounded by motionless people. Deciding this was as good a moment as any, Cyrus turned and began striding away from the Vomags and inquisitor. He started walking for a side entrance where he’d seen a number of trucks enter.
Suddenly, the screeching stopped. A horn blared. Cyrus didn’t bother looking back. Then the horn ceased.
“Human!” A Kresh spoke. “Human, abase yourself to the Ultimate.”
Cyrus finally looked back. The five Kresh watched him. One of the creatures held a slender, seven-foot wand.
“Faithless creature,” a Kresh said, “fall onto your belly!”
Cyrus raised his hand and gave the five aliens the finger. Then he turned away and began to sprint.
Another Kresh shout came, but he ignored it. He raced around a truck and used it to screen himself from them. He saw the driver looking up at him from on the floor. Then the man shut his eyes, pressing his forehead against the deck plates.
Cyrus kept sprinting. His endless days of running in place and doing squats had given him stamina. He neared the truck entrance.
A red light appeared above it. An automated muzzle thrust out of a slot. The tube had pitted edges, looking as if it had been used before. The thing tracked him as Cyrus concentrated, using telekinesis, shorting an electrical connection, and a red light above the muzzle turned dull.
In the distance from within the hanger a Kresh roared. At least, Cyrus assumed it must be a Kresh. He’d never heard a human make a sound like that. If they hadn’t before, they must realize now that he had psi-powers.
Cyrus darted into the entrance. The people in here lay on their bellies, too. Air wheezed down his throat and into his lungs. He kept sprinting, looking for a door or other exit. He didn’t know what he expected to find or how long he could keep out of their clutches. What he did remember from his youth was that big cities had slums. There, people could hide from the cops. That held true on Earth. Would it hold true on High Station 3?
Well, he was certainly going to try to find out. The Kresh had given him their language. Now, he was going to use it to his advantage.
5
Cyrus strode briskly through a warehouse that held thirty-foot shelves containing long tubes, assorted metal widgets, and plastic sheets. Behind him, an alarm blared. Workers driving alien forklifts glanced at him. They wore gray caps, most with single stars on the front and a few with three. Each wore a brown jacket with gray pants. Several workers frowned at him, but no one called out or asked what he was doing here.
I need to change my clothes and try to blend in.
Actually, he needed many things. A station map would be great. A haircut would help and a complete makeover would be best.
They must see I’m different and don’t belong.
“No,” he whispered. He needed to concentrate and act. He needed to find the station’s slums, if it had one.
The overhead lights began to blink on and off. Speakers crackled and a moment later, a Kresh spoke: “Attention, High Station 3 personnel. This is a class five announcement. An unwarranted alien stalks the premises. Report any suspicious actions to your superior. The alien predator has mocked the Hundred and the Ultimate Magnificence. He will expire in the Grand Agonizer as a spectacle to rightness. This is an urgent summons to achievement. See that you obey and earn splendor and advancement in caste.”
As workers listened to the announcement, Cyrus slipped into a deserted row. He checked to make sure no one saw him, leaped, and grabbed a shelf six feet up. He hauled himself onto it. While squatting, he moved into shadows. He lay on plastic sheets and peered around, watching for what would happen next.
Workers shut off their forklifts and eased onto the floor. They congregated and began to whisper among themselves. One man took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. He appeared nervous. The others urged him toward some sort of action. He replaced the cap and sidled to his forklift. The others glanced around and finally called to the man. Cyrus couldn’t hear what they said. The worker at the forklift wore a bronze-colored badge on his jacket and his cap had three stars. He climbed into the seat and spoke into what must have been a communicator.
This was bad. The Kresh had just given him a death sentence. Cyrus shrugged moodily. Memory extracting would have probably been the same thing. Except… the Kresh said his death would be a spectacle in the Grand Agonizer. That didn’t sound like a dignified ending, but more like dying on a cross like Spartacus had done.
Closing his eyes, Cyrus wondered if he should have waited for a better chance. No. He had no idea if another chance would have come. He’d seen one and he’d taken it.
He cocked his head. In the distance sounded cadenced feet clashing against the deck plates. What would the Kresh do next? If he were in their place, he’d send a regiment of Vomags to flush him out. Right. He couldn’t hide here. This place was too open.
While crouching, he moved lengthwise down the shelf until he came to the end. He glanced about and risked it, jumping onto the floor. How much time did he have left?
Move, Cyrus. Get out of this warehouse.
He hurried with his eyes staring, searching for workers who might report him. His heart thudded. He saw a door. He had no idea where it led. He rushed to it and pulled. It wouldn’t budge.
He concentrated and tweaked the locking mechanism with his telekinesis. He opened the door, stepped through, and shut it behind him. His knees threatened to unhinge. Leaning against a wall, he found himself trembling from the excitement.
You have to keep going. You need to get it together, Cyrus.
He was in a long corridor with dim lights on the ceiling. The corridor went off into the distance farther than he could see. It reminded him of looking into a mirror that faced other mirrors and trying to see how far the reflections went. He started walking. Was this a maintenance shaft?
I need a map so I know where I am and where I’m going.
He shook his head. He needed to use what he had, not wish for the moon. If he was going to wish, why not ask for a spaceship or that he could magically teleport back to Sol?
Thinking about the approaching, hunting Vomags and the Grand Agonizer, he ran, putting distance between him and the warehouse. It didn’t take long for sweat to break out onto his skin. His breathing became harsh, and later his side ached. After a time, thirst began to torment him. Despite the exhaustion, or maybe because of it, he grinned savagely. He was tired and wanted to stop, but that would mean worse torture, so he kept running when normally he would have collapsed. He ran kilometer after kilometer and couldn’t figure out why there were no more openings in the corridor. If there had been the one, there should be others, right?
Behind him, in the far distance, he heard an ominous clang. Were hunters in the corridor? If the Kresh truly wanted him, couldn’t they use infrared tracking and follow his glowing footsteps?
The vanishing wa
lls, he told himself.
Cyrus staggered to a halt and leaned against a wall. Sweat dripped from his chin and struck the metal floor. He panted, wiped stinging sweat out of his eyes, and panted more. Finally, his breathing returned to a semblance of normal.
He walked, and he searched with his psi-talent. Sixty steps later, he discovered an escape.
He did the trick with his telekinesis, and a headache exploded into being in his frontal lobe. He’d used his psi-talent one too many times in quick succession. He should have rested first.
Even so, a small section of wall vanished. He heard voices in the new, branching corridor, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He moved through the opening and looked back. The smart move would be to hide where he’d left the straight corridor. He squeezed his eyes shut. The headache was bad, to use his telekinesis again so soon…
He willed himself to do it, and the wall reappeared.
Cyrus groaned as splotches appeared before his eyes. He clutched his knees and vomited the gruel in his stomach. He did it again, making grunting, gasping noises as the worsening headache pounded in his brain.
Finally, he used his sleeve and wiped his mouth. It was hard to see past the black spots in his vision, but he couldn’t stop here.
Maybe I can never stop again, because when I do they’ll catch me. What a thing. Maybe by the time they found him, he would be glad to rest.
He crouched for a moment and put his head between his knees. It felt as if his brain was about to explode, it throbbed so hard. He squeezed his knees against his temples and waited, breathing through his mouth.
I can’t use my telekinesis for days now, maybe weeks.
He waited until the throbbing lessened. He stood afterward. He felt dizzy and waited for that to pass. Afterward, he found that he could see past some of the splotches in his vision.
The dim light of earlier remained and there were more branching corridors, a bewildering web of them. He kept going right, deciding any kind of process was better than random selection. He turned right, and he heard a scuffle of sound ahead.
Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel) Page 23