The Tribari Freedom Chronicles Boxset

by Rachel Ford

  I’m dying. That realization, at least, sobered him a little.

  I’m dying. Brek tried to concentrate on his steps, on pushing forward. He wasn’t ready to die. He had to keep going, and he pushed his legs harder. His muscles burned in protest, but he was merciless.

  In his mind, slowing was a form of surrender; and surrender was death. He had to keep going.

  I want to find the end of this place at least, before I die. He wondered if there would be an end, or if the caves would stretch on throughout the planet’s underbelly forever.

  He remembered the stories his mer had told him, of the planes where the wicked were sent after death. Hell was a terrible place, where the soul languished forever. It was full of the damned, she said, and their wails were so terrible they were the greatest torture of all.

  As a child, the stories had haunted him. But now, he could not envision anything more terrifying than the stillness around him. He’d have given his right arm for the company of a few wailing souls right now.

  But he was alone – him and the glow worms, in these endless tunnels.

  The idea filled his eyes with tears, and the heat of those tears rolling down his face burned his cheeks. He stumbled onward.

  Mer, am I in hell? Am I one of the condemned? he wondered. He was condemned, certainly. But was it the will of the gods that had consigned him to this living grave?

  No, that had been the will of men. That had been Head Daj, who would have sent children into the collapsing tunnels if he had not insisted on going instead.

  It was Head Daj who had made the call to leave him here.

  He was not a perfect man. Brek Trigan knew that. He might have gone to temple more often. He might have prayed and tithed more than he’d done. He might have envied less, complained less.

  But even if he had been perfect, he’d still be here, dying. And Head Daj would still be in his fine office, warm and heated, fatted and pampered, respected and saluted.

  In his mind’s eye, he could still see the supervisor’s face as he condemned him – confident in his decision, merciless about its consequences.

  He stumbled on, blind to the caves around him; blind with anger; blind with hatred. In the moment, if Head Daj had appeared before him, Brek would have been a murderer. His hands itched to encircle Daj’s neck, his fingers ached to squeeze the last life out of him.

  That, he thought with a delirious grin, would wipe that smug look off his face, wouldn’t it?

  Wrapped up in these thoughts as he was, Brek didn’t notice the sudden darkening of the path in front of him. His heart nearly leaped into his mouth when he took a step forward and found himself freefalling.

  He landed hard, and the impact knocked the wind out of him. For a space, he lingered between consciousness and unconsciousness. He had no idea how far he’d fallen, but his ankle throbbed with pain. Oh gods.

  It was the feeling of fire coursing through his swollen ankle that brought him back to consciousness, slowly at first. He was in agony, but the mental perturbation was worse.

  Death seemed somehow worse at the thought of meeting his end in a twisted, immobile heap. As his head cleared and he regained his equilibrium, he forced himself to his feet, leaning against the stone of the cave wall for support. Oh gods. Where am I?

  Chapter Eight

  Tal slipped outside quietly. Normally, the other inmates would ignore an escapee. Whatever your reasons, it didn’t pay to stop someone from an escape. Nature was cruel enough to cover most revenge plans, and the guards were too merciless to unleash on another out of kindness. Better to let a man die on his own terms than try to keep him here.

  He was different, though. As a protector, he would not count on this courtesy. The fact that he wanted to slip away would be reason enough for some of his fellow inmates to prevent his escape.

  So he opened the door only a crack, stepping into the biting wind as quickly as possible. It was a bad night for an escape. The snow was coming down hard, in biting gusts. Even the air seemed to cut into his very skin.

  It meant less chance of detection. And it meant that, unless he found some manner of shelter, death would come quickly. All things considered, it was the best he could hope for.

  He wasn’t quite ready to surrender, though. He was going to get a gun first. That was a bit riskier than simply getting away. It meant creeping into the protectors’ block and stealing a weapon – undetected.

  There were cameras in the yard, but with the wind driving snow as hard as it was, he doubted anyone would be able to see him. Not if he stayed low and moved quickly.

  He’d need a protector’s palm print to get inside any of the buildings. And the only way to get that was to lure a protector outside. He crept to the guard house, keeping out of the dozing guard’s line of sight.

  It was, he saw as he neared, Protector Dre Baltir. The young man was huddled deep into his coat, a heater glowing red beside him, with a screen in standby mode. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell softly. Probably on account of the storm, he didn’t seem concerned with manning his post. So much the better.

  Tal tried the door, and found with no great surprise that it was locked from the inside. The glass would be barrier glass, impervious to whatever damage his bare hands could mete out. There was no way to force an entry. For this to work, he would need to draw Baltir out.

  That meant the protector couldn’t see him, and couldn’t realize that a prisoner was on the loose. It would be far easier to remain in his guardhouse, safe and warm, and let nature take its course than to step outside and intervene in any fashion. Baltir, in his heavy coat and heated room, could watch from absolute safety as Tal froze to death. He would, if he knew what was going on.

  The prisoner circled the guard house. It was a small building, just large enough for a tiny office and a bathroom that really didn’t earn the name room. It was barely large enough to fit a toilet and sink. There was a camera over the door, to record who came and went.

  It was here that Tal’s eyes fixed. He stood to the side, out of the camera’s field of range. It was secured a good two and a half meters up, just under the roof overhang with an angled wind shield to keep snow and ice away yet allow a full view of anyone approaching the door.

  He glanced around, searching for something – anything – to use. At length, he settled on a snow broom leaning against the barracks. He hustled through the knee-high snow. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his plan. The wind cut through his ragged clothes, biting deep and hard. Already he was shaking with cold.

  Still, he gritted his teeth and grabbed the heavy broom. It was meant for clearing steps and stoops. His focus was on the handle, though. It was solid wood, and would be perfect.

  He retraced his steps, ignoring the snow that – somehow, driven by the unrelenting wind – filtered through his clothes and melted against his skin.

  Tal threw a glance inside the guard house, and confirmed that Dre was still asleep. Then, leaning flat against the building, where he’d not be visible from the windows, he snaked the broom handle up, under the camera.

  Quickly and with as much force as he could muster given the peculiar leverage of his current position, he whacked the camera face.

  He ducked down, bringing the broom with him as the glass shattered. It was loud. Loud enough, he hoped, to rouse the protector.

  He waited as the seconds ticked by. He heard nothing: no exclamation of surprise, no curse of frustration.

  He swore inwardly. Had Dre managed to sleep through that? Had the wind been so loud, or his sleep so deep, that he’d missed it? Or had he just decided it didn’t merit investigation; whatever repairs would be done would wait, and he’d remain in the warmth.

  Godsdammit. He was about to lift his head to steal a glance inside when he heard the door lock disengage. He was on his feet in a flash, propelling his body into the startled protector’s as soon as the door opened, grabbing his drawn weapon and pulling it to the side.

  They careened
inside, a blast of icy wind following them before the heavy door swung shut.

  Dre, meanwhile, was cursing in surprise. “Son-of-a-bitch. What the –”

  They landed heavily, the prisoner on top of the protector. Heat, real heat, assailed Tal’s body with a painful burn. It was the first time in months he’d felt it.

  But he kept his attention on the man in front of him. The surprise had faded from Dre’s eyes, replaced with anger. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch,” he snarled. “You’re a dead man.”

  Tal was taller than him, and – once at least – stronger. Once, this would have been an easy fight. Poor nutrition, constant cold and a brutal work schedule had taken their toll on him, though. Now, his muscles quivered as he fought to subdue the younger man.

  For a space, the silence was broken only by frustrated grunts and a stray shot as they wrestled for control of Dre’s sidearm. The protector shoved Tal off of him, but he didn’t lose his hold on the gun.

  They continued to struggle. Tal felt his strength waning. Dre did too, because he smiled. “You’re going to beg for death, you stupid fuck, before we’re done with you.”

  Desperation clawed at his mind. He didn’t doubt Dre. If he lost this fight, he’d be worse – far worse – off than he had been.

  He couldn’t lose. Better to die here and now than surrender.

  He gritted his teeth and dug deep for strength. He ached with the burn of hunger and exhaustion, with the burn of heat searing his chilled flesh. But, loosing a scream of determination, he found the strength to rise.

  Dre struggled to follow, but Tal was quick. With a swift, precise spin, he snapped the protector’s wrist. His efforts were rewarded with a stream of swears, and, even more satisfyingly, the gun.

  This, he trained on the ranting man. “Shut up.”

  “You’d better hope the storm takes you, Imari, because I’m going to personally hand you over to Efron if it doesn’t.”

  For half a moment, he considered pulling the trigger at those words. But he needed a palm print, and the biometric scanners were equipped to detect a pulse. A dead man’s palm print was as useless as the wrong palm.

  So he flipped the severity setting to stun, and then fired. Dre’s threats were interrupted mid-sentence, and with a satisfying sizzle. He slumped to the floor.

  Tal, meanwhile, threw his eyes around the room searching for supplies. Dre had an insulated mug of some warm beverage at his side, and a drawer full of snacks. There was a half-eaten plate of some kind of steak dinner, too.

  The prisoner fell on this with abandon. He’d need his strength, he reasoned, if he was going to make it to any kind of safety. The truth was, though, it had been so long since he’d eaten real food, and not just the reconstituted mush or suspect proteins prisoners were served, that he couldn’t stop himself.

  He shoveled forkful after forkful into his mouth, barely chewing as he devoured steak and starches alike. His taste buds danced. It didn’t matter that the food had sat out for hours. He couldn’t remember a better feast.

  A knock sounded at the glass, and Tal jumped, nearly tipping his plate in the process. One of the guards, he assumed, had found him.

  But it was no angry protector, fishing for a key outside his window. It was Tig Orson, wrapping his hands back under his arms and shivering in the gusts.

  Tal frowned. What’s Tig doing out here? He hastened to the door, though, to admit the other man.

  Tig stumbled in, and he shut the door after him. “What are you doing?”

  “Escaping. With you. I-” He cut off suddenly, recoiling. “My gods. It’s hot in here.”

  “I know. It feels damned good, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. It feels like my face is on fire.”

  He nodded. “Give it a minute. You’ll adjust.” He already had, the burning sensation easing into a pleasant, numbing heat. “But what the hell are you talking about? You can’t leave.”

  The words seemed to take the other man aback. “Why?”

  “Because…well, you said it yourself, Tig. This is a suicide run. You know that.”

  Tig nodded slowly. “Yeah. But I don’t want to stay either, Tal.”

  “You should stay. You might survive.”

  “I should stay, but you can leave?” Tig crossed his arms. “Why is that?”

  The protector flushed with embarrassment and shame. “It’s…it’s difficult to explain.”

  “Is it Efron?” The question was asked carefully, with eyes averted.

  The flush fell from his face as abruptly as it had come, and he went pale instead. “What…how did you…?”

  Tig glanced up at him now. “I’m sorry, Tal. I’m sorry that son-of-a-bitch got you too.”

  Tal was about to explain that he hadn’t got him, not yet – that this was what he was trying to avoid – when he registered the pain in the other man’s tone. “Too?” he said.

  It was Tig’s turn to flush. “He…he found me, in one of the mine shafts, a few weeks back.”

  “Good gods, Tig. He…he didn’t?” The other man’s expression was answer enough, and anger flooded Tal’s soul. He bit down on the urge to ask why he hadn’t confided in him earlier. He knew the answer to that. He’d been a protector long enough to recognize that terrible blend of shame, fear and hopelessness that silenced victims. He, who had escaped, had felt it himself. “I’m sorry.”

  Tig seemed more embarrassed by that, though. “It’s – it’s fine, Tal. I mean, it happens, right?”

  “He didn’t – didn’t get me, Tig. He tried, but the lockdown started. Dre interrupted before – well, before anything happened.”

  “Oh.” Tig nodded, an expression of relief fighting for supremacy on his features. “Good.”

  “Yeah. That’s…that’s why I’m going now.”

  He nodded again. “Can I come with you?”

  “Of course.” Tig was the nearest thing to a friend Tal had on this godsforsaken planet. He’d wanted him to stay because he’d already served out half his sentence. He wanted him to stay so that he could live. But that was before he knew what staying entailed. “You should eat, though, before we go. And let’s take this bastard’s coat and gloves. See if we can find any more supplies.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nikia drank the water she’d been given and tried not to flinch. Her efforts proved less successful than she’d hoped, though, as the physician sighed. “You need to stay still.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “It just…hurts.”

  “You were shot. Of course it hurts. A few inches closer, and you’d be dead now.”

  Nikia didn’t take his tone personally. Dr. Ort had already tended those of their party whose injuries were more serious. He’d declared three men, two women, and a boy dead. He wasn’t hopeful about the odds for another two.

  They’d taken losses before, but this was different. They’d entered the House of Parliament with their weapons secured. By long tradition, this space, like the City’s temples, was a fire free zone. It was a pact that Tribari had made eons ago, that whatever their differences, it wouldn’t end in bloody battle. Not in those halls.

  On the old world, it had not always been so. On the old world, there had been bloody coups and violent uprisings as governments shifted or after kings died. It wasn’t supposed to be that way on Central.

  And yet, Presider Denis had called troops into the House of Contributors. She frowned in thought. He’d violated that understanding. When he’d lost the support of the populace, he’d been willing to hold onto power at the end of a barrel.

  She’d have given anything, in that moment, for Grel’s counsel, for his thoughtful, sensible response.

  “You alright?” Giya’s voice sounded beside her.

  She glanced up to see her friend watching her with careful eyes. “Yes,” she said.

  At the same time, the doctor answered, “No.”

  One of Giya’s eyebrows rose.

  “I was shot,” Nikia explained. “Obviously. But I�
��m fine.”

  “No, she’s not,” Dr. Ort contradicted. “She’s lost a lot of blood. And taken a blast of energy.” He turned stern eyes to her. “You’re pregnant, Nikia Idan. That could have killed you. Or the fetus.”

  “I wasn’t trying to get shot,” she protested.

  “No. But you shouldn’t be on the frontlines.”

  “I didn’t expect them to have protectors in there.”

  “You’ve been on the frontlines since Ridi’s funeral.”

  That was true enough, and she had no answer to it. She’d been on the frontlines there, when half of the planet’s protectors were gathered together. The fact was, she hadn’t expected to survive the confrontation. Not really.

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “It’s a revolution, doctor,” Giya snorted. “Of course it’s dangerous.”

  “I can’t ask these people to put themselves on the frontlines if I’m not willing to do it myself,” she added.

  “A revolution is no place for a pregnant woman.”

  She frowned. “It’s the only place for me, doctor. I won’t bring my child into a world like this.”

  He shook his balding head. “Yes, I heard your speech. Very pretty words, Nikia. But are they worth dying over?”

  She flushed. He was referring to the impromptu address she’d given, two days earlier, as they marched to apprehend Sergeant Dru. They hadn’t been pretty words. They’d been words from her heart, and she meant them as much now as she did then. “Yes, doctor. They are. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Sir,” Ensign Vor said, “we’re being hailed by the Night Dragon.”

  “Patch them through, Ensign.”

  “Aye-aye.”

  In a moment, Captain Le’s face appeared onscreen. He was a younger man than Elgin, not quite as seasoned, not quite as decorated, and not quite as experienced. He’d been given command of the TS-Night Dragon about two months ago, which was rather a lot of responsibility for a junior grade captain. Everything Elgin had seen from him so far indicated that he was a man intent on proving himself.