Empire

by Michael R. Hicks

  He glanced up at the stars. Somewhere out there were people he had known, going about their daily business. Maybe one of them paused now and again to think about the child with dark brown hair named Reza Gard, the one who loved to read for endless hours, the one who entertained the little children reading stories about princes and princesses from ancient times. Perhaps, Reza thought, Wiley Hickock’s face suddenly surfacing in his mind, there was a Marine Corps recruiter somewhere asking if anyone knew the whereabouts of one Reza Gard, whose pre-draft requirements had come up. Maybe one of the billion specks of light in the cloudless sky was a human ship, a battleship, about to rake an enemy vessel with its fiery broadside. Or perhaps it was Nicole in her fighter, tight on the tail of a Kreelan destroyer.

  He listened to Esah-Zhurah’s deep, steady breathing next to him, and wondered what Wiley would do if he were here. That thought brought about a wave of guilt. Was Reza collaborating with the enemy simply by wanting to stay alive? And what would people think – if he ever did return to human space – when they discovered that he slept with the enemy, ate with the enemy, and had learned to think and speak like the enemy? Would he not become the enemy himself?

  He tried to force the thoughts from his mind. He would become an alien to survive while he lived among them, but he would not let go his roots. The Kreelans had taken away everything else that he had known, but he would not give them his soul, a soul they did not even believe he possessed.

  He looked at her again. Now that he thought about being her partner, he rapidly came to the conclusion that he could have done a lot worse. She seemed tough, but not as brutal as some of them appeared, and she was obviously extremely intelligent. She had treated him fairly well, considering her origins. He found that he did not want to disappoint her, did not want her to be humiliated. He wanted very much to survive the things that lay ahead, but he wanted to do it with dignity and honor, something that these people did not believe he had.

  Her eyes suddenly flew open, startling him. He had been looking straight into her face.

  “Reza,” she spoke quietly, “you must sleep now. Tomorrow will come of its own accord. You must be rested. Sleep.”

  He stared into her silver eyes, lit by the enormous moon – the Empress Moon, he reminded himself – that shone high above. Of all the things about her and her kind, it was the eyes that captivated him. He held them for a moment longer, mesmerized by their beauty. His mind warred with itself, guilty for feeling such thoughts, but unable to deny them.

  Finally putting off that particular battle for another time, he nodded to her, and she closed her eyes.

  After a few minutes, his own eyes closed as he fell into an uneasy sleep.

  * * *

  Reza awoke as the Kreelan sun cast its first rays over the valley. Surprised that he had arisen before his keeper – his tresh, now, he reminded himself – he took the opportunity to enjoy a brief moment of this alien planet’s natural wonder as the sky sparkled in vivid hues of crimson and yellow. But the transition lasted only a moment before the odd magenta shade of the daytime sky began to claim its territory from the dawn.

  He put on his armor and was preparing their usual morning meal – dried meat for her and some fruit for himself – when at last Esah-Zhurah began to stir.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She only looked at him as she stretched and began to put on her armor.

  Reza shrugged. She’s never been a morning person, he thought. He handed her the strips of stiff dry meat he had cut off the hunk in her pack. She accepted them without comment and began to tear them up with her canines before swallowing the pieces almost whole. That was unusual; she normally chewed her food carefully and took her time.

  “Is something bothering you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered without hesitation.

  “Well,” he prompted after she remained silent, “what is it?”

  She sighed. “There will be a ceremony today,” she said, “the most important one a tresh will ever attend. For you, it probably will also be the most difficult. And if you fail to perform it, I will be forced to kill you.” She paused briefly. “And myself.”

  Reza sat down, suddenly serious, suddenly angry. “Why did you not tell me of this before?”

  “I was forbidden,” she told him. “In any case, it does not matter. What is important is that you must take what you would call an oath,” she told him slowly. “Not to declare your honor to the Empress,” she said, “but as a sign of your responsibilities as a tresh. Even for you, an animal, the priestess believes this important. And you must do it freely, and with conviction. You must consider this carefully, human.” She glanced at the rising sun, calculating the time. “When the sun is there,” she gestured with her arm to a point where the sun would just be fully over the tree line, “it will be time.”

  “And if I refuse?” he asked.

  “If you refuse, you will die. And after you have breathed your last, then so shall I. It is your choice.”

  He unsteadily rose to his feet and began to pace, occasionally glancing at the sun as if to slow its inevitable rise into the sky. He did not have long. If he died, here and now, he thought, who would know of it, and who would care? Certainly not these people, to whom he was a mere beast. But neither would humanity, he told to himself. To them he was almost certainly dead and gone, a memory at best, a forgotten burden on society at worst, never having had the chance to make a small mark on the universe. Perhaps Nicole would think of him from time to time, but only in the past tense, as another casualty of the war, an element of the past in her own tragic life.

  Reza wanted so much to go on living. He would not sell his soul for an extra minute of life, but he was willing to suffer for it. He had been suffering for his next breath for most of his life, and if he had to declare himself willing to submit to their rules of life in order to live, he would. That was not a question of loyalty; it did not make him a traitor in his mind.

  And even his loyalty, he decided at long last, was not really to his race. It was to certain people, the people he had known and loved, even if they only lived on in his memory. Wiley, Mary, and the few others he had called friends, all from Hallmark, all probably dead. All except Nicole, the girl he had loved, and still loved. But the rest of human society, he knew from bitter experience, had treated him little better than the Kreelans had, and in some cases, worse. To them he owed nothing.

  “You must not accept if you cannot pledge yourself sincerely, human,” Esah-Zhurah counseled. “By accepting, you accept all that is the Way: the physical, mental, and spiritual things that bind my people together. You must, in effect, become one with us, if you can. If you feel incapable of this, it would be better to die now as the alien you are, rather than inflict dishonor on yourself and on me. If you are not sincere, the priestess will know. She can see what is in your heart.”

  “And if I did make it through all of this, would your people accept me?” he asked sharply. “Will I ever be anything but an animal to you and the peers? Or will I endure all that you inflict on me, only to be killed at the end of this grand experiment?”

  Esah-Zhurah stood and walked over to him. She grasped his arms in her hands and leaned very close. “Should such a thing ever come to pass,” she said quietly, “should you survive all that is to come, and the Empress judge you worthy of the Way, you will receive one of these,” she touched her collar with a silver talon. “This signifies your entry into Her family, and endows you with more than what you would call citizenship. It is your badge of honor, the signal of the Empress’s blessing. Any who would not accord you every tribute due your standing would be shamed in Her eyes, something that is intolerable to all among Her Children. For this,” she tapped the collar again, “is not easily earned, is not given to all who are born into this life.” She ran her nail along the several rows of pendants hanging from the collar. “But first, human,” she said, “you must prove that you have a soul, that your blood sings the melody of
the Way.”

  “I do not understand what you mean,” he said, confused. “How can my blood sing?”

  “That is what we have yet to discover,” she replied cryptically.

  Reza pursed his lips, his concentration easing as the inevitable conclusion presented itself. “I agree,” he said simply, bowing his head to her. There was no other choice.

  “Very well,” she said, her voice echoing barely concealed doubt, whether at his intention of fulfilling his part of the bargain or at the likelihood of his survival, he did not know. She looked quickly at the steadily rising sun. “I must teach you the words of the ceremony. We do not have much time.”

  Under the gathering dawn, Reza began to learn the declaration of his acceptance of an alien way of life.

  * * *

  When it was time, Esah-Zhurah took him to one of the arenas where several hundred other young warriors were gathered. Many were arrayed around the edges of the circular field. These Kreelans all had neckbands. Those gathering within the arena itself were without, and several senior warriors were putting them into orderly rows.

  “You will be on your own for this, human,” Esah-Zhurah told him. He nodded that he understood, and she gestured for him to enter the arena.

  He walked forward through the dark sand to where the others were gathering and made toward one of the warriors arranging the neophytes for their proclamation of faith. She took him roughly by the arm and escorted him to a point of the hexagon that had been marked in the sand that was well away from the other neophytes. The warrior then resumed her place at the front of the group that now numbered about two hundred. She turned to the assemblage.

  “Ka’a mekh!” she bellowed, and the young warriors knelt as one, crossing their left arms over their breasts in salute and lowering their heads in submission. Reza knelt, but did not salute; in their eyes, he was not yet worthy. The warrior turned around, her back to the neophytes, and knelt herself.

  Then the priestess, Tesh-Dar, appeared from among the warriors surrounding the arena. She strode to a position well in front of the kneeling throng before her, the early morning sun gleaming from her ceremonial armor, her long braided hair swaying to her gait. She stood before them, feet planted shoulder width apart, head held high, and she began to recite the preamble to the rite of passage.

  “Oh, Empress, Mother of our spirit, before you kneel those who would seek the Way–”

  “–to become one with their ancestors,” Reza heard himself murmur in time with the others, “to become one with their peers, to become one with all who shall come after.”

  “Those who kneel this day seek the privilege of The Challenge–”

  “–to learn to fight and die in the flesh, that the spirit of Thy Children may grow ever stronger, that our blood may sing to Thee.”

  “Bound shall they be from this day forward–”

  “–to the honor of the collar, the symbol of our bond with Thee, the badge of our honor–”

  “–to be worn unto Death,” the priestess finished.

  One of the elder warriors stood and ordered the young neophytes to stand. Once they had done so, she led the priestess through the rows on what appeared to be a rank inspection.

  When Tesh-Dar reached him, he bowed his head as the others had done, averting his eyes from her gaze. She stood there for a moment, perhaps a bit longer than she had in front of the others, before she moved on.

  Finally, she returned to the front of the formation and spoke a few words to the accompanying warrior. She, in turn, ordered the neophytes to kneel again, and the priestess departed without another word. Then, with a final order, they all stood once more, and the Kreelans surrounding the arena let out a horrendous roar of approval.

  Reza stood quietly, unable to dispel a feeling of despair that had deepened with every word. No matter what Esah-Zhurah had said, what he had taken was still an oath of fealty to the Empress, for to follow the Way – whatever that truly meant – was to follow her.

  “You did well,” Esah-Zhurah said as she came to his side. “Your words were clear among the voices of the peers, which speaks well of your commitment.”

  “For all the good it may do me,” he replied somberly.

  “Come,” she said, taking him by the arm, apparently uplifted by his depressed mood, “we have much to do this day. It is time to begin your training.” She guided him toward one of the smaller arenas where a number of other neophytes had gathered, eyeing the two of them with great curiosity. “It shall be a day you will long remember.”

  Reza shot her a sideways glance. “I have no doubt.”

  * * *

  He lay that night in an aching heap in his bedding of soft skins. Esah-Zhurah had told him that the first step to the Way was to build a sound body, but what he had endured in the arena that day had been brutal.

  After the ceremony and until the sun set and the huge gong at the kazha’s center rang to sound day’s end, the tresh ran, jumped, sparred, and wrestled with one another. The routine was broken three times by the appearance of three different senior disciples, who instructed them on different weapons and techniques that they put into practice immediately.

  Reza, not having had the benefit of any such training when he was younger, had been hit and battered by the blunt ends and edges of the training weapons so many times that his body felt like one enormous bruise. His lip had been split open, he had a deep gash above his right ear, and his legs had been pounded so much he could barely walk. Esah-Zhurah had to help him hobble back to their little camp in the woods where a healer tended to his wounds. But even after she had finished, his body remained an ocean of pain.

  But he had never cried out, nor had he complained. No matter how many times his legs were tripped from under him, no matter how hard the other tresh – particularly Esah-Zhurah – struck him, he staggered back to his feet so he could take some more.

  He rolled over to face the fire that burned brightly in their little camp near the stables, biting back the urge to groan at the throbbing pain. He watched Esah-Zhurah as she unbraided her hair, meticulously combing it out with her talons once it was free.

  Reza idly considered the condition of his own hair as a diversion from his aching body. Now shoulder length and dark brown, it was festooned with knots and mats, for he had nothing to comb it with. On impulse, and despite the gnawing pain, he decided just to cut off most of his hair with his knife. He had always liked his hair cut short, and it would be much easier to care for.

  He sat up, hissing through his teeth at the pain of simply moving. He tossed aside his hides, letting in the evening chill. The black gauzy material that formed his undergarments was incredibly comfortable, but was not a very effective insulator against the cold. He probed with his fingers through the thickening thatch of hair over his skull, trying to get an idea of where to start. In the end, he simply grabbed a handful at random and reached for his knife with his other hand.

  The blade was just biting through the first strands when he was tackled from behind, Esah-Zhurah wrenching the knife from his hand.

  “No!” she cried, flattening him against the ground.

  “What the hell?” he sputtered in Standard. “What is wrong?” he demanded in the New Tongue, struggling against her weight.

  She rolled him over on his back, flashing the knife in front of his eyes. “Never do that!” she exclaimed. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “What?” he asked, utterly confused. “Cut my hair? It is matted and snarled, and I prefer it short. I–”

  With a growl of frustration she plunged the knife’s blade into the ground, burying it nearly up to its handle.

  “You must never cut your hair,” she told him. “It is one of your most sacred possessions. Have I not told you this, fool? The only ones who follow the Way and have short hair are those who have been disgraced and been denied suicide. It is the worst punishment among our people. If you follow the Way, you must let your hair grow, for it is the only mark of longevity f
or my race. Except for those like the ancient mistress of the armory, our bodies do not age in the same fashion as do yours. Our skin does not decay, nor do our muscles weaken until we are very near death. By the hair and by this,” she tapped her collar, “are you judged by the peers.”

  Reza sat back, confounded. “Well, if I have to grow it, I will need something to comb it with.”

  “You use these,” she said in frustration, as if Reza were a slow-witted child, holding up her hands and wiggling her fingers. “Have you not seen me use them for this purpose?” The firelight shone on her silver claws as they danced to and fro. Then she pointed at his gauntlets with their imitation talons. “Here,” she said, grabbing them, “I will show you.” She made Reza put them on. Then she sat up behind him and began to comb his hair with her own claws, skillfully ferreting out and eliminating the snarls with only a rare painful pull.

  “Now,” she said after she had done most of the difficult work, “you try.”

  He put on the gauntlets and began to work their claws through his hair, but was so clumsy she felt compelled to grab his hands before they had gone more than an inch past his hairline.

  “Be careful,” she warned. “You will cut yourself badly. You must do it like this.” Her hands guided his through the gradually aligning strands, and she soon left him to do it himself.

  He only scratched himself once or twice by the time he had combed everything out to his satisfaction. When he was done, it felt much better, although the hair that hung over his eyes remained a problem. He tried to brush it back, but it stolidly refused, instead sticking out at all angles as if he were carrying a hefty charge of static electricity.

  Esah-Zhurah leaned over his shoulder to get a look at his face, and she burst out in what he thought must be laughter. Brief though it was, she had never made that sound before.