“That’s better. You’re very quiet. Is anything wrong?”
“No. It’s just the tiredness that comes when I don’t take the drug. It makes me very dull.”
“That’s why it suppresses your empathy. Normal people use it to dull their senses, too. They pass through life without even noticing what’s going on around them. Why do they bother to live like that? They might as well be dead.”
She nodded. “My sentiments exactly.”
The door chimed and opened. A short, chubby Atlantean with a jolly face and merry brown eyes entered, his gaze lingering on her. He cast the Shrike a smile as he approached them, radiating happiness and satisfaction. Tarke turned to look up at him.
“This is Vidan, my right-hand man and royal pain in the butt. Vidan, this is Rayne, also known as the Golden Child.”
Vidan beamed and bowed to her. “I’m pleased to meet you at last. I’ve seen -” He stopped when Tarke coughed, and then said, “You can read me all you want. I don’t mind.”
“I don’t read people,” she replied. “I’m afraid I can’t help what I sense.”
“Hmm.” He sat on the chair beside her, his smile unwavering. “Well, once you’re settled here, our people will accept you. They know what it is to suffer. They’ll understand.”
“Rayne hasn’t agreed,” Tarke told him, and Vidan’s smile faltered.
“You’ve refused?” He asked her, his expression scandalised.
“She wanted to think about it,” Tarke said.
“But you’ve thought about it now, haven’t you?” Vidan enquired, a hint of pleading in his voice. “There’s no reason to refuse, I assure you. I -”
“Vidan.” Tarke’s soft voice cut him off. “Let the girl make up her own mind. It’s her life.”
“And yours.”
“Vidan!” The Shrike leant threateningly towards the plump man, who did not seem intimidated in the least. “I can still have your lips glued together, you know.”
Vidan sat back with a snort, eyeing his employer. “Well, it’s -”
“Enough.” Tarke held up a gloved hand, and the Atlantean fell silent, radiating worry and frustration.
Rayne studied him, sensing that his worry was for Tarke, and his frustration warred with his love for his boss. He struggled to keep silent, and she was sure he had a lot to say about the situation. Curious, she asked, “Do you think I should?”
“Of course!” he spluttered. “You’ll never get a better offer, or a better -”
“Vidan,” Tarke interrupted again, silencing him.
The Atlantean radiated indignation and amazement, coupled with honest concern. He told the truth, she sensed, and he was convinced that she should accept Tarke’s offer. In fact, he wanted to urge her to, and that was what Tarke kept preventing him from doing. As usual, she sensed nothing from the masked man who faced her.
“So I have to agree to this before you tell me anything?” she asked.
Tarke shook his head. “No. You have to make the declaration, which will then be made public. Only when the marriage is official will you be entitled to know anything more about me.”
She sighed. “You’re being really paranoid.”
“I know. I have to be, unfortunately. The information I’ll give you is the sort men die for. Many have done so already. There’s an Atlantean reward out for my identity, which currently stands at...?” He glanced at Vidan.
“Fifteen million, five hundred and forty-five thousand regals.”
“Then there’s a reward offered by certain Drayconar factions that don’t particularly like me because I steal their slaves, which is...?”
“Three million stones,” Vidan provided.
“That’s for my corpse, isn’t it?”
“Dead or alive, but preferably dead.”
“Right. Then there’s the slaver Konian, who’s on my current hit list. He’s offering...?”
“One and a half million regals, for your skin. Or head.”
Tarke nodded. “Who else?”
“The Drakanon Federation, the Majerix Corporation, the Endless Life Cult, the -”
“I get the picture,” Rayne said.
“But what’s the total?” Tarke asked Vidan. “How much am I worth, dead? If you chopped me up and took a piece to all my enemies, what would they fetch?”
Vidan pondered. “I haven’t totalled it recently...”
“Approximately.”
“About thirty-five million.”
Tarke turned to her. “Enough to buy a small, but habitable planet. So you see, I have to be careful. Right now, my people wouldn’t protect you unless I ordered them to, and then not with much enthusiasm. You’re an outsider. Your name is linked to Atlan, and you’ve never been a slave. As my wife, you’ll be as untouchable as me. They’ll die in their thousands to protect you.”
She shivered, longing for a strong drink.
“Do you need more time?” he asked.
“Why are you doing this?”
Vidan opened his mouth, but Tarke held up a hand. “I’ve already told you. You deserve a life, and I can give you one, while Atlan can’t. I’m not guaranteeing you happiness. You’ll have to make the most of it. But you’ll have a purpose, things to do. And my people won’t treat you like an outcast.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Only your loyalty.”
“That doesn’t seem like much,” she said.
“If you fall into the wrong hands, you’ll find out just how much it is. To betray me will bring about the fall of my empire. Millions of people will suffer, hundreds of thousands will die, even more will become slaves again. I hope that never happens. Or, you could choose to work for me, and never know my secrets. Except maybe on my deathbed, in about five hundred years’ time.”
“Does Vidan know your secrets?”
“Some of them. He would die before he revealed them, though.”
The plump man nodded. Rayne looked down at her twisting hands, uncertain, yet at the same time determined. This was what she wanted. She had dreamt about it for years, and, daunting as it was, she still wanted it. He was the most notorious outlaw in the galaxy, and leader of the third largest empire. She longed to plumb his many mysteries, and more.
She looked up. “Could I have a drink?”
Vidan jumped up and went to a dispenser. “What sort?”
“Something strong.”
“Something mild,” Tarke countered.
Vidan returned with three drinks and sat down again. She sipped the cool beverage, and Tarke sat back, apparently relaxed. Vidan had obeyed him, she found. In the short silence that followed, she wondered why she had not answered Tarke on Arraman Three.
She put down her glass. “I could have given you my answer when you first asked. I didn’t need to think about it. I just couldn’t believe it then, but I do now. I accept your offer.”
Vidan beamed at her, then the Shrike. Although he was delighted and triumphant, she sensed smugness from him too, as if he also felt responsible for the whole arrangement. Tarke jerked his head at the Atlantean. “Go and get the decree and the vidcam.”
Vidan jumped up and hurried out. Tarke sipped his drink, his head turned in her direction, as if he studied her. He was as heavily shielded as ever, and not an iota of emotion leaked from him. In a way, she liked his inscrutability, yet she also found it unnerving. She wondered if she should thank him. A part of her wanted to, but perhaps this was not the right time.
Vidan returned with a vidcam and a sheet of metallic substance, which he put on the table in front of them. He set the vidcam in position and switched it on. “Okay, off you go.”
Tarke handed the metallic sheet to her, and she studied the bold, flowing alien writing on it. At the bottom were two black, three-centimetre-square patches next to some long words.
“What’s this?” she enquired.
“A marriage decree,” Tarke said.
“In what language?”
“Antian. It just
says that you agree to be my wife and I agree to be your husband, each of us of our own free wills and in our right minds. Press your right thumb to the sensor, and it will record your DNA signature.”
“That’s it? Then it’s official?”
He nodded. “An announcement will be made, and that’s that.”
“I never dreamt I’d marry a man whose face I had never seen.”
“Arranged marriages are often the best.”
“Why, because there are no bloody stupid romantic ideas involved in them?”
“Exactly.”
She perused the decree again. “And how do we get a divorce, if we want to?”
“No divorce. That word doesn’t exist in my language.”
“It does in mine.”
“You haven’t even put your DNA on this, and already you’re talking about a divorce?”
She smiled. “I’m human.”
“So it seems.”
Rayne placed the decree on the table and pressed her thumb to the black square he indicated. She pushed it across the table to him, almost pleased by his slight hesitation. He stripped off his right glove and pressed his thumb to the other square, then handed the document to Vidan. The Atlantean beamed and stepped towards Tarke, as if he intended to shake his hand, then seemed to change his mind and veered away, surprising her by leaning down to kiss her cheek instead.
“Congratulations, both of you. Shall I declare a holiday?”
Tarke waved a hand. “Do what you want. I’m sure everyone will enjoy one.”
Vidan radiated intense joy and satisfaction as he left, collecting the vidcam on his way.
The Shrike pulled on his glove, rose and headed for the door in Vidan’s wake, saying over his shoulder, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back later.”
Rayne jumped up and reached the door ahead of him, blocking his way. “Oh no you don’t. You promised.”
Tarke’s sigh hissed through the mask, and he returned to his chair with an air of resignation, sinking onto it. She sat opposite, her heart thudding with excitement at the prospect of finally putting a face to the gentle, caring man she had come to know. Dozens of possibilities flitted through her mind as he pulled off his gloves with slow deliberation, as if he steeled himself for the coming ordeal of revealing his face.
Rayne noticed, out of the corner of her eye, the tiny light next to the door turn red, indicating that it was locked. Doubtless his mental command had also deactivated all the sensors in the room. She held her breath as he put the gloves down and lifted his hands to the sides of the mask, pressing his index fingers to two unobtrusive studs with a double click. He pulled the mask off and dropped it on the table, then took off the skullcap that covered his hair.
Rayne let out her breath in a sigh. Short black hair topped lean, chiselled features whose symmetry and perfection defied natural laws. His narrow, high-bridged nose was straight and finely sculpted above a well-shaped mouth. Fine, level brows pulled together in a slight frown above eyes that blazed like blue fire, brilliant in frames of thick black lashes. They dominated his face, their slight slant giving him an oriental look that their colour belied. He looked away, presenting a perfect profile, and rubbed the pink marks on his high cheekbones where the mask had pressed against his pale skin. A wry smile tugged at his mouth as he ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of embarrassment. His eyes’ luminous quality was the only alien feature he possessed, and they seemed to glow in the light.
He shot her a shy glance. “Surprised?”
She nodded, not knowing what to say.
“There’s more.” He tugged at the part of the hood that still covered his throat and pulled it off, revealing the oily blue-black gleam of a slave collar.
Rayne stared at it, aghast. “You were a slave?”
“For most of my life.”
“And that’s your secret?”
He nodded. “If my enemies ever found out, they wouldn’t rest until they’d killed me. At the moment they respect and fear me, but they’d never tolerate an ex-slave as a rival, no matter how powerful I am. I rely on the fact that they’re all rivals, so none of them will help another against me. But if they knew this, they’d band together to defeat me.”
“But surely, even if they all banded together, they’d be no match for your empire?”
“No, but they could make my life even more difficult than it already is. You see, at the moment they do business with me, and that enables me to save a lot of slaves. If they knew I’m an ex-slave, they’d also know I’m rescuing them. They would try to stop me by whatever means they could.”
Her eyes were drawn back to the band of flexible metal that circled his throat like a gleaming black snake. “Why do you still wear the collar?”
“I have no choice. Any attempt to remove it or cut it will trigger its self-destruct mechanism. A Xiltran slave collar, once fitted, can never be taken off, but it can be deactivated.”
“How did you get free?”
He frowned at his drink. “My last owner was an old lady who had the good sense to die and leave me her fortune. I bought a ship, and the rest is history.”
“When did you start wearing the mask?”
“The old woman made me wear one. I was her bodyguard, amongst other things, and she knew slavers would steal me, or try to, if they saw me. When I got free, I continued to wear one, for the same reason. I was a valuable slave, and the collar makes me fair game.”
Tarke glanced at her, then at the mask, plainly uncomfortable without it. Not only a disguise, she guessed, but a defence against people’s stares. Few would be able to resist staring at him, just as she could not tear her eyes from his face now. Women would stare with lust while men would do so with envy. He looked younger than she had imagined, his skin unmarred by the passage of time.
He said, “I’ve considered changing my face many times, but if I did, I wouldn’t be me. It wouldn’t feel right. The mask does the job, and I’m used to it now.”
Who would want to tamper with perfection, she wondered. Who would dare to sully such a fine work of nature’s art? The genetic lottery occasionally produced an exceptional specimen, and he was that winning combination. How would a surgeon ruin him, except with scars? Eye colour could not be changed, and the clean lines of his face were so fundamental that to change them would require nothing less than butchery. Handsome did not begin to describe him. He was, without doubt, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
“When did you become a slave?”
“When I was fourteen.” He put down his glass and picked up the hood and skullcap, pulled it over his hair and fastened it around his throat, then gathered up the mask and gloves. “I don’t like talking about my past. I’ve kept my promise, and I hope it’s made you happy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”
“Wait.”
He paused, his expression wary.
Rayne hunted for the right words, but all she really wanted to do was gaze at him. “I... I want to thank you. For doing this. For saving me. Again. Why are you doing it?”
“I told you. You deserve more than the Atlanteans’ gave you for what you did. For what you suffered. They don’t know how much pain you went through, but I do. If this is what you want, you should have it.”
She nodded. “It is.”
“Good.”
Tarke clipped the mask on and went to the door, pulling on his gloves. It slid open ahead of him, and he vanished into the corridor. Rayne gazed after him, disappointed by his abrupt departure. She had many questions, but if he disliked talking about his past, her curiosity was doomed. How else would she ever truly understand him, though, unless she knew what he had been through? Clearly he had suffered as a slave, and the scars of his abuse were written in his wish to hide the reason for his enslavement behind an ugly mask.
Tarke had allowed her a glimpse of the man behind the mask, and, although she longed for more, it was a step in the right direction. Tomorrow she would take another
step, and the following day another, until she reached her goal. She wanted him to love her, just as she loved him. That was not going to be easy, she sensed. Tarke’s psychological damage ran deep, and his reluctance to allow her close to him was just the tip of the iceberg. She could easily understand how he had been a valuable slave, and her musings shied away from the possible uses he had been put to.
Certainly he was strong and fast, and a skilled fighter, she guessed, but a man with a face like his would not be squandered as a gladiator or common pugilist. His greatest attraction would be for women, and she shuddered to think what they would have wanted him for. Without knowing for sure, however, she was not prepared to entertain such unpleasant possibilities, and put the idea aside. She wanted to learn his secrets and overcome his need for solitude. The situation was a little surrealistic, she reflected. She had just married the most notorious, reviled and powerful outlaw in the galaxy, and being the Golden Child paled into insignificance when compared to being the Shrike’s wife.
******
The tale continues in Book III, The Shrike.
About the author
T. C. Southwell was born in Sri Lanka and moved to the Seychelles with her family when she was a baby. She spent her formative years exploring the islands – mostly alone. Naturally, her imagination flourished and she developed a keen love of other worlds. The family travelled through Europe and Africa and, after the death of her father, settled in South Africa. T. C. Southwell has written over thirty novels and five screenplays. Her hobbies include motorcycling, horse riding and art.
Slave Empire - The Crystal Ship Page 21