“What’s going on here? Why are you a prisoner of low-tech killers like these people?”
“I might ask you the same question! If your only wish is to remind me of my hopeless existence, always at their beck and call, then go away and let me sleep. Oblivion is my only escape until I can die, or force Sarbordon to kill me in his endless quest for answers and omens. There’s nothing else for me.” Expression annoyed, she closed her eyes.
Nate waited, expecting the dream encounter to end, as the first one had, once she shut her eyes. When it didn’t, he realized she must still be conscious. Hiding from me. But I need answers. He studied the delicate planes of her face, finding her compellingly attractive. Her mere existence was intriguing. No matter how many worlds the Sectors explored, how many artifacts and abandoned installations the Archaeology Service dug through, no one had ever seen so much as a painting or a statue or a hologram of an Ancient Observer. The AO took great care to leave no representations of themselves, although many worlds had legends about them. He accepted Haranda’s verdict that Bithia wasn’t a member of the specific forerunner civilization that fascinated the Sectors, but he wondered if she was aware of them. And what of her own people and their accomplishments? She was definitely from an era predating his own.
“You’re still here—” Her surprised voice, with a hint of amusement, interrupted his ruminations. “Staring at me.”
“I’m not leaving until I have to, until the encounter really ends. I’m not sure I could, even if I wanted to, since control of this process appears to rest for the most part with you. And you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen on any world, well worth staring at.” He couldn’t believe he’d made such an inane remark. Like an idiot cadet on his first date. She had an unsettling effect on him, maybe because their minds were linked. He imagined what her skin felt like, how soft her hair might be—annoyed at himself, he wrested his imagination away from Bithia’s form.
“Stubborn, I see, not to take my hint and withdraw,” she said, the pleased expression on her face blunting any hint of criticism. “Actually, I’m glad you stayed. It’s been so long since I had someone to talk with who was from offworld.”
“How many years have you been—?”
“In this place? I’ve no way to know. Tell me, do you know of the Aralapanni? Or the Serennian?” The names she uttered were nothing he recognized, and even in a dream in which he shared a language with her, the syllables carried no meaning. Bithia watched him closely with those great, shadowed eyes and nodded. “You don’t know these great peoples, do you? Not even legends to you? Then truly we must have passed from the galaxy, and all our knowledge with us. And this tale of Ancient Observers I pluck from your mind means nothing to me. Certainly not my people, nor any of the races I know.”
Nate was frustrated by their lack of any common reference, aside from the planet upon which he now stood, equally alien and hostile to both of them. Start there. The current situation ought to provide enough of a foundation for them to relate to each other.
“I don’t know how you got here, but our ship crashed,” he said, leaning against the barrier and crossing his arms over his chest, settling in for a chat. “We were being chased by a Mawreg client race—enemies of our entire species. To escape we had to go into hyperdrive too close to a blue giant star, ended up out of control in this system and crashed.” He touched his forehead where the last remnants of the bruise remained. “I was knocked out in the crash, and these thugs grabbed my men when they were crawling from the wreckage and dragging me to safety.”
“Where did you crash? And who are these Mawreg?” Despite her prior claims to want nothing but untroubled sleep and oblivion, Bithia seized on new information with the hunger of a highly intelligent creature denied fresh mental stimulus for a long time. “Can you visualize one for me?”
He did, in automatic response to her question. The memory made him nauseated. How the Mawreg looked was wrong in all respects.
Bithia didn’t react with instinctive repugnance to the Mawreg, at least as glimpsed in his hastily shut-off memory. “Hideous, yes, but unknown to me.”
Nate had seen them up close, which few people ever survived, much less retained a hold on sanity, but that was in another life.
“Another life?” She plucked the phrase from his mind. “You believe in the recycling of the spirit through time?”
“No, you misunderstand me.” He chuckled. Have to get used to her ability to instantaneously read my private musings. Or develop a mental block to keep her out. The second strategy didn’t hold much appeal. He liked hearing her musical voice in his head. “I’m an officer in the Sectors Special Forces, usually working behind enemy lines to carry out assassinations, sabotage installations, accomplish military objectives. Another life than the one I’m leading here on this cursed planet. Here, I’m in training for the sapiche playoffs.”
“I don’t know this Mawreg. Fortunately for me, judging from what you say and remember of them.” Bithia frowned. In the resulting “silence,” Nate’s irritation grew. She could pick any thought of his at will, but he could only “hear” what she chose to “say” to him. After a contemplative moment, she sighed. “I came to Talonque, this world, of my own choice with my father’s expedition. He was an explorer of great renown among our people. He also wanted to help the people here learn and grow more civilized.”
“We leave indigenous planetary populations alone, unless they’ve already reached a specific level of civilization,” Nate said. “We learned the hard way a few too many times that it’s no good to go in with what the Sectors can offer if you’re dealing with people who haven’t yet evolved technical sophistication. The population gets the wrong idea—”
“Think of you as gods?” Bithia asked wryly. “I believe we were learning the lesson. I can certainly testify to it now. A growing number of my people liked the idea.”
“But not you?”
“No. Even before I was forced into this career as the all-knowing goddess T’naritza. Nor did my father approve of such a concept. But his associates Tedesk and Syrmir, well…” She fell silent. “But bringing the novelties of a new world home to my people engendered much profit and fame. My father wasn’t immune to the lure of both but wouldn’t dream of presenting himself as a god. The truth mutates unrecognizably over time, doesn’t it?”
“What happened? Why did you get left here, in this way?” How do you stay sane? He guessed the machine kept her in a form of suspended animation or cryo sleep between summonses from those who worshipped her. He speculated that the device must have a beneficial effect on her mind, to keep her from overwhelming despair.
The dream ended before she could answer, much to his chagrin. The guards kicked his bed, ordering him and the others to rise for another endless day of drilling and scrimmage.
Thom gave him the eye as they ate breakfast mush and fruit. “You saw her?”
Nate kept his voice low as well. “Yeah, but the dream was too short to learn much. She’s never heard of the AO or the Mawreg, and I’ve never heard of her people. She came on a scientific expedition, as near as I can figure out. I don’t know how she got trapped.”
“Nothing useful, then.” Thom dropped his spoon into his empty bowl.
“Other than proving I can reconnect with her? No. I’ll try again tonight.”
CHAPTER THREE
The day’s practice was especially intense as the trainers concentrated on passing and stealing drills, which were not Nate’s best sapiche skills, to say the least. Exhausted, frustrated and in need of serious sleep as he rode to the city in the slow old cart, he was grateful for the twilight’s soothing effect on his eyes. The only time of day the oversize sun didn’t cause Nate vision problems.
Once they reached the palace and the cart was parked in the small courtyard adjoining their dormitory, two guards held Nate aside. The others were taken across the courtyard, while Nate stood and waited.
“What’s with the change in routine
?” he asked Murrax, the junior officer in charge of their daily transportation to and from practice.
“Queen Lolanta has sent for you.”
“What the seven hells?” Thom tried to delay as he realized Nate wasn’t going to the dormitory. He shouted across the courtyard, “What’s going on?”
“Don’t get yourself in trouble with these guys on my account. I’ll be okay.” Nate tried to express a calm assurance he was far from feeling. He watched his three teammates disappear into the building, not much liking the idea of being separated from his men. As the cart driver led the placid bracalx to the stable, Nate’s three-man escort took him to the other side of the courtyard, entering a different corridor and leading him farther away from his comrades.
Nate deliberately sought the state of inner calm the Special Forces taught their highly lethal operatives to achieve under the most severe conditions. It was a patient watchfulness, hard edged with readiness to take instant action on any opportunity presenting itself—to escape, to wreak havoc and mayhem on the enemy, whatever the situation called for. Sarbordon and his people were capable of just about anything, in Nate’s opinion. He had to keep his wits about him.
The nature of the hallways changed as he climbed flights of sweeping stairs, moving ever higher in the palace complex. The wall decor transitioned from dour gray stone to clean, whitewashed surfaces with elaborate, colorful frescoes. Certain themes repeated, all involving Huitlani. Scenes of the horrific deity with his priestesses, with captives, leading warriors into battle, trampling over the bodies of what Nate could only assume were previously vanquished people—the common theme was an emotion-battering stew of blood, death and destruction.
As he walked he studied the mural for clues about the people who held him prisoner, trying to imagine how the ruling dynasty could inspire loyalty and obedience, indeed, anything other than sheer terror and repugnance. The soldiers must have an ironclad assurance the military ranks would never be culled, never die at the priestesses’ hands. The guards took him at last through a hall filled with small knots of chattering, laughing priestesses, all dressed in variations of basic black. They ranged in age from young girls to wizened old crones, but all displayed the same haughty manner. The sight of them made Nate’s skin crawl, and his stomach turned. Like being in the middle of a large flock of birds of prey. How could people who commit atrocities on a daily basis be so lighthearted?
Murrax brought him to a halt in front of a double door. Two of the unusually tall and muscular temple guards stood on either side of the burnished wooden panels.
“We’re expected,” Murrax said, licking his lips nervously, addressing first one guard, then the other.
Not even loyal soldiers enjoy proximity to the priestesses. Nate wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be here, surrounded by Huitlani’s devoted servants.
One guard knocked lightly on the left door. It cracked open, and the man offered a rapid explanation to the priestess peering out at them. The woman nodded.
“She’s waiting for this one. Bring him inside.”
Nate did a quick scan of his surroundings as he stepped past the guards and into the room. A fountain played in the center of an intricately tiled floor. Off to the right side was a row of fanciful birdcages made from cunningly woven black twigs, sitting on an immense black wood table. The gaily colored avian residents of these cages flapped iridescent wings and chattered as he walked past. Across the room, beyond the fountain, was a low-slung, leather couch piled high with silver and black silk cushions. The walls were blessedly free of any decoration—no more gory frescoes to assault the mind.
The quick impression of his new surroundings was all Nate had time to absorb before the guards pushed him to his knees on a striped red rug. He didn’t see any immediate menace. He waited, conserving his energy.
The sensual spice, smoke and floral perfume hit him as the queen sauntered into the room from the right. He swiveled his head to watch her warily. At first, she pretended to ignore his presence, standing idly and feeding small bits of bread to a particularly large green bird. It cooed at her and rubbed its head on her hand. The artificially sweet scene annoyed Nate.
He cleared his throat. “Does your adoring pet know what you do for a living? Does he suspect you’re probably planning to have him for dinner?”
Unhurriedly, she fed the last of the bread to the bird, stroking its brilliantly crimson feather crest. Then, dusting crumbs from her hands, she pivoted gracefully.
Lolanta stood, hands on hips, staring at him. Her long, straight, ebony hair was held from her cruelly beautiful face by an elaborate gemmed clip. Her dress today was the usual black, a tightly woven skirt with a long slit and two small pieces of fabric that barely contained her ample breasts. This garment was held together by one continuous loop of embroidered black cord. Two intricate, crystal pendants hung from heavy gold chains at her neck, drawing the eye inexorably to her cleavage. Equally impressive gemmed earrings dangled from elongated earlobes to brush her shoulders. Heeled snakeskin sandals showed off her shapely feet. Her toenails were revoltingly long and curved, to Nate’s eyes, and polished with the same gray purple lacquer as her talonlike fingernails.
A proud, confident woman used to getting her own way. He and the queen continued to regard each other for a long moment as if no one else existed in the room, locked in a silent battle of wills.
Then she raised her eyes from contemplation of Nate’s face to direct a chilling look at Murrax. “Leave us,” she commanded, waving the young officer and his men off duty with a careless flick of those talonlike nails.
Murrax unaccountably hesitated. “But the king commanded—”
“You question me in my own chambers?” Her voice was low, calm, with the lazy deceptiveness of a top predator luring the unwary into making a mistake. She tapped the bars of the birdcage, feeding one last tidbit from a bowl on the table to the favored pet. It cooed at her.
“Such impudence would be unthinkable,” the nervous officer said. He swallowed hard, stared at the floor, even glanced at Nate as if for help, amazingly enough.
On your own here, buddy.
Murrax took a hesitant step toward the birdcages. “But I’m charged with keeping this prisoner closely held.”
“Do you believe he can escape me? Or menace me? Think you so little of the powers I command?” Plainly, a trap lay in the simple questions.
Nate gave Murrax credit for not immediately agreeing to her demand contradicting his orders. The man wavered, clearly afraid of her, but equally reluctant to get crosswise with her husband’s instructions.
Nate filed away for future use the information that Sarbordon and Lolanta apparently had separate, loyal cadres, and their aims conflicted on occasion. Maybe he could use the diverging goals as a wedge to achieve his own purposes.
“I want him in the red chair.” Lolanta broke the impasse, gesturing at a pair of seats across the room. “I’ll show you it’s safe to leave him in my gentle care, and then you can go wait outside.”
At Murrax’s command, the two guards were all too pleased to haul Nate to his feet. With eager haste, they propelled him into the embrace of the wooden chair she’d indicated and hooked his chains onto protrusions designed for restraining prisoners. As the guards departed, Lolanta strolled across the floor. Pausing in front of Nate, she studied him from under heavily painted lids, her white-painted lips curved in a smile.
“I won’t feed your heart to Huitlani this day, nor have you thrown in the sacred well for the beasts to eat. Do you think I conduct blood sacrifices in my own chambers?” She winked at him. “I only wish to talk today, to garner understanding.” Lolanta paced away from the chair.
“Understand what?” Nate wanted her to stay where he could see her.
“What hold can a pitiful sleeping girl possibly have over such a warrior as yourself?” Lolanta moved into his limited field of vision. “I’ve been to the practice field and watched you play the game several times now. Fierce.
Powerful. You’re suited to a war god’s service, which legend says her father is not. He prefers gifts of flowers and fruit. What kind of tribute is that for a god to sustain himself and his powers?” Scorn rippled in her voice. “No wonder the people who worshipped him were so easy to conquer.”
“Her father has powers beyond what you can dream of.” Nate concentrated hard, trying to hold his own in this bizarre conversation she was determined to have. After all, no one could contradict him, so he might as well slant the propaganda in his favor. “Her father doesn’t want blood and the needless slaughter of good men.”
Lolanta kicked the nearest stool closer to his chair and sat. “Sarbordon and I rule this nation equally under the law of Huitlani. I control the omens, the signs—Huitlani speaks to me and through me. My husband controls the armies, the temporal matters. So it has always been with our people. We have the required number of children together, strong heirs to succeed us both when the god decrees the time has come for us to step into the afterlife.” She shook her head. “Yet he’s been obsessed with your sleeping, ineffectual girl from the day we were first shown the secret by our parents. He seeks T’naritza’s counsel. He dreams of acquiring the miracle-working artifacts her father controlled.” She fell silent, brow furrowed, reviewing past insults, he surmised. “His father and grandfather before him were not so gullible. Those men had no need for consulting a sleeping girl. I wish I’d been partnered with their like!”
Nate saw no benefit in commenting on her assessment of people and events. Eventually, she’d get to the point.
Lolanta focused her attention on him again. Rising from the gaily colored hassock, she hooked her right hand under his chin, forcing him to look at her. “So, I must know—have you come to fulfill the prophecy?”
Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance) Page 5