“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but that’s the deal. Are you going to take it?”
Tallyn leant forward, his eyes narrowed. “So you can give me another decoy? What kind of fool do you take me for? I have to know I’m getting the real thing, not another phony.”
“Do you accept that I’m the real thing? If I take off the mask, right now, will you release her?”
Tallyn considered. “You sound like him, but that can be faked. No, I think the only image of the Shrike I’ll trust is the one we find in that girl’s head.”
Tarke spoke in a soft, dangerous tone. “If you kill her, you’ll start a war with me that you will regret. That, I promise.”
“We’re not going to harm her. No one ever died from having their head read. It’s done all the time. And you don’t really expect me to believe that threat, do you? I’m not stupid, Shrike, so don’t treat me like an idiot. Once we have your image, you’ll have to stay on your best-defended base, behind a fleet of ships, and even then, we’ll find a way to catch you.”
“You’re too clever by far. You’ve even outsmarted yourself.” Tarke looked down at his hands, then raised his head. “Erenar niel rellorash perzin trackesh, erenar nel toth muran, azin. Erenar nel eskareth vrin lemarr, pretar. Erenar nel retorath trevesh rellin nar, merrin weleth. Roth erenar nel shevin, renda mien esavesh, terrin sorral orn, raazin.” He broke the connection.
Tallyn turned to Marcon, who sat at his station as usual, monitoring the ship’s functions. Vengeance was en-route to Darmon, two hours from its destination.
“Have that last thing he said translated.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcon touched the crystals on his console, and the holograms scrolled until one came up with the answer. He read it with a frown, then said, “It’s an ancient Antian oath, sir, quite complicated. The sort they used to swear on the battlefield, back in their primitive days. It might give us a clue as to his family, since they each had their own particular code. I can look -”
“I don’t care about his family, its dead. Just tell me what he said.”
Marcon cleared his throat. “Well sir, in Antian it’s fairly brief, but translated into Atlantean, it’s quite a speech.”
“Don’t bore me with the details, Marcon, just tell me, or must I read it myself?”
“It’s what’s known as a blood oath, or vow of vengeance. It means ‘for the blood of my servant, I shall reap a like payment, as I shall for the blood of my warrior who dies in battle. For the blood of my noble, I shall reap a fourfold payment, and for my friend, then shall it be tenfold. For the blood of my king, I shall spill the blood of thousands to repay the debt. But for the blood of my family, your land shall run red with the blood of all your kinsmen, and the killing shall not end until my blood has mingled with the earth and my last breath has passed from my lips’.” Marcon cleared his throat again in the ensuing silence, and added, “But he substituted the word ‘family’ with ‘wife’.”
Tallyn stared across the gloomy bridge, stunned. “He’s serious.”
“I would say so, sir. An Antian blood oath is binding on the speaker. From what we know, they’d rather die than break it,” Marcon said. “Shall I contact him again?”
“No. It still doesn’t mean the man I spoke to is really him. It just means we’d better make damned sure Rayne doesn’t die.”
“From being read by a telepath, sir?”
“He seems to think it’s likely. Contact the people on Darmon and warn them to be extra careful. Make sure she’s sedated and monitored.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tarke stared at the fire-sheathed screens, wishing the ship could go faster. He was still an hour from Darmon, and cursed the fact that he had not left Ironia sooner in pursuit. The helplessness ate at him, making him curse all the fates that had conspired to bring this situation about. Even with all his power, his empire of ships and men, even by offering himself in exchange, he could not save her. Too many decoys had died in his place. No one would trust him to give himself up now.
The payment for his lies would be the life of the only person who truly mattered to him. He would reap the legacy of the deceit he had sown, and it would be more painful than he had ever imagined possible. His oath bound him, and he meant every word. Atlan would fall if she died, and, even after his death, the killing would not stop until the last of his ships had been destroyed or Atlan was no more. His people would avenge his death just as he would avenge hers, and, once set upon their path, nothing would turn them from it.
“A message from Shadowen,” Scimarin said, interrupting his thoughts. “Rayne ordered him to destroy the facility in which she’s housed. When he refused, she ordered him to tell her escort do it.”
Tarke unclipped the mask and rubbed his face with a groan, sitting back. His commanders would never obey that order, but the message dumped a mountain of shame on him. She would die for him. Despite the fact that he had not revealed his feelings, and had not intended to. Despite his refusal to tell her the reason for his coldness, which had hurt her. Guilt suffused him, and he brought his fist down on the arm of his chair with enough force to send a shaft of pain up his arm.
“Scimarin, send a message to all my ships. They are to set course for Atlantean planets, and at least three hundred must go to Atlan itself. They must wait for the signal, which will be... if Shadowen self-destructs. If that happens, they’re to attack the planets. Send the message on an open frequency. If the Golden Child dies, there will be war between my empire and that of the Atlanteans.”
“It’s done.”
Tarke rubbed his aching hand. “I hope Tallyn takes me seriously now, because only he can stop this.”
Tallyn stared at Marcon, trying to ignore the tension that crackled around the bridge. Several officers turned to look at him, all wearing worried expressions. He paced in circle, then stopped beside Marcon’s console again.
“He’s bluffing. It’s insane.”
“It was transmitted to all his ships, sir, preceded by the personal codes he uses when he issues direct orders. I don’t think he’s joking.” Marcon’s mien was grim. “Perhaps you should cancel the Golden Child’s memory probe. It lacks the support of the masses, or at least it would if they knew about it. It certainly lacks the support of the crew.”
Several officers nodded, and Tallyn’s scowl deepened. “She’s not going to die! How can she? He’s just trying to intimidate us. He’ll do anything to prevent his capture. It’s a ruse, nothing more. How can anyone die from having their mind read? Tell me that.”
Marcon shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps she has a suicide implant, like some of the others we’ve captured.”
“They’ve scanned her. They’re not idiots. The only implant she has is the one we gave her, and that can’t be tampered with.”
“He offered to give himself up, sir,” the navigation officer pointed out.
Tallyn snorted. “Give us another decoy, you mean. He won’t sacrifice himself. That would be pointless, since he’s trying to prevent us from capturing him.”
“Unless he really does believe she’ll die.” The officer glanced at his colleagues, who nodded.
“If she did, it would only serve to protect him, so why would he offer himself in return for her safety? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” Marcon said. “He must have a good reason to make such threats. It could almost be a codicil to the prophecy. If the Golden Child dies, Atlan will be destroyed. Sounds like a prophecy.”
“Marcon, cut it out. No one’s going to die, and there isn’t going to be a war. We’re going to get an image of that bastard, and then we’re going to catch him, that’s all.” Tallyn gestured. “Anyway, it’s not up to me. It’s the Council’s decision. They’re the ones who have to decide what to do. I’m just the commander of the fleet.”
“You could stop it,” Marcon said.
“It’s a ruse! He’s a clever bastard!”
�
�What if it’s not?”
“Shut up, Marcon,” Tallyn said. “Whose side are you on?”
“The side of life, not unending war. I believe him, sir. He’s sworn an oath, and I reckon he’s going to keep it. It seems to be important to him. He’s Antian, and you know what that means.”
Several officers muttered and nodded, and Tallyn frowned at them.
“He can swear all the oaths he wants, make threats and offer phony deals; it won’t work. Even if he means it, she’s not going to die. How many times must I say it?”
“Maybe until you convince yourself.”
Chapter Three
Rayne stared at the white ceiling, her mind drifting in a pleasant fog of drug-induced detachment. An Atlantean woman had joined the team of specialists assigned to tend to her. Instead of holding her down so the telepath could clamp a hand to her brow and read her, they had sedated her. A clutch of beeping machines monitored her vitals, and the telepath looked distinctly worried.
The four had been huddled in a muttering group for several minutes, but had evidently reached a decision, for they approached her. The elderly doctor smiled, his dark eyes gentle. She could no longer sense his emotions; the drug had robbed her of her ability to do so without touching him. He peered at her, then nodded at the telepath.
The younger man came forward, wiping sweaty palms on his white suit. His nervousness pleased her. It made up for his previous pomposity. At least now he seemed to appreciate that he was dealing with someone special. She tried to recall what they wanted and why she was here, but she could not even remember where she was.
The telepath sat on a chair beside her and laid a hand on her brow, casting her a tense smile. She smiled back dreamily, sensing his nervousness and unease. He had brown and blond hair, and his metallic skin had a silvery sheen, more common than the golden or bronze varieties. He was not of a high caste, yet he had acted quite superior before. The three years she had spent living amongst Atlanteans had taught her a great deal about their society and its quirks.
Perhaps being a powerful telepath earned him privileges. A prickle of disquiet went through her as she sensed the intrusion of his mind. It seeped into hers like a thief sneaking into a dark house in search of the family jewels. He was a thief, and the discovery of Tarke’s image would lead to his downfall. They would hunt him until they caught him, and then they would kill him.
Numbness nibbled at the edges of her sanity. For so long, she had kept it at bay, but that was because she had found something for which to live. Even if he never showed her anything but friendship, it would have been enough. Just to be with him, to own the unique privilege of knowing the man behind the mask, would have been enough. She did not call his image into her mind, for that would have given it away to the prowling telepath who rifled through her memories.
Again the blankness impinged, washing away a little of her reason. With what was left, she realised that her only weapon lay within the emptiness the Envoy had bestowed. Her only escape from the telepath’s prying mind was to allow the howling void that had dwelt within her for so long to swallow her, to throw open all the doors and welcome its dark embrace. With it, however, she wanted one last victory. She found the telepath’s oozing psyche in the bottom of one of her memories, casting aside images of her childhood. Here she had hidden Tarke’s face, and she thought she glimpsed his nose on one of her childhood friends.
The telepath would find it soon, and put it together with all the pieces he had seen that did not fit where they were. She confronted him, and her presence startled him, but he was not unduly alarmed. The sedative made her too dull to throw him out or raise shields, even if she had any. He exuded false friendship, trying to fool her empathy with lying thoughts, but she sensed his fear and duplicity, and understood the cold nature of his mind. As she had once spoken to Scrysalza, she spoke to him in the wordless language that every thinking creature shared when their thoughts were mingled.
I warned you, she thought. I told you not to come. But you’re here, like a thief, come to steal my most precious memory. Let me show you the horrors of my past; share them with me. She sent him a powerful image of the Envoy in all his massive repulsiveness, and jabbed him with the memory of the parasite’s sharp mind, whose razor thoughts had flayed hers and left it raw and bleeding. She filled his head with the grinding roar of the Envoy’s wordless language, and bathed it with the memory of the agony she had suffered.
Endrin frowned at the telepath, perplexed. His eyes had opened wide and his back was arched in a spasm. The younger doctor, Jadon, checked the telepath’s pulse and cast a concerned glance at Endrin.
“He appears to be in some distress. His heart is racing.”
“I’m sure he can deal with it.”
The telepath’s increasing pallor and clenched jaws told Endrin that something was amiss, and he waited for further developments. Jin groaned and writhed, his eyes rolled back. Whatever was happening to him was getting worse, and Endrin’s alarm grew. The telepath shuddered, clearly in distress. Signalling to his young colleague to help, Endrin tried to pull the convulsing man away from the peaceful, blank-eyed girl. Jin grabbed her neck, ensuring they could not prise him free without strangling her.
Jadon hunted through the cabinet for a sedative powerful enough to incapacitate the girl. He found one with a cry of triumph, then dropped the injector, and Endrin stepped on it. The monitor’s steady beep speeded up, and a soft alarm droned.
Semil stared at the machines’ changing readouts. “Do something!”
Endrin cursed and punched the telepath, trying to knock him unconscious. “She’s trapped him.”
“How can she? She’s only an empath. Do something!”
“She’s more than an empath,” Endrin said. “An empath couldn’t do this to a telepath. Whatever she touched on that ship, it’s made her like it.”
“The Envoy was an empath, so was the Crystal Ship.”
“No, they were more. Much more. The Crystal Ship was able to broadcast its pain. She’s not an empath. She’s something else; something we’ve never seen before. She uses the skills of others against them. That’s what makes her the Golden Child.” He tried to drag the telepath away as the man convulsed again, froth bubbling from his lips.
“What can we do?” Jadon demanded.
Endrin shook his head. “I don’t know. She’s killing him, just like she killed the Envoy. Sedate her, quick!”
Semil shook her head. “No, don’t. She’s dying.”
“She can’t be!”
“Look for yourself.”
Endrin glanced at the machines’ readouts, cursing. “We’ve got to save her.”
“How?” Jadon asked.
Tarke’s head jerked around as Scimarin said, “A message from Shadowen. Rayne’s biorhythms are becoming erratic.”
He thumped the arm of his chair. “Damn them!”
Jumping up, he leant on the console, glaring at the stars beyond the energy shell. “And for the blood of my wife,” he murmured, “your land shall run red with the blood of all your kinsmen, and the killing shall not end until my blood has mingled with the earth and my last breath has passed from my lips.”
Rayne sat in front of the telepath’s psyche, imagining herself as a young child with long golden hair. Know me, she thought. I am the Golden Child. I am the greatest weapon ever born, to defeat the ultimate evil and save you. Witness the power that fills me, the legends that surround me. You will not steal the image of the one I love; he is more precious to me than life. Ask the question that fills your mind, I see it as clear as day.
I will kill you just as I killed the Envoy. I am an empath, and more, I have learnt the skills of the Envoys, and I also have his scars and his hatred. Ask me. Yes, I lived for my love, and yes, I will die for him. Here is what you seek, look at it; it’s the last thing you’ll ever see. She filled her mind with the memory of Tarke’s face. The telepath squirmed, trying to break free, but she held him.
Endrin and
Jadon struggled to pull the telepath’s hands away from the girl’s neck, but he hung on. His face contorted and foam dripped from his lips while he shook uncontrollably. The girl seemed to be in a trance, staring at the ceiling with an impassive expression. Endrin watched the monitors with despair as the readings fell or rose to dangerous levels. Her heartbeat had slowed almost to a halt and her temperature had dropped while her brain activity was off the charts. Another alarm sounded, and he grabbed an injector, forcing a powerful stimulant into Rayne’s blood with a hiss, then looked at the monitors again.
“Come on, come on! Live, damn you!”
“We’ve got to do something,” Jadon said. “If she dies...”
“I know!”
Another alarm joined the growing cacophony, and Endrin picked up another injector and turned to the girl. Blood mixed with the froth on the telepath’s lips as he bit his tongue, shaking violently.
Rayne allowed the numbness to nibble at her again, fighting the urge to stave it off. The telepath struggled, but she held him and prevented him from speaking. You wanted to kill the Shrike, she thought. You would have executed him for a crime he did not commit. I won’t let you. I’ll show you the meaning of pain and despair. I’ll lead you down the path of suffering the scars of my anguish bound. So you’ll learn to fear death, and embrace it as the only friend that can save you from the pain. You’ll bathe in the tears that fill my lake of sadness, and you’ll know what it is to be reborn out of agony and live again with hatred.
There will be no saviour for you, however. No gentle man with beautiful eyes to find you and give you his hand. He will not lead you from the path of destruction and show you joy. Here we both will end. You have yet to see the ultimate pain of my battle, the scars that only the Crystal Ship could heal. They have festered again, because of your uncaring world, and he tried so hard to stop them from swallowing me. But you have ensured they do, and so you’ll suffer the same fate.
Slave Empire III - The Shrike Page 5