by L. E. Horn
Ewtk’fisk noticed her hand tremble, so she set it on the arm of her hoverseat. She experienced a brief sensation of being cast adrift, ebbing and flowing with some imaginary tide.
If the shield collapsed, the rebellion’s hopes and dreams would die with it.
Unless the humans and their Gryphon allies can devise something to save us all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
LIANNDRA’S SCREAMS WRENCHED MICHAEL FROM his exhausted stupor. He jerked himself to his feet, tearing the blanket as it tangled in his legs. He half-ran, half-stumbled to the infirmary tent’s entrance.
By the time he found Lianndra, adrenaline overcame his exhaustion. He arrived at her bedside, inadvertently knocking Hannah aside. One look at Michael’s eyes and the Healer yelled for Drake. Occupied with holding Lianndra’s thrashing form, Andrea didn’t even look up.
Lianndra didn’t help the situation by screaming again, a sound filled with pain as her semiconscious mind stayed trapped within a nightmare. She fought Andrea with flailing limbs.
Michael stopped behind Andrea. He became aware of a low, rumbling growl. After a moment, he realized it came from himself. Andrea turned and met Michael’s intense gaze. Her eyes widened as she released Lianndra and stepped away.
Snarling, only half aware of either Healer, Michael gathered Lianndra against him and held her. For a second she fought him too, arching her body against him with her stumped tail rigid. In mid-twist, her head pushed up against his shoulder—and she breathed deeply. Lianndra collapsed in on herself, going limp in his arms.
Panting, Michael fought for control. So much anger. When I think of what they did to her . . . no, I cannot think about it, or I’ll lose it again.
Michael didn’t have to turn around to know Drake stood behind him. I can smell him. I know how he smells? What has happened to me? He became aware of Hannah’s slow approach She placed her hands on his shaking arms in an effort to calm him. He took a deep breath, stepped forward and, ever so gently, laid Lianndra back on the bed. Trembling with the effort of controlling himself, he turned and left. Everyone in the tent backed away from him and cleared a wide path to the entrance.
Outside, Michael stalked through a curious crowd that parted to let him pass. He kept walking until he reached the edge of the encampment, and then he sank onto a nearby boulder. The shaking got worse and sweat poured from him, but he regained some degree of control. He closed his eyes and counted backward from one hundred. When he reached forty-six, he opened them.
Drake appeared beside him. “Mate, you’re out of control.”
The big man nodded, meeting Drake’s concerned dark gaze. “I know. Is Hannah all right?” God, I could have hurt her. I couldn’t stop myself.
“She’s sweet. No casualties. This time.”
Michael avoided the rebel captain’s searching stare. “I don’t think I can control myself, not when it involves Lianndra. This rage—it happens so fast I don’t have a chance to fight.” He swept a hand through his hair. What am I going to do? I have a monster inside me that takes control on a whim. I’m a time bomb waiting to go off.
“You know this is because of Lianndra’s blood, right?” When Michael gave a terse nod, Drake continued. “Something in her blood is causing these changes in you. We have to consider they might be permanent.” Dark eyes searched Michael’s face for his reaction. “It’s all very new, what has happened to you,” Drake said. “But it should get easier with time. We will come up with a system to help you keep control, Michael.”
When the big man didn’t respond, Drake added, “Andrea wants to teach you meditation.”
A corner of Michael’s mouth quirked involuntarily, and he snorted a laugh.
“You know Lianndra will be okay.” Drake suddenly sounded tired. He had returned the night before with a large troop of rescued slaves. Their little rebellion was growing.
Michael nodded but his smile faded. The Healers had worked hard for the last two days to keep Lianndra in a deep sleep, giving her body the rest it needed. He knew only time could heal the mental wounds. If they heal. Thoughts of what had been done to her threatened to rekindle his rage, and he closed his eyes, breathing deep.
Unaware of his new struggle, Drake said, “I have asked Virra for new duds for those needing it, including you. Stop by the supply tent to get measured because I think you may have jumped a few sizes.”
Michael pried open his eyes and looked down at himself. He wore a borrowed shirt that didn’t close across his chest, and the seams strained tight around his biceps. His pants threatened to split in several embarrassing places while exposing his shins above his boots. He sighed. “Growing up, my clothes always took a beating, but this is ridiculous.”
“Too bad Lianndra’s donation didn’t include more hair,” Drake grinned. “We are heading out again tomorrow. Andrea said there are more fighting units we should look for. I’m thinking you should come.”
“Aren’t you afraid of me losing control in a battle?”
Drake maintained his grin. “Actually, I’m kinda counting on it.”
THUS BEGAN THE LEGEND OF the Berserker of Tarin.
Like most legends, myth interwove with fact. Some rebels claimed the Berserker was a humanoid alien. Others considered him to be like a comic book hero, mutating when the pressure was on to save the day. The few that worked closely with Michael knew the truth.
Meanwhile, Drake and Andrea tried to manage Michael’s anger. It soon became clear their initial plans to give him control over the Beast weren’t tenable. Bottling the rage under rigid control only seemed to make the eventual explosion much worse. So rather than suppressing his anger, they gave him the tools to channel it. These tools helped Drake to offer direction when Michael rode the wave of fury. Reining it in again afterward proved just as difficult. Michael often hauled himself off into the jungle when the fighting ended. He would reappear hours later, exhausted but under control.
The handful of Healers the rebels managed to rescue traveled between the camps to work their healing magic. A few, including Andrea, joined the frontline fighting unit working to free more slaves. Michael personally freed many soldiers, dispatching their Fang commanders in a grisly, if effective, manner.
Within a short period, several rebel camps hid in the valleys and grottos of the rocky hills. The Gryphon patrolled the broad margin between the jungle and the camps, suppressing any Fang attempts to enter the grasslands.
Although Drake was the leader, the Berserker became the focal point for the rebellion.
Michael cared little about his popularity or that Drake and the rebellion used his evil alter ego to further their cause. At least the Beast is doing some good. Michael wondered if Drake knew how deeply ashamed he was each time he lost it. He has helped me to channel it, but I live in fear of losing it at the wrong time. Drake has no idea how often I struggle for control.
Sometimes Michael would catch the rebel captain glancing in his direction. Is Drake having doubts? Does he know I could lose control at any time? Michael tried not to let his despair show through. He became an expert at keeping a mask of indifference, and told himself he retained control as long as he stayed away from Lianndra. One thought about what the Fang did to her, and the Berserker would win.
A CHILL COURSED THE FULL length of Tark’tosk’s body as she read the message brought by her tech. For once, she forgot to control her emotions, and her technician’s face registered surprise and fear.
Multiple units are unaccounted for or confirmed missing in their entirety.
The guerrilla style of warfare the Gryphon employed made it common for units to go missing. Their attack and retreat methods ate away at the Tlok’mk’s army in pieces, one unit at a time.
But there is almost always something left to find: gear, collar pieces, armament, and attire, not to mention gristly bits of Tlok’mk commanders. Something to indicate an entire unit perished there, Tark’tosk thought. It was also rare for units to vanish without some communication to say
they were under heavy fire and in peril.
Now, three sectors were reporting units missing with nothing to show they ever existed and without the sounding of any alarm. The war coordinator experienced a sinking sensation within her. Something is wrong.
Tark’tosk ignored the technician standing in her office and tapped at her console. With a burst of annoying static, another Fara’s face appeared on her screen.
“I need the progress report on those collars.” Tark’tosk saw the Fara blink at her aggressive tone. She was young and clearly intimidated by the coordinator’s unexpected appearance on her console.
“One minute, coordinator,” she stammered and stepped away.
Off screen, Tark’tosk heard a commotion.
The lab supervisor appeared, looking harassed. “My apologies, coordinator,” she began, “we have been having difficulties with our equipment. The humidity has caused a major malfunction.”
“I have no interest in your problems,” Tark’tosk snapped. Perhaps it is not only the Farr intellectual quality that has suffered as of late. “I need a progress report. Now.”
The young Fara looked uncomfortable. “We have resorted to a gross physical examination of the subjects sent to us. I have preserved one for the particle scanner once it is repaired. The results are interesting.”
Am I the only one who recognizes the possible implications of this examination? Tark’tosk lifted her lips from her teeth in a snarl of impatience.
The Fara snapped to attention. “The collar nodes within the brain are buried in masses of cells resembling scar tissue. These cells render the collars ineffective.”
The coordinator regarded the other Fara in astonishment. Masses of cells? Scar tissue? “How would this happen?”
The poor Fara looked like she was feeling faint. “There are records of some species reacting to the nodes as foreign bodies in the brain. They end up with infections causing the body to build walls of cells around them.”
Tark’tosk nodded. “Yes, I have heard of those issues. We modified those species to eliminate the problem. And the affected subjects always died from the infections.”
“Yes, coordinator. We have ruled out infection with these two subjects. They were reportedly healthy until sacrificed. There is no sign of an infection around the nodes, just the scar tissue.”
“So, you have no explanation for the tissue?”
The panicked Fara’s face paled. “Not at this time, coordinator. We are hoping to learn more once the particle scanner is back online.”
Tark’tosk cut off the transmission. The tech in her office stood silent, waiting, having overheard the entire discussion.
No matter. She doesn’t know enough to make the connections. Tark’tosk remembered the message about the slave with the missing genitalia and his claims the Healer altered him when he tried to attack her.
Genetically altering the adult female humans into Healers was her idea—the key component to the new FHR divisions enabling injured soldiers to get back to the front lines with a minimum of delay. Were the adult genetic manipulations a mistake? My mistake? she thought. If the Healers can do more than just heal—if they can manipulate tissue like what the Healer did to that slave—could they disable a collar?
Missing units. Gone without a trace.
She went to the large map and tracked the reports of those missing. There was a pattern if you knew where to look for it. Those units relying on medic stations for their healing experienced far fewer disappearances. Those under the FHR units’ care were another matter.
It all added up to one thing: rebellion.
If she were right, she would have to act fast, before they were up to their necks in disabled collars and mutinous slaves. The Tlok’mk used thousands of slaves within their army. As long as the planetary shield remained operative, the slaves were the key to the ground initiative on Tarin. The Tlok’mk had to maintain control over the slaves to keep up with the war on the planet surface.
The tech watched her.
Tark’tosk pivoted to face her. “Get me Jrk’sak. I also need to speak to the barracks’ Healer coordinator.”
As the tech hurried out, Tark’tosk sat at her desk and opened a communication beacon to the elders on the nearest Mothership. She needed a progress report on the plasma cannon project. If her suspicions were accurate, they were running out of time.
MICHAEL SQUATTED ON THE ROCK ledge and stared at the rebel camp below. From this vantage point, the activity reminded him of an anthill, each individual bustling around with purpose as if everyone had a job to do.
Most do, he thought, Drake runs a tight ship.
In an open area, Drake’s lieutenants drilled soldiers, forming the ragtag bunch of freed slaves into some semblance of a fighting unit. The new recruits understood how to fight but not how to work together, and Michael knew working as a team differed from fighting to avoid pain. The rebel captain himself was nowhere in evidence, which meant he took a rare break. He’s either with Hannah or getting something to eat. The man drives himself hard. That’s one reason so many respect him. He’s got more responsibility than I could ever handle, or want. It’s so much easier just to shoot where he points.
The human part of the camp centralized around a bunch of semi-permanent buildings forming the canteen, hospital, and meeting areas. Patched together from old Fang tents and whatever the Gryphon could scrounge from their stores, they offered crude shelter. The Gryphon themselves were living rough around the camp edges, with occasional fires for cooking or warmth. Most preferred it that way.
The weather on the grasslands is easy to take when you’re covered in thick feathery fur.
As often as he could, Michael escaped to the cliffs. He preferred the solitude to the whispers and stares following him around the camp. He suspected Drake understood his reasons for taking the sentry duty on the highest vantage points. The rebel captain cut Michael as much slack as he could while they were in camp. It was either that or risk a Berserker episode in an inconvenient place. The farther I am from dense populations, the better.
A soft step on the trail below alerted him, and the scent carried on the wind identified the visitor. It surprised Michael since Karn seldom ventured this far up the narrow trail. The only reason the big Gryph would come here was to find Michael.
Working and fighting together had forged a close friendship between him and the large Gryphon. In fact, Michael found himself more relaxed around Karn than he was around members of his own species. Perhaps it was because the Gryphon wasn’t intimidated by what he’d become.
To Karn, I am simply an oversized human with pointy teeth and a temper.
“If you are trying to sneak up on me, you are doing an appalling job of it.” Michael kept his tone light, but he was curious as to why Karn had come searching for him.
The big Gryph froze and lifted his head, his long ears pricked as he looked at Michael. He appeared resplendent in the bright sunlight with his shining gold fur and dark contrasting stripes. “I was not sneaking up on you,” Karn replied, his mane fluffing erect. “If I was sneaking, you would not know it.”
Something wasn’t right. The voice wasn’t Karn’s; it sounded almost metallic. The big Gryph can’t speak English that fluidly. What the heck? Michael shifted position as he stared at his friend.
Karn obviously sensed Michael’s unasked question. He shook his head, his heavy mane of feathers rustling. “I am wearing a translator,” he explained. “It is old technology. I consider it fortunate we do not have many left. We Gryphon pride ourselves on our language ability without any artificial enhancements.” The big Gryph flattened his long ears. “The translators are irritating and we hate wearing them, but I want to explain something to you, and my usual stilted sentences will not work.”
A translator? Cool. Michael dropped onto the trail, landing lightly in front of the Gryph. Karn’s head loomed enough above Michael’s that he could spot the small metal device fastened to the Gryphon’s neck.
“I have something for you,” Karn said. The translator’s metallic sound was irritating, like a continual high-pitched whine. It made Michael’s sensitive ears ache, however, he found it amazing to have a normal conversation in English with the big Gryph.
Karn twisted his torso to unfasten something strapped to his barrel: a scabbard, but not of a familiar type. In cross-section it was triangular and looked to be made of the same scales Gryphon used to make their armor, only much smaller in diameter.
As he moved to help Karn untie the scabbard, the Gryph explained, “This is a rare sword, not due to its manufacture, but its very nature.” As it came free, he let Michael take the weight of it.
Michael lifted the sheathed sword with ease, but its bulk surprised him. Holding the scabbard in one hand, he drew the sword. He discovered most weight remained with the sheath. The sword had a heft to it as well, but it balanced beautifully in his hand. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen before.
The entire sword was black. Bound with leather, the round grip possessed a guard consisting of three razor-sharp, eight-inch spikes pointing forward at an angle. During a penetrating thrust, those spikes would sink deep into the target.
The blade itself stretched well over four feet from pommel to tip, tapering to a fine point that was no doubt capable of piercing flesh with a flick of the wrist. In cross-section, it looked like a three-pointed asterisk with a trio of wicked sharp cutting edges.
“It is a weapon that can pierce like a needle, wallop like a broadsword, and slice like a knife,” Karn said. His voice held a twinge of awe beneath the translator’s metallic squeal. “It is ill-suited to the swift Gryphon style of fighting. With the force of our weight behind it, this sword would penetrate flesh and not let go. Therefore, we prefer flat blades for hunting and fighting.”