Slave Empire - The Crystal Ship Read online

  “Do not try to kill the Envoy. You cannot. All you must do is protect the girl until she is able to defeat him. If you try to kill him, you may doom both of you, and many others.”

  Tarke took a ration pack from a dispenser and pushed it into a pocket. “Why don’t you help her?”

  “I cannot. I am an artificial entity trapped within a protective shell. I have no physical form or weapons. I can form an energy sphere, but the Envoy is immune to all forms of light energy, including Net energy, as you call it.”

  Tarke went back to the bridge, stopping beside his chair to gaze at the Crystal Ship. “Any other words of wisdom?”

  “Yes. You will need your mental shields. Be sure they are as strong as you can make them. The amount of psychic energy in that chamber would stun a normal man.”

  Tarke glanced at the empty air from which the words emanated. “Good thing I’m not normal.”

  “Good luck.”

  Tarke sensed the sweep of the alien mind as it touched him and paused. Its scrutiny was brief, then Scimarin’s alarms went off, and the ship’s voice rose above them.

  “Proximity alarm. Collision avoidance in effect, brace for lateral thrust.”

  A spear of ghostly white light lashed from the Crystal Ship, which filled the screens, dangerously close. The light swept through Scimarin’s hull in tangible beams of brilliance, touching him with icy tendrils that sheathed and embraced him. He sensed himself slipping through space and time, and braced himself for what was to come. The bridge filled with cold white brilliance that forced him to close his eyes.

  Tallyn cursed and jumped up, raising his voice above the hubbub of his officers’ excited exclamations. “What just happened?”

  Marcon’s face was a study of disbelief. “The Crystal Ship took the Shrike, just like it did Rayne.”

  Tallyn glared at the screens, where he had just witnessed the lance of brilliance reach out and draw the Shrike’s ship dangerously close to the Crystal Ship, then release it. The black ship drifted away now, but no one was aboard it anymore. The vast crystalline entity sailed on, unperturbed.

  “Why?”

  Marcon shook his head. “I couldn’t begin to imagine.”

  “I don’t like this,” Tallyn muttered. “Not one little bit.”

  “I’m sure the Shrike doesn’t either.”

  Tarke staggered as the brilliance released him, blinking away the spots on his retinas. A powerful psychic storm gripped his skull in a crushing bombardment that made him grimace. His mental shields gave slightly under the barrage, and he struggled to strengthen them further, raising a hand to his head as pain lanced through his skull. After a few seconds he brought it under control, adjusting his various mind shields to block out the particular frequency of psychic torture that was being broadcast so powerfully.

  A terrible soup of pain-pleasure seeped into his mind, enough to incapacitate a normal man. Tarke had experienced plenty of pain, however, and the pleasure did not bother him, although he found the mixture strange and unsettling. He thrust the nagging intrusion from the forefront of his mind and turned his attention to the seething red sea and the massive monster that wallowed in it.

  The Envoy, he guessed, struck by its ugliness and size. The glowing sea filled the vast chamber with lurid light that cast a fuzzy haze over everything. The girl lay nearby, caught by a tendril as thick as his wrist. She was being dragged towards a clump of tubes tipped with toothy mouths, the nearest almost nipping at her shoes. He strode towards her, still absorbing the details of the weird environment. The gravity was almost normal for him, indicating that the Ship had a dense core, and the humid air had little oxygen. He slipped, and walked more cautiously on the slimy floor.

  Tarke had not used a sword for decades, and it seemed heavy and unfamiliar. Severing the tendril with a stroke, he gripped Rayne’s collar and dragged her away. The mental storm subsided, and she blinked as if coming out of a daze, turning her head to gaze up at him. Slime dripped from her arms, coated her clothes and slicked her hair. She smiled, her eyes filled with echoes of psychic agony.

  “Tarke.”

  Another tentacle snaked from the Envoy and whipped around her knee. She gasped, and he raised the sword to cut it.

  “No!” Her cry stemmed his stroke, and she added, “I have to do this to beat him. Just don’t let him... kill me.”

  Rayne’s face twisted with fresh pain and her eyes glazed. The psychic storm enveloped him again, battering his defences. She closed her eyes, lines of suffering bracketing her mouth and wrinkling her brow, her lips compressed in a grim line. He frowned, disliking the situation, but lowered the sword. His clothes stuck to the film of sweat that popped out all over him, and he twisted in their clammy confines.

  Tarke longed to help her, but the psychic barrage that hammered on his defences was so intense he doubted his ability to endure it if he allowed it in. Somehow, she was able to withstand it, but its toll was evident on her pain-racked features and in her occasional gasps.

  The parasite dragged her closer again, its tube mouths making obscene sucking noises as they awaited their prey. The iridescent feelers that waved above the Envoy’s back swivelled in his direction, and another tentacle lashed out, fastening onto his ankle. He cut it, and the severed end writhed away, puckering and folding inwards on a hollow tube.

  Rayne was close to the tube mouths again, and he unsure of whether he should interfere or not. A tendril snaked towards him and whipped around his legs, but he sliced it off before it tightened. The Envoy’s feelers focussed on him as another tentacle coiled towards him like a demented serpent.

  Tarke hacked it off, and the Envoy seemed to give up, concentrating on his first victim, perhaps deciding to deal with Tarke later. The girl was dragged closer to the waiting mouths. Just how far was he supposed to let this go? If he did not stop it, it was going to start eating her alive. The mental storm made it difficult to think while keeping his shields in place. He wondered how she could endure it, then realisation struck him, and he understood what she was trying to do.

  The Envoy was an empath who fed on the pain of others, which brought him intense pleasure. Rayne’s empathy allowed her to share his pleasure, make it her own and send it back. Her pleasure was poison to the Envoy, and Rayne used it as a weapon, causing him deep distress. Just as she reflected his pleasure, so she did his distress, increasing his pleasure and hers, forming a mirror into which the Envoy was being forced to look.

  Could anyone endure so much suffering and remain sane? He glanced around, wary of other dangers, but the huge chamber remained empty apart from the two antagonists. To distract himself, he studied the seething sea with its millions of glowing crimson creatures, discerning their purpose.

  A cry of pain jerked his gaze back to the girl, whose foot had been swallowed by one of the tube mouths. Its fangs lacerated her ankle, and he sensed the increase of the empathic maelstrom, his head aching from its pressure. The Envoy writhed as the psychic circle intensified, several submerged tentacles rising to lash the air. Rayne’s face twisted with a mixture of pain and delight, her smile a grimace, her back arched in a spasm of bitter pleasure. Tarke had seen many people tortured, and had always been helpless to prevent it, now he had to stand idle while she suffered, and hated it.

  Tarke could not interfere, however, no matter how he longed to wrest her from the alien parasite’s cruel grip. A planet relied upon her success, and its populace’s suffering would be far greater than hers. Strangely, her empathy lessened her pain, since she shared the Envoy’s pleasure, but still, it was hard for him to bear. To distract himself, he strapped the fighting blade onto his arm. The length of razor-sharp steel ran from his elbow to fifteen centimetres beyond his fist, which gripped a protruding hilt. With this on his left arm and the sword in his right, he was a match for most enemies, alien or otherwise.

  Rayne was in a dream-like state, the mental torture-pleasure now so intense she was forced to distance herself from it or go mad. She channel
led most of the pleasure back at the Envoy, and tried to heighten her pain. Her healing abilities helped by increasing the sensitivity of the nerves in her legs. It seemed crazy, but in order to escalate the Envoy’s pleasure so she could send it back to him, she had to endure more pain. Now that the Shrike stood guard over her, she focussed on the battle, trusting him to prevent the Envoy from killing her. She did trust him, she found, quite implicitly.

  Rayne also knew that if she failed, he would die too. This powerful goad carried her along her painful path, enforcing her resolve when it might otherwise have crumbled. She sensed the Envoy’s burgeoning distress, and at the same time, she became aware of her failure. The Envoy’s pleasure matched her increasing pain, but her suffering cancelled the distress his reflected enjoyment brought. No matter to what heights she took this battle, she could not win it alone. The realisation brought a surge of despair, and she cried out to the only other entity that could help her. The Ship’s mind was distant, but it heard her.

  Rayne struggled to free her legs from the Envoy’s gnawing mouths. Her eyes opened, filled with suffering, and she stretched a hand out to Tarke.

  “Help me!”

  The Shrike thrust his sword into the floor and grasped her hand, pulling her away. The Envoy’s hold tightened, and Tarke slipped, falling to his knees. He dug the fighting blade into the floor, gaining sufficient purchase to drag her away. The tube mouths lost their grip, their teeth tearing bloody gashes in her legs. As soon as she was free, her eyes glazed again. He wondered if he should cut the tendrils that held her, but her return to the psychic battle seemed to indicate that he had done enough. An empath worked better when in touch with her subject, and he knew this fight was far from over.

  Using the fighting blade as an anchor, he kept her out of reach of the groping, sucking tubes. A movement caught his eye, and he tensed in alarm and surprise. A horde of pinkish-grey creatures detached from the walls, oozing from the Ship’s flesh. They galloped towards the fray on black-tipped legs, some raising claw-tipped hands. Twisting, he grabbed his sword and yanked it free, hanging onto the girl with his left hand as he faced his new foe. The first wave of beasts galloped past him and attacked the Envoy, leaping onto him to plunge fangs into his flesh. The Envoy squirmed, the long tendrils that spanned the chamber writhing.

  The Ship’s pain hit Tarke like a steel hammer, bent his mental defences and made him groan, a creeping blackness trying to blot out his sight. He shook his head, fighting the urge to curl up and clasp his beleaguered skull, forcing his barriers to greater heights, far surpassing anything he had achieved before. The psychic power required to hold such iron blocks sapped him, and his brain seemed to grow hot, the tension making his temples pound. His vision blurred with the strain, but he retained his hold on the sword and the girl. Some of the Ship’s soldiers veered to attack him and the girl. Tarke raised the sword in a slashing stroke, lopping off a soldier’s head. It fell jerking, and he reversed the slash, opening another’s chest.

  The rest came on in a bunch, forcing him to release Rayne and use the fighting blade, slashing with it as he cut and thrust with the sword. A soldier’s crystal claws sliced a long gash in his arm, and he struggled to his feet. As he did, Rayne was pulled back towards the Envoy, but the huge beast seemed to be in great distress now. Another wave of pain went through the Ship, making Tarke stagger as it hammered at his shields. He shook his head to clear the aching redness, chopping and hacking at the soldiers. Their loyalties still seemed divided; some attacked the Envoy, while others came at him.

  Rayne writhed as the Ship’s agony burnt through her in a crimson tide. The Envoy’s enjoyment blossomed, and she channelled it back to him. His mental bellow almost crushed her mind, then he struck back by punishing the Ship, and again the deadly circle poisoned him. Each escalation burnt new paths into her brain, opening unknown areas as her pain brought waves of pleasure from the Envoy, and she sought to channel this back to the monster. She had a vague awareness of Tarke battling the soldiers that were under the Envoy’s control, preventing them from reaching her.

  Many more attacked the Envoy, and she sent a wave of gratitude to the Ship. Scrysalza had responded bravely to her plea, and the first wave of soldiers had brought retaliation from the Envoy, just as she had hoped. The Ship’s pain, so much more powerful than hers, had evoked enough pleasure in the Envoy to cause its reflection to hurt him badly. Now that the Ship was embroiled in the escalating pain-pleasure battle, Rayne had at her disposal enough pain to torture the Envoy with his pleasure.

  The Envoy’s tendrils tightened, more snaking forth to wind around her hips and waist in a crushing hold. She gasped at the fresh wave of pain, using it to strike back with the Envoy’s resulting pleasure, but the parasite had decided to end the conflict the easy way, by removing the source of his peril. She fought the tentacles, but their strength defeated her, and she cried out to the Shrike for help.

  The girl’s cry distracted Tarke, allowing a soldier to slash his chest, its claws shredding his armour. He cut it down and spun to chop through two of the tendrils that held the girl, then whipped back to face the soldiers. The fighting blade sliced into a beast, ending its existence, and it sank into the ship’s flesh, as all those he killed did. The numbers that attacked him were undiminished, however, oozing from the chamber’s walls in a seemingly endless tide.

  Already he had learnt that the slightest damage to a soldier caused its immediate reabsorption, and that had gained him an advantage. Sweat ran down him under his clothes, stinging his eyes within the mask. His arms ached with growing fatigue, and now he was forced to cut the Envoy’s tendrils as well as fight the soldiers, for the alien clearly intended to kill the girl. The escalating psychic maelstrom threatened to overwhelm his mental defences.

  A soldier crashed into him in an ungainly charge, and he lost his footing as he cut it down. Sliding on his knees, he ended up crouched over the girl, forced to cut more tendrils as he fended off the soldiers with the fighting blade. The Envoy’s tendrils snaked around his arms and legs, hampering him. They were close to the tube mouths, but he could not drag her away. The soldiers’ attack occupied most of his attention, and he could only spare an occasional slash to chop off the tendrils that sought to capture him. He needed another two pairs of arms to win this fight. He chopped and hacked, occasionally cutting a tentacle when the soldiers allowed, preventing the girl from being crushed.

  The Envoy writhed. The psychic poison Rayne channelled into him appeared to affect his ability to control his tentacles and the soldiers. More and more left the battle with Tarke and flung themselves at the parasite as the Ship regained control of them, but the price it paid was high. The Ship’s suffering darkened the chamber and fouled the air with a harsh, gritty stench. Its distant howling keened through the chamber, and the blood beasts’ brilliant glow faded. Tarke wondered if, in the process of killing the Envoy, they would slay the Crystal Ship as well.

  The soldier he stabbed staggered back and was reabsorbed, then no more faced him. He cut the tentacles that held the girl, whose eyes were glazed. He dropped the sword and searched for a pulse in her throat, then dragged her away from the Envoy. The massive entity writhed and shuddered, its submerged tentacles lashing the fluid into froth. The red sea no longer seethed, since many of the blood beasts had fled, reducing the light to a twilight glow.

  Tarke sensed that the battle had injured the Ship and the Envoy, and they had withdrawn to recover. The respite allowed his gasping breaths to slow, and as soon as he had the girl safely away from the Envoy, he wiped the slime off her face and patted her cheek. For several minutes, she stared at the roof, and he feared her mind had snapped under the strain. Then she blinked several times, focussed on him and smiled.

  “Tarke.”

  “Are you all right?” He realised that these were the first words he had spoken since arriving here.

  “They’re tired. The Envoy’s sick. He can’t take much more of this, but Scrysalza’s suffering to
o.” She pushed at the severed tendrils that still clasped her waist and legs. “It’s not over yet. It won’t end until the Envoy’s dead.”

  Tarke pulled the dead tentacles away, freeing her arms and legs. “Can you tell the Ship to turn away from Atlan? Does it have enough control to do that?”

  Her eyes glaze for a moment, then she shook her head. “No. It doesn’t dare.”

  Tarke helped her to sit up, concerned by her pallor. He tore away the shredded remains of her suit that clogged the bleeding cuts in her legs and used the rags to wipe them. She leant against him, closing her eyes. He eased her back onto the floor and patted her cheek.

  “Rayne, wake up. You’ve got to heal your legs. Can you do that?”

  Her eyes opened, full of pain and intense fatigue. “I need to rest.”

  “You need to stop the bleeding. Rayne,” he said as she closed her eyes again. “Rayne. I know you’re tired, but you must heal your legs.”

  Tarke cursed and dug in the medical pack on his hip for an ampoule of stimulant, injecting it into the side of her neck. She gasped, her eyes opening wide. He knew what the intense rush of euphoria was like. The stimulant would work for a couple of hours, then she would pay the price. He hated using drugs, but it was the only way. He pulled her up, noticing blood oozing from her fists. He prised open her hands, his indrawn breath hissing through the mask.

  “How did you do this?”

  Rayne contemplated the bleeding cuts in her palms, the pale gleam of bone visible in their depths. She could not remember how she had cut them; her mind was a dark, empty place. Memories scuttled away, leaving blankness. She shook her head, and he closed her hands again.