Slave Empire III - The Shrike Read online

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you want to be a slave?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “The stigma sticks, even if I bought you and never collared you.”

  She glanced at Vidan, who looked solemn. “I’m sorry. I’m new to this.”

  “We know,” Tarke said. “Do you remember what it was like, standing on that auction block?”

  She shuddered. “Yes, although I was drugged.”

  “So don’t wish to be something you’re not, just to fit in. What you experienced was nothing, and it doesn’t make you an ex-slave, so leave it alone.”

  “Okay.” She sighed, then smiled. “Well, I’m not surprised you were so valuable.”

  Vidan grinned. “He fetched the highest price ever, because he’s -”

  “Vidan...” Tarke said.

  “Such a pretty boy.” Vidan chuckled. “The most perfect natural ever auctioned, I believe it was.”

  “Where’s a tube of glue when I need it?”

  Rayne gazed at Tarke. “I can see that, but does everyone know that about him?”

  “No. Some of his people do, but that only tells them he’s good looking, not what he looks like.”

  “When was that?”

  Tarke said, “When I was nineteen.”

  “Since then he’s deteriorated a lot,” Vidan remarked. “He’s old and wrinkled now. He’s probably worth less than me.”

  Tarke growled, “I need a hammer and some nails, so I can nail your lips to the floor, Vidan.”

  Rayne giggled. Tarke slugged back to the last of his drink and stood up, swaying a little. He picked up the mask that lay on the table. “Time to go and show myself to the masses, I think.”

  Vidan nodded. “They won’t be happy until they see you.”

  Rayne rose to her feet. “How do they know it’s really you?”

  Tarke clipped on the mask. “They know.”

  The Shrike headed for the door, his steps lacking their usual length and assurance. It opened to reveal two guards standing outside, who smiled and followed him. Tarke went to the hangar, which seemed to be the unofficial meeting place. A great many people thronged the vast space, some working, but most just hanging around, waiting. When Tarke entered, a murmur spread through them and a ragged cheer went up. They came forward to surround him, although none came within three metres of him. They gazed at him with glad smiles, and some women wept.

  Tarke stopped just beyond the glass office, raising a hand to still the hubbub. “I’m well,” he said. “I thank you all for your concern, and your help. Soon another slaver will die.”

  A roar greeted his words, and he turned to leave. Rayne followed, surprised by the brevity of his speech. He was a man of few words, however, and he did not need to say more. The crowd parted ahead of him, and he stopped to take her hand, drawing her to his side. His action made her realise that her presence so close behind him was now dangerous, even for her. The ex-slaves radiated anxiety, and anyone who came too close to him was in danger of being accosted. When a weeping woman held out her hands to him, her neighbours restrained her.

  Tarke stopped and turned to her. “Why do you weep, Najine? I’m well.”

  The woman clamped her hands over her trembling mouth, shaking her head, then lowered them. “Because you’re well, Nerone, and I rejoice. These are tears of joy.”

  “I’m honoured by the gift of your love, Najine. I treasure it as I do my own life.” Tarke held out his hand, and soft gasp came from the throng as the woman clasped it to her brow. He tugged it free and placed it on her bowed head. “May your days be blessed with peace and joy.”

  The woman nodded, smiled and wiped her eyes. Tarke walked on through the crowd, and Rayne found the atmosphere of intense emotional turmoil overpowering. She was glad when they left the hangar and the crowd behind.

  Back in the apartment, Tarke poured himself a stiff drink and tossed it back in a gulp. Then he filled three more glasses and brought them to the table, flopping down on a chair. Vidan settled opposite, exuding concern. Rayne frowned at the Shrike until he sighed and removed the mask, tossing it on the table with a clatter. He looked drawn and irritable, his brow furrowed, but he gave her a warm smile.

  “I find them overwhelming sometimes, especially times like this. It’s unnerving to be the object of so much affection.”

  “That was love, not mere affection,” she said. “In fact, it was more like adoration, bordering on worship. What does nerone mean?”

  “Honoured father,” Vidan supplied. “It’s used amongst slaves as a term of endearment for elders, since they have no families.”

  “And najine?”

  “Honoured mother. Amongst slaves, anyone sufficiently older than you is a mother or father figure. When two elders are about the same age, they use it as a term of respect. A young person is a cherin or shason, a beloved daughter or son.”

  Rayne picked up her drink and sipped it. “I have much to learn.”

  Tarke said, “I need a holiday, Vidan. I think I should take Rayne on a honeymoon of sorts, to Rimon.”

  “I agree that you need a holiday,” Vidan replied, “but Rimon? Wouldn’t Dreamish be a better place for a honeymoon?”

  “Perhaps, but she’ll learn a lot more about slave culture on Rimon.”

  Rayne said, “I’d like to learn about slave culture. I’ve probably been rude, without knowing it.”

  “They’ll forgive you,” Tarke assured her. “They know you’ve never been a slave.”

  “I want to learn how to be polite.”

  “Then we’ll go to Rimon as soon as Aramish has been dealt with. When is that happening, Vidan?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Tarke rubbed his face. “I’m going to lie down for a while, and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Of course.” Vidan rose and went to the door, glancing back before he left the room. The door’s lock-light turned red as it slid shut.

  Tarke went into the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes. Rayne followed, picked them up and put them away. Normally he was a tidy person, but clearly his fatigue was too intense for him to bother right now. The hiss of water came from the shower cubicle, and she stripped off her coverall, slid open the door and stepped into the spray beside him.

  Tarke wiped soap off his face and raised his eyebrows. “Okay, now you’re really taking advantage.”

  “Since you’re too tired to put your clothes away, I thought you’d need help to wash your back.”

  “Right, lesson learnt. Don’t drop clothes on the floor, even when very tired.”

  Rayne smiled, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s just a back wash.”

  “With you, it’s never just anything,” he said.

  “This time it is, promise.” She plucked the soap from his hands and started to lather his chest.

  “Okay, whoa, wait.” He caught her hands and confiscated the soap. “No. Not today.”

  “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat.”

  “A what? Nope.” He hid the soap behind his back when she tried to reclaim it. “Not going to happen. Here, I’ll wash you, rather.”

  “But you’re the one who’s tired.”

  Tarke smiled and rubbed soap on her face, forcing her to close her eyes. She sensed him move away, and by the time she rinsed her face she was alone. Emerging from the shower a few of minutes later, she found him already in bed, and he smiled when she sat beside him.

  “That was sneaky,” she said.

  “I’m a sneaky guy.”

  “I know. And you’re getting very good at slipping away.”

  “I’m slippery too, especially when wet.”

  Rayne giggled and hugged him, and he held her for a few minutes before she moved to her own bed on the other side of the room. She had become used to their platonic relationship by now, and hardly even flirted with him anymore. His boundaries seemed to be set in stone, and he was clearly immune to her charms. They were good friends who just happen
ed to be married and share an apartment, and she was resigned to the fact that it would probably never change.

  A feather-light kiss on her cheek woke Rayne, and she opened her eyes to find Tarke smiling down at her. He stroked her hair, then straightened and moved away.

  “Time to get up, Reyanne.”

  Rayne sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Reyanne?”

  “Beloved wife.”

  “Ah... and you would be?”

  “Larrone.”

  “Beloved husband?”

  Tarke returned with two steaming cups of a creamy beverage called najad, which passed for coffee here. “Yup. But you must never use those terms when I entertain slavers. You know that, right?”

  “Of course. I haven’t slipped up with your name, have I?”

  “No, you’ve been great.”

  Tarke handed her a cup, sat on the edge of the bed and sipped his najad for a few minutes, then went over to his side of the room to dress. She finished her najad before she rose, by which time he had left the apartment. She went in search of him and found him with Vidan in the glass-walled office.

  Vidan looked up with a smile, and the Shrike gestured to a chair. The Atlantean glanced at a scrolling hologram on the console beside him as it flashed.

  “News from the fleet,” he said. “Aramish is no more. The Shadow Wing freed over four hundred slaves and killed two hundred and seventeen freemen. Two ships were slightly damaged, and fourteen of Aramish’s were destroyed. Eleven ships were captured, including four cruisers and five destroyers. They surrendered after the base was destroyed. The slaver crews were dumped on Gergonia.”

  Tarke nodded. “Good.”

  “How can you destroy his base so easily?” Rayne asked. “Doesn’t he have a fleet of warships too?”

  “Yes. Thirty-two, I think. Isn’t that right, Vidan?”

  “He might have built another one since the last count.”

  “So how did your ships destroy fourteen of his and only two of yours were damaged?” she queried.

  Vidan snorted. “Because his ships were vastly inferior and outnumbered; there were forty-five ships in our strike force, and I only sent that many to minimise damages and casualties.”

  “That was a bit overly cautious,” Tarke commented.

  “It worked.”

  “Forty-five?” Rayne was surprised by the number. “How many do you have?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty-seven,” Vidan said.

  “Only Draykonar and Atlan have larger fleets than mine,” Tarke added

  “Did you find out why Aramish tried to kill you?” she enquired.

  Tarke shrugged. “I’m stealing his slaves, drugs and ships. If he killed me, it would throw my empire into chaos. Without a leader, my people would disband and become vulnerable.”

  “After they wiped him out,” Vidan said.

  “He didn’t know that.” Tarke turned to Rayne. “So, now we can go to Rimon if you like.”

  Rayne disliked the whole business and how much killing was involved. In the world of slavers, it seemed, it was a case of kill or be killed. She rose and turned to leave. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Tarke jumped up and headed her off. “What would you rather I had done?” He pulled off a glove and cupped her cheek. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know.” She frowned, pondering. There was no other solution. If he had spared the slavers, he would have risked death himself. She did not think Aramish and his cronies would be so grateful at being shown mercy that they would show any themselves. In slaver culture, mercy would be seen as a weakness. If she recommended it, and it led to Tarke’s downfall, she would not be able to bear it, or forgive herself, and hundreds of thousands of his people would suffer and die.

  Tarke nodded.

  She glared at him. “Quit reading my mind!”

  “You need to work on your shields. A child could read it.”

  “It’s rude.”

  “I know. I’m sneaky and rude. So you agree with me, then?”

  Rayne sighed, shaking her head. “There was no other solution.”

  “Good. Let’s go to Rimon.”

  Chapter Ten

  Tarke’s apartment on Rimon surprised Rayne. They had arrived at the drab green and grey world with no oceans half an hour ago, and left Scimarin and Shadowen in orbit. The cramped open-plan bedsitter had pale grey walls, a white ceiling and dark blue floor tiles. Two overstuffed faux-leather chairs and a moulded coffee table furnished the lounge. A brown rug covered part of the floor, and a faded landscape hung askew on one wall. An imitation wood wardrobe and sideboard stood in the corner. A solitary light hung on a tangled, much-repaired cord. A double bed stood against the far wall, and the door beside it led into a tiny bathroom. The kitchen boasted a cheap plastic table and three warped chairs, one of which was badly cracked. She had expected the Shrike’s residence to be a luxurious house, and raised her brows at him.

  “Surprised?” he asked.

  “Very.”

  “Ah, it’s not so bad. It has all the modern facilities. They’re just well hidden. Everything is top quality, but made to look cheap. This is my secret life.”

  “Secret?”

  He unclipped the mask and dropped it on the table. “On Rimon, I’m Torvark. You’ll see. First, a little disguise is necessary.”

  Tarke opened the wardrobe and took out a cobalt-blue shirt and a darker jacket trimmed with silver, a black belt with a laser holstered in it, black leather trousers and a pair of scuffed boots. He stripped down to his dark grey shorts and long-sleeved skin-suit, folded his clothes and placed them beside the mask. The clothes and mask vanished in a ball of golden light as Tarke used his implant to order Scimarin to transfer them up. Rayne sat on the bed while he dressed, marvelling at this new aspect of her strange husband.

  The Shrike went over to the stained sideboard and opened a drawer. He took out an eye patch, a piece of ragged, dark brown leather, a bottle of glue, two spray bottles, one silver and one black, and what looked like a piece of stiff paper with a pattern of swirling lines on it. He glanced at his reflection in the spotted mirror above the sideboard for only a second. She sensed his strong aversion to mirrors, and surmised that the reason for this was the face he saw in them. The lack of mirrors in his apartment on Ironia had not escaped her notice.

  Tarke picked up the piece of leather and glued it to his left cheek. The result was fairly macabre, and became more so when he donned the eye patch over his right eye. He sprayed the paper-like sheet with something from the silver bottle and pressed it to his right cheek. When he peeled it off several seconds later, it had left an imprint of the swirling blue lines on his skin, which looked exactly like a tattoo and covered the side of his face from temple to chin. Finally he sprayed something over his hair from the black bottle, adding a sprinkling of grey to its midnight hue.

  Rayne barely recognised the resulting grizzled, one-eyed rogue with a scarred, tattooed face, one side of his mouth pulled down by the stiff leather, who also looked a couple of hundred years older.

  He shot her a lopsided smile. “Like it?”

  “No.”

  He chuckled. “Too bad. This is Torvark: ex-pleasure slave and gladiator, burnout and berserker.”

  “Sounds a lot like you.”

  “Exactly; without the face that got me into so much trouble.”

  His words confirmed her deduction about his dislike for mirrors, and saddened her. “How can you see properly?”

  He pushed the eye patch up. “Ah, well it’s not really opaque. I can see through it.”

  “I’m surprised you’re going out in public without your mask.”

  “This is almost as good. It did take me a while to get used to it, but people don’t see me. I’m not me when I wear this. I’m Torvark. People don’t want to look at this face.”

  She nodded. “I can see why.”

  “So, who would you like to be?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Okay. You’re going to b
e an ex-pleasure slave too; a burnout and man hater. You won’t need much of a disguise, but you will need this.”

  Tarke went over to the box that had been transferred down with them, opened it and lifted out a length of flexible black metal with an oily blue sheen on it. He approached her, sank to one knee and placed it around her throat. She fought a strong urge to avoid it, her eyes locked with his. He paused for what seemed like an eternity, then pressed the ends together behind her neck with a soft, silken click.

  Lowering his hands, he shook his head. “You really are a silly girl, you know.”

  She fingered the sleek metal. “It’s cold.”

  “It will get warm. How could you just sit there and let me put a slave collar on you?”

  “You were expecting me to fight you?” she asked.

  “Do you really trust me this much?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “Don’t you ever allow anyone else to put a collar on you, Rayne. Not for any reason. You understand?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “You’d better not. Even if they say it’s not real, it’s a prank, a joke; it’s going to be so funny we’re going to a fancy dress party, ha ha ha. My god, how could you just sit there and not even ask me if it’s real?”

  Her eyes stung. “I trust you.”

  “Evidently.” He rose to his feet, leant forward and kissed her brow. “Stupid girl.”

  “Is it real?”

  Tarke wandered over to a cupboard and opened it. “Of course it is.”

  “It is real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tarke...”

  He took out two glasses and placed them on the counter. “What?”

  “It’s real?”

  “How many times are you going to ask me that? Yes, it’s real.”

  “But...”

  “You said you wanted one, didn’t you?”

  She fingered the sleek metal again. “I thought you didn’t want me to have one.”

  Tarke held a glass under a drink dispenser and filled it with a fizzy green beverage. “Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have one, if you want. I’ve given it some thought, and -”

  “Tarke!”

  “Hmmm?”