Slave Empire III - The Shrike Page 17

  “Greetings, Rasheer.”

  She noted the solid circle on his brow. “Greetings, Rashone.”

  “This is Dravore, a friend,” Tarke introduced the stranger. “Dravore, this is Rellyn. She’s new.”

  “I can see by the lost look. Just arrived?”

  Tarke nodded. “Today.”

  “First time I’ve seen you sponsoring. Good for you.”

  Tarke shrugged. “It’s a duty.”

  “But a good one.” Dravore turned to Rayne. “Do you speak to men?”

  She inclined her head. “Only rashone.”

  “Of course, that goes without saying. Some rasheer will do no more than greet a rashone, apart from their sponsor. But I have to ask why you chose a male sponsor.”

  “Protection.”

  “Your mark is protection enough, but then, you’re new here. Interesting that you see men as protection, considering.”

  “Only rashone.”

  Dravore nodded. “Again, obviously.”

  Rayne frowned. “So I’m new here, like he said. There are a lot of men around. A rasheer wouldn’t have been able to provide enough protection.”

  “On Rimon, you don’t need any.” Dravore shrugged. “You’ll learn. I understand. Well, you couldn’t have chosen a better protector, that’s for sure.”

  “How so?”

  “Torvark has a reputation for breaking heads, more so than any other rashone. He’s to be avoided.” Dravore looked at Tarke. “How many have you broken tonight?”

  “Only winded one stupid drunk drantoor.”

  “A good night then, so far. Keep this rasheer in your sights; she looks too fragile to handle one of your punches.”

  Rayne said, “If he so much as -”

  Dravore held up a hand. “Relax, I’m joking, Rasheer. He won’t.”

  “Your joke is in poor taste, Dravore. I resent it.”

  Tarke thumped the table. “You address him as Rashone. You don’t use his name.”

  “It’s okay,” Dravore drawled. “She’s new.”

  “She must learn.”

  Rayne scowled at him. “He used your name, and you used his.”

  “We’re acquainted. From a strange rasheer, it could be mistaken for an advance.”

  Rayne’s mouth dropped open in amazement, then she closed it and glared at him. “As if a rasheer would make such an advance!”

  Tarke nodded, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

  Dravore looked puzzled, frowning at him. “You insult her, Torvark?”

  “She must learn. She’s young. Foolish. A mistake like that could earn her many bruises, made to the wrong rashone.”

  “That’s true, but only if she didn’t have a sponsor.” He turned to Rayne. “Should you become separated from Torvark, I would be honoured to protect you.”

  Rayne hesitated, unsure of whether she should thank him, and Tarke said, “Yes, you may thank him. He’s rashone, not drantoor. We just came from the Hot Zone,” he explained to Dravore. “A drantoor bought us drinks.”

  “Ah.”

  Rayne inclined her head to Dravore. “Thanks for your offer, Rashone.”

  “The honour is mine.”

  Tarke focussed on something behind her, and the hairs on her nape prickled at his expression as he muttered, “Ah, now that’s just stupid.”

  Dravore looked around. “Freemen. In a Rosh club? They must have a death wish.”

  Rayne turned to find two men entering the club, their bare necks setting them apart from the rest of the patrons, who watched them pass with frowns. They appeared to be rather drunk, and banged on the bar counter, demanding drinks. A frowning unmarked barman served them, and they surveyed the club, sipping their drinks.

  “How can there be freemen on Rimon?” Rayne asked.

  “They’re the children of slaves,” Tarke explained.

  “Right. Of course. Then they should know better than to cause trouble, surely?”

  “Usually, but if they weren’t so drunk they wouldn’t be in here, so trouble is what they’re looking for, I think.”

  One of the men smiled at Rayne and raised his drink when she frowned at him, then started towards her. His friend tried to hold him back, but the young man would not be deterred, and approached her.

  “Greetings, Rasheer,” he said.

  Rayne raked him with a scathing look, then met Tarke’s angry eye.

  The man leant closer, smiling. “No need to be rude, when I’m being polite.”

  Rayne ignored him, sipping her drink. Dravore frowned at Tarke, who studied his drink. Two rasheer at a nearby table glared at the man, and the tension rose. The freeman leant over a bit further, swaying, and his hand clamped onto Rayne’s forearm as he overbalanced.

  Rayne wrenched free and swung around, intending to clout him. Tarke leapt up, and his punch sent the freeman flying into the unoccupied table behind her. It splintered under him with a crash of breaking glass and shattering plastic. Rayne jumped up and retreated as Tarke went after the man, Dravore following. Tarke gripped the freeman’s shirt, dragged him upright and slapped him with a resounded crack. Dravore went after the other freeman, who backed away, his eyes wide.

  “Shit,” he muttered, and fled.

  A touch on Rayne’s shoulder made her whip around, and her hand cracked into the face of a rasheer, who recoiled. Rayne gaped at her in shock, stepped back and bumped into someone else, who gripped her shoulders with iron hands and pushed her aside without allowing her to turn around. She glanced up at Tarke, who faced the assaulted rasheer and her female companion. Dravore seemed to have gone in pursuit of the other freeman.

  “She’s new, Rasheer,” Tarke stated.

  The woman rubbed her cheek, nodding. “The mistake was mine, Rashone. I touched her.”

  “Then you did indeed blunder, but still, regrets are in order.”

  “I accept. It was thoughtless of me.”

  “The mertaan are more sensitive.”

  The woman eyed Tarke’s grip on Rayne’s shoulders. “You must be her sponsor.”

  “I am.” He released Rayne. “I didn’t want my face smacked as well.”

  The rasheer almost smiled, but controlled it, nodded and turned away with her friend. Tarke smiled at Rayne, then turned to the freeman who struggled from the table’s wreckage. Striding over to him, he dragged the cowering man to his feet and sent him staggering towards the door with a kick. Another rashone nearer to the door helped him on his way with a shove, sending him reeling out of the club.

  Tarke swung back to Rayne and motioned to the door. “Let’s go. That’s enough for one night.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rayne led the way back to the apartment, guided by Tarke’s directions, and was glad when the door closed behind him.

  She said, “Wow. That was intense.”

  He nodded, sitting on the sofa. “Sometimes it is. You chose a lively night. Of course, slapping a rasheer didn’t help.”

  “You told me to slap anyone who touched me.”

  “You reacted perfectly. She was in the wrong, and she knew it.”

  Rayne sat beside him. “What’s a mertaan?”

  “A ‘newly arrived’ or ‘newly redeemed’.”

  “So there are still a lot of broken heads, even with the marks.”

  “There would be a lot more without them.”

  She nodded. “I understand so much better now. It’s... amazing. Will you take that awful patch off, please?” He removed the patch and peeled off the piece of leather, and she asked, “So this whole untouchable thing is an ingrained part of slave culture, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Ex-slave culture. There are no untouchable slaves.”

  “Are there untouchables on Ironia?”

  “Very few,” he said. “The uniculture doesn’t suit them. They don’t usually stay long. Most of them really need the pluroculture of Rimon, or the monoculture of a place like the Serian Moon.”

  “Where they’re all untouchables.”


  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve been untouchable for...?”

  “Fifty-eight years.”

  Rayne shook her head. “No wonder...”

  “I find it hard to be touched, yes.”

  “So it’s not just because of what happened to you as a slave. That was the start of it, but now it’s a part of who you are.”

  “No.” Tarke fiddled with the eye patch. “It’s a result of what happened to me as a slave. Being untouchable just makes it easier.”

  She jumped up and walked away before turning to face him again. “Can you change that, after all this time?”

  Tarke sighed, putting the eye patch on the table. “I don’t know.”

  She returned to sit beside him, her eyes roaming over his face. After a moment’s hesitation, she ran her fingers down his cheek. “So if someone else did this...”

  “They would already have a broken head.”

  “So I have the rare privilege of being able to touch an untouchable.”

  “Yes.” He met her gaze. “And I have the strange wish to be touched by you.”

  “And I do so want to touch you.”

  Tarke took her hand and clasped it to his cheek, closing his eyes. Rayne wound her arms around his neck and hugged him with all her strength.

  He chuckled. “Okay, don’t strangle me.”

  She clung to him for as long as she dared, then released him and sat back. “Was that so bad?”

  “It’s only bearable because it’s you. I am trying to get used to it, though.”

  “After what I saw tonight, I think you’re doing very well.”

  “A few untouchables have been known to recover sufficiently to become almost normal again, but they weren’t extreme cases.”

  “And you’re an extreme case?”

  He nodded. “One of the worst.”

  She looked at the scars on his wrists. “Those aren’t only from when you were a fighter, are they?”

  “No.” He rose and headed for the bathroom, pulling off his jacket. “I’m going to shower.”

  Soon the hiss of water came from the shower cubicle, and she thought about what she had learnt, disliking it. After ten minutes, he emerged clad in a robe, his hair damp. “Your turn.”

  When she came out of the bathroom, fifteen minutes later, Tarke sat on the sofa, sipping a drink.

  She said, “You do realise there’s only one bed.”

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa. Or we could transfer to a ship.” Rayne looked away to hide her disappointment, and he rose and approached her. “You must accept things the way they are for now. Longing for more will only bring you sorrow, and I don’t want to do that to you.”

  “I wish I could sleep with you all night, and wake up beside you in the morning.”

  He hesitated, then inclined his head. “Perhaps we can do that.”

  “I don’t want you to use drugs.”

  “No. Not drugs. I asked my technicians to make something, and they did, although I’ve been reluctant to try it. But now I will, if it will make you happy.”

  “What is it?”

  Tarke went over to the table, dug in the box the slave collar had come in and took out a wafer-thin silver oblong with tiny lights on it, holding it out.

  “It’s a neural dampener; a sort of semi-sleep inducer. It will make me very groggy.”

  She examined it. “When did you have this made?”

  “When I woke up with you beside me after the assassination attempt, it was pleasant, and you obviously enjoyed it, too. It’s a simple matter to dull my reactions like this, and then we can sleep together.”

  Rayne grinned. “This is wonderful! Can we try it tonight?”

  “If you like.”

  She gazed at the silver instrument, biting her lip. “Won’t it remind you of...?”

  “Yes. I’ll get used to it.”

  “And you’ll get used to me being with you, so this will only be temporary. Maybe it will only take a few days.”

  He shook his head with a sad smile. “I think it might take a bit longer than that, considering.”

  “Right, of course.” She grinned. “This is best thing you could ever have given me.”

  “Having a groggy husband snoring beside you?”

  “You don’t snore. But yes, being able to sleep beside you.” She looked down at the instrument again. “And this will relax you, won’t it?”

  “That’s what it’s designed to do, so yes, then you’ll be able to have your way with me, for the most part.” He looked away. “That’s why I was reluctant to try it. It’ll bring back memories. But perhaps it’s time I faced them.”

  “It’s time you made some good ones.”

  “Yes. It won’t put me completely to sleep. If that was an option, I’d have used a sleep inducer. They have to have timers, so I wake up. With this, I’ll still wake up; it will just prevent me from lashing out if you wake me.”

  “Perfect.” She bounced over to the bed. “Come on, let’s try it.”

  Tarke followed, looking a little reluctant, but she slid into the bed and pulled back the covers, patting the sheet. Smiling at her enthusiasm, he lay down beside her, and she placed the instrument on his brow. The little lights flashed, then turned green, and his eyes grew dull and sleepy.

  “How does it feel?” she asked.

  “Kind of like my head is stuffed with cotton wool.”

  Rayne snuggled up to him, causing only a slight ripple of tension to go through him, and she rejoiced when he held her close and closed his eyes. Finally she was able to share this most precious time with him, and would wake beside him in the morning, safe and warm in his arms.

  Rayne marvelled at how normal the pleasure park seemed. Although Rimon was a semi-hostile world, it had a good atmosphere and pleasant weather. Only its lack of water spoilt it, but deep boreholes tapped underground rivers to irrigate the flora-formed inhabited areas. A green expanse of lawn stretched away to borders of tall trees, and flowerbeds encircled sparkling ponds. Children ran and played, shrieking, while parents watched over them. Uniformed patrolmen kept watch for miscreants, and young couples sat on benches or strolled together in the greenery. Occasionally, an untouchable wandered past. Most often they were women, sometimes in pairs or groups.

  Rayne had not seen any sign of anyone paying for anything in all the time they had been on Rimon. Patrons at the clubs and shops were given anything they asked for. Perhaps they used cybernetic implants to make financial transactions, as Atlanteans did, but she wondered about that, since it was a weekday and so many people seemed to have no jobs.

  Tarke faced her across the table of a najab house where they sat under an umbrella outside, and she asked him, “How do people pay for stuff here?”

  “They don’t. Everything is free on Rimon. Those who want to work do so, and whatever they produce is distributed to the rest.”

  “But… what about things you need to buy from outside your territory?”

  “There’s not much of that. I have mines, farms, factories… everything. I also charge slavers to cross my territory, and I rent out a few moons and asteroids for mining. And I’m a thief, remember? I steal ships from slavers and sell the cargo, unless it’s harmful drugs or slaves, and I sell most of the ships, too. That’s what the Shadow Wing does most of the time, and sometimes we raid slaver bases. They share in the spoils.” He smiled. “We’re a big band of bandits.”

  “Pirates.”

  He cocked his head. “What’s the difference?”

  “Well, pirates sail ships, don’t they? They did on Earth, anyway. It sounds better.”

  “You’re trying to romanticise me again.”

  “I don’t have to.” She giggled. “You even wear a patch sometimes. You just need a wooden leg and a parrot.”

  He smiled. “You’ve lost me.”

  “I know. Earth joke.”

  “I’ll have to check that in my data files about Earth.”

  She giggled again, wondering what he wo
uld think of the crusty medieval seamen who had once sailed Earth’s seven seas. “But why would people work when they don’t have to?”

  “They want to. They do as much as they’re happy with.” He shrugged. “The factories are automated and the farms are communal. The Shadow Wing could support all my people if necessary, and they really enjoy their work.”

  A band of pimply youths emerged from a throbbing music market, their skins bright with tattoos and their hair stiff with coloured gel. They hooted and cat-called at a passing rasheer, who made a rude gesture at them. The youths followed her, jeering. Tarke watched the boys with a narrowed eye. The youths moved closer to the rasheer, imitating her feminine walk and calling crude remarks. Tarke tensed, and Rayne wondered how long he would be able to stop himself intervening. Just then a rashone with a two-thirds mark stepped out of the shadow of a wall and into the boys’ path. Instantly their bravado evaporated and they sidled away, sneering as soon as he turned his back.

  Tarke relaxed and faced her again. “That’s not allowed. Their parents are supposed to teach them to respect ex-slaves. Perhaps I should make it part of their schooling. This generation, I think, are the children of freemen.”

  “They’re just boys.”

  “They’re rude and uncouth. I could have them resettled on a freeman colony.”

  Her brows rose. “How many of those do you have?”

  “None.” He grimaced. “I had no need of them before, but now my people are breeding freemen. Perhaps one of the new planets should be colonised by the freemen in Rimon society, which would make room on this world. The freemen should learn what it is to struggle.”

  “You hate freemen, don’t you? Even if they’re not slavers.”

  “They don’t know how lucky they are. They take their freedom for granted, and now they don’t even have respect. That sort of thing needs to be stamped out quickly, before it takes root. I won’t have my people abused further here. This is their refuge.”

  The boys idled beside a fence that bordered a shrubbery. She said, “They’re the children and grandchildren of ex-slaves.”