Slave Empire III - The Shrike Read online

  After several minutes, a thought struck her, and she turned to him, catching his eyes resting upon her in the instant before he looked away and sipped his wine. Her heart skipped a beat, but she berated herself for reading anything into it. He was probably wondering at her strange behaviour.

  “We need popcorn,” she said.

  He glanced at her, his brows rising. “Popcorn?”

  “Yeah.” She explained what it was, and its traditional use.

  He appeared to consider, watching the vidfilm. “I could ask the cooks to prepare something similar.”

  “That would be great.”

  Tarke rose and went to the holograms at the back of the lounge again, and she cursed herself for giving him another reason to move away. When he returned, he sat at the other end of the couch, and this time the wine bottle was in front of her. She wondered what he would do when his glass became empty, but for the next half an hour its level hardly dropped. Rayne almost jumped out of her skin when a flash of golden Net energy dispersed on the table in front of her, leaving behind a large bowl of what looked like popcorn.

  Tarke gestured to it and said, “Popcorn, I hope.”

  Swallowing hard, she leant forward to take a handful, her heart hammering. Using the transfer Net to transport something like a bowl of popcorn was unheard-of, in her experience, considering the amount of power required to achieve it, and a transfer within the base, without the benefit of a transfer pad, was something only Tarke could authorise. It would have required someone to set up a portable locator beam to map the destination area, then send the bowl via a spaceship, either one in the hangar or in orbit, since there were no planet-based transfer generators. It amazed her that he would go to so much trouble simply to provide her with the snack she wanted. Had it been anyone else, she might have thought he was showing off, but that would have been out of character for Tarke. This was the first time she had asked for a snack that was not available in the apartment’s kitchen, which, she suspected, would be stocked with the pseudo-popcorn after tonight. The warm, crunchy white flakes tasted a lot like salty, buttered popcorn.

  Rayne picked up the bowl and scooted right up to him, holding it on her lap. “Try some. It does taste like popcorn.”

  Tarke took a handful, shifting away from her, but now she was becoming frustrated with his elusions, and the wine bolstered her courage. She settled even closer to him, her thigh pressed to his, on the pretext of sharing the bowl. He drained his wine glass and rose to refill it from the bottle at the far end of the table, and she cursed herself for leaving it there. When he settled at the other end of the sofa once more, she slid across to him again, offering him the popcorn.

  “Nice, isn’t it?”

  He eyed her, a faint smile curling his lips. “Not bad. You’re missing the vidfilm.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen it,” she said without thinking. “It hasn’t got to the good part, yet.”

  “Why would you want to watch it again? There are millions of vidfilms in the database.”

  “I like this one. I wanted to see it again.” She tipped a handful of popcorn into her mouth, several flakes escaping to vanish down her cleavage. “Oops.”

  Rayne put down her wineglass and fished in the front of her dress, pulling the material away to reach the little flakes nestled in the edge of her lace bra. Tarke became utterly engrossed in the vidfilm, and she, finding that the bowl on her lap hampered her, dumped it on his lap. He put it on the table, refilling his wineglass, and she sensed his deep unease as she picked popcorn out of her bra and ate it. Her efforts jammed a few flakes into her bra, and a couple had fallen even further. Rising to her feet, she bent and wriggled, dislodging the remaining flakes, which dropped onto the carpet. Sinking back beside him with a sigh, and ensuring she was even closer to him, she picked up the bowl again.

  Rayne ate two more handfuls of popcorn without mishap, but noticed that Tarke watched her out of the corner of his eye now. Perhaps it was working. Then again, it could have been the steamy bedroom scene on the vidscreen that he found stultifying. As she shovelled a third handful into her mouth, several flakes missed the mark again. Tarke’s hand flashed out under her chin, which would have made her jump if she had had time to react. He opened his hand and dropped the errant flakes of popcorn into the bowl. Evidently he had no wish to witness her popcorn-extracting antics again. After that she ate the popcorn one flake at a time. Her plot might still bear fruit, however, as she had planned it carefully. Towards the end of the vidfilm were several fairly scary scenes, which had made her jump the first time she had seen them. She put the bowl on the table and sat back, checking on Tarke. He was relaxed, and sipped his wine, his empty hand resting on his thigh.

  At the first blood-curdling scream, Rayne jumped and squeaked, grabbing his hand. This made Tarke jump, almost slopping his wine. He tensed, trying to extract his hand from her grip, but she hung on, her eyes on the dark scene on the vidscreen.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should brighten the lights, then it won’t be so scary?”

  “No, no, it’s better like this. Scary is good.”

  “You like being scared?”

  “Sure. It’s fun.”

  He glanced down at her hand. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Aren’t you scared?” She shifted closer, lacing her fingers with his.

  “Not in the least.”

  Rayne returned her attention to the vidfilm as it approached its climax, which she knew was good. The heroically romantic finale made her eyes sting and her throat close. She became aware that Tarke’s fingers had tightened a little and his thumb caressed her skin, but he seemed to be engrossed in the film. As the music rose and the final scene of the clinched lovers faded, she turned to him, leant against his shoulder and placed her other hand on his chest. He looked down at her, and she smiled.

  “That was good, hey?”

  “It was mildly entertaining.”

  “Right, no bloody stupid romantic ideas for you, huh?”

  Tarke averted his gaze, rubbed his nose and tried to reach the table to put down his empty glass, but she shifted even closer, tucking up her legs, which exposed a great deal of thigh. He balanced the glass on the arm of the sofa and frowned at it, clearly ill at ease. She slid her hand up his chest, cursing the fact that his shirt was fastened to the neck and the skin-hugging vest he wore under it even covered the lower part of his throat. What was he hiding? Her fingers encountered the smooth, warm metal slave collar and crept over it. Normally she would not have gone this far, but the wine gave her courage, and he still held her hand loosely, although he had stopped stroking it. She raised a hand to touch his cheek, longing to caress his face. He avoided it by turning his head to look at her again.

  “Rayne…”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  He tried to extricate his hand. “It’s late. You should go to bed.”

  “It’s not that late.” She had him where she wanted him now; he could not escape without pushing her away.

  “I have to get up early.”

  “You don’t have to do anything; you’re the boss.”

  “I have work to do.”

  “It’s a break day tomorrow, remember? End of the week.”

  He shifted. “I still have to work.”

  “You really don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Rayne wondered what he would do if she climbed onto his lap, tempted to try it. She wriggled closer, pinning him in the corner of the couch. He frowned at her as she leant on his chest, almost nose to nose with him. His eyes became distant for an instant.

  The sharp, two-tone alarm made her jump, and for a moment she thought it was rigged to him.

  “Fire in quadrant twelve,” an artificial voice said from the back of the room.

  Tarke freed himself from her lax hold and jumped up, donning his skullcap, mask and gloves as he headed for the door. “I have to see to this. You s
hould return to your apartment.”

  “But…”

  The door closed behind him, and she stared at it. The timing of the fire alarm was just too convenient, and she remembered the moment when his eyes had become unfocussed. She knew what that meant. He had accessed something via his implant, and she was sure the alarm had not been a coincidence. Tarke could control anything on the base. There were hundreds of base personnel, though, and a posse of fire fighters, she was sure, so a fire alarm definitely did not warrant the personal intervention of the Shrike. What really amazed her was that he would rather start a five-alarm fire than let her get close to him, or push her away. What was his problem?

  A week later, the mystery drove Rayne to ask Vidan about it, since he was closer to Tarke than anyone else. She confronted the Atlantean in his office, where he was usually to be found when he was on duty. His cheerful smile faded at her first words.

  “Why can’t Tarke ever have a proper marriage?”

  He looked surprised and a little uncomfortable. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s what he told me. There’s a ‘technical detail’ that prevents marriage to him ever being anything other than a job.”

  “And you think I would know something like that?”

  “I hoped you might. You’ve known him a lot longer. I thought maybe he cared about me, but we’re still just friends, and that doesn’t seem like it’s going to change, ever. Did he really marry me just so he could keep the promise he made me on the Crystal Ship, to let me see his face?”

  “You were expecting more, from Tarke?” Vidan raised his brows.

  “Why do you say that like it’s the most obvious thing in the world?”

  “This is Tarke we’re talking about, right? Tall guy, black mask, hasn’t been seen by mortal eyes for five decades or more?”

  “Is that supposed to tell me something?”

  “Well, I thought…” He hesitated. “He hasn’t told you anything?”

  “No.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Look, all I know is he sure as shit didn’t have to keep his promise, so he must have had a very good reason for doing it. You’re the only person he’s ever allowed to see his face – who hasn’t been mind-wiped afterwards, that is. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to give you what you want, so you must be special, right?”

  “Then why do I feel like part of the furniture? We have dinner when he’s here, and we chat, and then I go back to my apartment. That’s not normal. Is it an Antian thing? Is he incapable of feelings?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Was it because he felt bad about reneging on his promise, and, when he saw I wasn’t happy, he felt obliged to keep it?”

  Vidan snorted. “Felt bad about breaking his promise, Tarke? He’s broken more promises, treaties and codicils to treaties than I care to remember. He’s had to fight to get where he is. It didn’t come easily, and he uses any means he can. If his promise gained him something without him keeping it, why should he? Unless he wanted to, which, as it turned out, he did.”

  “Okay, then.... is it because I’m not Antian? I suppose the ‘technical detail’ could be because there are no Antian women left, but… is it a physical thing?”

  “Not as far as I know. But I don’t know much. All I know is he was angry when he saw the vidfilms of you in those sleazy clubs, full of drugs. He used to get into the filthiest moods, watching them.”

  “Vidfilms?”

  “The ones his spies took. He didn’t tell you about those, either?” When she shook her head, he grimaced and rubbed his brow. “He’ll glue my lips together.”

  “Not if I don’t tell him.”

  “Look, if you want to know things about him, you should ask him.”

  “Why did he have his spies take vidfilms?” she asked. “Why didn’t they just give him a report?”

  “He wanted proof. Tarke isn’t the most trusting guy in the galaxy. He’s even doubted me on occasion. But the fact that he was so interested in your life should tell you something.”

  “Not really,” she said. “I can understand that he’d be concerned about me. After all, we went through a lot together on the Crystal Ship. He saved my life a few times, but that was because he was my guardian, right? And we were friends, even then. But was it only friendship that made him want to save me from the lifestyle I chose?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that.”

  “But you know, don’t you?”

  “I only know what I saw, and what he said, but he didn’t say anything specific. I would be guessing, and I might be wrong.”

  Rayne frowned, frustrated. Second-hand accounts of Tarke’s evasions would shed little light on the matter. “Can’t you tell me anything? Give me a hint? Steer me in the right direction?”

  “Look, Rayne, think about it. If he did all this so he could show you his face, he must have had a very good reason. He must have wanted you to get to know him better, or he wouldn’t have done it, would he?”

  “That’s what I thought, but nothing’s changed in all the time I’ve been here. So… I guess it must have something to do with this ‘technical detail’, right?”

  He shifted, avoiding her eyes. “He has his reasons, but they’re his reasons, so you need to ask him if you want to know. Maybe you should just be grateful for what he’s given you. He’s made you one of the most powerful women in the galaxy.”

  “I never wanted wealth and power. I want to know what he’s hiding and why he’s hiding it.”

  Vidan shook his head. “Then you’ll have to ask him.”

  “Does it have something to do with his past?”

  “Of course it does. You know he was a slave. But if he won’t tell you, it’s not my place to.”

  “He doesn’t like to talk about it, but he didn’t say you couldn’t. If you know something, you should tell me.”

  “No. He might not want you to know.”

  “Know what? For pity’s sake, what’s the big secret?” she asked.

  “What did he promise you when he asked you to be his wife?”

  “Not much.” She remembered the day in the private room near the club. “He said it was a job that would otherwise not be filled, because of this ‘technical detail’.”

  “Then that’s what it is. If you accepted it on those terms, you shouldn’t expect anything more.”

  “But -”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” Vidan turned away, and she sensed his determination and sorrow.

  Rayne glared at him and left, fuming at the unfairness of the situation and his loyalty that protected Tarke’s secrets even from her. What could his past have to do with the current situation? Why would it make him so unapproachable? She knew that asking him about it was a pointless exercise. He had made it abundantly clear that he would not tell her anything, and he was far too intelligent to be duped into letting something slip.

  The prospect of revealing her feelings when his might be so inadequate did not appeal to her. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, she went to his apartment to see if she could find any clues. He had returned to the base earlier that day, and if she found something perhaps she could steer the dinner conversation without asking him outright.

  Tarke’s apartment door opened at her approach. Since she dined there occasionally, the sensor was programmed to admit her, and she had never arrived before the allotted time. She entered the luxurious lounge, then went into the bedroom, which she had not been in before, and was curious to see. She wandered about, admiring the tasteful décor and several ornaments he kept beside his bed. One looked like a religious icon from Earth, and she sat on the bed to study it, afraid to touch it. If it was from Earth, it was priceless, and might be rigged to an alarm. Then again, she mused, no one would dare to steal from the Shrike, and his people were far too loyal to even think of ever doing such a thing.

  Becoming aware of the hiss of running water, she looked up, wondering if one of the servants was cleaning the bathroo
m. The sound stopped, and she decided to go back into the lounge before she was caught sitting on his bed. As she rose to her feet, the bathroom door slid open and Tarke emerged, pulling off the skin-hugging black tunic he always wore under his shirt. He stopped in surprise, and she gasped, sinking back onto the bed.

  A web of thin, pale scars covered his torso, extended up to his neck, down his arms, and vanished under the waistband of his trousers. They curved over pads and ridges of muscle, perfectly straight if not for his contours. Smaller, jagged scars marred his belly and arms, and several thread-thin lines were mixed with the broader scars. She stared at them, transfixed, as numbness rushed in to claim her mind, ousted her horror and replaced it with the howling emptiness of the Envoy’s psychic scars.

  Tarke glanced down at the tunic he held and pulled a face, then flung it on a chair and approached Rayne. Sitting beside her, he studied her calm, blank expression. She wore her black coverall, and her hair was pulled back in a French braid, a few stray strands straggling across one high cheekbone. What was she doing here so early? She stared through him, her eyes fixed on the faraway point in the void that had claimed her reason. He sighed and stroked her cheek. She was so young, only twenty-eight, yet she had already survived many hardships on her dying home world before the Atlanteans had taken her from it. Her presence warmed his heart, as it always did, and his strange wish to touch her fascinated him. Not that he did it all that often. Hardly ever, in fact. It would be unfair to give her the wrong impression about him.

  “Come on, snap out of it, Rayne,” he murmured. “It’s not such a shock, surely? You must have had some idea of what happens to slaves?”

  Rayne flinched at the sound of his voice, blinking as he stroked her cheek. He continued to murmur encouraging words until awareness flooded back into her eyes.

  He lowered his hand and sat back, watching her. “Better now?”

  She nodded, her eyes avoiding his chest.

  He looked down at it with a sigh. “You had no idea, did you? Or are you just outraged at the damage done to your husband, whom you thought was perfect?”