Slave Empire III - The Shrike Page 20

  This was only possible, she knew, because the advance had come from him. She sensed it then, leaking through his mental shields: a deep-seated apprehension. He released one side of her face and took hold of her hand. Her eyes stung as he placed it on his waist, then repeated the procedure with her other hand, always keeping one hand clasping her face. Slowly, he drew her to him, and an electrical frisson shot through her when she made contact with his chest.

  Tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks, and she sobbed, overwhelmed by the sweet poignancy of it. She had all but given up hope. When he drew back she followed, not wanting it to end, as if he was a magnet to which she clung. His smile broke the spell, and he raised his head. She swallowed a huge lump and opened her eyes to stare at him in wonder.

  The bridge lights grew brighter as he gave Shadowen a mental command, and he studied her, his luminous eyes seeming to gaze into her soul. She was sure she must look as stunned as she felt. He drew her close again, flinching a little when she hugged him.

  His breath fanned her ear as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “It was a bit overwhelming for you?”

  “It should be illegal.”

  He gave a husky laugh. “I won’t do it again, then.”

  “I think once was enough, yes,” she joked.

  He held her away and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “That was just a little demonstration of what I feel for you, Rayne.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Much more.”

  “I don’t know how much more I can handle, actually.”

  He smiled and brushed a lock of hair from her brow. “Oh, I think you’ll handle it just fine.”

  “I’ll have to get a pair of handcuffs.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  He lowered his eyes, and the lights dimmed. “I would.”

  “Good god, Tarke, what was that?”

  “Love.” He hesitated. “Just love. It has allowed me to touch you, and even for you to touch me a little, because I yearn to be near you so much. Love is the cure for hatred and the balm for pain. Just as you have those dark pits in your mind where the Envoy hurt you, so I have deep scars in mine from my years in slavery. After what they did to me, I never wanted anyone to touch me ever again. You sensed that, I think.” He raised his eyes and wiped a tear from her cheek.

  She nodded. “I did.”

  “Being close to someone… is something I learnt to dread.”

  Fresh tears spilt down her cheeks, and he wiped them away as she said, “How awful it must be, to want to touch someone you love, but to be unable to get close to them.”

  “More than I can ever tell you.”

  “How long have you been like this?”

  “Since I was nineteen.”

  She loosened her hold on his waist. “I don’t know how you can stand it.”

  “No…” He pulled her closer, pressing her arms around him. “Don’t… Don’t shy away from me. You have no idea… how much I want this. All these years, no one has touched me, and I thought that was all I needed, to be left alone, untouched forever, but now I know… it’s a cold and empty existence. I want you to hold me now, because it hurts more to be apart from you. The slave laws have kept us apart, and the more we’re apart, the more I long to be near you. You see?”

  “I do.” She smiled through her tears. “You could always tie me to the bed.”

  He gave a bark of laughter and pulled her closer, bending to whisper in her ear. “Ah, Rayne, you never cease to delight me. We’re a long way from that, I’m afraid.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, really,” she said, her words muffled against his chest.

  “I would. Don’t ever suggest it again.”

  “Why? Oh, god, I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

  “No.” He shook his head and stroked her hair. “You’re just not an ex-slave. You don’t know why that’s so wrong to me.”

  “I do now and… I’m sorry for the shower… and the other times. I didn’t understand.” She drew back to look at him, not having to look up since he leant on the console and was therefore on her level.

  “Do you really think I want you to be afraid to touch me?”

  “God, Tarke, if it’s horrible for you…”

  He looked away, frowning. “It’s not. You still don’t understand. I don’t want to be an untouchable anymore. I never did, but now I’ve chosen to try to overcome it. For that, I have to get used to it. I’m in love with a girl whose touch I crave and whose love I’m so afraid of losing.”

  “It’s diabolical. Will you let me sense a little more of what you feel next time?”

  “No. I’ve dealt with it for years. I can handle it.” He met her gaze. “You, on the other hand, have a dangerous psychological condition, a legacy of your battle with the Envoy. Shocks can send you into that dark place in your mind, and I never, ever want to lose you again. Got it?”

  She nodded, and her throat closed, her eyes overflowing once more.

  He cupped her chin and raised her face. “Don’t cry. Please.” He took her hand and raised it to kiss the back of it. “I don’t want this to change anything. Yes, there have been times when I couldn’t deal with it, like the shower, but I can’t keep you at arms’ length forever. Just be yourself, and when I can’t bear it, you’ll know.”

  “Because I’ll be flying through the air with your boot up my bum?”

  He snorted. “Rayne…”

  “I’m kidding!”

  “Good. Will you stop crying now?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled and twined her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

  Tarke jerked back so violently his head hit the console behind him. She released him, stepping away, but he caught her wrists and held them, tilting his head, his eyes shut and a muscle jumping in his jaw as he wrestled with whatever reaction her action had provoked. She chewed her lip for the several seconds it took him to win his inner battle, then he relaxed and drew her into his arms again. She hugged him, hating whoever had caused that reaction, and wondering at its source. He would never speak about it, she knew, so it was pointless to ask. Whatever it was, it must have been something truly horrific.

  After a minute, she leant away and touched the sleek black collar, frowning at it. “I’m going to beat this.”

  He stared across the bridge, shaking his head. “That won’t be easy.”

  “What was that?”

  “A reflex. One that saved my life many times.”

  “As a fighter or a sportsman?”

  “Sportsman.”

  “Playing Dodge Blade.”

  “Yes.” He met her eyes.

  “How was it played?”

  “Rayne…”

  “Just tell me how it was played. Please?”

  “I told you, the name is pretty self-explanatory.” He paused, frowning. “Several players enter a circular arena with a number of spinning hover blades – essentially anti-gravity units with two or more half-metre-long blades on them. They’re programmed to fly at about chest height, in random patterns around the arena. They only avoid metallic objects, such as the walls and each other. The players wear only shorts, or sometimes nothing. You just have to dodge the blades. Last man standing wins… and survives. And, of course, the sooner you become the last man standing, the sooner the ordeal is over, so shoving your opponents into the blades is a good strategy that all the best players use. The higher the level of the game, the more hover blades there are.”

  “What’s the maximum?”

  “Ten, in a thirty-metre-diameter arena.”

  She swallowed bile. “How fast do they move?”

  “Fast.”

  Rayne slid her hands up his chest to stroke the sides of his neck. “And pulling your opponents into the blades is just as good as shoving them, isn’t it?”

  He sighed and nodded. “It’s called a neck hook.”r />
  “And injured players?”

  “Are left to die. No freeman enters the arena until the game is over and the blades deactivated.”

  “How many players?”

  “The most I played with was fourteen.”

  She did her best to hide her horror. “So, now I know not to grab your neck and haul you around.”

  A faint, sad smile twitched his lips. “There’s also the arm hook, the leg hook and the collar grab, not to mention the punching, kicking, tripping and, of course, shoving.”

  Rayne closed her eyes, trying to imagine what it must have been like for him in one of those blood-slimed arenas, tripping over dying men while fighting for his life by forcing his fellow slaves into the path of the spinning blades.

  “Stop it,” he said.

  She banished the ghastly images and touched the scar on his cheek. “This one?”

  He nodded. “One of my first games. An opponent neck hooked me into a blade. My face was sliced open from cheek to chin.” He looked down. “The only way to survive was to have reflexes so quick that the slightest touch would cause an instant avoidance or defensive reaction. And it wasn’t only men who played it. The women were there mostly to get the place bloody. They didn’t usually last long. There was a girl in one game, though… She was good. I left her alone until we were the last two.” He raised his eyes to hers. “Then I killed her. She was a cherin. We had an understanding. I didn’t let the blades get her. I broke her neck.”

  Her breath caught in a sob. “It was a kindness.”

  “Yes.”

  “So… you must have wanted to live, to survive for as long as you did.”

  “The blades don’t cut deep enough for a quick death. I considered giving up many times, especially after playing for one or two hours, when I was exhausted, but I saw what happened to the men who did that. They died slowly, and painfully, and sometimes their owners set their collars to continuous punishment, so they screamed until the power pack died. My owner would have done that to me if I’d used the blades to kill myself. He told me so. He was a sadistic bastard.”

  Rayne frowned at the collar, noticing for the first time the two tiny green lights on the front of it, visible in the gloom. One flashed. “It has a power pack?”

  “That’s how it inflicts pain.”

  “The one you put on me didn’t have these lights.”

  “No, of course not; it was disabled. It had no power pack.”

  “So yours is still active?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The codes have been wiped, though, so it can’t be triggered.”

  “Where does it get power from?”

  “It has a movement charger. It will run out of power about two years after I’m dead and buried.”

  “Could it be used again?” she asked.

  “Sure. It just needs to be reset and recoded.”

  “What does it feel like, the punishment?”

  Tarke shook his head and released her, stepped around her and headed down the corridor to the galley. “Enough morbid talk now. I need a drink. This is not the time to be raking up best-forgotten memories of my wonderful life as a slave.”

  Rayne gazed after him, then followed, one final question burning in her mind. He held a glass under a drink dispenser in the galley, and glanced around when she entered it.

  “How long did you play Dodge Blade?” she asked.

  He raised the glass and took a deep swig. “Five years. Two or three times a week.”

  Her mind reeled with horror. “God…”

  “Enough now,” he said. “No more questions. It’s in the past, and that’s where it belongs.”

  Rayne nodded and went to the bathroom to blow her nose and splash her face. When she returned to the bridge, he sat on the pilot’s seat, and rose as she approached.

  She waved him back. “No, sit, it’s okay.”

  Tarke sank back, and she leant against the console.

  Shadowen said, “Tarke, I have a message from Scimarin. There is unrest on Rimon, and Vidan asks if you can return to sort it out.”

  Tarke groaned and rubbed his brow. “They don’t like my order. Shadowen, tell Vidan I’ll visit Rimon. It will be an official visit. Prepare the flagship.”

  Rayne raised her brows. “Is there any other kind of visit?”

  “Yes. The Shrike hasn’t paid an official visit to Rimon since the naming of the capital city, forty years ago. I hate pomp and ceremony.”

  “So when do we leave?”

  He glanced at a hologram. “It’s a five-hour journey. That should give them time to prepare, but not enough time for it to get worse.”

  “Will you fly with me?”

  “Sure.” He smiled. “Shadowen, go to Rimon. Tell Scimarin to follow.”

  The planet in the screens moved sideways as Shadowen turned out of orbit.

  “What’s the flagship for?” she asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  “What is it called?”

  “Empire.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rayne stood beside Tarke and gazed at the dull brown planet that rose towards them in the massive screen in Empire’s observation lounge. She cast him a sideways glance, wondering at his apprehensive stance and obvious unhappiness. Clearly he was not going to enjoy what was about to happen, and she thought she knew why. He was going to have to be the Dalreen. He wore his usual outfit, only his sleeveless grey coat had a silvery shimmer and the silver hawk-like emblems on his chest and gloves glittered.

  An honour guard of two black-clad soldiers stood on either side of the door, and a clutch of junior officers sipped drinks at the bar in the corner, casting Tarke occasional glances. The lounge’s grey carpet lapped at pearly walls, and the furnishings were made from crystal and rare wood. Banners and 3-D images of battles and star fields graced the walls, and the bar fittings, she suspected, were solid gold. Fire sheathed the screen as the battleship hit the stratosphere and descended through it, a slight vibration running through the floor. She had not thought a ship as big as this could land, for it made Shadowen and Scimarin look like shuttles. She had been awestruck when they had approached it an hour ago. The pitch-black Empire was sleek despite its size, its flanks bristling with laser cannons and energy weapon conduits, which channelled Net power from its shell. It was, she calculated, more than twice the size of Vengeance, and the silver emblems on its hull were bigger than any of Tarke’s other ships. It also had quite a few battle scars, some repaired; others fairly fresh.

  Tarke turned to her. “Empire is a decoy of sorts. My enemies expect me to be aboard it, so it’s attacked more than most of my ships. It always has an escort of three destroyers. In actual fact, I’m rarely aboard it.”

  She nodded. “What’s going to happen down there?”

  He sighed. “A lot of pomp and ceremony, and an end to the unrest.”

  “Because the Dalreen will order it?”

  “No, because the Shrike will be there.”

  “I think I understand, now.”

  “Perhaps a little.” He stepped closer and took her hand. “You can’t come with me, though. You’ll have to stay with Vidan and my honour guard.”

  “Won’t they be with you?”

  “No. You’ll see.”

  Rayne turned back to the screen as the fire leeched off it and the ship passed through a layer of clouds. It seemed to be descending awfully quickly, and she experienced a qualm. Empire had to weigh hundreds of thousands of tonnes. If anything went wrong, no one would survive.

  Tarke’s hand tightened. “Nothing will go wrong.”

  “Stop reading my mind; it’s rude.”

  A distant roaring became audible, growing louder, and she glanced at the Shrike.

  “Main engine burn,” he explained. “In order for this ship to land, it has to turn its regular impulsion engines downwards and use them to slow its descent. Anti-gravity isn’t strong enough.”

  Rayne shivered and watched the planet’s surface rushing up at them
. They appeared to be landing in the capital city, the vast spaceport below them devoid of craft. As the buildings below grew bigger, she made out a dark mass engulfing them, surrounding the spaceport and sending long arms into the city, every street clogged. Even the rooftops were covered with a dull carpet. Her breath caught. It was people; millions of them.

  Beside her, Tarke snorted. “A few hundred thousand.”

  “Stop it.”

  Empire slowed, to her relief, as the buildings became detailed, then rose all around them. Flames appeared on the apron below, sprouting from under the ship. They looked fierce enough to melt the concrete.

  “It will do some damage,” Tarke said. “Their fault, for summoning the Shrike here to quell their unrest.”

  “Is this necessary?”

  “Yes. What I’m doing now is hard for them to understand. These are their children who must leave, and they must understand why. My people have suffered enough.”

  Rayne could imagine how majestic the great ship must look from the ground, gleaming in the sunlight, its emblems bright and a cushion of fire slowing its descent. Empire settled onto the concrete with a deep groan and several creaks, and the fire cut off as stabilising legs whined out. The Shrike turned to her, releasing her hand.

  “Vidan will be here in a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  As if on cue, the door slid open and a flustered-looking Vidan entered, wearing a spotless black coverall, as usual. He hurried up to Tarke and raked him with a measuring glance. “You’re ready. Good.” He brushed at imaginary lint in the air above the Shrike’s shoulder.

  “Cut it out,” Tarke said.

  “Right, sorry. They’re ready for you.”

  Tarke headed for the door, and Vidan followed a few paces behind. Rayne fell into step with him, wondering at the deep anxiety he exuded.

  “What is it, Vidan?” she asked.

  He shot her a hunted look. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Nothing to worry about. Everything will be fine.” He forced a sickly smile, and her concern grew.