Slave Empire III - The Shrike Read online

  “Is this dangerous?”

  “No! Not at all.”

  “Don’t lie to me. Why is it dangerous? Tarke’s people love him.”

  “And right now, his enemies know exactly where he is.”

  “But surely… all these soldiers…”

  “They can’t stop snipers,” he said, “and your damned fool husband refuses to wear armour.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s like you. ‘My people love me’. God! His enemies hate him, too. He says if he wears armour, his people will think he doesn’t trust them. I know they love him, of course they do, but… if anything happens to him…”

  Rayne gazed at her husband’s back as he strode along a grey carpeted corridor towards a distant door. Soldiers lined the way, holding laser cannons upright in salute, and, closer to the outer door, officers with gold braid on their uniforms waited. Her heart pounded with dread as they drew closer to the door, and she longed to stop him, call him back and leave this planet; anything to keep him safe. She had not realised just what a precarious life he led until now, and how dangerous it could be.

  “What about stress shields?” she asked Vidan.

  “He won’t use them. The man is an idiot. I don’t know how he’s survived as long as he has with the risks he takes, except he’s so rarely in a situation like this.”

  As Tarke passed through the open airlock, the officers each grasped their right wrist with their left hand and held it out, as if offering it to him. She had not seen anyone salute him like that before, and the implications of the gesture were obvious. Either they were symbolically giving him their right hands, or offering to cut them off if they betrayed him, or both. He paused to nod at them and strode onwards, passing through the doorway into the sunlight. A deafening roar greeted him, and the adulation that came with it made Rayne’s heart melt. When she reached the door, she found that it was only a metre or so above the ground, and eight hovering steps led down to a massive crimson carpet that was at least twenty metres wide, and stretched away to a distant plinth.

  Two vast black banners bearing the Shrike’s emblem hung on either side of the door, supported, she assumed, by anti-gravity units. Empire’s massive bulk loomed behind her, exuding cold and a faint hiss as it warmed in the sun. Its lasers all pointed at the sky, the implication obvious. The warship was disarmed. The crowd ringed the ship about a hundred metres away, and the intensity of the adoration it radiated was almost too much for her to bear. The roaring went on and on, and gigantic vidscreens floated above the people, each filled with Tarke’s image as he walked towards the plinth, alone. Vidan followed at a distance, Rayne at his side, and the two guards walked behind them. A lump blocked her throat. The Shrike was dwarfed by the empty expanse around him and the deep-throated roar of the crowd, the banners and screens and the warship that had brought him here.

  This faceless man, she marvelled, had saved every single one of the people in the crowd from torture and debasement, given them homes and hope and safety. Even the freemen amongst them owed him their lives, for if he had not freed their parents they would have either been born into slavery or not at all. Until now, she had only seen him in his usual role, an adventurer and lone rescuer who kept a low profile while he dealt with the slavers he hated in order to save lives. Her stomach clenched as she noticed that no troops held the crowd back. It seemed unable to cross an invisible line, even though its members pressed forward. She swallowed hard.

  “Oh, god,” Vidan muttered, and she shot him an alarmed look. His face was positively grey, and she followed his gaze.

  A man had left the crowd to run towards Tarke, who stopped and turned to face him.

  “Tell me he has a weapon,” she said.

  He shook his head and squeaked, “No.”

  Two more men quit the crowd to sprint after the first, but they would not catch him in time.

  “They’ll kill him,” Vidan groaned.

  Rayne tried to dash towards the Shrike, but Vidan caught her arm and said, “No!”

  “Someone needs to do something! Why don’t they shoot him?” She glanced back at the soldiers who stood in rows beside Empire’s door.

  “Wait, it’s not what you think.”

  Rayne quickened her steps towards Tarke, dragging Vidan, who held onto her arm. The man reached the Shrike and stopped about two metres away, where he fell to his knees, pressed his brow to the carpet and spread his arms. Relief made her dizzy. His pursuers caught up with him and Tarke raised a hand, stopping them. He wagged his finger, and she wished she was close enough to hear what he was saying. He stepped closer to the man and bent, obviously speaking to him.

  She tugged Vidan forward. “Come on!”

  A hush fell over the crowd, and the man sat up, then rose to his feet. The Shrike turned and continued towards the plinth, and the supplicant’s pursuers escorted him back towards the crowd, which roared again. The Shrike ascended the five steps onto the plinth and turned to survey the throng. He raised his arm, and its roar redoubled as he turned slowly. Vidan guided her aside when they got to within ten metres of the plinth, and she stood beside him, the two soldiers behind them. Tarke lowered his arm, and the roar died away, receding into the city until complete silence fell. It was eerie, she thought.

  “My people.”

  Tarke’s voice boomed from all around, echoing along the streets as speakers relayed it to the masses too far away to see him, except on the floating vidscreens.

  “My people,” he repeated, pausing to let the echoes fade. “This… is where it started. On Rimon. Some of you may even remember its beginning. This world is yours. Your home. This planet belongs to you. And when I say my people, I mean you, who have suffered… you, who have paid in blood… you, who have paid in sweat and tears. You are my people. My brothers and my sisters. This ship…” He gestured to Empire. “…Belongs to you. They all do. Seven hundred and fifty-eight ships. To keep you safe. Now… there are those amongst you… Your children, and your children’s children… who have not paid.”

  The Shrike’s words echoed through the city, and the crowd was intent, hanging onto every syllable. His voice softened. “I have nothing against these people. But… I have seen them spit at rasheer, on this planet. I witnessed it. On Rimon!” He shouted the name, and his voice thundered through the city. “On Rimon!”

  The Shrike bowed his head, and utter silence fell for several minutes, then he looked up. “Cast them out,” he said in a soft tone. “They do not belong here. Let them learn what struggle is. Do not harm them. I have places for them, too. They are your children. They will be cared for. But… they cannot stay here if they spit upon rasheer!”

  The crowd’s roar was so loud the air reverberated, and Rayne covered her ears.

  Tarke raised his arm, and the roar died away. “This is your world. Thousand have died to make it safe. Thousands more will die to protect it. Do not let yourselves be insulted when you have paid so dearly for your freedom. You should not be spat upon on your planet! Anyone who disrespects rasheer must leave! I… I will not allow it! I am the Shrike!”

  Rayne swallowed a sob as Tarke turned and descended the steps with swift strides, setting off along the blood-red carpet towards Empire. The crowd roared its adulation, which changed to a chant of ‘Dalreen, Dalreen, Dalreen’.

  Rayne tried to go after him, but Vidan held her back. “Not yet.”

  “Why not? Why all this rigmarole? Why must he be alone?”

  Vidan nodded at the crowd. “Because of them. That guy was very lucky earlier, or maybe he had a death wish. Anyone who goes near the Shrike, who they think might be a threat, they’ll kill, just like that assassin on Ironia.”

  “And yet you think he’s in danger.”

  “Oh, he is, trust me. If any of his enemies found out about this official visit in time to put together a hit squad, he’s got several targets painted on him right now.”

  Rayne glanced around as he set off after Tarke. “If anyone shoots him from that cro
wd, they’ll be torn to shreds.”

  “Yes, of course. It would be a suicide mission. That doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”

  Rayne’s eyes clung to Tarke all the way to the flagship, and she sighed with relief when he vanished inside. By the time she entered the battleship, he had disappeared.

  “Where is he?” she asked Vidan.

  “In the captain’s lounge, probably. Give him five minutes, okay? He’s going to be in a state. He hates this sort of thing.”

  She sighed, nodding. “What I don’t understand is if there were any spies out there, they know everything now. They know these slaves are free and the Shrike isn’t a slaver. He as good as told them.”

  “Did he? When?”

  “‘Spitting on rasheer’? ‘You, who have suffered’?”

  Vidan smiled. “How is that any different from a colony planet? Settlers suffer. He never mentioned freemen, and there are plenty on this world right now. If the spies wonder why slaves are so enthusiastic about the Shrike, it doesn’t tell them anything, really. They’ll probably think he will punish any slave who doesn’t worship the ground he walks on. It’s not unusual. All they can deduce from that speech is that certain youthful elements spit on rasheer, and he’s casting them out. If they ask for a translation of rasheer, they’ll be told ‘respected sufferer’, which they’ll probably assume is an original settler. He didn’t tell them anything. He may be an idiot for going out there without armour, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Would it be possible to populate an entire planet with slaves, and not have them rebel?”

  “Yes. Slaves can’t rebel, with the collars. All he’d need are a few overseers with collar controls, and the slaves would have to do as they’re told. Most of them have jobs. Okay, the houses aren’t slave quarters, but that just means Tarke spoils them a bit. None of them own property or businesses. Everything belongs to Tarke. He’s also got pleasure domes on Dreamish where many slavers go to get their kicks and do business. The pleasure slaves there have a reputation for being the best in the galaxy, because they enjoy their work. If Rimon makes them wonder, Dreamish will convince them they’re wrong.

  “Plus, Tarke’s space is the best patrolled anywhere. No ship enters his territory without being spotted and followed. Strange ships aren’t allowed to visit Rimon, or any of his bases or planets, for that matter, except the pleasure domes on Dreamish. Every ship that’s got clearance to go to the slave worlds either belongs to him or an ex-slave. And, as you know, all his people would die before betraying him. The only way his enemies could learn the truth is if they sent a spy disguised as a slave, but that’s never happened because no one suspects. Only assassins sneak in disguised as slaves, and they’re all killed.”

  Vidan shook his head. “No, there’s nothing to worry about. His disguise is iron-clad. This is the Slave Empire, Rayne, and there are no people more loyal than those who’ve been rescued from a horrible fate and given a good life.”

  “What about that smuggler who took me to Ironia?”

  “If he had clearance to land on Ironia, he was an ex-slave.”

  “But if that’s all true, how could there possibly have been several hit squads out there waiting to kill him?” she asked.

  “The freemen. Tarke doesn’t trust them, and with good reason. They’re not allowed to leave his territory or socialise with outsiders. They don’t even get a yearly ticket to Dreamish, but they could try to kill him for the reward.”

  “And what’s to stop one of them contacting one of Tarke’s rivals and telling him the truth?”

  “All space line chatter is monitored, and the traitor would be dead within the hour. It’s been attempted a few times, and, mostly, even when they did get a message out, it wasn’t believed, and when it was believed, the slaver was dead within a day. Tarke also manufactures similar rumours about other major slavers, so anything like that said about him will be shrugged off as more slander. He’s thought of everything, believe me. You have nothing to worry about.”

  She nodded, reassured. “Is it safe to see him now?”

  “Sure, he should be fine by now. Just be gentle, okay?” He winked.

  Rayne blushed and went in search of the captain’s lounge, but, after fifteen minutes of fruitless exploration, was forced to ask a crewman for directions. Empire was a warren of corridors fifty decks deep, and it took her ten minutes of striding along corridors and riding up in lifts to reach the captain’s lounge on the top deck. Two guards stood outside the doors, and one spoke into a com-unit when she approached. The doors slid open as she reached them, and she entered a plush lounge with a soft grey carpet and huge, pale blue sofas with caramel cushions around low, white, crystal-topped tables. 3-D holographs decorated the walls and vases of fresh flowers stood on narrow corner tables. The Shrike stood in front of a vast screen with a view of the top of the bridge and the docking strip in front of the ship, where thousands of people still milled.

  Rayne stopped beside him and leant against the screen. “Want some company?”

  “Not especially.” His sigh hissed through the mask. “I’m not very good company right now.”

  “I’ll manage, unless you want to be alone. I understand if you do.”

  “No.” He wandered over to the sofas, pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the table, then unclipped the mask and skullcap. He flopped down and rubbed his face, ran his hand through his hair and massaged the back of his neck.

  Rayne sat opposite, a glance at the door assuring her that it was now locked. He looked exhausted, as if making that brief speech in front of hundreds of thousands of people had drained all the energy out of him.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He nodded. “They should find someone else to idolise. I find it hard to stomach.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I never wanted to be a bloody dalreen.”

  “What did you want to be?”

  “A priest teacher.”

  She nodded. “Right.”

  “That man who ran at me… was a drogtaal. One of my ships rescued him a week ago.”

  “I almost don’t want to ask what a drogtaal is.”

  “You don’t want to know. It would probably give you nightmares.”

  “He suffered worse than you?”

  “Yeah.” Tarke leant back and rubbed his eyes.

  “That’s hard to imagine. How do you know?”

  “I saw it in his mind. He has the scars.”

  “So now you have his shitty memories, too. Do you do that often?”

  “No.”

  Silence fell as she waited for him to elaborate, then she asked, “What does the salute mean?”

  “The what? Oh, that.” He frowned at the table. “It means ‘my power is yours because you freed me’. For most slaves, his greatest asset is his strength, and his right arm, unless he’s left-handed, of course. If a slave attacks his master or does something really bad, quite often they’ll cut off his right hand, making him virtually useless. Then he’ll go to an arena as sword fodder, or be used as prey in a hunting game. It’s not really a salute; it’s more of a tribute, to show their gratitude. And I’m not allowed to return it.”

  “Not allowed?”

  “Yeah. They won’t accept it from me. They’ll turn their backs on me – literally, not like they’d all leave. They won’t watch me do it. They told me I can’t do it. They didn’t free me. It does no good to remind them that twenty-six of them have died to save me. That’s not enough, they reckon, because I’ve freed millions of them.”

  “Well, that’s true,” she said.

  “I understand their need to thank me. I remember what it was like when I got free. It’s a soul shattering experience. I was a wreck for weeks. It was like being reborn. I spent the time drifting in deep space in my ship. I couldn’t get far enough away from people. Then I ran out of food, but I was afraid to go back to a civilised planet. I also didn’t know how to pilot a spaceship. Luckily it had an ancient computer,
not a neural net, and I figured it out. There’s not much to bump into out there. That’s when I found Rimon.

  “It had been abandoned a year or so earlier, and there was still frozen and dried food here. There were also one thousand, four hundred and seventy-two bodies. Slaves. Mummified, because Rimon was so dry back then. Most had been worked to death to get the last of the ore out of the mine, and the rest had been killed. They were dying anyway, because they’d been mining radioactive ore without protection. They were probably cheap burnouts to begin with, or stolen. I hated freemen so much at that stage I’d have killed them without hesitation if I’d encountered any. Luckily for them, I didn’t. I spent four months burying all the bodies. Every single one. I could have been one of them, if not for a stupid, half blind old woman.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “My last owner. She trusted me. She asked me to help her write her will. I made a small change that she didn’t notice. I changed ‘son’ to ‘slave’. After she died, I sold her property on auction the next day. I went straight to the spaceport and bought the first ship that was for sale and got the hell off that world before her son found out. He lived a long way away, luckily. I don’t know how I did it, though. I was terrified. If I’d been caught, they’d have put me to death in some horrible way. Maybe in a torture pit, or an arena. I stayed here until the food ran out. I almost didn’t get up the courage to leave at all. I even dug myself a grave. I’d rather have died free than risk being enslaved again. My collar was still active, you see. It was a beacon.”

  He sighed. “Anyway, I did leave, although I was pretty thin by then. I went to a smuggler world, where I bought a deactivation with the rest of the old woman’s money. They’re hard to get, and it’s very, very dangerous. If I hadn’t been wearing the mask… They probably assumed I was worthless, especially since I was so thin, so they’d make more money out of the deactivation. Of course, it helped that I had a laser pointed at them the whole time. Then I was free, although I didn’t feel free. It took quite a few months to convince myself of that. The rest you know.”