Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2) (24 page)

“Don’t you want to mount me?” she asked with a pout. “We can make wonderful love together.”

“Of course I do,” he said. “You’re the perfect figment, the perfect ideal of what I want to—listen to me. Quit trying to confuse the issue.”

“Cross the field?” she asked.

“And talk to Klane.”

“You’re the one who will do the talking,” she said, beginning to sound more serious.

“Don’t talk to me. Talk to Klane and give him the message.”

“Where will you be, darling?”

Niens laughed nervously. It was bizarre having this schizophrenic conversation with himself. It felt like he was talking to someone else. The reality field was a fascinating invention. “I imagine I’ll have to stay right here and continue to power you, to think you into existence. Now, hurry. I don’t know how long they’ll let me stand here.”

She nodded, and she smiled nervously. She turned to go, paused, and glanced over her shoulder, showing off her triangular chin to great effect. “I just want to let you know that you’re the bravest man I know. There is no one like you, Mentalist Niens.”

“That’s true,” he said. “And it shows your wisdom that you understand that. Now, go, please.”

She nodded, resolutely faced the shimmering field, and slowly sashayed into it.

28

The stars shone brightly as Cyrus and Jana crawled to the edge of the mighty canyon. In the distance, the giant atmospheric convertor churned water vapor into the night sky.

Two days and nights of stiff trekking had brought the avengers across the uplands to the edge of the Valley of the Demons. Three times during the journey, they’d spotted sky vehicles and taken precautions. No one really wanted to try Grinder’s suggestion of fooling an alien crew and attempting to kill the Kresh occupants. Skar had been lucky the first time. The soldier didn’t want to rely upon luck a second time.

“We are soldiers,” Skar had told the others.

“Space marines,” Cyrus had whispered under his breath.

After several days of hard traveling, the avengers had finally reached the jumping-off point. Tomorrow morning at dawn, they would begin the descent. Tonight, Cyrus and Jana peered into the depths. The alien city’s lights shone far below. It reminded Cyrus of Earth and made him nostalgic.

“Crazy,” he said.

Jana turned to him. “What do you find crazy?”

“Actually,” he said, “a couple of things.”

“For instance?”

“It’s crazy that two distinct groups of humans hundreds of years apart left Earth and took off toward the same place, a destination two hundred and thirty light years away. I mean, how did your ancestors’ original vessel manage to make it to
this
star system? That seems more than a little coincidental. The odds aren’t in our favor that
both
voyages took place by chance.”

“Do you mean the Creator caused it?” Jana asked.

“I suppose that’s one explanation, but that isn’t what I meant. No, I’m thinking along different lines, more nefarious reasons.”

“Aliens?” she asked.

“That’s right, nonhuman intelligences causing or helping our various ships to head here.”

“You can’t mean the Kresh,” she said. “According to you, they don’t possess psionic abilities.”

“True,” Cyrus said. “But they had a station on the outer asteroids that gave us a false picture of Fenris. It showed us a pristine star system, ready for humanity to exploit. It was the most idyllic, perfect image we could get. Does that make sense?”

“Hmm,” she said.

“And your ancestors’ leader, the original guy, Attlee, I think the Reacher told me. Why did he see the Fenris System? I bet there are other, closer Earth-like planets. Yet he brought you all the way out here to the Kresh and the Chirr.”

“By your earlier tales,” she said, “it would seem the cyborgs made it in this general region as well.”

“Say, that’s right,” Cyrus said. “What’s going on, do you think? What’s the game?”

“I don’t follow you,” Jana said.

“I’m suspicious of coincidences, especially these,” he said.

“Does that change anything about what we should do?”

Cyrus thought about that. “I guess not. It’s just that I don’t like being led around by my nose. I don’t like prophecies, either, which say certain events have to happen. I mean, do we have free will or not?”

“The seeker chose to die so we eight of Berserker Clan could have knowledge.”

“Did she choose?” Cyrus asked. “I think she felt compelled to go along with the planned program, with the so-called prophesies.”

“That’s good, though,” Jana said. “The prophesies foretell of our ultimate victory.”

Cyrus snorted. “I wouldn’t count on winning. Including Skar and me, we’re ten . . . outcasts planning to rescue the Fenris System’s savior. Ten against thousands are bad odds, my love.”

“But better than doing nothing.”

“True,” Cyrus said.

They peered into the canyon depths. It was a long way down. It was going to be a hard trek to reach the Kresh lights.

“Cyrus?”

“Hmm?” he said.

“Would you have been happy with me if I hadn’t received these memories?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was a primitive.”

He shrugged. “You were smart. You just hadn’t gotten a technological education yet. I used to be in the same boat.” He smiled at her. “That’s the long answer. The short one is, of course I would have. You’re the same Jana.”

She’d been watching him closely. “No. I have different memories. We all have them. Well, not exactly. I think you were right the other day when you speculated that each of us received a portion of the seeker’s recollections. We each recall different things. My point is that I no longer think like Jana did.”

“I’m not sure you’re right,” he said.

“I am,” she said. “You know I’m right.”

“Okay. So who are you then?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” she said in a soft tone.

Cyrus sidled closer. “No. I don’t believe that. You’re the same Jana, but with more experiences. This isn’t like primitive spirit possession. I’m still the Cyrus of the slums, of Bottom Milan. I react with more knowledge most of the time, but it’s still me inside here.” He tapped his heart. “And it’s still you,” he said, tapping her heart and ending up by squeezing her right breast.

They embraced, and for a time they kissed.

“Do you love me?” Jana whispered.

He almost told her that he’d already said he did some time ago. When he changed his mind, he would let her know. But that didn’t seem like the response she was looking for.

“I love you, Jana, whatever your memories.” He kissed her long and lingeringly for emphasis, tasting a hint of salt on her lips.

“Do you still want to marry me?” she asked in a small voice.

“With all my heart,” he said.

“When?”

He let go of her and searched her eyes. “Earth customs say that a captain of a ship can marry people. Once we get a spaceship, I’ll have the captain marry us. Does that sound good?”

She smiled and hugged him fiercely.

Cyrus breathed deeply afterward. He didn’t know what the next few days were going to bring. Probably pain and suffering, maybe death. He knew, though, that he would protect Jana with everything he had. It would be heartrending to lose her now. He was going to make sure he didn’t fail her as he’d failed the seeker. That he vowed.

29

Klane frowned and he didn’t know why. He recalled something about a hive, and then there had been cyborgs. Yes . . . the cyborgs came in five mighty vessels, heading toward the Fenris System. He tried to concentrate on that because it felt as if he was missing something. A fuzzy dome sizzled above him, and . . . and . . .

His thoughts slowly turned and everything shifted. He was young again. No. What was he thinking? He’d never been old. Clan Tash-Toi gathered at the Red Rock Jumbles. They were reddish boulders piled beside a shale-littered rock formation. Klane examined himself, surprised to see six-year-old limbs.

This happened to me. It’s not happening now
. Yet it seemed very much to be occurring in real time.

The hetman and several warriors had left a day ago in search of meat. The seeker had cast into the future and foretold about bad omens. At six years of age, Klane toiled for the crafty seeker with his ill-smelling breath. He didn’t want to be an apprentice. Klane yearned to be a warrior, carrying a spear into battle and wielding a sharp knife.

It seemed as if he remembered one of the worst days of his life. Yet this felt as if it happened right now. He could feel the cool breeze on his skin. He was always colder than the others were, and had to wear thicker garments to stay warm. Even more embarrassing, he had to breathe rapidly so it didn’t feel as if he were suffocating. To him, the air was thin, too thin if he ran or played too hard.

Compared to other children his age, Klane was frail and a sickly pale color. He spied Ram, a seven-year-old and a favorite of the warriors. Ram stood atop a man-sized boulder, with his stout legs splayed wide. Ram sneered at the rest of the children—four other boys—standing at the base of the boulder. But he saved his worst sneer for the fifth child, for Klane, standing among the others and looking up.

Despite his age, Ram’s brown face was a slab of sternness. His scarred right hand clutched a knotted club. Klane noticed the clouds drifting high above Ram and the club. There was a taint of ozone in the air, foretelling of coming rain.

“Who is the toughest here?” Ram shouted down. “Who is the hetman of the hill?”

Klane and the other four boys glanced at each other. Each could tell what the other was thinking. They nodded, and together, they lunged up the boulder, scrambling to take Ram down.

Ram knelt and swung his club, hitting the first boy on the side of the head with a decided thud. The boy didn’t cry out, although he lost his hold and tumbled down onto the dirt, landing on his back. He lay here, stunned. Another child crawled up on the other side of the boulder. He sneaked up an arm and grabbed Ram’s left ankle. With a fierce grin, the boy yanked.

Ram shouted in alarm. He must have been surprised and hadn’t been able to swallow the inarticulate sound. The club flew up as Ram hit his head on the boulder. He flailed for a purchase and failed to gain it, falling onto the boy who had tripped him. Together, the two tumbled off, struck a third climbing boy, and all three thudded onto the dirt below.

Klane’s young heart soared. This was glorious. The club landed on top of the boulder, rolled, but remained there. He had never been the hetman of the hill. This was the chance of his life.

He scrambled up faster than the last boy and picked up the club, swinging blindly at the other. Luck aided him today. He connected with a meaty thwack and watched the boy of six pinwheel his arms before falling out of sight.

While gripping the club, Klane stood up on the boulder. He laughed wildly. Then he pointed the blunt end of the club at Ram. “I’m the hetman! I rule the boulder.”

A warrior happened to be passing by and noticed the interplay. He halted and put both fists on his hips. “Ho ha!” he scoffed. “The pale one has defeated the noble Ram. What ails you, child? Have you been feeding from your mother’s teat? Do you lack the strength to defeat the weakling?”

Klane’s grin slipped a little. Ram had a terrible temper.

Ram pushed another boy’s legs off his chest and scrambled upright. He scowled like a grown-up. Pointing at Klane, Ram shouted, “Get off the boulder! You didn’t win it fairly.”

Klane was afraid of Ram, but stubbornness boiled in him. A warrior had seen his victory. That was good. “No!” he yelled at Ram. “I’m the hetman of the hill! And I’ll knock down anyone who tries to push me off.”

Ram growled with rage, kicking dirt. With a savage yell, he shot toward the boulder, and he climbed like a rill.

Klane set himself, judging the moment, waiting for it. As Ram’s head came into view, Klane swung the club two-handed. The wood caught Ram on the shoulder. The thud of it numbed Klane’s small hands, but the blow only enraged Ram that much more. With a surge, Ram made it up and he shoved Klane in the chest.

Klane sailed backward off the boulder. It was a sickening feeling. He struck the dirt with his back, a stone poking him between the shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of his weak lungs. Ram’s dirty feet thudded beside him. Working his mouth, Klane tried to speak. He couldn’t. The air had been knocked out of him.

With his blunt, brown features scrunched up with rage, Ram picked up the fallen club. He swung, hitting Klane’s side. He swung again, striking the legs. Scrambling around to the other side, he bashed a body blow against Klane’s chest.

Klane doubled up, trying to protect himself. He expected the warrior to stop Ram. A glance showed him the warrior nodding with approval. Then knotty wood thudded against Klane’s head, and the world spun crazily.

The warrior finally strode forward. With a single blow, he knocked the club out of Ram’s grasp. “Off with you, young warrior,” the man said. “Don’t kill the pale one. It might make the seeker angry.”

“No!” Ram shouted. “I’m the hetman of the hill. I’m teaching him a lesson he’ll never forget.”

The warrior slapped Ram across the face, knocking the boy to the ground. “Don’t argue with a warrior, boy. Go. Play elsewhere.”

Sniffling back tears, Ram jumped up and ran away, with the other boys following him. The warrior glanced once at Klane, grunted something under his breath, and went his way.

Afterward, after the hurt faded, Klane groaned and spat out dirt. A cut inside his mouth tasted like blood. His entire body ached. To his astonishment, Klane spied the seeker rising from a rock fifteen feet away. Had the old man been there the entire time? Why hadn’t the seeker helped him? He was the man’s apprentice, right?

The seeker moved near and squatted beside him. He muttered as he tended to Klane’s wounds.

“I’m fine,” Klane finally said.

“Then why are you lying on the ground like a sicker?”

“Because I’m hurt,” Klane said.

“Bah,” the seeker said. He produced a stink beetle, putting it under Klane’s nose.

Klane shot to his feet, vigorously rubbing his nose and swaying as his vision blurred.

“Come, boy,” the seeker said, gruffly. “Let me instruct you in the proper way to play such games.”

Klane limped after the old man, drying the tears that trickled from his eyes. No man in Clan Tash-Toi cried—at least they weren’t supposed to.

The seeker led Klane to a secluded area among bigger boulders. His ribs ached less by now and his lip had stopped bleeding. The seeker motioned for Klane to squat, which he did.

“Listen to me, boy. You will never become the hetman. The others would kill you if they thought you had a chance of succeeding. Only a true Tash-Toi can be the hetman. Do you understand?”

Klane’s little heart beat rapidly. He sat on the ground, feeling alone and outcast. He nodded, though, wanting to please the seeker, the only person who had ever been friendly to him.

“Good,” the seeker said. “Remember, you’re a lemper, not a rill. The rill is brave and stalks any prey it wants. It fears nothing and uses its power to pull down weaker prey. Yet, because it fears nothing our warriors can easily trap it.” The old man held up a gnarled finger as he grinned. Several teeth were already missing. Even so, Klane loved the old man.

“Ah,” the seeker said, as he waggled the finger. “Warriors capture the rill, but who captures the crafty lemper?”

“Have you?” Klane asked, softly.

The seeker lowered his head, and whispered, “Once but only once, and I’m the only one in the clan to do it.” The seeker reached behind his back into a pouch and pulled out a small, spotted skin. It was lemper leather. The old man unwrapped it and dropped a smooth, oiled stone onto his palm. “The lemper skin holds my most powerful junction-stone. It helps to give the stone cunning.”

Klane’s right eye had puffed shut. His ribs still hurt and so did his gut. At that moment, he knew he never wanted to be beaten again. He wanted to defeat others. He wanted to win, and to do the beating.

“Yes,” Klane whispered. “I want the cunning to hurt Ram, to hurt anyone who attacks me.”

“Ah,” the seeker said. “The fact that you
want
to be cunning shows you have the ability to be cunning. In time, perhaps, I can teach you the deeper guile.”

With his one good eye, Klane glanced up into the old man’s face. Pride swelled in Klane’s chest. “I’m already cunning. I baited Ram with my words.”

The seeker sighed. “Yes, you baited him, but you took a beating in return. That isn’t cunning, but stupidity.”

“I didn’t cry,” Klane lied.

“So what?” the old man said. “What does that prove?”

Klane blinked with confusion.

“Listen to me, young one. What you just did was the way of the warrior. But you are not a warrior-to-be. You are a seeker-to-be.”

“Which is more powerful?” Klane asked.

“Ask rather, which gets hurt less? Which understands more? Which is more cunning?”

Klane scowled. He wasn’t sure he liked those questions.

“Have you ever seen anyone hit me?” the seeker asked.

Klane’s eyes widened with horror. “No one would dare hit you.”

“Exactly,” the seeker said, as he chucked Klane under the chin.

Klane thought about that as the seeker waited, watching him.

“How . . . how can I make it so no one ever hits me again?” Klane asked.

“That is the question,” the seeker said. “First, you must never play with the other boys again.”

Klane began to sniffle. “Who will I play with then?”

“With me,” the seeker said.

Klane stared at the old man, wondering how that would work.

“In truth, you will have little time to play,” the seeker said. “You will be too busy learning how to act like a lemper.”

Klane nodded, and he told himself he mustn’t cry.

“Good,” the seeker said. “You can accept hard news. Now, you must begin to make your own junction-stone. Tomorrow, we will search for a suitable rock.”

Klane grinned. He knew that junction-stones were powerful—deadly, in fact.

“Afterward,” the seeker said, “you need a plan for when Ram comes around to hit you again. You will have to learn how to twist his words, and baffle him and the others with cunning. Would you like to think up a seeker sort of plan for dealing with Ram?”

“Does the plan include hurting him?”

“More than you can imagine,” the seeker said.

With his tongue, Klane touched the cut on his lip and recalled how he’d gotten it. “Yes. I want to learn,” he said.

“Excellent,” the old man said, with an evil grin. “To begin with . . .”

He spoke for a long time concerning cunning: how to use a person’s beliefs against them. Klane became weary until his head drooped and his eyelids fluttered.

“Klane, you need to wake up. Can you hear me?”

Klane felt a soft hand on his knee. The hand squeezed and it shook his leg. Drowsily, he lifted his head, and he shouted in alarm, shooting to his feet to stand there trembling.

A naked woman was crouched beside him, with shining things on her breasts. She was exotic, alluring—wasn’t she cold without garments?

“Klane,” she said.

“How . . . how do you know my name?”

“I’m a figment of Mentalist Niens’s imagination. He sent me here to talk to you.”

Klane began to tremble. None of this made sense. She took a step toward him. He scrambled back, and he picked up a rock, lifting it, getting ready to strike.

“I’m here to help you,” she said.

“Go away,” he said. “The seeker was talking to me and now you’re here. That doesn’t make sense.”

She studied him and finally she waved her arm in a wide arc. “All this is false. It’s make-believe.”

“Seeker!” Klane shouted. “Invaders have sneaked into the camp.”

“You stupid little boy, don’t you understand what I’m telling you?”

The anger in her eyes and the name-calling made little Klane grin. “The warriors will do things to you, make you scream.”

“No,” she said. “They won’t, because I’m not real.”

He scrunched his brow. “That’s silly. I see you. I hear you.”

“None of this is real. The Kresh have you under a reality field. You’re actually a full-grown man thinking this. No doubt you’re playing back an old and painful memory.”

“Who are the Kresh?” Klane asked.

“The aliens you call demons.”

“Why are you here?”

“Mentalist Niens wants to warn you.”

“I don’t know anyone like that.”

“Yes you do. You let him live once.”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember killing Chengal Ras, one of the Kresh, one of the demons?”

Klane laughed.

“Niens was the mentalist,” she said. “He’d been working on the seeker, before you came to save him.”

Klane began to blink. He looked up at the sky, looked at the rocks, at his hand, and finally at the pay girl. “I remember the hive, and after that . . .”

“You’re a prisoner, Klane. Niens . . . Niens wants to know if you’re the Anointed One or not.”

Something happened to Klane’s eyes. They aged and became wary. “This is a trick,” he said. He’d read Niens’s mind earlier and knew this was a pay girl.

The pay girl shook her head. She opened her mouth, but then she began to fade. As she did, Klane’s dream also faded and became a sizzling, fuzzy dome above him.