An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) (22 page)

“I’m sure if you don’t care about the horrifying days that await him, some of your filthy coconspirators will. Surely someone must want him saved. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t care.”

“Really?” Ornias stroked his braided beard, cocking his head inquisitively. “I think perhaps I’ll put Linstrom’s screams on the loudspeakers throughout your section of the city. That way all your coconspirators can hear the final fate that awaits their treasonous actions.”

“Have you no humanity left?” Shadrach pleaded, opening his moist eyes. “Samual’s parents are nearly two hundred and nothing but skin and bones since the drought killed all their crops. He’s the son they prayed for for over a century. That would kill them.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? We have to make a few examples to demonstrate we won’t tolerate further disruptions of our sublime …” he chuckled, squeezing the bridge of his nose at the absurdity, “our sublime religious faith.”

“No one will help you. No matter what threats you make.”

“Well, then I’ll be forced to blast your entire section of the city. That will certainly rid me of my problems.”

Shadrach fought against the chains so violently, Ornias took two quick steps back in shock.
“Bastard!
Those are innocent people! How can you—”

“Oh, far from innocent. They’ve shielded you and your rabble for years. They’ve provided homes for meeting places and stripped their own cupboards bare to give you supplies to kill the Mashiah’s forces—
my forces.
I’d hardly call that innocent.”

“A thousand children live in that part of the city!”

“Children grow up to be warriors. For every one we kill, we can rest easier at night.”

“Dear … Lord …” Shadrach whimpered, bowing his head as silent sobs wracked his wounded body. “You’re inhuman.”

“Come, Shadrach. You’ve fought for three years to protect those people. I know how much you care about them.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial coo. “Come … surely you had an escape plan. Just tell me where Rachel might have headed. That’s all, just …”

Shadrach jerked forward to spit in his face and Ornias gasped, rage welling as the spittle ran in slimy streams down his cheeks. Taking a pale blue silk kerchief from his pocket, he wiped his tanned face, fighting to control his breathing. One should never let an enemy know he’d triggered a reaction; it weakened the status of the power-holder. With a concentrated nonchalance, Ornias slowly paced before the rebel, noting with outrage that a faint smile twisted the man’s lips.

“I’m so sorry you did that,” Ornias murmured. “The only reason I had doctors tend your wounds and keep you alive was because I trusted you’d come to your senses. But now I see I was terribly wrong.”

“Then kill me!” Shadrach demanded through clenched teeth, struggling against his bonds. The shackles jingled, fresh blood spotting the bandage over his stomach.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s the best course of action yet.” Then, with the patience of an executioner, Ornias meandered to the wall of colorful devices. Placing a hand to his chin, he gently caressed his braided beard as he looked over the selection. From the corner of his eye, he saw Shadrach’s face go slack, the haughty look vanishing to be replaced by one of abject terror. Ornias took his time, lifting first a mace, then a cat-o’-nine-tails, before reaching for another device.

“Ah, this should do.” He retrieved a small black box and stroked it with loving fingers. “Yes. Simple. Clean.”

As he walked back, Shadrach tensed, setting the chains to jangling again. Resigned horror filled the man’s eyes.

“Do you know what this is?” Ornias asked conversationally, holding up the box.

No answer came, but sweat beaded on the rebel’s face.

“It’s called a ‘flayer.’ A quaint and effective device originated during the last rebellion on Ganor. Legend has it that victims survived for days after it did its work, flies and insects swarming over bared muscles. I’ve always thought the concept very interesting.”

Shadrach’s breathing quickened, chest rising and falling as though he’d run a hundred miles.

Ornias needlessly straightened his sapphire robe. Reaching for his sherry again, he sipped patiently. “One last time, Shadrach. Hmm? Let’s talk. Don’t force me to hurt you like this. You need only—”

“Get it over with!”

“You refuse to discuss where your beautiful wife might have gone? Just tell me who could have given her shelter?”

“I’ll never tell you!
Kill
me!” Shadrach screamed, tears glistening on his lashes. His muscles suddenly went weak. “Just … just kill me.”

Ornias pondered the man’s imploring eyes, then shook his head. “Perhaps later.”

A soft hum filled the room as he flicked the flayer on.

Jeremiel reached across the console to hit the fuel monitor, then checked a series of different gauges for atmosphere, food and water reserves and weapons charge. Gradually, he worked the vessel up to maximum acceleration, carefully watching the two old men reclining in the passenger seats. How many gravities could their hearts take? Despite the compensators, fluctuations occurred. They looked fairly fit, but at their ages, who could tell? They had to be pushing three hundred and fifty. Frowning, he input the course correction for Horeb and finally swung around. The elders occupied the lavender seats, eyes glued to him.

“Are you two gentlemen feeling all right?”

The tall skinny old man frowned menacingly. His wealth of gray hair hung in thick unruly strands. “Of course, we’re all right.”

“Good. Let me know if you suffer from any dizziness or—”

“Don’t worry about us. We’re healthy as leeches.”

“Uh—all right. Then let me thank you for saving my life.”

“Bah! We didn’t save you,” the grumpy patriarch informed him. “We blasted those fool marines who’d kept us prisoners for days! Saving you was an accident.”

Jeremiel lifted his brows, but nodded amiably. “Well, that doesn’t change the fact that you accidentally—”

“Wasn’t your father Menachem Baruch?” the pudgy elder who’d helped Jeremiel into the ship asked, leaning forward eagerly. His pale green suit accented his freckled face and nearly bald head. “From Tikkun? Wasn’t he?”

A small warning bell rang inside Jeremiel. Who would know his family? Was this some trick? A trap laid by the Magistrates? He scrutinized the old man severely, probing his warm, beaming eyes. He detected no guile there, but responded guardedly, “You knew him, you said?”

“Oh, yes. A wonderful man. And weren’t you studying with Rev Ishmael for a while? The Cabala and Merkabah as I recall?”

Jeremiel blinked in surprise. Only the deepest intelligence personnel of the Magistrates would know such data. Were these old men plants? He looked both of them up and down and decided he’d have to be crazy to think them competent at anything, especially deep intelligence work. They appeared nothing more than aged retirees on the brink of senility.

“Yes,” he said tersely. “I’ve studied the ancient mystical books.” Reaching beneath the console, he pulled out the ship’s mini-med unit. Wound shock had worn off and his leg throbbed agonizingly. Arranging the unit over his wound, he switched it on.

“Lord!” he groaned, wincing as the machine probed and prodded, swabbed and medicated. The pain finally seeped into nothingness and he let out a relieved breath.

“I knew your mother, too,” the old man blurted suddenly, a look of serene happiness on his face.

“It’s been a long time since I met anyone who knew my family. Especially my mother. I barely recall her. She died when I was four.”

“Yes, yes! Mira had a beautiful voice. We used to sing in temple together! Oh, it was years ago, but I remember. She was the best cantor I ever knew.”

Jeremiel leaned back in his chair, letting the mini-med finish its work as he considered the old men. The bespectacled passenger sat on the edge of his seat, an almost loving look on his withered face, while the other eyed Jeremiel as though he were a Giclasian garbage snake. A curious duo, these two. “Forgive me, do I know either of you?”

“You don’t remember?” the eager elder asked in a pained voice. “No, you were very young, I guess not. I’m Yosef Calas and this is my friend, Ari Funk. We’re from Tikkun, too.”

The name struck Jeremiel like the blow of a fist, taking his breath away. For the first time, he noticed the clear similarity of features and tone of voice. “Calas? Zadok’s brother?”

“Yes! You know Zadok? We came to Kayan to see him. Well, actually, to attend the funeral of his daughter, Ezarin. Did you see him? How is he?” A desperately hopeful look suffused the wrinkled face and Jeremiel lowered his eyes to stare at the gray floor. He should get the news from a family member, not a stranger who’d practically kidnapped him from Kayan.

Yosef cast a worried glance at Ari, then asked, “Is …is Zadok all right?”

“Mr. Calas, I’m so sorry to be the one to have to tell you …”

“Tell me what?”

“I was …” He halted, pursing his lips tightly at the unfairness. “I was with him when he was killed,” Jeremiel finished softly. “It was at the spaceport a few days ago.”

Tears welled in Yosef’s brown eyes and he sank back into his chair, fiddling aimlessly with the control panel on the arm. “A few days ago?”

“Yes. His funeral was held the same day as Ezarin’s. The line of people who came to grieve stretched for miles. He was a good man. Everyone loved him.” The words sounded so lame he clenched his fists at his ineptness. He’d traveled across the galaxy relaying messages of death and sorrow to the families of people in his forces, but he’d never grown good at it. Something inside him rebelled at the absurdity. Why was it that the best always died the worst? He bitterly resented the injustice of it.

“Not everyone,” Yosef murmured, blinking back tears. “Who killed my brother?”

“I wish I knew. Supposedly someone from Horeb. An assassin sent by the new Mashiah who’s arisen there. But no one’s sure.”

“Why?”

“Zadok was about to go to ‘test’ the Mashiah’s authenticity. Apparently the false prophet wasn’t ready to be revealed for the fraud he is yet.”

“Oh …”

Ari reached over and gently patted Yosef’s wrinkled hand. The willowy old man’s face had puckered with sympathetic despair. Jeremiel frowned; so the ancient patriarch wasn’t senile. “It must have been when the headache hit you.”

Yosef nodded.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Ari whispered tenderly. “A man with as much power as Zadok has lots of enemies.”

Yosef wiped his nose on his green sleeve. Jeremiel started to turn back to the control console, but Yosef’s frail voice stopped him.

“Did he—suffer?”

“No, no, not at all. It was a clean chest shot. He barely knew what was happening to him.”

“I see,” Yosef murmured.

“Mister Calas, do you realize you’re the rightful leader of Gamant civilization? Sarah is—”

“Oh,” he whispered, waving a trembling hand. “Zadok and I talked about it once. I told him if the time ever came, I’d yield to someone else. I’m glad Sarah has taken the responsibility. She’ll get no challenges from me.”

“I understand.”

Yosef leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His lips trembled, a single tear glistening like a diamond on his cheek.

Ari reached over and set the selector on Yosef’s chair for some pleasant music, then got up and took the copilot’s chair next to Jeremiel.

“He’ll be all right,” he muttered. “He just needs time to get used to the shock.”

Jeremiel nodded, heaving a disturbed breath. Absently, he studied the med unit which now felt warm and soothing against his flesh. “Of course. I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell him.”

“Oh, it’s better that he learned of it now. The sooner one knows such things, the sooner one can get over them.”

“I hope you’re right. To be honest, I’m not sure Gamant civilization will ever recover. Zadok was a single beacon of strength in a very dark, very hostile galaxy.”

“Don’t worry about Gamants,” Ari grumped, slicing the air with a fist. “We always bounce back.”

“In the past, that’s been true. But our people have never faced the kind of threat we now face. The Galactic Magistrates have the best technological minds in history. Their latest weapons are dazzling, utilizing knowledge we can only guess at. And they’re hell-bent on destroying us and our ‘damaging, separationist philosophies.’ Right now I’m worried sick they might …” He halted abruptly, squinting at the console monitors. A blip caught his eye. He leaned forward, frowning. “Damn it.”

“What do you see?” Ari hunched over his shoulder, trying to observe every screen in the general vicinity.

“They’re after us. I thought I’d covered the ionic—”

“Can we outrun them?”

“Yes, I think so. We’ve got a good head start. But they’ll be tracking us. When we land on Horeb, they’ll be all over us, like—as a friend of mine says—ducks on a june bug.”

“June bug? What’s that?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea, but ducks apparently like to eat them as much as the Magistrates would like to eat me and every Gamant alive.”