Slave Empire III - The Shrike (20 page)

The woman
nodded, smiled and wiped her eyes. Tarke walked on through the
crowd, and Rayne found the atmosphere of intense emotional turmoil
overpowering. She was glad when they left the hangar and the crowd
behind.

Back in the
apartment, Tarke poured himself a stiff drink and tossed it back in
a gulp. Then he filled three more glasses and brought them to the
table, flopping down on a chair. Vidan settled opposite, exuding
concern. Rayne frowned at the Shrike until he sighed and removed
the mask, tossing it on the table with a clatter. He looked drawn
and irritable, his brow furrowed, but he gave her a warm smile.

“I find them
overwhelming sometimes, especially times like this. It’s unnerving
to be the object of so much affection.”

“That was love,
not mere affection,” she said. “In fact, it was more like
adoration, bordering on worship. What does
nerone
mean?”

“Honoured
father,” Vidan supplied. “It’s used amongst slaves as a term of
endearment for elders, since they have no families.”

“And
najine
?”

“Honoured
mother. Amongst slaves, anyone sufficiently older than you is a
mother or father figure. When two elders are about the same age,
they use it as a term of respect. A young person is a
cherin
or
shason
, a beloved daughter or son.”

Rayne picked up
her drink and sipped it. “I have much to learn.”

Tarke said, “I
need a holiday, Vidan. I think I should take Rayne on a honeymoon
of sorts, to Rimon.”

“I agree that
you need a holiday,” Vidan replied, “but Rimon? Wouldn’t Dreamish
be a better place for a honeymoon?”

“Perhaps, but
she’ll learn a lot more about slave culture on Rimon.”

Rayne said,
“I’d like to learn about slave culture. I’ve probably been rude,
without knowing it.”

“They’ll
forgive you,” Tarke assured her. “They know you’ve never been a
slave.”

“I want to
learn how to be polite.”

“Then we’ll go
to Rimon as soon as Aramish has been dealt with. When is that
happening, Vidan?”

“Tomorrow.”

Tarke rubbed
his face. “I’m going to lie down for a while, and I don’t want to
be disturbed.”

“Of course.”
Vidan rose and went to the door, glancing back before he left the
room. The door’s lock-light turned red as it slid shut.

Tarke went into
the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes. Rayne followed, picked
them up and put them away. Normally he was a tidy person, but
clearly his fatigue was too intense for him to bother right now.
The hiss of water came from the shower cubicle, and she stripped
off her coverall, slid open the door and stepped into the spray
beside him.

Tarke wiped
soap off his face and raised his eyebrows. “Okay, now you’re really
taking advantage.”

“Since you’re
too tired to put your clothes away, I thought you’d need help to
wash your back.”

“Right, lesson
learnt. Don’t drop clothes on the floor, even when very tired.”

Rayne smiled,
placing a hand on his chest. “It’s just a back wash.”

“With you, it’s
never
just
anything,” he said.

“This time it
is, promise.” She plucked the soap from his hands and started to
lather his chest.

“Okay, whoa,
wait.” He caught her hands and confiscated the soap. “No. Not
today.”

“Don’t be such
a scaredy-cat.”

“A what? Nope.”
He hid the soap behind his back when she tried to reclaim it. “Not
going to happen. Here, I’ll wash you, rather.”

“But you’re the
one who’s tired.”

Tarke smiled
and rubbed soap on her face, forcing her to close her eyes. She
sensed him move away, and by the time she rinsed her face she was
alone. Emerging from the shower a few of minutes later, she found
him already in bed, and he smiled when she sat beside him.

“That was
sneaky,” she said.

“I’m a sneaky
guy.”

“I know. And
you’re getting very good at slipping away.”

“I’m slippery
too, especially when wet.”

Rayne giggled
and hugged him, and he held her for a few minutes before she moved
to her own bed on the other side of the room. She had become used
to their platonic relationship by now, and hardly even flirted with
him anymore. His boundaries seemed to be set in stone, and he was
clearly immune to her charms. They were good friends who just
happened to be married and share an apartment, and she was resigned
to the fact that it would probably never change.

A feather-light
kiss on her cheek woke Rayne, and she opened her eyes to find Tarke
smiling down at her. He stroked her hair, then straightened and
moved away.

“Time to get
up,
Reyanne
.”

Rayne sat up,
rubbing her eyes. “
Reyanne
?”

“Beloved
wife.”

“Ah... and you
would be?”

“
Larrone
.”

“Beloved
husband?”

Tarke returned
with two steaming cups of a creamy beverage called
najad
,
which passed for coffee here. “Yup. But you must never use those
terms when I entertain slavers. You know that, right?”

“Of course. I
haven’t slipped up with your name, have I?”

“No, you’ve
been great.”

Tarke handed
her a cup, sat on the edge of the bed and sipped his
najad
for a few minutes, then went over to his side of the room to dress.
She finished her
najad
before she rose, by which time he had
left the apartment. She went in search of him and found him with
Vidan in the glass-walled office.

Vidan looked up
with a smile, and the Shrike gestured to a chair. The Atlantean
glanced at a scrolling hologram on the console beside him as it
flashed.

“News from the
fleet,” he said. “Aramish is no more. The Shadow Wing freed over
four hundred slaves and killed two hundred and seventeen freemen.
Two ships were slightly damaged, and fourteen of Aramish’s were
destroyed. Eleven ships were captured, including four cruisers and
five destroyers. They surrendered after the base was destroyed. The
slaver crews were dumped on Gergonia.”

Tarke nodded.
“Good.”

“How can you
destroy his base so easily?” Rayne asked. “Doesn’t he have a fleet
of warships too?”

“Yes.
Thirty-two, I think. Isn’t that right, Vidan?”

“He might have
built another one since the last count.”

“So how did
your ships destroy fourteen of his and only two of yours were
damaged?” she queried.

Vidan snorted.
“Because his ships were vastly inferior and outnumbered; there were
forty-five ships in our strike force, and I only sent that many to
minimise damages and casualties.”

“That was a bit
overly cautious,” Tarke commented.

“It
worked.”

“Forty-five?”
Rayne was surprised by the number. “How many do you have?”

“Seven hundred
and fifty-seven,” Vidan said.

“Only Draykonar
and Atlan have larger fleets than mine,” Tarke added

“Did you find
out why Aramish tried to kill you?” she enquired.

Tarke shrugged.
“I’m stealing his slaves, drugs and ships. If he killed me, it
would throw my empire into chaos. Without a leader, my people would
disband and become vulnerable.”

“After they
wiped him out,” Vidan said.

“He didn’t know
that.” Tarke turned to Rayne. “So, now we can go to Rimon if you
like.”

Rayne disliked
the whole business and how much killing was involved. In the world
of slavers, it seemed, it was a case of kill or be killed. She rose
and turned to leave. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Tarke jumped up
and headed her off. “What would you rather I had done?” He pulled
off a glove and cupped her cheek. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know.”
She frowned, pondering. There was no other solution. If he had
spared the slavers, he would have risked death himself. She did not
think Aramish and his cronies would be so grateful at being shown
mercy that they would show any themselves. In slaver culture, mercy
would be seen as a weakness. If she recommended it, and it led to
Tarke’s downfall, she would not be able to bear it, or forgive
herself, and hundreds of thousands of his people would suffer and
die.

Tarke
nodded.

She glared at
him. “Quit reading my mind!”

“You need to
work on your shields. A child could read it.”

“It’s
rude.”

“I know. I’m
sneaky and rude. So you agree with me, then?”

Rayne sighed,
shaking her head. “There was no other solution.”

“Good. Let’s go
to Rimon.”

Chapter Ten

Tarke’s
apartment on Rimon surprised Rayne. They had arrived at the drab
green and grey world with no oceans half an hour ago, and left
Scimarin and Shadowen in orbit. The cramped open-plan bedsitter had
pale grey walls, a white ceiling and dark blue floor tiles. Two
overstuffed faux-leather chairs and a moulded coffee table
furnished the lounge. A brown rug covered part of the floor, and a
faded landscape hung askew on one wall. An imitation wood wardrobe
and sideboard stood in the corner. A solitary light hung on a
tangled, much-repaired cord. A double bed stood against the far
wall, and the door beside it led into a tiny bathroom. The kitchen
boasted a cheap plastic table and three warped chairs, one of which
was badly cracked. She had expected the Shrike’s residence to be a
luxurious house, and raised her brows at him.

“Surprised?” he
asked.

“Very.”

“Ah, it’s not
so bad. It has all the modern facilities. They’re just well hidden.
Everything is top quality, but made to look cheap. This is my
secret life.”

“Secret?”

He unclipped
the mask and dropped it on the table. “On Rimon, I’m Torvark.
You’ll see. First, a little disguise is necessary.”

Tarke opened
the wardrobe and took out a cobalt-blue shirt and a darker jacket
trimmed with silver, a black belt with a laser holstered in it,
black leather trousers and a pair of scuffed boots. He stripped
down to his dark grey shorts and long-sleeved skin-suit, folded his
clothes and placed them beside the mask. The clothes and mask
vanished in a ball of golden light as Tarke used his implant to
order Scimarin to transfer them up. Rayne sat on the bed while he
dressed, marvelling at this new aspect of her strange husband.

The Shrike went
over to the stained sideboard and opened a drawer. He took out an
eye patch, a piece of ragged, dark brown leather, a bottle of glue,
two spray bottles, one silver and one black, and what looked like a
piece of stiff paper with a pattern of swirling lines on it. He
glanced at his reflection in the spotted mirror above the sideboard
for only a second. She sensed his strong aversion to mirrors, and
surmised that the reason for this was the face he saw in them. The
lack of mirrors in his apartment on Ironia had not escaped her
notice.

Tarke picked up
the piece of leather and glued it to his left cheek. The result was
fairly macabre, and became more so when he donned the eye patch
over his right eye. He sprayed the paper-like sheet with something
from the silver bottle and pressed it to his right cheek. When he
peeled it off several seconds later, it had left an imprint of the
swirling blue lines on his skin, which looked exactly like a tattoo
and covered the side of his face from temple to chin. Finally he
sprayed something over his hair from the black bottle, adding a
sprinkling of grey to its midnight hue.

Rayne barely
recognised the resulting grizzled, one-eyed rogue with a scarred,
tattooed face, one side of his mouth pulled down by the stiff
leather, who also looked a couple of hundred years older.

He shot her a
lopsided smile. “Like it?”

“No.”

He chuckled.
“Too bad. This is Torvark: ex-pleasure slave and gladiator, burnout
and berserker.”

“Sounds a lot
like you.”

“Exactly;
without the face that got me into so much trouble.”

His words
confirmed her deduction about his dislike for mirrors, and saddened
her. “How can you see properly?”

He pushed the
eye patch up. “Ah, well it’s not really opaque. I can see through
it.”

“I’m surprised
you’re going out in public without your mask.”

“This is almost
as good. It did take me a while to get used to it, but people don’t
see me. I’m not me when I wear this. I’m Torvark. People don’t want
to look at this face.”

She nodded. “I
can see why.”

“So, who would
you like to be?”

“Surprise
me.”

“Okay. You’re
going to be an ex-pleasure slave too; a burnout and man hater. You
won’t need much of a disguise, but you will need this.”

Tarke went over
to the box that had been transferred down with them, opened it and
lifted out a length of flexible black metal with an oily blue sheen
on it. He approached her, sank to one knee and placed it around her
throat. She fought a strong urge to avoid it, her eyes locked with
his. He paused for what seemed like an eternity, then pressed the
ends together behind her neck with a soft, silken click.

Lowering his
hands, he shook his head. “You really are a silly girl, you
know.”

She fingered
the sleek metal. “It’s cold.”

“It will get
warm. How could you just sit there and let me put a slave collar on
you?”

“You were
expecting me to fight you?” she asked.

“Do you really
trust me this much?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, but
his eyes were sad. “Don’t you
ever
allow anyone else to put
a collar on you, Rayne. Not for any reason. You understand?”

“I
wouldn’t.”

“You’d better
not. Even if they say it’s not real, it’s a prank, a joke; it’s
going to be so funny we’re going to a fancy dress party, ha ha ha.
My god, how could you just sit there and not even ask me if it’s
real?”