Slave Empire III - The Shrike (27 page)

“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.

“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.