Slave Empire III - The Shrike (28 page)

“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
crowd, 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.”