The Empty Warrior (29 page)

The group walked quietly through the corridors of the ship, their footsteps muffled by the thin blue pad that passed for carpet on board and that covered all the common areas. Using a lift would have been quicker, but putting a portion of the system off limits would have been a greater inconvenience to the crew, and caused more of a stir than simply shutting down a few passageways. And besides, Busht had no desire to be caught in any confined spaces with the barbarian, neural inhibitor or not.

The only words spoken along the way came from Beccassit, naturally, as he was almost never silent. He prattled on incessantly to the aberrant in a low voice, elucidating any number of banal subjects as they walked along. Busht was not so far back from the group that he could miss many words, and what he was hearing seemed extraordinarily mundane. Nevertheless he questioned the astuteness of imparting any unnecessary information whatsoever to an aberrant. He was sorely tempted to issue a command for silence but balanced the desire for quiet with a reminder to himself of how badly Beccassit responded to authority. In the end he decided it was hardly worth the trouble and the doctor babbled on.

The procession reached a little-used corridor just beneath the gun deck that ran nearly the length of
Vigilant
. There they turned left, toward the bow. They walked straight down the white-sided tunnel, pausing every fifteen meters or so when the lead guard reached a bulkhead door that needed to be opened. Under normal circumstances, their progress would not have been impeded in such a way; the doors would have all been hidden away in their storage slots, and one’s line of sight would be unobstructed save for a slight left to right bend in the corridor caused by the curvature of the hull. But with the ship as damaged as it was Busht imagined that Arkhus would be sure to keep all the airtight doors shut until
Vigilant
was safely ensconced in a shipyard back in the Union.

Shortly, they stopped again, as again they waited for a hatch to be opened. A blast of powerful sizzling sounds accompanied by several metallic clanks flooded out into the corridor as the hatch slid aside. Ahead the passageway was darker, the lighting in the section before them obviously still not completely repaired, and there was only naked plating for a floor. Jagged gashes across the wall and ceiling marked where Vazilek weapons had stung
Vigilant
. The stink of molten welds filled the air. There were several robots at work just ahead, adhering metallic bandages over the abhorrently blackened wounds the ship had suffered. Sparks flew in torrents from where they worked, the scorching light they cast reflecting garishly off the burnished areas already repaired.

The first obstacle in the humans’ path was a large delivery robot, which was little more than a polymerized cart with a computer brain and a motor drive. It was half filled with composite plating. The aberrant’s entourage slowly and carefully made their way past it. Farther along was a tall repair bot; the model was dubbed an arachnoid throughout the fleet because its many arms and columnar body rested on a base of eight spider-like legs. It stopped its work, as it was programmed to do, to let the humans pass. At its feet were two general mission robots, machines that looked like rolling half eggs with extendable arms installed through their shells. They scooted closer to the bulkhead and out of the way, doing so without losing their vise-like grip on a sheet of plating that they held up over one of the ragged rents in the corridor wall. As soon as Busht and the guard bringing up the rear had passed, the repair robot’s lasers reignited and it went back to its task of welding the plating into place.

Further along the corridor the group passed through several more areas similarly damaged that were also in various stages of repair before turning left into a passageway that took them deeper into the center of the vessel and away from its outer skin. They crossed two intersecting corridors before turning right into a third. Ten meters ahead Busht could see two guards standing before an open doorway. He halted the others in the group and approached them alone.

“Good job guys,” he said. “I think I can take it from here though, so why don’t you two go take a break for an hour before you get back to your regular duties. But before you do, tell Lieutenant Marek that the corridors can be reopened to foot traffic, if you please.”

“Yes sir,” the two replied in eager unison.

“Thank you, men,” Busht said, as the duo strode quickly away in the opposite direction from the aberrant and his escorts. Busht then motioned Beccassit and company forward and turned to enter the compartment. What he saw inside left him momentarily stunned.

Along the way, he had merely been following the lead of Beccassit and the guards, and had not paid altogether too much attention to exactly where on the ship they were headed, leaving him unprepared for the sight that met his eyes. This was not a crewman’s berth or even an officer’s quarters. This was a stateroom, one of those reserved for visiting dignitaries. Busht stood in a living area that had to be nearly a hundred square meters. This room alone was easily more than twice the size of his own quarters. Thick, spongy, burgundy colored carpet covered the floor. Atop the carpet were two overstuffed armchairs placed facing each other over the length of an ebony cocktail table that rested in front of a long, plush sofa. Two matching end tables sat at either end of the divan, while the whole arrangement faced a faux fireplace built into the bulkhead. The upholstery was luxuriously covered in a thick, ivory-colored fabric with an intricate, filigreed pattern embroidered into it with golden thread. Despite the space taken up by the furnishings, there was still plenty of room for a large weight machine and a treadmill placed behind the sofa.

A long dining table of dark wood; Busht thought it either mahogany or wainlock; and eight chairs dominated the back of the main area, while beyond that was a extravagantly appointed and fully equipped kitchen, separated from the main room by a marble topped counter that protruded from the left wall and blocked approximately three quarters of the width of the compartment. Lined across the front of that counter were four high-backed stools carved from ebony and topped by thick cushions that matched the sofa and chairs. Original artworks of the highest caliber were hung tastefully on each cream-colored wall.

Busht did not have to venture into the bedroom and bath area, which lay beyond a door to his right, to know that it was outfitted in much the same manner. He had escorted police commissioners, prominent politicians, and ambassadors to quarters like this one often enough in the past. Each time he had done so he had enviously wondered what it would be like to spend a cruise sleeping in the soft, sumptuous bed that he knew rested in the other room of the suite.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and knew the rest of the company had entered the stateroom through the doorway behind him.

“Well, Mr. O’Keefe,” he mused aloud, “apparently you rate high on this vessel’s list of
guests
.” He found it impossible to keep the contempt from of his voice as he spoke the word guests. “Your new quarters are the best we have to offer.” And yet you are nothing more than a violent criminal, he added to himself. “How does this happen?”

Before the aberrant could speak Beccassit answered for him. “Captain Nelkris is responsible for Hill’s living arrangements, Colvan. I would have preferred to keep him in sick bay, but she insisted that he be kept apart from the crew, at least in the short term, to keep their curiosity from interfering with his convalescence. I personally did a search of every berth on the ship, and this is the only one that is vacant, habitable, and large enough to accommodate all the items necessary for his rehabilitation.” He waved his arm in a sweeping motion toward the fitness equipment. “And since we are on that subject, I think it is about time we put him to work.” He turned toward the barbarian’s bed and spoke again. “Are you ready to start getting those legs in shape, Hill?”

“Oh,” there was a pause while the aberrant, a quizzical look on his face, apparently searched for a word before finishing. “Goodness, yes,” he finally said. “I’ve been ready for forty years.”

Beccassit reached for the control panel on the side of the gurney. It immediately sank a bit toward the floor and then steadied there. Two sets of two legs unfolded from either end, spread apart, and then extended until the gurney rested solidly on the deck. The doctor then powered down the neural inhibitor, stowed the hood, and pulled back the linens and blanket.

Once freed from the invisible grip of the inhibitor, the aberrant clumsily brought himself to a seated position on the side of his conveyance and then, with the help of both Beccassit and Pellotte, laboriously shuffled over to the treadmill. In moments he was aboard and delightedly walking, albeit at an excruciatingly slow pace.

Busht suppressed a gasp. Val had informed him of the extraordinary dimensions of the barbarian, but nonetheless the first officer was still taken aback at the height of the aberrant when standing. He was at least thirty centimeters taller than Busht. Atop the treadmill he was truly gigantic, the hair on his head nearly brushing the ceiling. His upper arms, bulging against the constraining, short sleeves of his pajama top as he grasped the handrails on either side of the treadmill, were rippled and hard like bantam trunks of oak growing downward from his shoulders. The captain had been correct; this man was someone who could be truly dangerous. He turned to Beccassit. “Doctor,” he whispered.

“Merco,” Beccassit corrected him.

“Sorry. Merco,” Busht said softly, a little annoyed now with the familiarity. “Be careful with this… person. He may seem harmless enough, but keep in mind the culture he comes from. Stay alert, and make sure the guards do the same.”

Beccassit reluctantly agreed, and Busht slipped out of the compartment, but not before posting the two guards on either side of the entry and giving them explicit, no nonsense instructions on the caution he expected them to exercise. Afterward, as he was proceeding down the corridor, an ominous sense of apprehension began to blanket his every thought. He was certain the savage would at some point become a danger. The only question was who and what he would become a danger to when the inevitable eventually transpired. Busht had already made up his mind that it would be neither
Vigilant
nor anyone aboard her.

It was not long before the doctor and Nurse Pellotte exited O’Keefe’s new quarters as well, leaving only the two guards standing watch outside the locked entry. O’Keefe had exhausted himself after only a short time on the treadmill and now lay back on the sofa with his head propped up against one of the luxuriantly padded arms. Next to him stood a wheeled walker, provided along with the exercise equipment, which enabled him to move safely about his new quarters on his own. Pellotte had told him as she left that she would return shortly with his dinner, and he was already looking forward to her arrival. He was hungry to be sure, but that was hardly the basis for his anticipation. In the short time since he had awakened he had developed what could only be called a crush on his nurse, and he savored the thought of seeing her again, even if only for a few moments. Her smile seemed to light up any room she occupied, while her departure cast a pall over the same space. He lay amidst that gloaming now nearly feverish for it to be swept away.

He let his mind wander, imagining her large breasts shorn of her tightly fitting uniform, daydreaming of her nipples hardening under the soft caresses of his fingers. As his fantasy progressed he felt an unfamiliar stirring between his legs. Opening his eyes, he looked down at his crotch, staring with disbelief at the towering bulge that pushed the loose fitting pajama bottoms away from his pelvis.
Holy shit
, he thought joyfully,
I’ve got the hard-on from hell!
He thrust his hand down his pants and stroked the erection, not for the pleasure the motion elicited but merely to reassure himself that his virility had indeed returned.

Suddenly he realized that amid the excitement of once again feeling his legs, he had yet to inspect the physical condition of the rest of his body. He pulled his hand from the pajamas and held it and the other one up before his eyes, fingers spread, palms outward. He balled his hands into fists and then spread them again, repeating the movement several times. The subtle lines and tiny loose folds of skin that had formerly covered the backs of his hands and fingers were gone now, replaced by a supple epidermis of tightly fitting skin.

He turned his attention to his lower right arm. The small etchings of reticulated scars, leftovers from a teenage snorkeling encounter with coral, were nowhere to be seen. He pushed himself into a seated position and removed his pajama top. He then pulled down the bottoms slightly, searching for the cicatrix from his appendectomy and finding it gone as well. At once his hands reached around to his spine, seeking the knotty and malformed jumble of tissue that had been a more tangible reminder of Southeast Asia than anything else he had brought back from that hellhole. But his fingers found nothing save a smooth, finely haired expanse of flesh.