The Empty Warrior (66 page)

There was also the reality that dying in Ashawzut simply wasn’t that much of a frightful prospect. Sudden death in the colony was more common than catching a cold, so it was never far from any of the inmate’s minds, and it had a certain attraction when compared to the alternatives, namely slavery and despair. Thus O’Keefe had come to fear the failure to implement his plan more than the near certainly of being killed while carrying it out. The faint hope that he was working toward a goal that might somehow succeed despite its many dangers and drawbacks was the only thing that kept him alive, the only thing that kept him swinging a pick or wielding a shovel. And he did not feel that scant hope to be misplaced. After all, he was still a Marine and Elorak was still merely a single Vazilek.

As long as his heart still beat, there was always a chance, however high the odds against him were, for victory, for a life that amounted to more than groveling and squirming toward an ignominious end at the hands of the sadistic degenerates who had captured him. O’Keefe clung to that sliver of hope, the hope that somehow he could climb the mountains that stood in his way. And even if his faith were misplaced, even if destiny had already decreed that he was to die a gruesome death in the arena for no good reason at all, it would still be a death well earned in battle against the guards, with his head up and his feet beneath him, not simply the impalement on a lizard’s harpoon as he lay whipped and dazed in the dust of an enemy’s mineshaft.

The first order of business was still the retrieval of the Colt, for O’Keefe could see no pathway to victory without the weapon. Everything hinged on his ability to reclaim it. But at present there was no way to get to the tunnel where it was hidden. It was essential that he elevate himself to a position higher than rock breaker if he expected to gain access to its hiding place. What he needed was a job that gave him an excuse to be out in the corridors during the day. To attain that end, he worked harder than anyone else, pushing himself to the limits of his endurance. He attacked his food during breaks, always being the first one ready to resume work. He sprang to any task the guards set for the men, never grumbling and trying mightily to keep any resentment from showing through in his expressions or his body language. It taxed him psychologically, but physically he was bigger, taller, and stronger than any of the Akadeans, so it was not terribly difficult for him to stand out among them. If the colony network really did monitor everything that happened around the guards, O’Keefe felt certain that it would in time notice his new found devotion to service. The Union Police Network had brought him High Commissioner Burkeer with no effort whatsoever on his part, so he reasoned that it wasn’t farfetched to believe the computerized surveillance of Ashawzut could also bring him Mada Elorak. All he had to do was work hard enough.

His efforts bore fruit more quickly than he had ever dreamed possible. Less than two weeks into his new regimen, as the men were once again working to load rubble from behind one of the boring machines, O’Keefe glanced back up the corridor to see a caravan approaching through the choking dust. It was Elorak, standing atop a wide, flat cart with balloon tires, followed by her retinue.

Waist-high railing encircled the woman, to which she clung tightly to keep her balance as the strange little vehicle moved swiftly down the passageway. Her entourage consisted of her assault bot, four guards, a halfdozen dogs, and a large contingent of her favorites bringing up the rear. As the goddess of Ashawzut neared the rock breakers, the borer shut down as if even it was intimidated by her presence. She pushed open one side of the railing around her at the moment her transport halted and stepped heavily to the ground.

At her approach all the prisoners fell to their knees, each trying to touch their foreheads to stone faster than their fellows, certain that she was there to find a victim fit for her public punishments. She stood over them, surveying the group, trying to heighten the tension she knew the men were feeling before she spoke.

“You know, it never ceases to amaze me how badly you vermin smell,” she said at last, disgust resonating in her voice. “The stench you produce is enough to sicken even a Vazilek, as hardened as we are to the toxicity of your existence. But fortunately I won’t have to remain in your presence for very long. It has come to my attention that one of your number is deserving of promotion.” She turned to face her assault bot. “Find him,” she commanded.

At once the robot left its accustomed post behind her head and floated slowly over the prisoners, a laser at its base scanning the tattoos on the men’s biceps. Shortly, it settled above O’Keefe and, for the first time, he heard it speak. “Target identified,” it stated in a monotone, robotic voice.

“You, and you,” Elorak said as she lightly kicked two of her minions who, like the prisoners, knelt with their foreheads to the floor in obeisance. “Bring him to me.”

The two men jumped to their feet, still panting from their run down the corridors, and high stepped over prone bodies until they reached where O’Keefe lay. The bootlickers, Akadean in stature anyway and further reduced by the rigors of Ashawzut, heaved mightily to lift the Earther by his arms. When it became clear that they would not be able to lift him to his full height without assistance he shook them off and stood on his own. Once erect he turned and followed them back to where Elorak stood. All three of the men banged knees to stone in unison and kowtowed before her.

“You,” she said, as O’Keefe cringed at the impact of her boot against the side of his face. “Stand up.” He did so, and as he did, he became uncomfortably aware that, despite the three inch heels she was perched upon, the top of Elorak’s head barely reached the level of his chin. He stared at the floor, trying his best to appear cowed and apprehensive.

“Look at me,” she commanded harshly, and he immediately obeyed. “You are not Akadean,” she pronounced. “You are much too tall. And your skin is light in pigment, not the ugly brown of these noxious, recreant pigs. And your eyes… Exactly what, pray tell, are you?”

She had moved close enough to his side that he could feel the hair on his arm standing on end due to the proximity of her shielding. He could also, for the first time, see her features through the smeary veil of her defenses. Her face, like the rest of her, was gaunt and pale. A high forehead and cheekbones, coupled with the cruel intensity that shone brightly through her pupils, gave the impression of someone possessed of a more than adequate intellect, while her sunken and almost cadaverously pallid cheeks angled toward her chin in such a way as to make her look nearly anorexic. But despite the leanness of her face her lips were full and her dark eyes large. She might have been almost attractive if her perpetual scowl had been replaced with a smile. But O’Keefe doubted that she ever smiled. He could envision an evil grin spread across her face, but nothing more.

“You are of course correct, your worship,” he said in a tone that was as subservient as he could muster. “I am from a planet called Earth.

There was a pause. Elorak’s eyelids fell shut, and she stood as if in a trance. But it lasted only a moment before her eyes snapped open and she spoke again.

“You are an Earther?” she asked skeptically. “I find that extremely hard to believe. Precisely how does an Earther come to be trapped in the midst of such human offal?”

“You know of my world, your worship?” O’Keefe asked, amazed.

“Of course I do! I am Vazilek! Now answer my question!”

“I was inadvertently caught in the crossfire between the Akadeans and your own forces, your worship. I was critically wounded. One of the Akadean pilots retrieved me from the surface of my world and took me to their ship, where I was healed. Perhaps if you were to study Vazilek action reports from a period some…”

“On your knees, Earther!” she screamed vituperatively, interrupting him, and reaching for her blaster. “You do not make suggestions to me as to what I might wish to study.” O’Keefe immediately dropped to the floor, pain shooting up his thighs as his knees hit the rubble that covered the corridor. Elorak pushed the business end of her weapon into the tip of his nose.

“I beg your forgiveness, your worship,” he said quickly and obsequiously. “I only meant to say that you are right to question my candor. I know I am out of place here, and that my story must seem fanciful to you. But I also know that remarkable races, as the Vazileks most assuredly are, record their renowned achievements for the betterment of posterity. I only sought to confirm my flimsy account with the archives your people must surely keep. There must certainly be a record concerning the glorious action fought near my world by your people.”

Several tense seconds of fear followed as Elorak apparently chose whether he would live or die. At last she spoke. “That was a better than average recovery, Earthman,” she said grudgingly. “You may yet live to see tomorrow.” She dropped the blaster from his face and slapped it to the side of her boot, where it stuck.

“Were you a stonliata, Earthman?” she asked.

“I don’t understand. What is a stonliata, your worship?” O’Keefe asked hesitantly.

“Of course you don’t understand. The Akadean swine have words for nothing that is holy. I speak of the ston, of campaigns and of conquest; of duty, glory, and honor; victory and defeat. The stonliatae are those who partake in the ston.” Suddenly the woman uncharacteristically threw back her head and laughed lustily. “We, the Vazileks, are stonliatae,” she said, once her crowing laughter had subsided. “We are the masters of ston. We are the undefeated; we are the invincible. That is why
we
are destined to rule this galaxy!”

“I think I understand, your worship,” O’Keefe said levelly. “The word we use is
warrior
, and yes, I am one, or at least I was.”

“Once a stonliata, always a stonliata,” Elorak recited loudly, with conviction. “Or have you turned craven, Earthman.” She said the words softly and slowly, each syllable dripping malignant antipathy.

“I was wounded in the ston, your worship,” O’Keefe said, his voice now holding the slightest hint of defiance. “That is why I am no longer a warrior. Shrapnel exploded my spine, and I was left without the use of my legs for nearly four decades. The damage was repaired by the Akadeans after they took me in.”

There was another short pause while Elorak digested the information. “You make this claim, and yet you have not the bearing of a stonliata. You grovel much too easily.” O’Keefe grimaced slightly, feeling perhaps he had over-emoted in his truckling role. “So tell me Earthman,” she continued, “with exactly whom did you serve when you received these so called wounds?”

“I served with the United States Marines Corps,” O’Keefe said softly, but still proudly, with his eyes boring directly into Elorak’s. For the moment it did not occur to him that he had neglected to use the term “your worship” when last he spoke. But the omission had not escaped the men around him, and they now cringed, expecting the worst. Yet Elorak’s blaster did not leave her boot.

“That tells me nothing,” she said. “I must research this. Your claim to be of the stonliatae is quite impressive to me, too impressive to be taken at face value. I do not believe you. But I will look into your assertion partly because the wounds you claim to have suffered would establish a holy bond between us.” She patted the top of one metal thigh with an artificial hand. “And also because I am an efficient officer. Besides, this situation intrigues me. What an irony it would be if this were all somehow true. A wounded veteran, a stonliata, found in the midst of these pusillanimous, malingering excuses for humanity. What a bitter travail to have endured.” Elorak glowered around at the prostrate Akadeans laid out before her as she spoke.

“I would rather have had my useless legs cut from beneath me with a hand saw than be repaired by this brood.” As she spoke the words, she drummed her knuckles several times against the side of her boot. O’Keefe could clearly hear a faint metallic resonance from beneath the leather. “In any case, I will ascertain the truth of this matter, and when I have found that you are lying, I will be back to relieve you of your worthless life. Enjoy your last hours, ersatz stonliata.” She turned on her heel and walked away, mounting her transport and zooming back up the corridor, her motley entourage in hot pursuit.

As the men around O’Keefe slowly stood, Steenini sidled up next to him. “Well, you’ve certainly managed to rattle her. That is the closest I’ve ever seen her come to mercy. I truly hope that she can find the records of which you spoke because if she can’t, you know that she
will
be back to kill you.” He looked at O’Keefe quizzically from under arched eyebrows, unspoken questions on his face.

“Don’t worry,” he answered. “My little corner of the Milky Way seems to hold a fascination for Akadeans and Vazileks alike. She’ll find the records. Come on. Let’s get back to work before the guards start getting edgy. I’d hate to ruin my new image just as it is starting to work for me.” He clapped Steenini on the shoulder and both of them turned back to the pile of rocky debris as the tunneler began to whine and its drill heads began to spin.