Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two

by Deborah Chester

  The cadre split into two pairs and ranged out in opposite directions, running fast and silently over the sand. Asan paused to make sure of his position. On the other side of the ridge he could hear voices and the scrape of movement. His fingers worked rapidly, and Fflir tapped his arm in acknowledgment.

  With his fire-rod in one hand and his jen-knife in the other, Asan sprang up into the air and flipped himself over the crest of the ridge in a tucked roll that landed him halfway down the other side on his feet. He fired before the humans could react. One man in the hated green GSI uniform dived to one side and scrambled for cover beneath the ramp. He fired a strifer, and Fflir fell with a cry.

  Asan knew the next shot would be for him. Gathering himself, he seizerted a split second before the man fired and reappeared next to the ship.

  “Choi-hana!” He used the Bban cry, and with a grunt the human rolled over and fired at him.

  Asan snapped out his rings to a small point, deflecting the spit of death. The human screamed, and Asan struck swiftly with his jen-knife, stabbing through his arm to pin him to the ground. He kicked the strifer out of reach and ducked out from under the ramp in time to see his cadre finish off the remaining humans.

  Asan raised his fist in victory, and they returned the salute.

  “Noble leiil…”

  That choking gasp came from Fflir. Asan ran to kneel at his side. Fflir was fumbling to draw his jen-knife.

  “Steady my hand, leiil, that I may spread my blood honorably—”

  “Hush, fool,” said Asan gruffly, wresting the knife away. He tapped Fflir’s mask in reassurance, then pressed a hand to Fflir’s side where blood flowed through the rip in his tunic. “You won’t die from this. Their weapons don’t eat away your flesh like our fire-rods do.”

  “Ah…” Fflir sank back limply.

  “Help him.” Asan beckoned to two of the guards. “You and you, see to our prisoner. I want him kept alive for interrogation.”

  “By the will of Asan.”

  Asan focused his rings into a protective shield and cautiously moved up the ramp. The ship was a corvette with most of its size taken up by powerful engines. Its configuration class was used by the military arm of the GSI for courier runs and fleet convoy scouts. Eight crewers were probably the maximum number it had room for, but he hadn’t lived this long by making stupid assumptions.

  Half crouched, he moved silently into the belly of the ship. Giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the shadows, he smelled the scents of recycled air, metal, and zine. His lips curved at old memories of when he was a human too. Pausing by a ladder, he rested his hand upon a rung. Even through his gauntlets he could tell the difference between how humans stressed their metals and how the Tlar’n fashioned theirs. He climbed up the ladder slowly, his senses focused.

  No mind touched his rings. But not all GSI crewers were human.

  His head and shoulders emerged into a tight turnaround, with the bridge ladder on his left and crew quarters on his right. He checked out the living quarters, then continued up to bridge level.

  Instrumentation panels blinked on standby. Harness webbing lay tossed across seats as though the crew had been too excited to stow them according to regulations.

  He paused there, just drinking in the sight. Until how, he hadn’t realized how much he missed this. He tucked away his fire-rod and pulled off his mask and gauntlets. A whisper of tanked air touched his face from the ventilators. He ran his fingers along the navigation station.

  “Blaise Omari was one of the best,” he whispered, remembering those two years of service on the SIS Forerunner and its subsequent crash here in his effort to escape detention.

  A steady blip on the sensor screen told him this crew had indeed been homing in on one of Saunders’ distress beacons. Asan frowned and switched it off. Then he sat down in the captain’s chair. It didn’t fit his tall body. The contours were all wrong.

  He rose to his feet in annoyance and called up the last log entry. The words came out of the speaker in curt Standard: “Acknowledging instructions per beacon one. Log buoy launched to mother ship. McKey called in the split time for his ship. We are to separate formation three miles into atmosphere. He will acknowledge rendezvous with beacon two…”

  Asan switched off the log. He didn’t like the sound of any of that. The GSI hadn’t just sent in an explorer; they were coming in with force. Damn Saunders and her regulations; why couldn’t she have left things alone?

  But just the same, he now had a ship of his own. His gaze swept around the bridge again with satisfaction. This would suit his purposes perfectly. All he had to do was figure out a way to warn off the GSI.

  Asan snorted at himself. He might as well try to tow away the black hole of this binary system. Now that the GSI had finally ventured into the Uncharted Zone, they would chart farther. And once they found a promising world, they never released their grip.

  His hand clenched. Ruantl was his. And he would keep it, even if he had to take on the whole Institute.

  Chapter 3

  It was one thing to sit and gloat over his prize. It was another to let the ship be corroded by the sand. Being grounded here for several hours would damage the hull beyond recovery.

  Asan frowned as he paced the confines of the bridge. He could not fit the ship in the transport pad. They’d explored most of the caverns during season, but none were large enough for a hangar.

  Flipping open a locker bin, he found ration packets and grinned. He broke one open and munched on the contents. Once he had hated fiber bars and Q-cals. Right now, they tasted just like home.

  He returned to the communications bank. There were two people in mind who could help him with his distribution problem. Either would be eager to strike up a partnership, especially for a healthy percentage of the profits, and both could supply him with the mining equipment he would need.

  Martok had the widest range of contacts. Asan uneasily remembered the old days. BLZ-80-4163, Tobei, and Blaise Omari…all those identities of Asan’s past had worked for Martok. In some ways Martok knew too much about him; the crime lord also thought that he owned him. But Asan belonged to himself. Perhaps he’d better go with Lin Ranje and the pirates of Scorpio constellation.

  Rubbing his jaw, Asan decided to move the ship off-planet. Her crew had been cocky enough to leave the safeguard locks turned off before they exited the ship, so it would be easy for him to take her up. But if he did, he’d better not encounter her sister ships.

  Leaning over, he activated distance scanners and set them for the planet surface. A blip showed almost at once on the edge of sensor range. He matched coordinates and marked the second distress beacon approximately thirty-seven kilometers northwest of Altian. His frown deepened. Saunders had never been there. Before she died, she wouldn’t have had a chance to set a beacon there. But Aural could have done it.

  Once the leiis of the man who had possessed the body he now inhabited, Aural had been resurrected at the cost of Saunders’ life. Aural was his enemy. She hated him for switching off Anthi. She despised him for freeing the Bban tribes from Tlar domination. She had killed Giaa, the Henan girl he loved, and she had done her best to betray and kill him. She wanted Ruantl for herself. But if she thought she could manipulate the GSI, she would soon find out just how big a mistake that could be.

  As he directed the scanners toward space to search for the second ship, a beep from communications startled him from his chair. Swallowing, he frowned at the blinking panel for a long moment. But the chance had to be taken. He didn’t want a follow-up team getting in his way.

  His fingertip flicked on the receiver, and a message crackled across the speakers. He’d forgotten how slowly humans spoke.

  “Spitfire, come in. Daro, are you there? Dorian Grey calling Spitfire.”

  Asan drew in a deep breath and raised the pitch of his voice by a half octave, slowing his words as much as he could. “This is Spitfire. What’s up?”

  “I was going to ask you the sa
me question,” said the exasperated voice. “Who is that? Harley?”

  “Uh…right. Repeat message, Dorian Grey. The black hole is causing all kinds of static interference down here.”

  “Get Captain Daro on, won’t you? We’re moving out of frequency range in eighty-six seconds.”

  “Not here,” said Asan, wishing he’d never answered at all.

  “…copy? Repeat that.”

  Asan reminded himself again to slow his words down. It made his throat hurt. “Daro is not here. He’s outside, taking a walk.”

  “Are you trying to be funny, Harley?”

  Merdar take you, thought Asan. “Uh, no, sir. We just landed and—”

  “Never mind. I’m sending down the rendezvous coordinates for you and Vicemiam. Stick to schedule.”

  “Copy,” said Asan, sweeping his hand across the controls. “Standing by to receive.”

  As soon as the coordinates came in over rapid computer chatter, he shut off the communicator and sat back in relief. The air vents blew across his perspiring face. As a Bban would say, he was wasting water.

  He sat forward again to punch in a cross-channel access to the astrogation screen, then compared the readout to what he dug out of the log. The coordinating ship, Dorian Grey, was exiting this system to survey the vicinity. Good. That got them out of his way for a while.

  The human he’d kept alive for interrogation had worn captain’s stripes. Perhaps it was time to have a talk with Captain Daro. The ship could stay here safely until he rounded up some technicians to help lift her off-world.

  He heard the scrape of a footstep down in the ladder well and turned his head. It was about time his jen cadre rejoined him with reinforcements.

  “How many men did you bring?” he called, standing up to flip one last switch. “I think at least two cadres should be staked out on either side of—”

  He blinked at the masked figure who climbed up into the bridge behind him.

  “Fflir? That was a fast recovery—”

  He broke off, throwing himself to one side as Fflir drew a fire-rod. The blast missed him by less than a hand-span, searing a hole in his cloak as he sprawled across the polished deck. Pain throbbed in one shoulder from slamming into a chair base, but he was already rolling frantically to put himself behind the navigations console. Another shot went wide, and panel circuitry exploded in a snap of fire.

  “Fool!”

  Infuriated more by the damage being done to the ship than by Fflir’s betrayal, Asan did not bother to even draw his own weapon. His rings snapped out in one savage blow, and his opponent crumpled. The scent of Bban musk filled the air.

  Straightening, Asan moved cautiously to the dead man’s side. He could see now that the markings depicting Fflir’s rank and house were nothing but crudely painted lines designed to fool him at a distance. With his boot toe Asan flipped the mask away. It spun across the deck with a clatter. He stared grimly down at a Bban face. The scarlet eyes were open and glazed with death. The bony plates of cheek and jaw gleamed white in the bridge lighting.

  Asan scowled, turning away to finger the smoking hole in his cloak. He should have been more alert.

  He fitted his mask into place and was pulling on his gauntlets when he heard another sound below. Asan froze, but only for a split second. Then he drew his fire-rod and knife with a silent snarl. On quick, quiet feet, he moved to the ladder. Where there was one Bban, there would be more. He would pick them off as they tried to climb up here.

  The first came up, dressed in jen uniform like Fflir’s impersonator. Asan fired, and the man tumbled down with a scream.

  “Choi’nana, chielt-kai!” shouted Asan. “I spit upon the honor of Bban cowards!”

  That was all it took to incite them past caution. Another sprang up the ladder at him and another. Both died, but a third behind them threw a mental attack at Asan, who reeled back. Steadying himself, he fired, but he was too late to stop the Bban from gaining the bridge and diving to one side. It was enough distraction to allow a fourth to hurl his jen-knife at Asan, who could not dodge in time.

  The metal bit deep into his shoulder, knocking him back into the weaponry station. Dazed, feeling the hot spurt of blood, he dared not divert his mental shielding into the enormous amount of energy required to close the wound. The Bban attack was still hammering at his mind. One individual could not be that powerful. Several minds must be augmenting the attack.

  “Choi’heirat! Za! Za!”

  The shouting grew louder as two more Bban’n came climbing onto the bridge. Gasping with pain, Asan lifted himself on one elbow to gun them down, but a swiftly hurled jen-knife clipped his wrist. His fire-rod clattered to the deck. Growling, Asan hurled his own knife and saw it catch one of his attackers in the throat.

  “Chi’gra!” ordered the tallest Bban. A scarlet band of pon rank gleamed at the throat of his uniform. “Let him live.”

  Two sprang at Asan, who still lay sprawled on the deck, and held their weapons on him. The mental attack eased up, but not enough for him to call for help. Anger mixed with desperation filled him. His own men should have been here by now.

  “Do not move, Tlar,” growled one of the Bban’n. A powerful hand gripped Asan’s arm. “If you seizert, you’ll take me with you to the land of Merdar.”

  Asan swallowed hard behind his mask. Perhaps they did not yet know who they had captured.

  The officer moved to the ladder. “Luun,” he called. “Inform the elders that we have succeeded in taking Leiil Asan.”

  So much for that hope, thought Asan. The loss of blood was making him dizzy. He let his head fall back. Now that adrenaline wasn’t holding him together, shock set in. The knife in his shoulder felt as huge as an axe. He grasped it and pulled it out. Half of his chest seemed to go with it.

  One of the Bban’n stamped on his forearm and kicked the bloody knife out of reach. The air reeked with the stench of musk, blood, and burned flesh.

  “Let us leave this machine, Saar,” said Asan’s guard.

  The ex-pon came over to stare down at Asan. “Not yet. Bind that wound. He is not to spread his blood upon the sands.”

  Obediently they hacked a strip off Asan’s cloak and bandaged his shoulder. The handling was rough enough to send him skating to the edge of unconsciousness, but he held on.

  When they propped him up and installed him in a chair at the helm, he waited a moment to gather his breath, then lifted an unsteady hand to tug off his mask. Cool air touched his clammy face.

  “Regard his cowardice,” said one of the guards. “As soon as blood is spilled, he offers his mask in surrender.”

  Asan laughed scornfully and tucked the mask behind him. “I haven’t surrendered; I’ve just run temporarily out of weapons.”

  The ex-pon flicked an impatient gesture at his men. “This machine is shielded, Tlar?”

  “Yes,” said Asan, and closed his eyes.

  His other senses remained alert, however. And it was as though the removal of his mask reassured them that he would not try to escape, for they relaxed around him.

  Satisfied, Asan opened his eyes and stared at the former officer. “What is your name, pon?”

  “Saar, great one!” said the pon, stiffening to attention. Then he growled and broke his stance as though in shame at the lapse.

  Asan smiled. “You were in the jen a long time, eh, Saar?”

  “All of us,” said one of the others angrily. “We served with honor. We served Tlar-dung to the blood.”

  Their feral eyes glowed. He smelled a fresh release of musk and cautioned himself. He must not prod them too far.

  “And you still wear your uniforms?”

  “Only to trick you,” said Saar. “When we saw the landing of this machine we knew you would come forth from the Teeth of the Sleeping Giant. Our hordes are there now. Yes, great one. You look displeased. Did you not expect us to attack?”

  “You’re fools,” said Asan sharply. “You can’t take the stronghold.”

 
; “But we shall. And then the Jewels of M’thra, the ammunition stores, the transports of the Tlar’jen, and the food caverns will all be ours.” Saar barked in harsh amusement. “Even this great machine is ours now.”

  “Chi’ka!” snapped Asan. “This ship is mine!”

  They all barked as Saar tapped his fingers upon his wrist in scorn. “Then why do you sit bleeding and weaponless?”

  Asan held back his anger. The man had a point. But he wasn’t surrendering this ship.

  In the distance he heard a series of booms as though explosives had been set off. He sat erect with a wince, and at once a gloved hand gripped his shoulder.

  “Make no move.”

  Asan’s mind leapt out, only to be blocked in its questing by the Bban force ranged against him.

  “It is the battle, leiil. One you will not see.”

  Asan frowned. The vibratory patterns of the explosives were unfamiliar to him. They must be Bban weapons. But what kind? Was this an unexpected Bban development, or had the Bban’jen received help from Aural? It sounded as though they were able to blow a hole into the Tchsco Mountains. If so, Anthi was in danger.

  His fists clenched, but there was nothing else he could do. The Bban’n thought Anthi had been destroyed, so the computer wouldn’t be a primary target, but she could be inadvertently damaged if the lower chambers were breeched.

  Loosing a sigh, he slumped across the console. The first glimmers of a plan occurred to him.

  “If desired, we can drug you for the pain,” said Saar as one of the guards tipped Asan back into the uncomfortable seat.

  He did not have to feign a groan. “No. Nothing. I would like to see the battle.”

  Saar snorted. “Fool. You do not leave this machine until the elders are ready.”

  “You are the fool. We can watch it on the viewscreen. Push those two green buttons on that panel over there, and the scanners will pick up everything.”

  “A trick—”

  “Pan’at cha,” said Asan in contempt, and all three Bban’n reached for the knives at their belts. “What trick is it? I am touching nothing. I cannot operate an alien machine such as this. It requires several men all working together. Surely you saw us take them.”