Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two

by Deborah Chester

  The n’ka frowned. “It’s all right. You needn’t be afraid to speak to us. We’re fitted with translators too. Part of our job. Of course we had to make some adjustments. Your language is a bit more complicated than most we’re used to. Fitting it to Standard took a while. Otherwise, we’d have come in here sooner to see you.”

  “I don’t think she’s getting any of this,” said the human called Mike. At least she supposed he was human. His skin was as dark as orad heartwood, and his hair grew in small tight knobs all over his skull. He shook his head. “Ramer’s always claimed to be smarter than he is. I don’t think he’s made much sense of those interrogation tapes. Even the machines are having trouble translating.”

  “Perhaps.” The older n’ka glanced back at Zaula. “Let’s try something simple. What is your name?”

  Zaula evaded his gaze in desperation. Court etiquette had provided no training for this situation. That she stood here in the company of strange men without her mask was bad enough, but that they expected to speak directly to her and for her to answer was a thing not done.

  “What is your name?”

  The tone was sharper. Zaula flinched. She stared longingly at her leadweave cloak. If she could only put it on, she would not feel so foolish and exposed.

  The human sighed and ran his fingers through his white hair. “I am Dr. Liebtz. This is Mike Powers. We aren’t part of the regular crew. We are GSI specialists sent along on this mission as observers. Please tell us your name.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Taboo?” suggested Mike.

  Liebtz frowned at him and shook his head.

  Zaula watched their exchange in alarm. They gestured more with head movements and facial expressions instead of their hands. Did they not usually wear masks? That must be why they had not provided her with one. Or else they wanted to humiliate her. Either way, it was hard to understand them when she could not comprehend the nuances.

  “Why won’t you tell us your name?” asked Liebtz.

  Mike made an impatient movement beside her. Zaula remembered that expert pressure against her throat and shrank from him.

  “It is not a thing you are permitted to know,” she said. “To speak to me is not permitted. Not like this.”

  She expected Liebtz to apologize or at least look abashed. Instead his gaze shot to Mike.

  “How is she registering?”

  “Honest,” said Mike. “Fear, annoyance, worry. I told you we’re crossing taboos.”

  Liebtz shrugged. “Telepathy use?”

  “Negative.”

  Zaula turned to stare at Mike. What was this dark creature? She had felt no touch against her rings. How then did he know so much? She met his queer, striped gaze—brown surrounded by the white of blindness—and read only detached curiosity.

  Zaula drew in a breath, reminding herself that they were only n’kai. They knew nothing about what was proper.

  “If you wish to observe the culture on Ruantl,” she said, “then you should ask your questions of the Bban’n, not us. Your mutations are not as great as theirs, but you should be able to find qualities in common.”

  There. She’d said it. A deep insult to the blood delivered in courtesy tone. She held her breath, wondering if her challenge would result in a slashed throat. At least she would die with honor, a wife and daughter of warriors.

  Instead of anger, they expressed only puzzlement.

  “Mutations?” said Liebtz. “But we aren’t—”

  “You do well with such limited sight. But—”

  “Eyes.”

  The humans exchanged glances, smiling. Zaula flushed, her rings stirring about her. So much for her attempt to insult them. Instead they were laughing at her.

  “We don’t suffer partial blindness, if that’s what you are thinking.”

  She wanted to strike them. She felt like a child trying to match wits with adults. But she couldn’t back down now.

  “You are hampered. You must be.”

  “Well, perhaps.” Liebtz hesitated as though thinking it over. “We don’t look at it that way, but your vision must be close to total periphery…wouldn’t you say, Mike?”

  “Anatomy isn’t my field.”

  “No.” Liebtz coughed. “Still, it’s another comparison project for the lab boys when we get back to Central.” He reached out and very gently touched Zaula on the shoulder.

  She flinched away, reaching instinctively for the jen-knife she did not have.

  “You must remember that you are far away from your people now,” he said. “We are going to take you back with us to where we come from. We want to learn all we can about your culture. Now you have told us that we aren’t permitted to know your name. I’m sorry we must cross that barrier, but if you won’t tell us who you are, then we must give you a name of our own.”

  She hissed in outrage.

  “Precisely,” he said, still in that gentle tone. “I thought you wouldn’t like that. But it’s your choice.”

  She frowned, going over his words in her mind. “You are taking me away from Ruantl? How far is this?”

  Mike stirred with a warning, but Liebtz ignored him.

  “Do you understand the concept of space travel? The twinkling lights in the sky are—”

  “I am not a Bban savage,” she said angrily. “I am Tlar. If you think we were spawned upon such an evil place as this planet, then you are fools. How far do you take me?”

  Liebtz was trying hard to conceal his surprise. “Very faraway. Almost halfway across the galaxy, in fact.”

  Her own heart leapt Did he know of Tlartantla? Had he ever journeyed there? Perhaps, oh, perhaps she might see it.

  She hid her excitement, however. “Will I be brought back?”

  “Of course.”

  But he was lying.

  She did not care. She was among people who enjoyed plentiful heat, light, water, and probably food. They had machines that worked. They had no need of masks and heavy leadweave clothes. Their lies to her did not matter. Her fear melted into eagerness to go with them.

  Lifting her chin, she faced him and said, “It is not of need to give me a n’dl name. I was Zaula n’Tlar dl’Soot’dla, Tsla leiis of the tyrant Hihuan, Firstborn of Ruven, Beloved of Anthi, Star of Altian, and blood mother of Leiin Cirthe.” She made a small gesture of repudiation, clearing away her former life as one brushes away the black sand of the desert. “Now I am Zaula. Nothing else. Call me by it if you choose.”

  “Fine,” said Liebtz. “Make a note of all that, Mike.”

  “Noted.” Mike’s cold gaze swept over her. He pointed toward the door. “Time for phase two.”

  Liebtz frowned. “So soon?”

  “Why not?”

  “Very well. Zaula, we want you to come with us to another part of the ship. Will you do that?”

  She moved as though to reach for her cloak, but Mike got in her way.

  “You don’t need that,” he said. “The temperatures are even throughout the ship. Come.”

  Not certain what to expect next, she went with them.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Liebtz. “Please sit down and wait here.”

  Zaula paused by the bench he had indicated. This chamber he had brought her to was very small, scarcely wide enough for them to stand facing each other. It was white and featureless except for two short benches which folded down from opposite walls and a circle of black glass fitted into the center of the ceiling. She thought of the ever-present eye of Anthi and shivered. Who watched over the humans?

  “Why should I fear?” she asked haughtily. “What is to be done to me?”

  “Nothing,” he said, lifting his palm. The gesture made no sense with his words. “You are now in the part of the ship that we call the in-TANK. TANK is an acronym of the various names of our equipment used in observing and interrogating specimens. Please sit down and wait here quietly.”

  “But—”

  “You will have food soon.”


  She silenced her protest at once and sat down in hopes that her compliance would bring the food sooner. She was very hungry, especially since she had fasted following the birth of Cirthe. Her thoughts shifted uneasily away from her daughter. A monster, Asan had called her. It was true. She wanted to weep for the child. But she held the tears back.

  The door opened suddenly, startling her. She stood up. Two humans in uniforms appeared with a limp Asan in their grasp. They shoved him inside roughly, sending him sprawling upon the floor at her feet. She cried out, flinching back.

  “You—”

  The door shut, leaving her alone with her enemy.

  For a moment she stood there, breathing hard with her hatred. She had almost managed to forget about him. Now here he was in her power. She could even kill him if she chose.

  Unless he was already dead.

  She frowned, her anger melting away. He lay there like a crumpled rag, very still. Too still.

  She knelt beside him, reached out to touch his shoulder, hesitated, then gave him a shake.

  He moaned weakly and tried to shift his head.

  A lock of his black hair brushed her hand. She hesitated, her fingertips resting lightly upon the back of his neck. The Bban’jen had a way of snapping the spine at that point. A certain grasp…one quick jerk…

  She pulled back her hand in shame. There was no honor in killing an injured man. And she should remember that Asan the usurper had shown her kindness in the prison cell at the citadel. Others had spoken before of his kindness. They called him weak, a Bban lover, a fool. Hihuan had never been kind.

  With a grimace Zaula grasped Asan’s broad, powerful shoulders and rolled him over on his back. She took a flat cushion from one of the benches and pillowed his head upon it. His skull was heavy and well shaped, with none of the narrowness common to Tlar inbreeding. She smoothed his hair back from his brow where a bruise was darkening.

  Asan’s sharply ridged cheekbones and long curved nose with its thin sweep of nostril were molded beneath golden skin firm and clear. A smear of dried blood stained the corner of a mouth both wide and sensitive. She could see tiny lines at his mouth and eyes as though he were a man who smiled easily. Suddenly she longed to know the color of his eyes.

  He was large, even for a Tlar, and his body filled the length of the cell. She straightened his tangled legs and crossed his arms over his mid-section, moving the limbs gently as he groaned. His hands were all bone and sinew, with sensitive tapering fingers. He wore a ring of black carbyx, rarest and most precious of stones. Beneath the tattered clothing, she could feel long flat muscles as hard as iron. His chest was deep and strong. She touched a spongy place in his side and frowned as she found other marks upon his wrists and ankles. The skin had been chafed raw by his bonds.

  She glared up at the glass eye watching overhead. “Human dung, is this how you observe the culture of others? You are not worthy of—”

  A panel next to one of the benches slid open, and she caught the aroma of food. She jumped up and reached for it, pulling out the tray so quickly the cups sloshed liquid over their sides. Frowning at her own clumsiness, she moved more carefully as she set the tray down on a bench. Food was never to be wasted, even strange food such as this.

  She picked up a thin square wafer and started to bite into it. Then some instinct warned her to be careful. She glanced down at Asan’s bruised face, hesitated, and sniffed the wafer suspiciously. It smelled more of chemicals than of the oven. She could barely detect separate ingredients and decided they must be old or taken from long storage. But nothing about it seemed dangerous.

  After a moment she nibbled warily on a corner and found the taste flat and without flavor. She made a face and sampled something pale green and crunchy. It had a mild, bittersweet flavor and left her feeling as though she had eaten nothing at all. Carefully dividing half of the food for Asan when he woke up, she ate her portion and forced herself to drink the brown, bitter-tasting liquid in one of the cups, even though she shuddered after she swallowed it.

  She lifted Asan’s head and held the other cup to his lips, trying to get him to drink some of it. His lips moved. He swallowed, a trickle of the stuff spilling down his chin, and his eyes fluttered open.

  They were a light blue mixed with flecks of amber, jade, and silver. Even unfocused, they brought his face alight. Her breath caught in her throat, and the resentment she had been feeling against him faded away. No matter what he had done to ruin her world, he was Asan. She could feel the force radiating from him, the keenness of his intelligence, the strength of his rings, the majesty that he wore so naturally.

  Her hand trembled, spilling more of the liquid, and she came back to herself with a start.

  “Forgive me,” she said, her words stumbling. “I was trying to give thee a drink, not get thee wet.”

  He frowned, his eyes drooping closed, then opening wider. This time they seemed more cognizant. She forced herself to meet them without shyness or evasion. It was like staring into the gaze of a pyr, the winged, fierce lord of the skies, a taloned hunter who could swoop down in a blur of speed and snatch up its prey.

  When he said nothing, but simply went on staring at her, Zaula shifted on her knees and moved back from him. “Are thou in pain?” she asked. “Are thou hungry?”

  An unreadable expression flickered in his face. He seemed almost to smile. “This is another illusion, right? One more trick, Ramer.”

  She drew in a sharp breath and touched his cheek for fever. He wasn’t making sense.

  “Does thou not remember me?” she asked, this time with a touch of the old annoyance. “I am Zaula, once leiis before thou killed Hihuan my husband and destroyed Altian my home.”

  He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back upon the cushion. Paleness washed through his face. “Was that coffee I tasted? Could I have some more?”

  “Coffee?” She tested the strange word, rolling it along her tongue. “It is not pleasant. Perhaps they use it for medication?”

  “No.” He sounded amused.

  He lifted his head, and this time she was quick to slide her hand beneath his skull in support. She held the cup to his lips, and he drank deep and thirstily until it was all gone. He seemed to like it.

  “Ah,” he said with a deep sigh. “That’s one brew I thought I’d never taste again. Thanks, Ramer.”

  “I am Zaula,” she said with fresh alarm.

  He lifted his hand and touched her face, throat, and the full roundness of her breast where the coverall fitted too snugly. She pulled herself back, flushing.

  Asan let his hand drop onto his stomach. “So you are. I was beginning to be unable to separate hallucinations from reality in there. Help me sit up.”

  “Thou shouldn’t—”

  He was struggling to do it, wobbling until she gave him assistance. He drew in several deep breaths, winced, and held his side.

  “These humans,” said Zaula, moving to face him. “Why did they torture thee? It is not of need—”

  “Aural conditioned their minds a little to give them the idea. They think I know where a couple of their people are. They also wanted to know a few other useless things, like the defense capabilities of Ruantl. When I’ve rested here awhile, they’ll probably come for me again.”

  “Even the Bban’n are not this cruel,” she said, troubled. “Look.” She pointed overhead. “There are two n’kai who call themselves observers. Liebtz and Mike. Are they the ones who have hurt thee?”

  “No.” He glanced up at the glass eye, then away quickly. A frown creased his brow. “GSI observers. That means nothing but trouble.”

  “They put a medallion of tongues inside my arm,” said Zaula, showing him the tiny pink scar. It was already fading. “I can speak to them. Did they also defile thee?”

  He lifted a quick hand to the back of his ear. “No.”

  Zaula was surprised that he knew where they usually inserted it. “Thou are wise,” she said, half to herself.

  He glanced
at her, starting to smile. His eyes held mischief. “No. I just know a lot about humans.”

  “Ah.” She lifted her palm. “From the n’ka catalyst who raised thee in transference.”

  He looked startled. “Er…yes. Let’s not discuss that. Back to these observers. What did they ask you?”

  “My name. It is not permitted that n’kai be so impertinent, but I am done with Ruantl. I—”

  “Is that all?”

  She stared at him in puzzlement. “Yes. Why?”

  “They either got more from me than I thought or else they’re saving you for examination back at Central.”

  “Yes,” she said eagerly, glad at last to know what he was talking about. “They said they were going to take me to their home planet. Is this way across the Beyond a path that goes by Tlartantla? It would honor me to see our home.”

  He shifted his gaze away from hers. His face grew pensive and sad. After a moment he reached out and traced the tip of one finger across the back of her clenched hand. “Zaula,” he said quietly. “You will never see Tlartantla.”

  She stiffened. “Why? Even if the path of this transport lies not in that direction, then someday—”

  “No. Forget that dream.” He spread out his hand and held it flat over hers, applying pressure that meant the deepest negative. “The Tlar’n must forget the past. That’s all over.”

  “No, it isn’t!” She snatched her hand away. “We will recover the old technologies. It was Picyt and the House of Kkanthor who kept the secrets of machines hidden. But now we have a chance to recover them. We will go back. There is not one Tlar who does not believe that.”

  “Zaula, there is no Tlartantla.”

  Her head jerked. Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Thou lies.”

  “It was destroyed. That’s why the Tlar’n came to Ruantl. The little colony here is all that remains.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Aural, Vauzier, Rim, and I were the last to leave. We saw it die, Zaula. We cannot go back there. Ever. We can find other worlds if we choose, better worlds easier to inhabit. By this time the radiation levels should be low enough for us to search the skeletons of our empire…”