Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two

by Deborah Chester

  Demos, he’d forgotten how careless free raiders were. Gulping in air, Asan stared at the blackened lump of scrag that had been the table. Powers had been charred beyond any remains. These bloatwits ought to know that flamethrowers were long-range weapons ill-suited for close work like this. One degree less precision and there would have been a hole cut in the side of the ship.

  “Found!” said Kor, pointing a black talon in Asan’s direction. His yellow eyes—large, lidless, and reptilian cold—stared into Asan’s. He aimed his flamethrower in Asan’s direction. “Move not.”

  Fear gripped Asan. It had nothing to do with the flamethrower. For a moment he was paralyzed, certain that Kor recognized him.

  No way, he told himself. Don’t be a fool. You’re not even human now. There’s no way you can be recognized.

  Finally Kor glanced away, and Asan gasped in relief. He had always known that if Martok ever released his claim on him, then he would be Kor’s meat once again. Vyarians had memories about fifty times longer than their hair tassels. His arm still carried the scars from those talons…

  Demos, no. He must be losing his mind. Asan glanced down at his right arm, so much longer, so much more powerful than the original. The scars he bore now belonged to wars he hadn’t fought. He winced, shying away from it all. He’d better get himself together or he’d be screaming next.

  “Deck check complete,” said a voice which, like Kor’s face, still haunted Asan.

  Udge Enster—smaller, skinnier, stooped, burnt brown from the tropical sun of Martok’s headquarters, his bony head shaved and oiled so that it glistened in the ship’s lighting—stepped into the conference room and glanced around at death and carnage without so much as a blink. His cheek puffed, and he spat.

  “Been wasting fire, Hux?”

  Asan closed his eyes as that dry, laconic voice brought back memories he wanted to forget. The raider stammered some answer; Udge always knew who’d fired out of place. The raiders never could figure out how he knew. It kept them scared of him. It kept them in line. Only Kor wasn’t afraid of Udge, but then Kor wasn’t afraid of anything he could eat. Kor and Udge had a different kind of bond, one that had never been explained.

  “All GSI humans aboard,” Udge was saying. “Except one little dandy in the brig. She’s—”

  “Female?” rumbled Kor, his head coming up. The chin claw—so handy for slashing throats—quivered a little. Kor was endlessly fascinated by females of all species.

  “None of that now,” said Udge sharply. “We’re on a job, and we stay on that job until Omari is located.”

  Worried, Asan rose to his feet. They had come out this far tracing him. Martok was notorious for never letting anyone double-cross him. But they were looking for someone who was impossible to find. Asan was safe…at least, he was providing they didn’t decide he was flotsam and kill him.

  Udge glanced at him and blinked in a double-take, his eyes lifting up and up to meet Asan’s. They stared at each other a long while. Asan’s self-confidence began to return. For the first time in his life he wasn’t under Udge’s thumb, taking orders, taking flin. Udge’s eyes were like glass, opaque with surprise.

  Asan decided to grab his advantage and put on full Tlar pomposity.

  “Choi’heirat. Za,” he said, turning up his palm. “I am Asan, Tlar leiil of the people of Ruantl. It was of need that my captors’ blood be spread upon the sand. You have my thanks.”

  He waited, appearing calm and noble, while Udge looked him over. He saw Udge take notice of the ring of black carbyx. He could almost see Udge estimating its value.

  Udge shoved his strifer into its holster and put his left hand in a capacious side-pocket of his stained brown vest. It had at least a dozen other pockets, all of various sizes, most of them bulging until the fastenings strained. He stepped forward until he was only two arm’s lengths from Asan and cocked his bald head to one side.

  “You a GSI prisoner?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your crime?”

  “Wealth.”

  Interest flickered in the opaque eyes. “That little dandy in the brig belong to you?”

  Asan hesitated a moment, thinking of how much Zaula hated him. “Yes.”

  Udge grinned. His teeth were small, stained, and pointed. “How much wealth?”

  Asan removed his ring and tossed it to Udge. “It is a common stone,” he said, putting indifference in his voice. “Normally I would be arrayed in better attire, but I have been in the TANK.” He lifted his palm. “You may have the ring if it pleases you.”

  Udge turned pale under his tan. He held his palm flat with the ring centered on it. The other men were silent, hushed with awe in the presence of something as priceless as carbyx.

  If only I still had my corybdium jen-knife to wave around, thought Asan with regret.

  The black stone drank in the light, reflecting nothing in its polished surface. Martok was one of the richest persons alive, and to Asan’s knowledge he possessed only three small carbyx stones. Those were protected in their own special vault. Certainly he would never toss one to his men as a gift.

  The struggle was plain in Udge’s face. But at last he tossed it back to Asan, who caught it in relief that the bluff had worked.

  “We are not permitted to take bribes,” Udge said coldly.

  Asan lifted his brows. “You are wealthy raiders.”

  Someone laughed bitterly. Udge snapped his head around, and the laughter stopped.

  “Hux, you and Beanie report back to Wyton. Clean out this ship and get her ready to tow.”

  The two humans shouldered their flamethrowers and shuffled out. Kor began wandering around the room. Asan watched his seemingly aimless progress warily.

  “We’re looking for a fellow named Blaise Omari,” said Udge.

  Asan did not have to pretend his weariness. “That name again. Are all humans on the trail of this n’ka?”

  “You know him?”

  “He is dead.”

  “Is he now? That’s too bad.” Udge exchanged a glance with Kor. “My boss ain’t gonna like that. He was sort of wantin’ to kill Omari himself.”

  Asan shrugged. “His blood was spread upon the sands long ago…before season. Ruantl is a harsh world. Few live long.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Omari had quite a knack for wrigglin’ out of tough spots.” Udge scratched his chin. “I can think of several times when I thought sure he was a goner, but, nope, out he’d come again. You say he’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “You see him die?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” Udge frowned. His cheeks puffed, and he spat. Then he drew out his left hand from his pocket where it had been all this time. He was holding a small meter that blinked a tiny yellow light.

  “Funny you should say that, Tobei. You see, a long, long time ago I put a thwart in you so that if you ever did decide to run out on us, we’d have a way of finding you.”

  Coldness sank through Asan. He stiffened, his gaze locked on the meter. Disbelief and despair warred inside him. It was impossible. He’d have known if there was a thwart inside his subconscious. Maybe not before when he was human, but surely the rings of life would have told him…

  “I’m impressed, Tobei.” Udge went on. “I really am. Not only have you grown about three feet and changed color, you’re even rich now. That’s very good. No one else I’ve trained has ever pulled something like this off.”

  Desperately Asan shook off his numbness. Trying to ignore Kor, who had circled around behind him and was now breathing down his neck, Asan said, “You are mistaken. I am Asan, Tlar leiil of—”

  “Tobei, Tobei, don’t play games with us.” Udge shook his head reprovingly. “We’re family, remember? At least we were until you did us dirty. Martok’s sore. But you know that. That’s why you’re hiding. That’s why you’re trying to lie to me.”

  Kor rumbled deep in his throat. His talons grasped Asan’s shoulder and gave him a shake.
>
  “I knew Blaise,” said Asan. “But I am not he. That meter is wrong. It’s reading certain memory patterns picked up during transference—”

  “Transference,” said Udge. “That’s an interesting word. Martok will like it.”

  “I was in preservation,” said Asan, beginning to sweat. “Blaise was the catalyst required to resurrect me. His life force was used to reactivate my own. He died in the process. Look at me! I am no puny human with striped eyes! I am Tlartantlan.”

  “It’s a good trick, but a thwart is designed for tricks like yours. A thwart doesn’t lie.”

  Asan swung around, aiming for Kor’s eyes. His blow missed, however, and Kor clamped a hand unerringly on Asan’s broken wrist. The pain barrier broke, and a flash of heat followed by icy chills went through Asan. He screamed, going down on one knee as Kor ground the shattered bones together. Asan’s rings snapped out desperately. Kor staggered back from the blow, but he did not fall. Growling, he shook his wedge-shaped head as though to clear it and aimed the flamethrower.

  “Kor, no!” shouted Udge, and stepped between Asan and Kor with his strifer aimed right between Asan’s eyes. “He is Martok’s meat. Get him confined. Now.”

  Kor hesitated as though he would argue, but finally he came forward with the flamethrower at rest against his shoulder. He grabbed Asan’s wrist again, but more gently this time.

  Still, Asan closed his eyes against a wave of despised weakness that kept him from making another try to escape. He’d be smarter, and healthier, to wait until he got back to Martok. He still had Ruantl to offer on a deal; only now, instead of bargaining for mutual gain, he’d be bargaining for his life.

  Chapter 11

  Kor paused outside the door to the brig and glanced slyly at Asan, who was trying hard to ignore the iron grip on his injured wrist. Asan frowned back. It was physically impossible for Vyarians to mate with any other species, but just the same Kor’s sexual scents were repulsive. And Asan didn’t like the idea of Kor even thinking about Zaula.

  “She’s probably pulp on the floor,” he said. “You skyflies banged this ship around pretty hard.”

  Kor grunted. “Still in one piece.”

  Asan frowned again, unsure if Kor meant the girl or the ship.

  Kor touched the security panel, and the brig door opened. Zaula sprang to her feet, saw Kor, and her face went smooth and blank with horror. Kor grinned at her. She flung up both hands and screamed. She stumbled back to the far end of the cell and went on screaming.

  “It’s all right,” said Asan, shoving Kor aside and going in. He took Zaula’s arm and gave her a little shake. “Zaula. Stop it. It’s all right.”

  She didn’t stop. He clamped his hand over her mouth. Her breath was hot against his palm; the scream was instantly muffled.

  “It’s all right.”

  She stood rigid against the wall, her eyes enormous above his hand, her face dark with fear. He wasn’t sure she’d seen him, much less heard him.

  “Zaula.”

  He spoke in command tone that time, and her gaze flickered to his. She blinked, and he heard her breath catch in her throat. She reached up and gripped his hand, pulling it away from her mouth.

  “Wh-what is it?” she whispered.

  “His name is Kor,” said Asan calmly. “He is a Vyarian. He won’t hurt you.”

  Kor chose this introduction as his invitation to enter the cell. Zaula screamed again, pressing herself back in the corner. Asan turned angrily.

  “Demos, Kor! Can’t you see you’re scaring her out of her wits? Go away. You can stare at her through the observation cam.”

  “Confine,” said Kor. His slanted eyes shone queerly in his wedge-shaped face. “Orders.”

  “We’re in the brig—”

  “Wrong ship.” Kor crooked a talon. “Both come.” Asan looked at him sharply. “Is Udge going to flush this one?”

  Kor wheezed his version of a laugh. “Come now. When clean, you come back.”

  Flushing a ship meant jettisoning its crew. There would be a few less GSI loyalists around. Asan had no sympathy for anyone stupid enough to sign up with the Institute. He grinned back at Kor, momentarily feeling the old ties.

  “Right,” he said, and glanced at Zaula, who was frowning as though she hadn’t understood a word. He held out his hand to her. “We’re transferring to the other ship. An.”

  She hesitated. “Our masks. We—”

  “We don’t need them, Zaula,” he said gently, trying to give her time to adjust to these cultural shocks without making Kor impatient. “There’s no harmful radiation here.”

  “Of course,” she said scornfully. “I was thinking of protocol.”

  Asan laughed. “Free raiders don’t have any.”

  Her expression remained serious, but to his relief she came docilely enough. When she passed Kor, however, he reached out and scratched her across the cheek, drawing blood.

  She gasped and flinched away.

  Furious, Asan stepped between her and Kor, aiming a quick blow that Kor dodged easily.

  “Damn you, she isn’t your meat! You’ve no business marking her—”

  Kor struck with his chin claw. Asan jumped back, throwing up his left arm to protect his throat. The claw cut deep, bringing a spurt of dark blood. Asan pulled in his rings and formed his force field in time to repel the finishing slash. Kor staggered back, plainly startled, and with a growl he snapped the flamethrower down from his shoulder to firing position. Grimly Asan faced him and extended his force field to encompass Zaula.

  “Isn’t that weapon a little big for this small space?” he asked, hiding all fear from his voice. “The backlash will fry you along with us.”

  But to his surprise, Kor was grinning. “You are marked, Tobei,” he growled. “New body no matter. You are both marked.”

  Asan swore, relaxing from his battle stance. “Fool,” he said in exasperation. “Martok—”

  “It will please the One to let me carve you,” said Kor. He wheezed and pointed at the door. “He is just.”

  “I am not his meat, and I am not yours,” said Asan angrily, clutching his wrist. Blood ran between his fingers. He dropped the force field and closed the wound. The effort sapped him. Suddenly he felt very tired. He ached everywhere, not just in his arm. “I am going to make a bargain with Martok that he can’t refuse. I am going to make him richer than all his free raiding and cooperatives combined.”

  “Money small when time to eat,” said Kor, unimpressed. He pointed at the door. “Go. Now.”

  Asan glanced at Zaula. They had no choice. They went.

  “It was wrong,” Zaula said quietly, “to take our jen-knives from us. Aural has betrayed us to the blood. We cannot even fight the demon. We are in shame.”

  Asan sighed and opened his eyes. He’d been trying to sleep and couldn’t. He was too tired. He ached too much. The food they’d eaten had been rich and greasy; it lay heavily in his stomach.

  Zaula walked over to his bunk and knelt beside him. She had knotted her hair back from her face. The formality suited her. He envisioned her in court robes and gowns of delicate pria cloth, rustling when she moved, scented mysteriously, half hidden in the shadows of the Court of Women. He hated the GSI uniform she wore. He wished she would find something else to put on.

  Then he frowned at his own thoughts. Since when had he cared what a woman wore or did not wear? He should be thinking about what he was going to say to Martok.

  “My leiil.”

  Zaula knelt there with her head bowed, waiting to be acknowledged. Her husky voice was quiet and low, her tones neutral. Her previous hostility was gone.

  He sat up, wincing. “My leiis?”

  The flippancy did not take the serious expression from her face. Instead, the smoother amber of her cheeks stained a dark brown. She frowned, looking away from him.

  “I’m sorry,” said Asan. “You aren’t used to joking—”

  “Oh, but I am. My husband delighted in mockery. He was
famous for his barbs.”

  “A joke is for people to share, not laugh at one’s expense.”

  She seemed caught by that. She glanced up straight into his eyes, a slight frown still creasing her brow. “Thy speech is truth. Thou are strange to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because thou has shown me honor by thy courtesy. Because thou fought for me against a demon.”

  Asan frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. He shifted on the bunk. “Kor is a barbarian. I would have done as much for anyone.”

  One corner of her mouth curled up in a faint smile. She touched the scratch on her cheek as her eyes looked deep into his. “Would thou? I do not believe it.”

  “You’re right.” He smiled back. “Not for just anyone. I think people should usually fight their own battles.”

  “But not me?”

  “Yes, you. Only…” He gestured, struggling to find the words. “Not as long as you think he is a demon. He isn’t. He’s smelly, vicious, stupid, and damned dangerous, but there isn’t anything mystical about him. All Vyarians are like him, except he’s a half-breed so that makes him bigger and stupider than most of them.”

  Zaula sighed. “Thou started to say something else. What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Annoyed by her questions, he flicked a finger in a signal for her to go away. She ignored it.

  “We are enemies. That is why I question thee. I must understand why—”

  “Why what?” he said irritably. “Why I haven’t grabbed you by the hair and slit your throat? Why I haven’t left you to fend for yourself? Why I haven’t refused to treat you like a piece of chattel instead of a person of worth? It’s very simple, Zaula. I…well, I…Damn.”

  He stood up, stepped around her, and began to pace across their quarters. They were locked into an ordinary cabin since Enster’s ship didn’t have a brig. It was both opulent and comfortable, but the pleasant treatment so far only made him nervous.

  Just as Zaula was making him nervous now. Why couldn’t she just sit in a corner, look pretty, and be quiet?