Prophecy
( Slave Empire - 1 )
T C Southwell
Prophecy
T C Southwell
The lurid light of the temple's sputtering torches illuminated the high priest's grim face. A sleek white animal writhed on the gem-encrusted altar, its slender legs thrashing as its life drained out in a scarlet stream. Its grey eyes closed, and its head drooped.
The priest glanced at his audience of Draycon nobility before he slit the animal's belly with a deft motion. Red and blue entrails spilt out, and he thrust his hands into the bloody mass and spread it on the sacrificial slab, bending closer to study the offal. Several minutes passed before he straightened, his eyes bright with triumph.
"She has come. She has been born on Enthos." He raised his hands, the wide sleeves of his crimson and gold robe sliding back to reveal withered arms, and shouted, "She must die! Her destiny cannot be fulfilled! She must not stop the great one who will vanquish Atlan. He is our saviour! He comes soon, to aid us in our fight against those who would oppress us!"
Empress Drevina Ranshan stepped forward as he lowered his arms, her eyes as hard as chips of green ice. "What does she look like?"
The priest shrugged. "She is the Golden Child, Empress. Something about her must be gold. Her hair, eyes, or skin."
"So you don't know. How will we find one miserable girl on this Enthos? We don't even know where the planet is!" The Empress' voice rose.
The priest met her gaze. "I know not. I have done my duty and given warning of the coming danger. Follow the Atlanteans. They will go there to find her, or wait until they have her, then take her from them."
"Take her from them? They are the most powerful people in the galaxy. How easy do you think it will be to take her from them?"
The priest nodded, his haggard features impassive. "You'll find a way, Empress. That's why you were born as our ruler at this time of danger. You've been chosen to stop her, and you will."
The Empress of Drayconar snorted, then smiled, revealing sharp pink teeth. "Yes, I'll find her, and she'll die. Your ranting cannot stop the wheels of destiny, but I can. All you can do is fondle the guts of dead animals and prophesy, but I'll ensure Drayconar rules the galaxy."
She thrust her angular face closer to the priest's. "You had better be right. If she's not on that stupid planet, it will be your blood on this altar next. So you must be quite sure before you send me off on a fool's errand. Do you understand?"
The high priest licked his lips. "I am certain, Empress."
Drevina turned away, casting her gaze over the bevy of loyal subjects gathered within the temple's blood-red walls adorned with gold inlaid carvings of grotesque gods and demigods. The torches' green-shot flames fluttered and dipped, sending monstrous shadows across strained faces. Thick, oily smoke gathered in the temple roof's grimy carvings, the noxious fumes adding to the planet's already foul ammonia-sulphur atmosphere.
With a cold smile, she announced, "Then we will find this Enthos, and kill the Golden Child."
Chapter One
Rayne woke with a start, as one who sleeps lightly does. Sitting up, she rubbed her face and glanced around, then yawned, squinting at the bloated, angry-looking sun on the horizon. Thick, sooty clouds almost obscured it, dimming its glory to a weak gleam beyond the polluted atmosphere. The distant muttering and shuffling of thousands of human beings and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies and excrement wafted to her on the chill morning breeze.
Throwing off her ragged blanket, she stood up and stretched, ridding herself of the kinks acquired from sleeping curled up. She studied the countryside, on the lookout for roving police patrols or the furtive movement of a fellow raider. Ruined buildings huddled in groups, surrounded by the remains of roads and walls the tanks that had rumbled through here in the days of the rebellion had reduced to rubble. Only the hardiest weeds struggled to grow in the rubble, their yellow leaves blotched with brown. Rusted or burnt-out cars lay in ditches and on kerbs. Most of the trees that remained were dead, but a few bore sickly, withered leaves.
Her gaze drifted to the feeding station housed in an ugly building at the bottom of the valley. Thousands of thin, filthy people stood around it in a never ending fight for survival. Their only ambition was to reach the food dispenser and push their battered tin plate under it to receive a meagre helping of sludge-like food. Then the crowd pushed them to the back, sometimes stealing their share along the way. More often they gulped it down, growling at would-be thieves. They would then find a warm hollow or deserted building to sleep in, curled up in the ragged blankets they carried with them. Those who failed to reach the front often enough grew too weak to ever make it, and died where they stood.
There were only a few women in the, so it was an old feeding station where the weaklings had already succumbed. Once a day, a meat wagon came to collect the dead and deliver the next food supply. The police, using shock sticks and batons, cleared a path and dragged out the dead and dying, loaded them onto refrigerated trucks and left. Some bodies remained to add to the stench, however.
Rayne and her brother scorned the sludge-eaters and their stink. They were raiders, and they took whatever they could from whoever was vulnerable. The people at the feeding stations ate the ones who died. There was nothing else they could eat. All the animals, wild and domestic, had long since been slaughtered to feed the starving billions. Other species had succumbed to pollution or deforestation, the rest had been judged expendable and wiped out. The autocrats, remnants of the political and social elite, had retained their power and prosperity by taking control of the massive food stores that the government and army had hoarded over the decades.
Raiders were too proud to work for the autocrats. Those who did were virtually slaves, paid only in food and shelter. They served as police and store guards, but for more unpleasant jobs the autocrats had real slaves. Rayne and her brother, Rawn, preferred to live by the gun and die by it, if necessary. Many years ago, Rawn had taken a. 44 automatic from a dead man, and it had given them the means to become raiders. Without it, their destiny might have been quite different.
Rawn had taken care of her since their parents had been killed in a riot when he was twelve years old and Rayne eight. She was twenty-two now, and the last fourteen years had been tough.
A fallen tree's roots formed the dry hollow in which they had slept. Rawn had dug it deeper and filled it with bracken and leaves. The canopy of roots had protected them from most of the stinging, acidic dew that fell each morning.
Rayne glanced around at the sound of footsteps, relaxing when she recognised her brother’s familiar figure approaching. Evidently he had answered a call of nature.
Rayne stood up and brushed leaves from her fawn shirt and brown leather jacket. Like her ragged suede mini skirt and stretch pants, they had been scavenged from abandoned shops. Leather afforded protection from injury and rain, making it the material of choice, although difficult to find. Rawn's black leather trousers bore the scars of many violent encounters, as did the suede jacket he wore over a grey shirt. Their pseudo plastic boots would last for years, unless the pollution ate through them.
At six foot four, Rawn was unusual in a world where most were stunted and malnourished. Exercise and hunger had honed his lean, muscular physique, but his size and strength allowed him to stave off malnutrition. His strong jaw, straight nose, piercing tawny eyes and dark gold hair streaked with silver made him handsome, she thought.
She said. "I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"That's because you don't feed me enough."
"Bullshit! You eat as much as you want. You're just a gannet."
"You're always hungry too," she shot back.
Rawn pulled a face and shrugged.
Hunger was the driving force of their never ending struggle for survival in a world gone mad. They had grown up in it, and knew its dangers well, which was perhaps the reason they had succeeded where so many had failed. They were a remnant of the last generation to survive, old enough to fend for themselves when they had been orphaned, but young enough to adapt.
"Come. Let's go."
Rawn led her down the hill past the sludge-eaters, secure in his advantage of youth and comparative health. The people watched them pass with bright, envious eyes, some finding the energy to throw of few stones in their direction, all of which fell short. Rayne followed Rawn at a steady lope through the desolate, ruined suburbs towards the city.
Rayne hated the city, but they had to go into it for food. They always left as soon as they had supplies for a few days. They paused on the crest of a hill, but when Rawn started down it, Rayne stayed behind, forcing him to stop and turn to her.
"Couldn't we raid the country store again?" she asked.
"We raided that last week. It'll be crawling with guards."
"I have a bad feeling today."
"It'll be all right. Come on."
Rayne glared at the distant cluster of shining towers that sprouted from the tumbled ruins of lesser buildings, crushed in the rebellion or fallen foul of pollution later. The decaying buildings formed a complex concrete jungle whose dangers included collapsing walls and crumbling sewers. Broken glass and twisted, rusted reinforcing littered the streets, where bands of hostile vagrants roamed, preying on anything that could not defend itself or run. Packs of giant rats infested the sewers in an army of disease-riddled vermin. She caught a glimpse of herself in a piece of broken glass as she passed it, averting her eyes quickly.
The harsh life and lack of food had taken its toll, giving her a gaunt, elfin look. Her blue-green eyes burnt with hunger, and soot smudged her creamy skin. Her mane of silver-streaked blonde hair, which she had hacked off in a thick fringe, was a little grubby. Her unusual beauty made her a target for raiders and autocrats. Rawn was too, not so much for the autocrats, but the mistresses, their female counterparts.
Only the autocrats' towers, which their slaves maintained with cannibalised parts from unused towers, remained intact. They clustered at the city centre, known as the Inner City. A leaden grey sky hung above it like a dirty shroud, and black smoke belched from the power plants that provided electricity to the towers, fuelling its filth. To Rayne, who preferred the country, barren and dead though it was, the glittering buildings represented all that was evil in the world.
She glanced at her brother. "We've been lucky until now, but one day our luck's going to run out."
"Do you want to starve?" He turned away. "We have no choice. Come on, let's get on with it."
At the city's outskirts, they grew more cautious, dodging from building to building to avoid the police patrols that were meant to keep raiders out. Dawdling guards outside a red-brick building gave away the site of a food store. The ruined top floors sprouted twisted girders, and rotting planks covered the windows. Crouched behind a crumbling wall, they watched the bored guards pace up and down with measured strides.
"That's the place," Rawn whispered. "Only two guards, and they're bored stiff. That place hasn't been raided for a while. It's perfect. Time to do your stuff, Ray."
Years of fleeing irate store guards had given Rayne an unusual turn of speed. She could out sprint the fastest guard, creating an effective diversion while Rawn stole food. The guards, knowing their master would reward them for catching her, always vied for the prize. She had to keep them interested long enough for her brother to do his part, then escape. Afterwards, she would meet him outside the city. Rawn patted her shoulder, and she stepped out from behind the wall and walked towards the guards.
They spotted her and shouted, drew their guns and gave chase. Rayne sprinted down the street while Rawn ran to the doors and picked the padlock on the chain that secured them, slipping inside. There he would fill his rucksack from the masses of food bars stacked on the shelves, and, if his luck was really good, he might find ammunition too.
Rayne ran across a road and into the street beyond, glancing back at the panting guards, who flagged after just three blocks. Slowing, she faked a limp so they would not give up too soon, and their yells of triumph rewarded her. Their occasional shots were wild, and she loped on for another block, then swerved and ran across a vacant lot into another street. By the time they walked back to the store, Rawn would be long gone. She entered a more dilapidated area of crumbling ruins inhabited by a few thin, dirty people so scared they even hid from each other.
The guards followed, shouting in frustration. She glanced back with a smile as she rounded a corner. Something slammed into her midriff, and she rebounded and sprawled. Gasping with shock, she struggled to rise, staring at the sleek grey hover car that blocked her path. The airtight door seal broke with a faint wheeze, and a gush of conditioned coolness washed over her, scented with strange perfume. An autocrat stepped out, his shiny black robe covering all but his face. Rayne scrambled to her knees, shaking her head to clear the spots from her eyes, broken glass slicing into her shins. She staggered to her feet and backed away just before he came close enough to grab her.
He raised a hand. "Wait! Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."
Rayne retreated, and he followed, a hand extended in a parody of friendship, his tone soothing. "It's okay. I only want to help you. You're hurt."
Rayne knew an autocrat would never help her. His beady brown eyes, set close together in a thin face with a bony nose and a rat-trap mouth, roved over her in a way that made her skin crawl.
Spinning on her heel, she sprinted down the street, hoping to put a good distance between herself and the autocrat before he started his car. He cursed, then the car's soft whine pursued her, catching up fast. She could not outrun a hover car, and there was nowhere to hide. She dodged burnt-out car wrecks and avoided twisted girders and rubble. The shock of her fall had sapped her strength, her lungs laboured and her legs grew weaker with every stride. The autocrat followed, waiting for her to tire while he called his men.
A doorway ahead yawned dark and forbidding, but she dived through it and stopped, panting. He would not dare to follow her into such a dangerous area, even though he was armed. The old building provided a perfect place for an ambush.
Rayne listened to the hover car's whine, gasping in the building's damp, smelly gloom. He could wait out there all day, and would have called for men to send in after her. Walking further in, she stumbled over garbage, startling a few rats. The building stank of urine, faeces and decay, and pollution ate away at its crumbling walls. Icy fingers of fear marched up and down her spine, but she forced herself to go on. A square of light beckoned ahead, and she quickened her pace.
The door led into an empty lot surrounded by high buildings, some of which had partially collapsed, filling the area with broken bricks, twisted girders and glass. Hurrying across it, she entered the building on the far side, where she rested in the musty darkness, contemplating the dangers that still faced her. She had to get to the meeting place, which meant running the gauntlet of hazards with which this ruined world was rife. At least she knew what they were, and how to avoid them. A lifetime of training had prepared her well.
Walking to the doorway, she looked up and down the dirty street. A group of vagrants huddled around a fire, cooking a rat, but they were far away. Further up the street, a manhole cover flew off with a clang and a ragged figure wriggled out onto the road, then sprinted for the shadow of a doorway. Seconds later, three more ragged men emerged, looking up and down the street for their prey before setting off down an alley. The group that had been cooking the rat had vanished into a building, leaving their little fire.
Rayne waited for the men to return. They had to be raiders or desperate vagrants banded together to hunt others. After several minutes, the distant vagrants re-emerged and fought over who would eat the rat. Still she waited, all he
r senses alert. A movement at the end of the street caught her eye, as four police hover cars entered it and moved towards her. The vagrants broke off their argument and retreated into the building behind them.
The autocrat must have ordered the police to patrol this block in search of her, so she could not venture out. Retreating, she found a room with a single dirty window and settled down to wait, piling damp cardboard boxes into a makeshift seat. Periodically, she rose to peer out of the door, where the police still patrolled. Her stomach rumbled, and she thought of Rawn, by now enjoying the meal he had stolen from the autocrat's food store.
Rayne piled up the rubbish on the floor as darkness oozed into the city in a tide of shadow, and set it alight it with her precious lighter, which Rawn insisted she always carry. He had one too, but made her carry her own, so if they were separated she could at least light a fire. As the night chill settled on the city and a corrosive mist filled the street outside, she longed for her brother's warm, comforting presence. They had not been apart for a night before, and she toyed with the idea of trying to sneak past the police in the dark. There were too many dangers at night, however. This was when the mutants usually hunted. Safety lay in numbers or concealment, and she huddled close to the little fire, hoping no one would find her.
Rawn ate some stolen food while he waited in a grove of dead trees. Dusk sent long fingers of shadow through them, bringing with it a growing fear for his sister. His imagination conjured up visions of her caught or injured, alone and frightened, somewhere in a ruined city filled with pitfalls and dangers that could kill even a street-smart girl.
The more he thought about it, the more horrible his imaginings became. Rayne had been reluctant to go to the city, and he had persuaded her. He paced about, racking his brains for a plausible plan of action. If he went after her, he could be caught too, and, even if he was not, he would not be here if she did make it back. He had to do something, though. The inactivity made him frustrated and angry. She could be fighting for her life while he procrastinated, but the task was enough to make anyone pause. Even if he knew where to look, there were many places in the ruins where she could hide. If she had been captured, his chances of rescuing her were slim to nil.
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