Tarke smashed aside the ones that attacked him, holding the girl away from the Envoy’s tube mouths. He fought the soldiers instinctively, even predicting their pattern of attack after a while. A dozen tendrils snaked out and seized him, dragging him away from the girl. He hung on, pain shooting up his legs. The Ship bellowed again, and soldiers rained down from the Envoy, splashed into the sea and sank.
A horde of land-bound soldiers dashed towards Tarke, who realised that he was doomed if he continued to lie there, helpless. He released the girl and twisted to cut the tendrils that dragged him away. More snaked out of the sea; the Envoy seemed to have an endless supply of them. Tarke scrambled away and raced for the girl, reaching her just before the soldiers. He skidded across the slippery shore and pushed her ahead of him into the sea.
The soldiers stopped on the brink, all but a few, which fell in and sank. Amongst the roiling blood beasts, he and Rayne were safe from the soldiers, but not the Envoy. A tentacle shot out of the depths and wound around his ankle, dragging him under. He held onto the girl, afraid that if he let her go, he would never find her again. He cut the tendril with a glass dagger, and the mask filled with liquid. Tarke broke the surface spluttering, shaking fluid from it. Rayne coughed and wheezed, unable to free herself from the psychic struggle. He wondered who was winning, and when they would. His arms ached, and the dozens of wounds the soldiers had inflicted throbbed and bled.
Fighting was strenuous when so much strength was required to smash a soldier’s armour, and hunger weakened him. He crawled through the blood beasts towards the Envoy, glad of a respite from the tentacle attack. The Envoy writhed, quivering, and the Ship bellowed. Rayne, the catalyst and mirror, seemed to be in limbo, locked into a spasm of mental torture. Tarke held her head above the fluid, his arm around her throat as he half swam, half crawled through the seething red sea.
A glance at the shore assured him that soldiers waited for him there, while more still crawled over the Envoy, injecting him with venom. He wondered how much of this the alien could stand, hoping it was not much more. Reaching the Envoy’s flank, he held her to it, knowing that the more intimate she was with the beast, the more powerful her affect would be. The Envoy quivered, and several tentacles rose to coil around the girl and try to crush her again. Tarke hacked at them, then had to defend himself as more tendrils gripped him.
The surfeit of tendrils seemed to be at an end, and many of those that wound around him were already truncated by previous bouts. This handicapped them, and they were easy to kick away. Coming closer to the Envoy also brought them close to the tube mouths, which tore into his legs under the fluid, the sharp teeth shredding his skin when he kicked. Others went for Rayne, who groaned as she shared his pain. He ducked under the surface to stab the tubes, driving some away. Dragging his charge, he headed for the bank. Soldiers were easier to dispatch than the tubes.
Near the Envoy’s beached forepart, he encountered another set of tube mouths above the fluid. They attacked, and he hacked at the place where they sprouted from the Envoy’s flank with the fighting blade. The severed tubes sank into the sea, twitching and writhing. Standing in the chest-deep liquid, he pulled Rayne close and took a much needed rest between the dangers of sea and shore. Blood from his lacerated legs stained the glowing liquid pink around him. Some soldiers entered the sea to try to reach him, but sank before they could.
Rayne lived in a world of intense pain and pleasure. The vast sensations filled her mind to the brim, threatening to crush her sanity. The Ship’s agony coursed through her in a searing tide, and she ached with it; her fingers throbbed and her head pounded. The Envoy’s pleasure flowed into every part of her in tingling spasms of delight and sweet sensations of intense enjoyment that she channelled back to him, causing him great anguish. She fought to cling to consciousness, knowing that if she lost it she would lose the battle, and their lives.
The Ship keened, its gentle sentience struggling with the Envoy’s brutal awareness, his agony tempering his mental abilities. Both were losing. As the battle neared its conclusion, Scrysalza died with the Envoy. Rayne twitched with distress. Which tendril, she asked, and the Ship showed her a mass of ganglia beneath the Envoy, all different colours, but a blue one stood out. She was aware of Tarke holding her, and tried to rise through the psychic turmoil to warn him.
The Envoy sensed her plan and dragged her back, flogging her with his pain, which now overpowered his pleasure. The circle had eroded to pain breeding pain, and his reflected agony redoubled his suffering again and again. He loved the pain of others, but not his own. Even the Ship’s suffering brought him little satisfaction now. She fought him, and the Ship helped to build a shield around her. For a brief instant, she returned to reality like a diver rising to the air.
Tarke started when the girl opened her eyes and gripped his arm.
“The blue one, cut it!” she yelled, then her eyes glazed and closed again.
“Blue what?” Tarke frowned at her, dazed by the telepathic barrage that hammered his skull. He pondered her words, trying to divine their meaning. A weak tentacle grabbed his arm, and he wrenched free, watching the soldiers pace the shore. He groaned as he realised what she meant.
“Where is it?” he asked, patting her cheek to try to rouse her again. “Where?”
His efforts proved fruitless, but he was leery of using harsher methods to bring her back to reality, in case he jeopardised her battle with the Envoy. It had to be under the alien somewhere. That was where all the tentacles originated, and diving into their midst would be dangerous. If Rayne had revived to tell him, however, it meant the Envoy was trying to kill the Ship. It also meant the Envoy was dying. How could he leave her undefended, though? Nowhere was safe from the Envoy. It had soldiers on the shore and tentacles in the sea. What was he supposed to do with the girl? He came to a decision. The job had to be done; there simply was no other way.
Tarke used the fighting blade to cut a strip of skin from the Envoy’s side, making it thick and strong. He lifted the girl and pulled her hand from the tentacle, transferring it to the strip of skin. He did the same with her other hand, so she held the strip of skin instead of the submerged tendril. This way, he hoped that if a tentacle grabbed her while he was away, she would be able to hold herself out of the fluid until he returned.
“Hold onto this,” he told her. “I think you can hear me, so hold onto it and don’t let go.”
Tarke eyed the submerged part of the Envoy. He had lost his sword, but retained the fighting blade and several daggers. The mask would hamper him, for it was not designed to be worn underwater, and would take a little while to drain when he surfaced; precious seconds that could spell the difference between life and death. The girl was lost in her own world, and the aliens did not care. He pulled off his gloves and threw them onto the shore, then unclipped the mask and stripped it off. The touch of air on his face was strange, and he took the opportunity to rub it, easing the itch of the drying fluid. He threw the mask onto the shore, making the soldiers turn and hop. His hands’ slight tremor warned him of his growing weakness, but he took a deep breath and dived.
Swarms of blood beasts pummelled him, and he had to claw his way through them to gain depth. A tentacle lay still in the liquid, writhing gently as the blood beasts pushed past it. The Envoy loomed over him, the blood beasts’ lurid glow lighting it from below. He studied its pitted, shaggy skin as he pushed his way deeper, forced to go close to see anything at all. Tendrils hung from the alien’s underbelly, vanishing into the sea below. It had to be one of them, but in the red light they all appeared to be black or red. How the hell was he supposed to find a blue one?
Tarke cursed and sliced through a dozen of them with the fighting blade. He would have to cut them all. His lungs burnt, and he fought his way to the surface, dashing liquid from his eyes. The girl still clung to the flap of skin. He took another breath and dived again, groping through the swarms of blood beasts.
Reaching the ganglia, he hacked
at them, finding some tougher than others. A few were like steel wire, and he had to saw through them. He surfaced again, checked on the girl, then dived back to his task. There seemed to be no end to the ganglia beneath the Envoy, and other, thick hawsers ran down into the depths. If the alien’s entire underside was forested with ganglia, it might take him a week to cut them all.
Tarke surfaced yet again, snorting fluid, and glanced at the girl. Regaining his wind, he dived again, and this time he examined the ganglia, searching for darker colours. Blue, in a red light, would be black, and there were fewer black ganglia than red, so he concentrated on them. Some might, in reality, be brown or green or purple, but one might be blue. His task went quicker, and he surfaced halfway down the Envoy.
Rayne was quite far away now, and he realised that by the time he reached the end of the massive beast, she would a long way off. Too far for him to reach quickly. What if he had already cut the right ganglion? He could be wasting precious energy now. He started towards her, but when he was halfway back to her, a tentacle rose from the sea and slid around her neck, pulling her under. He shouted her name and redoubled his efforts, fighting through the seething liquid.
Rayne was only vaguely aware of her danger. Her mind was locked in the dim world of mental suffering, and a burgeoning emptiness filled her. The psychic struggle was now little more than a torpid mingling of hostile minds, and both aliens were dying. The soldiers’ venom was poisoning the Envoy, and Scrysalza sank with him, linked to him in death. She had been waiting for that link to be broken, for the Ship to leap free and live, but it had not happened. The soup of sensations was merely a backdrop to the struggle of two dying minds, and she had little purpose in the psychic realm now, other than to help the Ship.
Rayne sensed her lungs burning for air, and fought intuitively as a tendril squeezed her. The last of the Envoy’s strength was channelled into it to exact his revenge. She tried to breathe, her air escaping in a stream of bubbles. The Ship brushed her mind with a gentle, sad presence, longing to help, but without the strength. Panic pierced the emptiness within her, and she thrashed, gagged and inhaled a rush of fluid. The panic faded as darkness washed over her, and she sank.
Tarke dived and caught hold of the limp girl, cutting the tendril around her throat as he lifted her to the surface. She coughed and retched as he waded ashore, noticing that the soldiers had vanished. Putting her down, he knelt beside her. Twilight seemed to have fallen on this strange world. The glowing sea had dimmed to a dull redness, and shadows filled the huge cavern. He knew what it meant. He had failed to cut the blue ganglion.
The Crystal Ship was dying, and he had not sensed the slipping, twisting sensation that indicated it was crossing from one dimension to another. As far as he knew, they were still in the void dimension. Rayne was half drowned and not likely to wake up soon. It was up to him.
The prospect of touching another mind, and letting it touch his, was abhorrent, but he had no choice. Closing his eyes, he thinned his mental shields, allowing the whisper of alien minds to reach his. The Envoy’s harsh mentality was a hazy collection of foul memories; the alien had already slipped into a coma. A gentle presence touched him with gossamer thoughts of light and magical dancing stars, flitting away. He sent reassurance to it and opened himself further, filling his mind with sympathy and compassion. It brushed his psyche again and learnt his name. A weak delight suffused it, a childlike gladness to meet him in its final hours of life.
Return us to the second dimension, he urged it, wary of frightening it. You promised.
I am Scrysalza, it told him, and opened itself, flooding him with a vista of beautiful images. Know me. I am dying. Its sorrow inundated him, and he urged it again to return to the second dimension. The Ship keened, and he sensed the gathering of its failing power. Space and time twisted as the Ship rose into the universe once more. He shared his relief and gratitude with it, sharing its sorrow.
Let me help you, he said, I can save you.
The blue one, it whispered, its awareness fading.
Where?
An image formed, of glowing ganglia in a red sea. A blue strand stood out, a pulsing link that was killing it.
Tarke opened his eyes and surveyed the Envoy’s bulk in the growing gloom. He knew exactly where it was now, and marched down to the shore again. Diving in, he swam and crawled through the dying blood beasts, desperation lending him strength. He had to save the Ship. His contact with its gentle beauty had convinced him of that. Exhaustion weighed his limbs like lead shackles. Reaching the centre of the Envoy, he dived, pushing his way through sluggish, sinking blood beasts.
The huge bunch of ganglia loomed out of the mass, glowing with different colours. The blue one pulsed strongly, and he grasped it. The slight shocks made his muscles jump as he hacked at it with the fighting blade, his air running out. The ganglion had the strength of tempered steel, and he was forced to surface for air before he severed it. He dived again, adrenalin wringing the last dregs of energy from his flagging muscles. The ganglion parted, and he pushed himself upwards, wondering if he was going to make it to the surface. He did, and lay gasping amongst the blood beasts.
It took him several minutes to reach the shore, and he dragged himself onto it with the last of his strength, flopping down. He wondered if he had been too late, for he could no longer sense the Ship’s presence. The air was cooler, and the gloom almost complete. Too tired to think clearly, he rolled onto his stomach and let the oblivion of exhaustion claim him.
Chapter Eleven
Tallyn stared at the Crystal Ship with intensity born of worry and frustration. Two hours ago, it had returned from the void dimension after vanishing for several minutes, but it had changed drastically during that short time. It no longer glowed, and nor did Net energy flicker around it as before. It seemed almost dead, its crystal wings glittering with reflected light, but not throwing out the vibrant beams of coherent brilliance. Much of its beauty had gone with its inner fire, but it still shone like a massive diamond. Most importantly, it had stopped, and now hung in space.
He glanced at Marcon. “Well?”
“It seems to be dead, if you ask me.”
“That’s not very illuminating. What do the sensors say?”
Marcon consulted the holograms. “Not much. According to them, it’s about the same. It just has a lot less power.”
“It’s still alive?”
“We never did establish if it was actually alive, sir.”
Tallyn snorted. “Could we board it now?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. Although the energy shell is gone, it’s still sheathed in several tens of metres of solid crystal.”
“Could we transfer aboard?”
Marcon shook his head. “I wouldn’t. We don’t know whether the atmosphere inside is breathable, nor do we know where to transfer to. I’d hate to end up in its stomach.”
Tallyn gazed at the Ship again. “It does seem that she’s succeeded, although she might not have survived. Could her ship transfer her out?”
“It’s not talking to us, sir.”
Tallyn sighed. “Then we wait, I suppose, for something else to happen.”
Tarke woke stiff and cold, his clothes caked with dried slime. He rolled over and sat up. Nothing had changed, although he had slept for five hours, according to his timepiece. The red sea’s glow barely illuminated the shores, and the Envoy’s bulk lay like a beached whale. He stood up, wincing as stiff muscles protested and his injuries stabbed him. Dried blood caked his ankles and calves, and pulled muscles and strained ligaments twinged.
Stripping off the fighting blade, he dropped it before he limped over to Rayne’s huddled form, squatted beside her and ran his hand over her face in the gloom. She breathed evenly, although her skin was cold. The chill in the air was sharp and clammy, reminding him of a tomb. Was the Ship dead? He sensed no presence, and sighed. Rising, he limped to the shore and gazed into the glowing sea. The blood beasts lay at the bottom, unmoving,
but the fluid was still warm. He cursed, angry and disappointed.
“I didn’t do all that just for you to die,” he muttered.
Dropping his shields, he opened his mind and sent it out. Decades of experience had honed a fairly good telepathic ability, and he used it now to search for the Ship. If it was alive, he would find it. He touched the girl’s sleeping mind, shocked by its emptiness. Moving on, he searched the Ship’s deeper realms, its inner core far below him, denser than lead. There he caught a soft sigh of sentience, a fading shimmer of life. He chased it, but it flitted away, as elusive as a sea breeze. The Ship was still dying, as it had been during all the hours he had slept. As it had promised, it took a long time to die, and even now its last shreds of life were leaving it. Why? He had cut the blue ganglion. Had he been too late? The dead Envoy already sagged.
“You’re free,” he said. “Why give up now? The parasite is dead. You can go home to your nebula, be with your friends.”
Tarke wandered away from the shore and stepped on something hard. He picked up his sword and hefted it. “I hate quitters, Scrysalza. I’ve never been one myself, and I hate it in others. We did a lot for you, and she almost died. But she’s alive because she’s not a quitter, and the Envoy’s dead because we killed him. All of us, you, me, and her.” He raised the sword and plunged it into the floor. “I hope you can feel that, although I doubt it. Live, Scrysalza! Live!”
Tarke walked over to his mask and picked it up. He wondered if the girl could help the Ship. She was, after all, a healer, and she would be angry if she woke to find the Ship already dead. At least she deserved a chance to try, if it was not too late. He ran a hand through his short hair, easing its stiff itchiness, then donned the hood and mask and went to kneel beside her and pat her cheek.
Slave Empire - The Crystal Ship Page 16
