by M. R. Forbes
"As they should."
"Yes. So it is better that they do not know." She paused, looking into the distance, in the direction of the humans. "It is better that no one knows." She stared back at him, her expression sending another chill through him. "Make your move, hunter."
Lex'el was motionless, watching her watching him. Measuring her. Searching for any clue of her planned defense. She was fast. So fast. He didn't want to admit it, but he wasn't sure he could defeat her. He didn't want to admit it, but he was certain that he couldn't. He was going to die today. Within the next few minutes.
He crouched and started to circle. She matched him, following his path, keeping herself balanced. They locked eyes. She smiled. He forced a smile back. He didn't want her to see that for the first time since he had been made, he was truly afraid.
She could see it, though. He could tell. Maybe she could smell it on him. Maybe she could sense his cold sweat, or his ragged breathing. Her senses were enhanced. Her strength enhanced. How had she managed that? Whether or not she was this Juliet St. Martin, how had she altered herself using bek'hai technology and word of it had never reached the Domo'dahm?
She couldn't have done it herself. Who else knew about this? Who had helped her? How? Why?
He wanted to know. He had to survive to learn the fullness of her confession.
He circled her again, looking for an opening, seeking a path to the truth. If there was another traitor within the bek'hai and he discovered them, it could be the final piece he needed to ascend to rule. Unless...
"Who was it?" he asked. "Who helped you?"
"It does not matter. He is dead."
"It was Tuhrik, then?"
"He was obsessed with humans. He was especially obsessed with me. He knew he would have to die to save them, but he also believed their ways are better than our ways. He believed that the bek'hai could only survive in partnership with them, not as conquerors. Fifty years and we have yet to produce a fully viable splice. Fifty years, Lex'el! That should have told the Domo'dahm something. He does not seek viability. Even as the bek'hai are dying, they refuse to accept what they must become." Her smile vanished. "Now, make your move, hunter. Or I will make it for you."
Lex'el dur Rorn'el opened the path to his oxygen, breathing it in and letting it continue to fuel him. He could feel a small amount of energy return to his body, and he felt a comfort he had nearly forgotten in the nine days he had been tracking them. He watched her for a moment more, no more certain of his odds than when they had started this fight.
Finally, he charged, silent and even, leading with his lek'sai, putting all of his years of training and skill into the approach.
He saw the opening he was looking for then. A slight imbalance on the left side. He adjusted his attack, flipping the blade to his other hand with a deftness and agility few of his brothers could match.
His quarry was still. Motionless. Every part of her, except her foot.
She kicked out, not at him, but at the ground below him.
His foot landed on the chunk of concrete at the same time it slid away. His balance faltered for just an instant.
An instant was all it took to die.
He stumbled, finding his other blade buried in his chest as he tried to recover. He barely felt the pain as he backed away from her, eyes wide in shock. He hadn't seen that coming. He would never have seen that coming.
The strength drained from him along with his life force. He dropped to his knees, looking back at Ehri. There was no hint of glory on her face. No expression of joy or comfort at his defeat. In fact, she looked even sadder than she had moments earlier.
"It is a waste, Lex'el," she said. "It is all such a waste. It never had to be."
He tried to speak. The oxygen was still flowing, but he couldn't get enough of it into his chest to make a sound. He felt hot. Confused. It was getting dark.
"Tuhrik and I tried to change them. To make them see. We failed, and now you are dead. I am sorry, Lex'el dur Rorn'el."
He looked at her but didn't react. His body was unwilling to move at his discretion. He lost his balance, rolling over onto his side.
Two quick gasps, and then the hunter was gone.
SIX
DOMO'DAHM RORN'EL PEERED OUT from the shadows of his throne, waiting for the messenger to finish the long walk across the antechamber to his position. He could sense Orish'ek shifting in his position beside the throne, eager for whatever news the messenger might bring. Ul'bek was to his left and equally on edge, tapping his sharp fingers against the arm of his seat.
Rorn'el refused to move, though he felt the same unease as his pur'dahm. None of the news they had been receiving recently was to his benefit. It had started with a report from the Ishur that not only was Tea'va planning to use his new position to bring challenge against him but that the pur'dahm he had assigned to watch him, Gr'el, was intending to do the same.
He had known Tea'va couldn't be trusted, which was why he had sent Gr'el with the failure of a pur'dahm. It should have been an easy and clean way to remove the disgusting specimen of a drumhr from his concern. Instead, he had been forced to send two more ships out in pursuit of the Ishur to ensure that whoever was in charge of it by the time they arrived, whether it was Gr'el or Tea'va, would fall back into line or be destroyed.
It was an annoyance, but not a completely unanticipated one. He had been a pur'dahm once himself, fighting with his brothers to gain position within the cells. His victory had come by being aggressive and launching the assault on the planet while the others were still preparing to fulfill Kesh'ek's command. It had been a risky maneuver, as they had not ascertained the humans' technological prowess at that point.
It had been worth the effort.
Still, having three of the domo'shah away from the planet was difficult to accept. The ships were more than transportation. They were home to hundreds of bek'hai, and thousands of lor'hai. They were resources that he hated to part with, especially now.
Ehri dur Tuhrik. He couldn't think of the name without feeling an irrational mix of anger and attraction. She was so much like the human woman, Juliet, that he had become so enamored of. Strong-willed and intelligent, with a streak of compassion that it took him many cycles to come to understand. She had valued life in a way that was still senseless to him sometimes.
He glanced away from the messenger, looking down at the gori'shah cloak he was wearing. He pushed it aside, revealing a simple wooden rosary. He glanced nervously from Orish'ek to Ul'bek, to make sure they couldn't see. It was the only thing he had left of Juliet. A token of her belief in some greater being that controlled the fate of the universe. He had never believed in her Domo'dahm, but lately, he wasn't so sure. When he had ordered the pur'dahm to begin exterminating the remaining humans, he had challenged Him to stop it, if it was not within His will.
That was only days before Ehri dur Tuhrik betrayed him, and now he had lost an outpost worth of resources to her and her small group of human rebels, along with two of his best hunters. It was an embarrassing defeat, and it had allowed the pur'dahm occasion to begin whispering that he was not up to the task of stopping her and that he still cared too much for the un'hai to approach the problem as he should.
The truth was, they were probably right.
He pushed the cloak back over the rosary as the messenger neared. He could never say it, but he missed Juliet. He missed her calm, and her kindness. They had destroyed her planet, and she had forgiven them. She had forgiven him. He didn't need her forgiveness and had never asked for it, but he was intrigued by the lack of hate she had always exhibited. How could she be so free of disdain?
There was so much hate silently coursing through the bek'hai, most of it directed at themselves. They had never wanted to leave their homeworld. They had given themselves no choice. After years of warring with one another to stop the murder of the legra'shah and the abandonment of physical reproduction, they had damaged themselves almost beyond repair. If it hadn't been for their chance encounter
with a machine the humans had cast out into space, their entire race would have been gone by now, their domo'shah all floating aimlessly throughout the universe, with none alive to guide them.
He forced himself away from those thoughts as the messenger finally reached him. The drumhr was of a low cell. Low enough that Rorn'el didn't recognize him, and had probably never seen him before. He waited while the messenger dropped to a knee, hanging his head low.
"Domo'dahm Rorn'el. Domo'dahm." The drumhr was still while he waited for the Domo'dahm to respond.
"Rise and make your report," Rorn'el said.
The messenger stood. "Domo'dahm, we have received a final communication from the Ishak and the Ishel prior to joining the slipstream. They have charted a course directly to the Pol'tek system, where the Ishur was last reported to be headed."
"When will they arrive?"
"Three days, Domo'dahm."
Three days. Rorn'el smiled. Tea'va had needed much more than that. Whoever his science officer was, they had done a poor job.
"I am pleased," he said.
"Yes, Domo'dahm." The messenger bowed. "Pur'dahm Elsh'ek and Alk'el report that they are continuing the search for Ehri dur Tuhrik and the humans who destroyed Be'kek. They are having difficulty locating them, as the armor they stole allows them movement over any of the terrain moving north, and they do not appear to be following any of the former human paths."
"No doubt she is helping to guide them," Orish'ek said to his right.
"No doubt," Rorn'el agreed. "Are there any other pur'dahm currently tracking the un'hai?"
He could feel Ul'bek's eyes on him immediately, and he hissed softly at his mistake. He shouldn't call her that here.
The messenger continued without pause. It was not his place to judge. "None that have declared themselves, Domo'dahm. As you know, some pur'dahm may seek greater glory by surprising you with her capture."
"Or death," Ul'bek said, perhaps in retaliation for his words.
"Or death," Rorn'el agreed, biting back his anger at the actions that had forced him to agree to allow her to be killed. He still wanted her back. He wanted to know how she could be so like her pur'hai, and yet so different. He leaned forward in his seat, digging his claws into the lek'shah of his chair. "And the location of the human base?"
The messenger dared to let himself smile. It was always better to be the bearer of good news. "Your science team has narrowed the potential systems based on reevaluation of the examination done on the wreckage of similar starships, the most optimal slipstream paths, and the most habitable worlds."
Rorn'el allowed himself to bare his teeth, opening his mouth wide. It was better news than he had expected. He had made a mistake, ignoring the human's surviving off world colony for too long, thinking that the bek'hai would forever be impervious to their efforts of rebellion. It had been a decision made by a Domo'dahm who had been younger, less wise, and too confident.
"I am very, very, pleased," he said.
"Yes, Domo'dahm."
"Orish'ek, prepare a commendation and promotion for the pur'dahm who owns the science team that completed the analysis."
"Yes, Domo'dahm," Orish'ek replied.
He considered for a moment. "Orish'ek, hold that command. Who is the pur'dahm in question, messenger?"
"Pit'ek," the messenger said.
"Tell Pit'ek he is reassigned to the domo'shah Ishrem. He will be leading the expedition to the systems his scientists have suggested."
The messenger nodded. Orish'ek shifted beside him.
"Are you certain you don't want to tell Pit'ek yourself, Domo'dahm?"
"There is no time," he replied. He raised his voice. "I want that colony destroyed. No survivors. If the human starship tries to return to it, I want them to find it in ruin. This is our world now. Our home. There is no place for humans on it or near it." He lowered his voice again, directing it at the messenger. "Make sure Pit'ek is clear on that. And if he fails to find the colony, tell him that he is to retire himself before he ever returns."
"It will be so, Domo'dahm," the messenger said.
"You are dismissed."
"Yes, Domo'dahm."
Rorn'el leaned back in his throne as the messenger departed. He glanced at Ul'bek and Orish'ek, and then closed his eyes. Juliet had begged him to spare the humans that remained, and swore they were no threat to him. For a short time, he had even believed it, allowing the rebels to plant their seed of discontent.
Fifty cycles later, it was clear to him that their hope of achieving the impossible would only die when they did.
SEVEN
GABRIEL ST. MARTIN WALKED side by side with the bek'hai known as Tea'va. His father, General Theodore St. Martin, rolled a few meters ahead of them, the bek'hai science officer, Zoelle, at his side.
Two days had passed since the crew of the Magellan had successfully, and impossibly, managed to crash their starship aboard a Dread fortress and gain control over it.
Two days had passed since Zoelle had told Theodore that she was his long missing, and previously believed dead wife, Juliet.
Two days had passed since Theodore had believed it.
It was a situation beyond anything Gabriel could ever have imagined. A situation that had left him struggling to come to grips with a weird new order to things. It didn't take much examination to know that this thing was not his mother. Besides the obvious age difference, there was the fact that she was hardly the only clone of Juliet St. Martin the Dread had produced. He had met another just like her on Earth, fighting for the humans with Major Donovan Peters. While he could accept that maybe, just maybe, she was somehow programmed to sympathize with humanity and perhaps even to fight for them, there was something about her that he just didn't trust.
That mistrust was only magnified by the fact that Tea'va didn't have faith in her either, going as far as to find a reason to pull Gabriel aside and explain what the clone had done to him, betraying him to the other pur'dahm, Gr'el, in exchange for a greater position of power.
"Watch her," he had said. "Power is the only thing she truly desires or cares for, and she is willing to do anything, including posturing as Juliet St. Martin, to get it."
While Gabriel didn't know Tea'va well enough to explicitly trust him either, the former commander of the fortress had been proving himself since the moment they met. Not only had he had killed a number of his own in their defense and had directly helped them gain control of the ship, but even now his assistance was invaluable as assisted them in making the most efficient use of the ship they had captured.
The problem was that Theodore was more than willing to accept her account of the truth without any evidence to back the claim. He was smitten with this version of his wife, regardless of how she had come to exist.
It wasn't as though Gabriel couldn't understand why. His father's adoration for his wife was as solid and sure as a steel beam, and the pain he had suffered for all of these years over losing her had been apparent to Gabriel from the time he was old enough to speak. He didn't blame his father for wanting Juliet back so badly that he was willing to disregard logic to make it happen.
But he did blame General St. Martin.
The General had a responsibility to the crew of the Magellan, and as far as Gabriel was concerned, it went above and beyond everything else. Just like Theodore had found the strength to bring the Magellan away from Earth and get the people on board to safety all of those years ago, he had a fresh responsibility to put one hundred percent of his efforts into the war now. While they were still working toward that goal, Gabriel couldn't help but feel like his father's misguided loyalty to the genetic twin of his mother was going to hurt them sooner or later.
"Where are we going?" Gabriel whispered to Tea'va.
His father had asked him to meet near the transport beam and then told him to follow, but hadn't given him any indication of their destination. They had entered the beam and traveled directly to the bottom level of the ship, heading deeper into the he
art of the fortress.
The bek'hai glanced over at him, making a face that Gabriel still found difficult to translate. It appeared to him as a mix of amusement and disdain.
"What are the correct words in your language?" Tea'va paused. "The place where we make the clones. Factory, is it? Zoelle wanted to show it to your father."
"Do you know why?"
"Not for certain, but I can guess. I believe she will ask him to make more soldiers."
"Make soldiers?"
"Yes. That is what the factory is for. Not only soldiers. Mothers. Scientists."
Gabriel was only loosely familiar with the different clone types, but he knew there were more than the three Tea'va mentioned. The Cleaners, for example, who moved into the hidden areas of the ship and kept the fortress maintained. He had seen them in the shadows from time to time, going about their business as if nothing was different, seemingly oblivious to the new ownership. It was a sharp contrast to the mothers, who had refused to serve anyone but Orish'ek. Colonel Graham and his team were still trying to secure the rest of them after they had killed a pair of crew members in an ambush.
The real clone soldiers, on the other hand, were loyal to whoever was Dahm of the fortress. All it had taken to make them stand down and get in line was a word from Tea'va, and now they coexisted with the human crew as though they had always been part of it. It had taken some time for him to sort them out and order each of them to accept a new chain of command, but it was becoming a more common sight to see the strapping, blonde haired doppelgangers working alongside human counterparts.
Still, that was making use of the existing clones that survived the battle.
Making new ones?
That was something else entirely.
"I would say my father would never go for that, but if she's pushing him? I'm not sure."
Tea'va gave him a slight nod of agreement before Gabriel returned his attention forward. He eyed the corner of Zoelle's face, turned slightly in his direction. Had she heard them from that distance?
