Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance)

by Veronica Scott

  Nate?

  A soft voice pushed aside the sheets of fire in his mind, if only for an instant.

  Nate? What happened?

  The voice whispered his name again, compelling, forcing its way into the whirl of his torment. He knew who called him, but he couldn’t even breathe her name. Words were beyond him. Thoughts were mere fragments between the waves of pain.

  A cool breeze fanned his skin, bringing a moment of blessed relief from the torment.

  “Bithia,” he whispered through bruised lips, trying to turn his head in the direction of the breeze before hot pain came flashing back.

  What have those bastards done to you? Her voice in his head was tender, concerned, thick with unshed tears. He hoped she wasn’t vulnerable to his agony.

  “I killed a man. Several men. And I was punished.” He was blunt, unapologetic, the mental reenactment of Kalgitr’s death crossing his mind, overlaying the vision of poor young Haranda’s murder at Kalgitr’s hands, body left lying broken in the sand.

  From Bithia there was surprise, revulsion, shock. A withdrawing, whether from the deed itself or from the intensity of the raw emotions in his mind, he couldn’t tell.

  “Kalgitr deserved it, believe me. The bastards all did.” Even in his torment, Nate cared that she understood his choice. But what did she know about men who could kill? She was a peaceful researcher from an advanced civilization who’d probably never seen violence firsthand. What common ground could the two of them have, even if they could meet?

  Nate sank into the awful fire and pain, reaching for the first symbols of the Mellurean checkout code. He was so tired, crippled by the pain. There was no reason, after all, to fight any longer. Thom would use his code tomorrow at the appropriate time, cheating the bloodthirsty rulers out of their anticipated revenge.

  You’re wrong. I do understand. I see in your mind how the one you call Kalgitr killed first, wantonly. That poor boy—

  The cool breeze whispered across his back again, bringing fleeting relief.

  Listen to me, you can’t give in. You have to fight the pain, please. Hold on until morning, until Celixia can come with her healing potions and salves, I beg you.

  “I can’t. You have to let me go.” He needed to warn her about Sarbordon’s plans for tomorrow, but he couldn’t even start the communication to send her. What could she do in her own defense anyway? He paused in his effort to summon the code. He couldn’t abandon her. His death would lead directly to hers. She’d have no one to help her.

  Come to me and I’ll help.

  “I’m too far gone. I can’t free myself from the pain long enough to find the dreamspace, not even to see you one last time.” Was she even there, or merely a hallucination, a harbinger of impending death? He couldn’t summon the dream, couldn’t picture her or the living tomb where she lay imprisoned. Not even to see her beautiful eyes one last time, he had no strength left.

  Then I must come to you, no matter the cost. Grim determination edged with a hint of fear.

  There was a gust of bitterly cold wind, sufficiently harsh and unexpected to rouse Nate. He opened his eyes with tremendous effort, using all the strength left in his abused body. Bithia stood beside his bed, tears tracking down her cheeks. She was there, yet not there, fading in and out of his vision, insubstantial but present. Accompanying her was a faint, abrasive humming sound, as if a piece of machinery was in the room, straining at a pace beyond its design tolerances.

  “A moment only can I stay with you, a moment only can I share the powers of the healer with you. I pray it will be enough.”

  Nate attempted to raise one hand, to touch her at least once before he died. Is that so much to ask, after all I’ve endured on this hellhole planet?

  The slightest motion of his arm pulled at the open wounds on his back, and the pain washed over him, sweeping him toward death’s peaceful release like an outgoing tide.

  “I won’t let you go.”

  In his mind, a hand wiped away the half-completed checkout code symbols. Bone-chilling cold enveloped him from head to toe. He was wrapped in it, like a tightly wound shroud, helpless. Unbearable pain raced through his body, tearing an agonized cry from his throat, leaving his vocal cords bruised and lacerated. The sensation was as if each cell suddenly froze solid, rupturing its boundaries and then unfroze in the blink of an eye, reconstituting. Nate arched from the bed in a massive convulsion as a blinding green light exploded through the confines of the chamber, spreading like the corona of a massive star, ever outward from its center in Nate’s body.

  “I gave you all I had. Live, please live—” The voice, faint and fading, sounded like a prayer and was gone as the last of the green light fled.

  Nate blinked. Thom and Atletl sat on their respective cots, faces rigid with fear and disbelief.

  “The goddess was here. I saw her,” Atletl said. “Truly you are lords of the sky, warriors of the god’s house. Sarbordon was wrong, and the whole world shall know of it!”

  Thom ignored his babbling teammate. “Nate, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah.” Even whispering hurt.

  “What in the seven hells—did your AO lady pay us a visit? What did she do to you, man?”

  “I think she—I think Bithia was able to reach out, along the link we have with each other.” Nate lay still and concentrated on breathing, which was difficult but no longer brought the waves of fire and pain to his whole body. “Can you see my back?”

  “My vision is screwed for the moment, pal. Not seeing much but flashes of green.”

  “Yeah, colored flares are pretty much all I can see too.” Nate was pleased his voice sounded stronger this time.

  “At least you can talk. Can you move?”

  “The room is spinning like an out-of-control ship.” He drew shallow breaths and kept his eyes closed. There wasn’t any need for him to move anyway. Nowhere to go, nothing to do till morning, when there would be quite a surprising disappointment for the royal couple and their adherents.

  Pleased by the victory, Nate grinned into his pillow as he drifted to sleep.

  Was my sacrifice enough to save him?

  Bithia lay on the purple cushions, weary in every fiber of mind and body. She’d no resistance to offer the healing machine, no strength to escape its control. As soon as the sensors detected her wakeful state, her guardian would promptly submerge her in sleep. Her hard-won mental niche to think and dream in was now gone. She’d used all the power she’d carefully saved over the millennia—once she’d realized the possibility of such hoarding—to go to Nate and deal with his wounds. He’ll never know what I did for him, but I don’t regret my choice. She wanted to weep with frustration, but the healing device kept the stasis locked tight. I doubt if I have more centuries to build my power again, one tiny flare of energy at a time, certainly not to the point where I can escape…or die. The mechanism flutters and hesitates so much now, it must be failing. Or Sarbordon will come in here and turn it off and do all the things to me he salivates over. One way or the other, the end to this nightmare is coming.

  The familiar sound of the door opening on its rusty hinges woke him. The servants bringing the morning meal screamed and dropped the trays. Bowls shattered on the stone floor, cereal splattering in clumps all over the place.

  “He lives! The goddess has healed him!” The older servant backed out of the room, pushing through the crowd of guards.

  Nate sat up on his cot. “I must look pretty bad.”

  “Ready to feature in a horror trideo,” Thom said. “How’s your back?”

  “Aches a little, but nothing like last night. I could use a shower for sure.” Nate contorted his body, trying to peer over his own shoulder. “I wish the injuries were only cosmetic enhancement for mass entertainment.” Blinking, he glanced at his wrists, first one and then the other. The joints were no longer open to the bone. Angry red circles like garish bracelets remained, new skin that had grown back overnight.

  “A grid of thin red lines,
but no open wounds,” Thom said. “It’s going to scar, no doubt.”

  “Beats dying.” Nate stretched, cautiously at first and then more fully, as he found the skin and muscles of his back were for the most part restored to health. He pointed at the gawking, unsure guards lingering in the doorway, picking out the man in charge. “Murrax, go tell your leader I’m fine today, ready for practice. I’ll lead my team to victory for T’naritza when the time comes. No problem.”

  Murrax, who’d barely escaped death at Nate’s hands the day before, opened and closed his mouth like a fish, at a total loss for words. He’d apparently been expecting to lead a burial detail today, not going out to the training fields as if nothing had happened.

  “I saw the goddess last night. Truly she protects them,” Atletl said. “She came to him and touched him with her power.”

  Celixia shouldered past the guards with an unusual show of resolve, coming to examine Nate’s wounds as Murrax ran to ensure the news reached Sarbordon’s ears immediately. Nate obligingly rolled over onto his stomach so the young priestess could examine the healing scars. Her touch light, she said, “So she was able to reach out to you, warrior. You’re fortunate.”

  A reserved tone in her voice caught his attention. He raised himself on one elbow and searched her face. “Fortunate? Odd choice of words for a priestess. Not blessed?”

  Celixia leaned in close to his ear, so no one else could hear her. “She’s no more goddess than I am, although she does have certain powers at her command.”

  “Yet you’re loyal to her?” Nate probed this unexpected dose of reality. It could be a disaster if Bithia—and his men—lost Celixia’s support.

  “My family has always served her, and she serves us.” Celixia straightened and pushed the braids from her face. “The goddess has demonstrated her power this day,” she said, raising her voice for the benefit of the guards and cowering servants. “Her warrior is fit for the games. Clean up the mess you’ve made and bring fresh breakfast, idiots, so the team may prepare for the day’s practice.”

  Surrounded by guards, the king himself arrived in short order. He stared at Nate from the safety of the door, frowning and unsure, obviously reluctant to believe the evidence of his own eyes, yet unable to deny a man who should have been dead ate his morning meal with gusto.

  “When you’re done admiring T’naritza’s handiwork, I’d like to take a bath and go practice,” Nate said, staring across the room at his enemy-in-chief. “And I’m going to need another man for the team. I’ll select a player this morning, before scrimmage. Let the head trainer know, won’t you?”

  Sarbordon drew himself to his full height, frowning. Pointing a finger at Nate, he said, “Don’t be so cocky. T’naritza may have been able to heal you this time, but I don’t think you want to tempt me to administer this test again.” Satisfied when Nate said nothing to refute the threat, the ruler waved a hand casually, as if nothing Nate did mattered to him. “Go to scrimmage, then, pick another man for your doomed team.” His tone was magnanimous, nearly bored. “It doesn’t matter; you’ll lose on game day. The gods of my people are far stronger than your pitiful sleeping girl. She’ll be Huitlani’s meat soon enough.” With that parting shot, he spun on his heel and left, guards racing in his wake.

  Murrax and the men under his command were reluctant to touch Nate, so he and his teammates were allowed to go unchained. When the quartet arrived at the practice grounds, it was obvious that word of the miracle had preceded them. The head trainer stayed out of sight for the morning, then came and apologized to Nate for having beaten him nearly to death.

  “I had no choice, you know,” the trainer said in a whining tone, avoiding Nate’s glance. He fidgeted and played with the strands of the whip at his belt. “You killed a man, and it’s the law that you had to be punished.”

  Nate bounced the practice ball he was holding. “As you would have punished Kalgitr, of course, if he’d lived? Since he killed Haranda?”

  The trainer took a step back, mouth falling open. “The situation was different. Your teammate died on the field of play.”

  “A fine distinction.” Nate leaned over, the trainer backing farther out of reach, a muscle in his jaw twitching nervously. “Take my advice, little man, and stay away from me, stay away from my team, and don’t bet against us on game day.”

  Nate and Thom laughed as the trainer scuttled away. Thom said, “Are you thinking to make a break for it, now they’re scared of us and our goddess?”

  “We can’t.” Nate’s answer was unequivocal. “I owe her.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” Thom didn’t sound too surprised, nor was he protesting.

  “Besides, if you pay close attention, our jailers aren’t backing off.” Nate evaluated the situation on the field, assessing the potential for escape, had he been so minded to make the attempt. “We’d be dead, spears sticking out of our backs like quillbeasts, if we made a move toward the walls.” Nate nodded at the circle of guards on the perimeter of the practice field. “Between you and me, I think she exhausted her powers last night.”

  “How did she heal you? Any ideas? Can she help us get out of this damn place, you think?”

  Nate shook his head. “No idea whatsoever. She and I have this weird mental link, an ability to communicate, and it’s getting stronger the longer we’re stuck here, but how she managed to save my life last night, I haven’t a clue.”

  “I didn’t have my hopes up. Considering she can’t seem to set herself free, it’d be a stretch to think she could save us.” Thom sounded calm as ever. “Or would want to.”

  “She’s on our side, but there’s only so much she can do, for herself or for us. From a few things she’s said, I think she has a plan, but it all hinges on us winning the damn game.”

  “Well, then, we’d better make sure we do.” Thom laughed. “No problem if we had a full roster. Let’s go remind the weasel of a trainer that we need to conduct a draft today. Might be good if we can get Faric, the one from Atletl’s village. We could probably trust him and he’s played well in scrimmages against us.”

  Nate, Thom and Atletl selected their replacement player from a crowd of eager volunteers. Atletl basked in all the attention and the reflected glory of being associated with warriors of the goddess. He strutted proudly along the line of other prisoners and picked out eight possible candidates for Nate and Thom to evaluate, including Faric. Nate ordered the trainers to run a scrimmage, which he watched intently. At the end, he and his companions’ choice was unanimous and Faric was assigned to them. A strapping warrior from the mountain foothills, he moved with deceptive speed and excelled at blocking opposing shots.

  Nate expected to see Bithia in his dreams, if not that night, surely the next. Yet there was no contact. Try as he might, he couldn’t reach out to her, detected no slightest touch of her thoughts. It worried him, but he didn’t mention it to his teammates. Two weeks passed in a blur of hard practices and easy scrimmages, the other teams being reluctant to challenge men who had a deity backing them. There was no sign of the remnants of Kalgitr’s team. Atletl managed to find out from one of the guards that their designated opponents had also selected a new fourth and were practicing in private on a separate field.

  For days, Nate demanded to know what had been done with poor Haranda’s body. Eventually, he and Thom were led to a graveyard behind the practice fields, where those who couldn’t maintain the grueling pace of the training, or who died in “accidents” like Haranda’s, were interred. There was no marker, no indication which rounded grave was the last resting place of the unfortunate young pilot. Nate and Thom observed a moment of silence, standing at the edge of the open field. Atletl stood at attention with them. Nate recited the short, standard Sectors prayer for the dead soldier, and there was nothing more to be done.

  Two days before the games, the head trainer called for Nate.

  “What colors do you wish to wear? What is your team to be called?”

  Nate re
membered what Bithia had said about the native reptile. “We’re the Tolokon, which is her totem, done in the dark blue of the night sky mixed with the scarlet of the dawn from which she came.” He frowned, and the man retreated a few steps. “Why are you bothering me with this trivia when surely you knew the answers?”

  “Only to be entirely sure all is to your liking.” The trainer was obsequious. Apparently, the man was now none too sure the outcome of the sacred game was going to fall on Huitlani’s side.

  “Ensure the uniforms are ready on game day, and until then stay out of my way.” Nate was enjoying intimidating one of the people who held him prisoner.

  On the day of the games, the team was awakened early by servants bearing a huge breakfast heavy on the carbohydrates. Celixia wasn’t present this morning to oversee the meal. Nate decided not to worry over her absence. Now the fateful day was actually here he needed to concentrate on the game.

  “Any sign from your lady?” Thom asked in a whisper as the team was escorted to the dressing room at the back of the palace arena.

  “None. I figure if something were wrong with her, Sarbordon would have come to gloat. I’m trying not to think beyond this match this afternoon. I don’t like our game being last.”

  “Plenty of time to get nervous, if we were the nervous types.” Thom grinned wolfishly as he threw the practice ball high in the air and caught it. “Good thing we ain’t. Here comes our fourth, Faric.”

  Nate didn’t like the fact that Faric had been kept in the player barracks at the practice arena, rather than joining the three of them in the room at the palace, but no matter how hard he protested, the ruling stood. Faric wasn’t known to be dedicated to the goddess and hence wasn’t deemed worthy of special treatment.