by S M Briscoe
The woman’s eyes continued to burn into him as she stepped forward, her expression conveying what he took to be barely restrained anger. “It’s in a great deal of peril,” she went on. “Whether you survive it . . . that all depends on just how good your information is.”
“Information?” he managed, his throat having tightened so fiercely he was barely able to speak the word. “What . . . information are you seeking?”
The woman took hold of the arms of his chair and leaned in until her face was nearly touching his, her expression leaving little doubt of her intent to end his life if his response was unsatisfactory.
“Where is Jarred?”
Chapter 39
GAIA
The sting of Xin'ma's backhanded strike was little next to the pain Rho’uk felt for his failure. He had failed. In his duty to his mandate . . . and to the Gods themselves. He had failed Shu’ma, his captain. To persuade him to return to reason. And now his comrade was dead, and he was faced with the task of presenting his body to his father. Their Overseer. It was his duty to do so. One that could ultimately result in the forfeit of his own life. That was a price Rho’uk was willing to pay. If it was the Gods’ will, he would gladly see his blood spilled. To right his wrongs. His failures. He turned his stung face back to his Overseer, offering it for him to strike again if he wished.
Xin’ma’s furious gaze remained on him for a time, the elder warrior absorbing his account of the events of the past number of days. Of his son’s dismissal of their direct orders. His bout with the human. And his subsequent death in the arena. The Overseer’s features had remained poised and controlled for all of it, but his eyes had displayed the true myriad of emotions he was feeling. Anger. Disappointment. Disbelief. Sadness, even. The kind felt by a father having lost a son.
Upon departure from Rydel, Rho’uk had sent communication of the news of Shu’ma’s death, and the events leading up to it. He had not intended to hide anything from his Overseer, nor would he have been able to. Not with things as they were. Having assumed command after his comrade’s demise, Rho’uk had meant to correct the course they had strayed so far from and put things right . . . or as right as possible. Some things could not be undone. Not surprisingly, Xin’ma had responded furiously at hearing the news of Shu’ma’s direct contravention of his orders. When informed of his death at the hands of the human . . . he had seemed almost shocked with disbelief. Now that Shu’ma’s lifeless body had been returned to him, any doubts he had would be replaced with the stark reality of the situation.
Xin’ma’s focus moved away from Rho’uk and he stepped past him to approach Shu’ma’s body. There he stood for a long moment, looking down at his son, who lied on a raised stone tablet in a private viewing chamber within the Usarion Temple in the Gaian capitol. His wounds had been dressed and his body properly prepared for traditional presentation on the two day journey to the Homeworld. He was adorned in his formal battle attire and armor, his eyes opened wide, so as to greet the Gods upon his entry into Their great halls.
“The human did this?” Xin’ma asked. It was a redundant question, as Rho’uk had already informed him of as much, but had he not witnessed it himself, he probably would not have believed it either.
“He did, my Overseer,” Rho’uk returned.
Xin’ma continued to look over his son’s body, as if not fully convinced it was him. “How is that possible?”
In truth, Rho’uk did not know the answer to that question. The human had nearly bested him as well, in their confrontation on the floating tram above Trycon. If their battle had been allowed to continue, perhaps he too would have met his end at the human’s hands. “This man is different from others of his kind, my Overseer. He has strengths . . . abilities . . . that I have not witnessed in his species.” He paused a moment, considering what he had seen in the arena. “Or any other.”
Xin’ma looked from his son back to Rho’uk at the comment. “Indeed. It would seem he is . . . unique. Perhaps this is why the Gods show such interest in him.”
Rho’uk was surprised by the remark. “The Gods, my Overseer?”
Xin’ma nodded once, returning his attention to Shu’ma’s remains. “Yes. It is by Their command that he was to be brought here to Their temple.”
“For what purpose?” Rho’uk asked, knowing that by doing so he may have been overstepping his boundaries.
“Only the Gods know,” Xin’ma answered. “As Their servants, we simply obey.”
The comment was like a dagger twisting in his side, more stinging than any physical blow his Overseer may have bestowed upon him. It was their duty, their purpose, to obey the will of the Gods. His captain had strayed from that path. And he had followed. Again he was reminded of his failure. To steer Shu’ma back towards their mandate. To obey the Gods. He begged silent forgiveness to Them for all of his failures. For his weakness.
“Was it . . . a good death?” Xin’ma asked, bringing Rho’uk’s thoughts back to the physical realm.
“Yes,” my Overseer,” he answered, truthfully. “He fought well. And died well. It was a warrior’s death.”
Xin’ma placed a hand on his son’s chest and leaned in close to speak the words given to passing warriors. Of good journeys to the next world. Gratitude for spilled blood and a promise to be reunited again some day, with all Rai Chi warriors before the great throne of Turaus. And perhaps something more. Private words from a father to his fallen son.
“Take me to him,” the older warrior said, finally pulling his gaze from Shu’ma’s remains. “I would meet this human.”
* * *
The bounty hunter hung unconscious from arm bindings affixed to cables running up to the ceiling of his cell, which had been outfitted specifically for him upon his arrival to the Usarion Temple. With the trouble he had given the Sect during their pursuit of the heretic, they appeared to be taking no chances with security, while still maintaining the lowest of profiles. Apparently, no one was to know of his presence here. Only a small contingent of the Sect’s elite guardsmen; their combined skill still nothing next to a single Rai Chi warrior; were placed on constant watch. The cell itself had been converted into a deathtrap for the man, heavy weaponry emplacements installed to eradicate him if he attempted escape.
Rho’uk had yet to discern the purpose of bringing the human here to this place. Though his Overseer had suggested it was the will of the Gods, he could not fathom the reasoning. Why would They, the immortal beings that ruled over this realm and the next, have interest in this man? This mortal? He knew it was not his place to question why, but still found himself confounded. Their mandate, as dictated by the Prophets, called for the Rai Chi and all of Their servants to begin preparing the way . . . for Their return. Their . . . Awakening. The first element of that mandate, and their highest priority, was to be the retrieval of the rogue Prophet. The heretic. Why now had they abandoned it? If the human was to be interrogated, such a thing could have been conducted by the Rai Chi immediately upon his capture. They could be working to continue their pursuit of the Prophet even now, but instead they had been ordered to return the human to Gaia. To the Temple of the Gods. He had become the priority.
“Strange,” Xin’ma commented, as he stood before the man, regarding him with a mixture of interest and disgust. “It does not look . . . exceptional or remarkable in any way. Why the Gods would spoil Their gaze upon it is beyond my understanding. And yet, it’s appearance does deceive the eyes. It took the lives of many Rai Chi warriors. And the life of my only son. My only heir.”
As Xin’ma drew nearer to the human, Rho’uk became increasingly unsure of his intent. The hatred in his voice was obvious, the loss of Shu’ma weighing heavily on him. Like any warrior, like any father, he would want vengeance. Blood for blood. As his Overseer reached a hand up towards the man’s throat, he wondered if the older warrior might tear it from his neck or simply strangle the life from him. The hatred in his eyes told him both were good possibilities. Yet as Xin’ma gripped
the man’s neck, he did not in fact kill him, but instead only raised his head and turned it from side to side, examining him more closely.
Rho’uk felt a wave of relief pass over him. It hadn’t been part of his plan to bring the human here, as was his original mandate, just to have him killed by the warrior that had ordered him returned alive in the first place. Such an outcome would land him right back where he had found himself with his former captain, having failed in his sworn duty to the Gods and left to face whatever eternal punishment came with such a crime. Of course, there was no guarantee Xin’ma wouldn’t still attempt to slay the man before they deciphered what the Gods’ wishes were for him.
With that very real possibility in mind, Rho’uk stepped toward his Overseer, closing to within an arm’s reach distance. The price for interfering with Xin’ma would be no less than death, but decidedly, Rho’uk’s considered that fate better than whatever awaited those that failed the Gods. He had already failed to do as much with Shu’ma. He would not make the same mistake again.
“Awaken,” Xin’ma commanded of the unconscious human, not taking notice of Rho’uk’s closer proximity. “Open your infidel eyes so that I might gaze into them and you might see the warrior that will spill your life’s blood when the Gods see fit to command it.” Xin’ma released his grip on the human’s neck, only to strike him with a stiff backhand, similar to the one Rho’uk had so recently received himself. “Awaken!”
The man’s eyes did open now, as his body jerked from the blow. He struggled briefly against his restraints, disoriented from his drug induced slumber and obviously unaware of where he was or what was happening. Once the haze of heavy sedation began to wear off though, the man appeared to gain focus, his eyes quickly scanning the room. They settled briefly on Rho’uk, a moment of recognition, before coming to rest on Xin’ma, who stood glaring before him.
“Good,” the older warrior said. “I was beginning to fear death had already taken you. I would not have you expire prematurely, or by means other than my own.”
Having entered the cell with a translation device, the small spherical construct floating at head level close by, the human would be able to understand Xin’ma’s words and they his.
“Great, another one,” the floating machination translated as the man spoke between dry coughs, shifting uncomfortably in his bound state. “Why doesn’t one of you finally make good on that promise and do it already?”
“Are you so eager to meet death?” Xin’ma asked.
The man laughed, half coughing. “I’m just curious to see if you could do it?”
Xin’ma almost appeared taken aback by the comment. “You would dare mock me?”
“Is that what I’m doing?” the man said. “I thought we were getting to know one another.”
“Continue to utter such insult and see your infidel tongue removed,” the older warrior threatened, coldly.
“Well, I’m all tied up for you,” the man retorted, defiantly. “So you should fare better than the last guy that tried to make good on his threats.”
Rho’uk himself was stunned by the remark, the human’s audacity catching him off guard. He would not have been surprised if his Overseer had lunged for the man’s throat right then, but Xin’ma held his footing.
“I will relish the taste of your blood as I spill every last drop from your infidel body,” he said, between clenched teeth.
“Yes, my blood, my blood,” the man returned, sounding bored. “The last guy wanted to drink it too. That didn’t work out so well for him.”
Xin’ma stepped closer then and brought his hand up close to the man’s face, his kul’ruuk blade ejecting from its gauntlet on his forearm. He held the blade in front the human so that he could view the deadly weapon, and note his hostile intent.
The man’s eyes remained locked with Xin’ma’s, but Rho’uk noted a slight change in them as he regarded the older warrior, something akin to recognition coming across his features. “I’ve seen one these before,” he said, eyeing Xin’ma closely. “And I know your face. I’ve seen it before too.”
Xin’ma’s eyes flared with rage and he struck the man, this time with a closed fist, his restrained body recoiling from the blow. He smiled at the older warrior as he raised his head once again, spitting blood onto the floor at his feet.
“Now I know where Shu’ma learned to throw a punch,” he coughed, his words laced with ridicule. “Like father like son.”
Xin’ma howled with rage then and lunged, his kul’ruuk arcing down for a killing blow that would cut the human open from shoulder to hip. Rho’uk moved to intercept his Overseer’s attack, knowing full well it would mean his own death, but stopped short as Xin’ma pulled back on the strike, holding the sharp blade to the man’s face. Rho’uk watched as the older warrior snarled at the human, his chest heaving with each hate filled breath, unsure if he would give in to his blood lust and follow through with the slaying.
“Soon your time on this plain will be at an end,” Xin’ma hissed, leaning in so that his face nearly touched the human’s. “When that time comes, we will stand here once more, and you will beg me for death. And I will grant it . . . slowly.” He drew away then, cutting a deep gash into the man’s face as he turned, walking swiftly from the chamber without a backward glance.
Rho’uk remained behind a moment, regarding the man as he watched the older warrior depart. Their eyes then met again briefly and the look of defiance left him, his head slowly lowering once more, his body sagging visibly. The man was clearly exhausted, still bloodied and battered from his wounds suffered in the arena, along with the new ones Xin’ma had bestowed upon him.
Rho’uk did not hate the human as his Overseer did. Or as Shu’ma had. He had respect for him. The man was a fellow warrior. He had proven himself of that much. Rai Chi or not, he was deserving of a warrior’s death. It was Rho’uk’s hope that the Gods would see fit to grant him one when the time did finally come.
SPACE, NEARING GAIA
Hurling through the black void, on a direct course for the capital world of the Sect Dominion, Sierra couldn’t say that she wasn’t having serious doubts about her judgment . . . or her sanity. She was used to making decisions that risked her own life and those of the men and women she commanded. It was her responsibility to weigh those risks against whatever objective she was assigned, and if called for, make the necessary sacrifice to see it completed. She was able to do that because she believed in the cause they were fighting for. A cause that she had devoted herself to completely.
The Dominion was corrupt to it’s very core. It was cruel and it was foul and it was unjust. She believed that because she had seen the results of it’s cruelty and witnessed the depths of it’s injustice. And she had suffered them. She had lost friends and family to the tyranny of the Sect. Kam and Meera were the latest, but many had gone before them. So many names and faces, taken from this world for no better purpose than to feed the Sect’s insatiable hunger for power and control. And those were only her own experiences. The list of its victims was as long as it was devastating and it would continue to grow until the pillars of the Dominion were finally brought crumbling down. Only then would the beings of this system truly be free.
Yet none of that was the reasoning for what Sierra was doing now. She should have been returning Orna to her superiors. That was the sole objective of her current assignment, the mysterious being’s safety being paramount to everything. Nothing else should have mattered. Yet here she was, ignoring her orders to embark on a suicidal rescue mission for a bounty hunter she had only met days earlier. It wasn’t a stretch to say that the move was an uncharacteristic one for her. It flew in the face of everything she believed in.
The question she had to ask herself was why. Why was she doing this? What was motivating her to abandon her mission, something she would have considered to be unthinkable, to go after this man, a mercenary, really? Was it a sense of debt, one that needed repaid for his aid to their mission? Or was it something more p
ersonal? Sierra couldn’t deny the attraction she felt towards Jarred, but at the same time she also couldn’t believe that it would have the power to sway her judgement in this way. But then, she also couldn’t explain why she was risking everything for him. If she failed in the rescue and they were captured or killed, Orna would share their fate, and in either case, she would never make her way into the hands of the resistance. Kam and Meera’s deaths, and those of countless others, would have been for nothing.
Every fibre of Sierra’s being screamed for her to turn the ship around, to forget this foolish errand and complete her own mission. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She owed Jarred her life and was indebted to him for bringing Orna to them. Whatever other personal feelings were driving her, she was not yet prepared to acknowledge, but she was also not going to abandon him to whatever fate the Sect had in mind. She was going after him. It also didn’t hurt that everyone else onboard had similar intentions, and were equally, if not more determined. Even if she had wished to reverse vector and abandon Jarred, she guessed she would be hard pressed to convince anyone else of the same. Almost anyone.
Traug wasn’t exactly a willing party to their little operation, but Sierra hadn’t needed to push very hard for him to divulge where they might find Jarred either. He was a greedy little Trill, even by Trill standards, and his allegiances were to himself and his bottom line. His own skin would rank far above keeping quiet for the Sect. He had volunteered the information quite readily, though Sierra had wisely brought him along to ensure it was accurate. What she would do with him if it proved false went without saying. And if it did lead them to Jarred . . . she hadn’t quite decided what then.
