Demon Lord V - God Realm

by T C Southwell

  Nikira frowned. What were they dealing with? "Flush the gas and let the medtechs examine him. Stand by with the stunner."

  When the gas had been sucked out with a scrubber unit, the contechs brought in the table they had built and struggled to get it through the small door. It was shaped like a broad cross, with clamps for the dra'voren's wrists and ankles. The shredder chamber was small, and the contechs placed the table next to the dra'voren. One man unclipped the long, crimson-lined black cloak and handed it to a comrade, who took it away for analysis.

  Four contechs lifted the dra'voren onto the table and fastened the clamps around his ankles and right wrist, but the stone accoutrement on his left forearm prevented them from clamping it. They discovered that the stone was cracked, and a few well-aimed blows broke it sufficiently for them to remove it. Jona, who observed, stepped forward to examine the dra'voren's forearm, which looked bruised. He ran a scanner over it and glanced up at Nikira.

  "It's broken, commander."

  Nikira paced around in a circle. "How can a dra'voren have a broken arm? How can he even be alive?"

  "He's definitely alive," the medtech stated. "There's no way he could fake this while he's unconscious."

  "You don't know that. We have no idea what he can do."

  "Must I heal it?"

  "No. Clamp it."

  A contech snapped the last clamp around the dra'voren's left wrist, and the men relaxed, swapping relieved smiles. Nikira's curiosity overcame her antipathy, and she entered the shredder chamber. Stopping beside his head, she stared down at him, struck by his otherworldly beauty. His brows' demonic slant, which contrasted starkly with his sensitive mouth and alabaster skin, made her shiver. The medtech examined the stranger's face and opened his mouth to find the source of the blood.

  "Looks like he bit the inside of his cheek, either when he hit the floor or when the stunner smacked him. That thing packs quite a wallop."

  "What is he?" Nikira snapped.

  Jona swept a hand-held scanner over the dra'voren's chest. "Human."

  "He can't be human. Your instrument is malfunctioning, or he's manipulating it somehow."

  "Commander, he's unconscious." Jona unbuttoned the dra'voren's tunic, then the shirt beneath it, and pulled it open. He recoiled with a curse. "Bloody hell."

  Nikira stared at the terrible scars, her mind whirling in fresh turmoil. The medtech hesitated, then eased the dra'voren's shirt open further, discovering bandages around his waist.

  "More injuries." He cut away the cloth and examined the three puncture wounds, one of which went right through the flesh of the dra'voren's flank. "These two look like they were made by teeth, the other one appears to have been made by a slender blade."

  "What about this?" Nikira indicated the bandage around the dra'voren's head.

  Jona cut it off and forced open one of the dra'voren's eyes, exclaiming in surprise again. "He's blind!"

  Nikira turned away. She found it hard to look at him, especially now that the bandage around his head had been removed. He was the first human-type dra'voren she had seen, and his chiselled beauty was hard to stomach. His long jet hair fanned on the table in shining feathers, and his skin seemed to glow in the bright light. In stark contrast to the dirty, starving people who had been with him, not a speck of dust marred his skin or clothes. He was well fed, his exposed chest ridged with powerful muscles. Yet the medtech's callous handling of him while he was unconscious seemed wrong somehow, an affront to his dignity. The fact that he was alive confused her. He breathed softly, and she wanted to touch him to make sure he was real. She reminded herself that he was a dra'voren, a world destroyer, and would have to be killed.

  Jonar examined the scars on the dra'voren's chest, muttering in amazement. "These look like they've been cut and then burnt. They're old, but haven't healed."

  "If he can be burnt, why didn't the light guns cut him to pieces?"

  "I don't know, commander."

  "Take samples, analyse them, and let me know what you find, then we'll have to find a way to kill him."

  Jonar looked up at her. "Killing him will be easy."

  "How?"

  "Take a sharp metal object and shove it through his heart."

  "You're sure?"

  He nodded. "Positive. All his wounds have been caused by sharp teeth or weapons. He appears to be just like us in that respect. No abnormal ability to heal, no apparent defences against such an attack."

  "Never underestimate a dra'voren, Jonar."

  "Commander, if you hadn't told me that he was one, I'd have said he was a normal human being."

  "Looking like that?"

  The medtech shrugged. "Okay, he's perfectly formed, apart from the scars."

  "Exactly. Too damned perfect, as dra'voren are. The only problem is, if he's a dra'voren, he's supposed to be made from intensified plasma particles, which break down under blue fire. The guns and lodestones should have ripped him apart, but instead you're telling me that he's made from flesh and blood, when he set off every alarm in the observation room and was plainly seen on the scanners to contain dark power. How the hell do you explain that?"

  "I can't. What are you going to do with him then?"

  Nikira snorted and stared down at the dra'voren's peaceful face. "I'm going to kill him, just as soon as we've finished examining him." She turned to the contechs who hovered nearby. "Rig some sort of steel weapon over his heart that can be triggered by remote. If Jonar's right, it will come in handy to control him. I have no doubt that he's a dra'voren, I just need to know what sort so we can be prepared for the next one."

  Nikira left the shredder room, filled with unreasonable anger. Why did the thought of killing him bother her so much? Montar trotted after her.

  "Commander, if he's so unusual, shouldn't we take him back to base alive, so they can examine him there?"

  "Probably, but only if we can hold him. If it looks like he might break free and endanger the ship, we'll have to kill him."

  "Of course. I also think we might learn a lot from the people who were with him."

  Nikira turned into her office and paused beside her desk. "Have the linguistics personnel made any progress?"

  "Not yet, but an old woman in a white robe has tried to communicate with signs."

  "What sort of signs? What do they think she's trying to say?"

  Montar shrugged. "They're not sure, but she seems to be asking about the dra'voren."

  "Probably hoping that we've killed him. See if our people can tell her that he's going to die, very soon. That might cheer her up."

  "Right."

  Sarrin stared at the man who stood before her, looking a little smug in his silver suit. Artan nudged her.

  "What did he say?"

  "I think he just told me that they've killed Bane, or they're going to."

  "They can't do that!"

  Sarrin faced the man again and shook her head, then clasped her hands in a gesture of pleading. "No. You must not kill him!"

  The lingtech looked puzzled, shaking his head.

  Sarrin pointed to herself, then at the doorway behind the man, and clasped her hands again. "Please take me to him."

  The man shook his head and turned away, ignoring Sarrin's pleas.

  Nikira looked up as Montar walked into the observation room, his expression tense. "What is it?"

  "The girl's woken up, and she's screaming the place down."

  "Poor thing. She's probably traumatised by what she's been through. Take her to the others, maybe they can comfort her. How is she?"

  "Malnourished and exhausted, but otherwise okay."

  Nikira studied a screen, in which a moving vista of buff stone changed as they travelled into a dark region. "No sign of torture or abuse?"

  "No."

  "What about the dra'voren?"

  Montar shrugged. "The medtechs are monitoring his brain waves and heartbeat. They'll let us know if he's going to wake up. They've got every monitor in the lab hooked up to him. If
he has an itch we'll know about it."

  Nikira nodded, and Montar left. The commander gazed at the screen with blind eyes, her mind filled with an image of the dra'voren's striking countenance. Once again the sense that she was treading on hallowed ground by interfering with this particular dra'voren plagued her. What was it about him that instilled such a strange combination of awe and desire in her? It frightened her, and she longed to see him again, but fought the urge.

  A light flashed on the console, and she brushed her finger over it, activating another screen. Jonar's face filled it.

  "You should come, commander. We think he's waking up."

  "On my way."

  Nikira hurried into the containment room, her heart pounding. Contechs scuttled about, monitoring screens and adjusting instruments. In the shredder chamber, the dra'voren lay on the table, a gleaming steel blade attached to a brace over him, aimed at his heart and powered by a tightly coiled, heavy-duty spring. If it was triggered, it should slice right through his chest and out of his back.

  Enyo turned from his console to confront her. "There's only one flaw in your deterrent plan, commander. It's all very well to have that blade poised to slice open his heart, but may I point out that he can't see it?"

  "He can see."

  "Jonar says he's blind."

  "He's a damned dra'voren, and he was able to see when he walked into the trap. He was following the child, intent on killing her, no doubt."

  Enyo looked puzzled. "A dra'voren doesn't need to be close to a person to kill them, commander."

  "Perhaps he wanted to torture her first. How should I know?"

  "Why don't you let Jonar heal his eyes, then he'll be able to see the weapon?"

  Nikira shook her head. "No."

  Enyo sighed. "Well, you'll be interested in the results of the tests we ran. They're certainly amazing."

  "I thought he was waking up."

  The senior contech glanced at his screen. "It might have been a false alarm, or he might be dreaming."

  "All right, what are the results?"

  "Confusing." Enyo turned to a data screen and activated it. "We took a number of samples, skin, blood and so on. His skin is incredible. I can't even guess how old he is. He's got the skin of a child, utterly perfect and untouched by time."

  "And what does that tell us?"

  "Not much, but here's the real surprise. I examined his DNA, and it's human, but the only reason I know that is because I've mapped his genome and found all the human genes in it. But whereas we have a double helix, his is quadruple. It contains an incredible surplus of information, and on top of all that, it's perfect, just like the rest of him. He doesn't have a single bad, defective or inactive gene."

  Nikira frowned. "But you said he has twice as many genes as we do."

  "He does, and they're all active. They're duplicated, like backups."

  "So he can't be mutated?"

  Enyo rubbed his chin. "Not easily. I bombarded his blood with every type of radiation I have, with no results. I'd bet even the dark power can't affect him, and I would say that he'll live a very long time."

  Nikira walked over to the observation screen and stared at the man who lay on the table. His clothes had been removed, and a dark blue cloth was draped across his hips. Enyo joined her.

  "We found another injury, a sprained ankle, and an amazing number of scars. They're so faint they're almost invisible, but there are dozens of them, just about all over him. One reason they're hard to see is because his skin is utterly devoid of melanin, which is why he's so pale. I have a theory about that. If he uses the dark power, it would have to pass through his skin, and melanin blocks certain types of radiation. His lack of it could be an adaptation."

  "Why didn't the lasers burn him?"

  Enyo shook his head. "I haven't figured that out yet."

  "Is he going to wake up any time soon?"

  Enyo glanced at the screen. "No, his brain waves have gone back to a comatose pattern."

  "Let me know if that changes."

  The contech nodded, and she left the containment room, heading for the bowels of the huge ship. Two enforcers guarded the door to the hold that housed the refugees, and saluted as she approached, activating the door, which slid open. She passed through the mist wall and entered a well-lighted scene of medieval humanity. The refugees had made themselves at home and availed themselves of all the comforts the servitors had provided. Makeshift washing lines were strung between the hull beams, hung with ragged, coarsely woven clothes in various stages of dampness.

  Most of the newcomers had used the washing facilities, and looked a good deal cleaner, although a faint smell of musty cloth hung in the air. Ablution facilities had been set up on one side of the hold, and the servitors provided a constant supply of food for those who were hungry. She made her way through the muttering throng, receiving many timid smiles. The refugees had broad, plain peasant faces, and were all adults. The girl they had rescued from the dra'voren was the youngest, and Nikira found her with the group she had noticed earlier. They sat on an air mattress, murmuring amongst themselves, looking clean now and rested, but unhappy. The girl's face was tear-stained and the old woman was tight-lipped. The fair-haired girl looked tense and anguished, and an older warrior sat beside her, his arm around her.

  As Nikira approached them the six men stood and bowed. The old woman and the girl glanced up at her and smiled, and the fair-haired girl's expression grew hopeful. She squatted down in front of the young girl, returning her smile.

  Indicating herself, she said, "Nikira."

  The girl placed a hand on her own chest. "Ethra."

  Nikira glanced at the woman, who said, "Sarrin."

  The fair-haired girl managed a wan smile. "Mirra."

  The men introduced themselves, and Nikira nodded at each of them. As they sat down again, Sarrin mimed drawing, which struck Nikira as a singularly good idea. She caught the attention of a wandering servitor and requested a pencil and paper, which he brought a few minutes later. Sarrin took the gift with a glad smile and began to draw, a frown of concentration furrowing her brow.

  Several tense minutes passed, during which time the men, who peered at the drawing over Sarrin's shoulder, made a number of comments and looked quite excited. Nikira wondered what she was going to see on the paper, but was not prepared for the end result when it was handed to her. The drawing was poor, but there was no mistaking the deep widow's peak or the slanted brows.

  Sarrin tapped the paper. "Bane."

  "Bane?"

  Sarrin nodded and smiled, placing a hand on Mirra's shoulder. The girl gazed at Nikira with an intense look that she was unable to fathom. Sarrin indicated the drawing again and spoke in an alien tongue.

  Nikira glanced down at the picture. "That's his name?"

  Sarrin looked uncertain, then placed her hand on her heart. "Sarrin." She pointed to the drawing. "Bane."

  "It's his name," Nikira marvelled, and nodded.

  Ethra snatched the drawing and clutched it to her chest, her eyes filled with misery. Sarrin tapped the paper and breathed hard, nodding. After a moment of confusion, Nikira realised that she was asking if the dra'voren was alive. When she nodded, Mirra gave a soft cry and raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with tears. Ethra grinned and turned to Sarrin, speaking several rapid sentences. Sarrin faced Nikira and tapped her chest again, then mimed walking and pointed at the drawing.

  Nikira shook her head, amazed that they seemed so concerned about the monster who had enslaved them. "No, he's dangerous."

  Nikira pulled a fearsome face and made some growling noises that had the men looking at her askance, then pointed at the drawing. Ethra jumped up and shouted, her face twisted with anger, and looked on the verge of attacking Nikira. Sarrin grabbed the girl and pulled her back down, and the men looked uneasy.

  After a short, sharp rebuke from Sarrin, Ethra subsided, glaring at Nikira. Sarrin pulled the somewhat wrinkled portrait from the girl's hands and point
ed at it, then pulled the fierce face and shook her head so vigorously that locks of silver hair came loose from their fastenings and flew about her face. She then embraced the drawing with a tender smile. To drive her point home, she rose and pressed the paper to Artan's face. Making him hold it in place, she knelt and clasped her hands, gazing up at the portrait with reverence shining in her eyes.

  Nikira nodded and made soothing motions. "Okay, I get it. You're all brain washed."

  Artan removed the paper from his face and studied it with a frown. Sarrin sat down, miming again her wish to see the dra'voren, this time adding a series of signs that Nikira interpreted as meaning that if she took Sarrin to him, the dra'voren would be able to translate. Mirra leant forward, her expression intent; as if willing Nikira to do as Sarrin asked, yet Nikira got the impression that she could not understand the old woman either.

  Nikira shook her head and stood up, turning to leave. Artan stepped forward and pointed at the drawing of the dra'voren before crossing his wrists in a clear sign on bondage. Nikira hesitated, unsure of how they would react to the truth, then signed that the dra'voren was asleep, which seemed to mollify them. Artan smiled and spoke to Sarrin, who beamed at Nikira. Mirra also seemed consoled, and the older warrior spoke to her, patting her shoulder.

  The younger warrior, who sat close to her, Grem, stared at Nikira with a level, measuring gaze, as if he had trouble believing her, which made her uneasy. Leaving them to eat and rest, she exited the hold, even more confused and angry. How had the dra'voren brainwashed them? Some sort of mind control? Would he be able to control the people around him when he woke up? If so, he was a grave threat, even bound as he was.

  After going to her office to write a report, Nikira was drawn back to the containment room, where the contechs had relaxed. They were engaged in a heated discussion, and fell silent when she entered. She stopped before the observation window and gazed at the dra'voren for several minutes, then Enyo joined her.

  "No change," he said.

  "He's taking a hell of a long time to come round."

  The contech nodded. "Probably an overdose of anaesthetic."