Chapter Four
The Shrike sat beside his wife and held her hand. As he had done almost every day during the five years since her abduction, he told her what had happened that day. She looked like a sleeping princess awaiting a handsome prince to awaken her with a kiss. Her hair nearly reached her waist now, and her skin had become paler, almost translucent.
Tarke recounted a meeting with a slaver, almost word for word. Although the doctors had assured him that she could not hear him, he took comfort in telling her these things. He told her how much he missed her, and how he wished she had been at his side for the meeting. It made the marriage, he thought bitterly, almost as good as it had been before, except she no longer took part in the conversations and he spent more time with her. Sometimes he would imagine her reactions and respond as if she had spoken, but he longed to hear her voice again, to see her open her eyes and smile.
The initial flood of doctors, healers and other experts had dwindled to a trickle after two years. Now it had dried up completely, despite the huge reward he offered to anyone who could help her. The sum exceeded the total reward for his death, and many had tried to claim it. He refused to allow any kind of surgery, and few had lingered once they had touched the howling emptiness inside her skull. A Shyanese had teleported directly from her home world, and he recalled the stark terror in her eyes when she had left. He knew the sensation well. He had not dared to touch Rayne’s mind since the day she had been returned to him.
After six months, Tarke had gone to Farlaw to speak to Endrix, even though Shadowen had warned him against it. According to the ship, anyone entering Quadrant Forty-Four without the entity’s permission would be destroyed, and Tarke was not immune to his displeasure. Endrix was primarily his people’s guardian, and had only been Rayne’s guide while the Envoy threatened Atlan. Now that the danger was past, even she might not be welcome in his domain.
Tarke had chosen to take Shadowen into the forty-fourth quadrant because he was Rayne’s ship. He took his wife with him, too, so Endrix could heal her if possible. He had found Farlaw and orbited the apparently abandoned planet for several days, waiting for Endrix to return or acknowledge his presence. When neither had happened, he had landed and tried to enter through the stone monolith Rayne had used, but it had not allowed him in.
Eventually, Rayne’s deteriorating condition had forced him to return to base. She required constant, specialised care. He had settled for calling Endrix instead, but had not received a response. Either the entity could not help, or did not care to. Tarke had also tried to find a way to travel to Scrysalza’s cosmos, hoping the ship could help Rayne. No one even knew which galaxy the crystal ships dwelt in, however, so that had proven hopeless. Now his only hope was the slight one that one day she would find her way back, perhaps hearing his calls. So every day he stroked her face, held her hand and spoke her name, begging her to return.
Tarke sighed and bowed his head to kiss the back of her hand. The door chimed, and he clipped the mask on before unlocking it.
Vidan entered, casting a sad glance at the comatose girl. “How is she?”
“The same.” Tarke stood up, replacing her hand on her chest. “What is it?”
Vidan held out a scribe pad. “Another request from her brother, to see her.”
“No.”
“It can’t do any harm.”
“Or any good.”
“He divorced his wife five years ago.”
The Shrike shrugged. “It makes no difference. He gave up his rights when he let the Atlanteans take her from his house.”
“He couldn’t have stopped them.”
“He didn’t try.”
Vidan was sure Tarke knew perfectly well that he was being unreasonable, but could not blame him. He had a right to be bitter about what had happened, and he was the least vengeful man Vidan knew. Tarke probably blamed himself most of all, and he did not deserve the burden of guilt on top of his sorrow at her loss. Of all the people Vidan had ever known, his boss deserved happiness the most. Fate had been particularly cruel to him, and now Vidan almost wished Tarke had never found Rayne. At least then he would not be going through this now. He had already suffered enough. Vidan contemplated the plethora of paraphernalia in the room. Some of it was necessary, some experimental, left behind by the hopeful doctors who had brought it. Soft lights bathed her, a machine produced additional oxygen, and humidity and temperature were controlled, while fans circulated the air.
A bevy of attendants saw to her every need, fed and bathed her, stretched, massaged and stimulated her muscles with electrical apparatus. Tarke refused to put her on life support, insisting that she was cared for by hand and partaking in her care himself. Because of the excellent care she had received, she showed no sign of atrophy. She looked as she had done when she had arrived, and as she probably would in five hundred years’ time. Her arrival was etched in Vidan’s memory forever. The sight of Tarke emerging from the ship, carrying her, had brought tears to his eyes. Tarke’s devotion did not surprise him in the least. Antians remained loyal to their spouses even after their death.
Tarke spent two hours with her every day. The Shrike’s people still wore black armbands to signify their mourning, but, since he wore mostly black anyway, he had not needed one.
The old freighter approached Atlan in maximum deceleration, her Mansurian captain watching the scrolling holographic readouts. Two of the three crewmembers gazed out of the thick screens that gave a restricted view of Atlan’s pearly orb, which they had seen countless times before. One man yawned and scratched a two-day stubble; the other stretched and rubbed his neck. They had made this trip so many times they knew exactly which orbit they would end up in, and even who their neighbours might be. Only the pilot was busy, stretched out on his couch, his hand in the sensor slot that connected him with the ship’s neural net.
The youngest crewmember watched a holographic readout that twitched and flickered, wishing Captain Drogar would get it fixed. The trouble with hauling low-grade ore, Solon mused, was that it hardly paid the bills, and the ship badly needed a refit. One day the failing repeller on the starboard side would give up, and then they would be in trouble. The young Mansurian’s focus sharpened as a clot of unusual figures formed a bright spot on the hologram. The pilot was oblivious, locked into the ship’s neural net. The numbers increased at an unbelievable rate, and turned red as they reached astronomical amounts, the sort of readings a sun would give. The youngster was about to draw the captain’s attention to the problem when the screens filled with light.
Solon leapt to his feet with a shout of alarm. Captain Drogar gripped the arms of his chair and stared. A vast globe of Net energy formed in space ahead, blazing like a sun. A proximity alarm wailed, and the pilot’s features stretched in a grimace of pain. The ship’s repellers found something solid ahead, and it lurched. The sudden change of direction overloaded the inertial compensators and threw the crew to the floor. All but the pilot, strapped to his couch, his brow furrowed.
The old freighter’s hull creaked and groaned under the massive strain of the acute deceleration and turn, the forces threatening to tear her apart. A resounding bang told them that part of the hull had buckled under the tremendous force of the starboard repeller. As the crewmen staggered to their feet, fighting the pull of false gravity, the vast ball of Net energy dispersed, revealing a massive, scintillating crystalline entity. It blazed like a crystal star, beams of radiance slashing the darkness around it. The medley of colours that filled it shimmered, making it resemble a mammoth, filigree diamond.
Drogar gaped at it, his bearded face a study of wonder and terror. The whooping cacophony of alarms almost drowned out his words.
“A crystal ship!”
Another urgent, beeping alarm joined the screaming threnody, and Solon glanced at a holographic readout, his heart thudding. “The starboard repeller’s failed!”
The false gravity vanished, making them reel again as the ship fell towards the entity.
The captain bellowed orders, and the pilot twitched and groaned as he tried to force the ship to turn. The freighter’s Net link was not designed for high-speed manoeuvring, however, and its change of course was sluggish. Solon stared with stunned terror at the alien ship that filled the screens, knowing the fate that awaited them if they could not turn away. More proximity alarms whooped, and the ship’s dulcet voice spoke in its calm, artificial tones.
“Collision alert. Collision alert. Dangerous proximity. Abandon ship. Collision in two minutes.”
Drogar pushed Solon towards the door, yelling, “Get to the life pod!” He shook the pilot, then pulled his hand from the sensor slot, breaking his link with the ship.
“Get out!” he shouted. “Get to the pod!”
As the pilot headed for the exit, searing brilliance enveloped the ship, making Solon cringe and close his eyes. He cried out and stumbled around, groping for the door. The light vanished, and the young crewman looked at the screens with watering eyes. The alarms fell silent, and the ship’s neural net clicked and hummed. The lights on the consoles flashed, most turning green.
Atlan’s pearly globe filled the screens, and they appeared to be in orbit. The captain hurried to a console and slapped his hand on the sensor pad, turning the exterior sensors until an image appeared on a screen. The Crystal Ship hung in space, several hundred thousand kilometres away, beyond the orbit of the furthest moon.
“What the hell happened, Captain?” the pilot demanded.
“At a guess, I would say that thing moved us out of harm’s way. It’s put us into orbit.” He scanned the readouts. “Looks stable, too.”
They stared at the screen, watching the points of golden brilliance that were Net-linked ships draw close to the Crystal Ship and stop.
Tallyn could hardly believe his eyes. It was like a bad dream, one he had, on occasion, been unfortunate enough to have. Vengeance had returned to Atlan from only a few light minutes away, where she had been accelerating on a routine trip to Vasdurn. The emergency recall had not given a reason, but now it was clear.
He looked at Marcon, who seemed entranced. “When did that damned thing appear?”
“Fourteen minutes ago.”
“Has it made any hostile moves?”
“No.” Marcon consulted his readouts. “It’s not moving at all. It’s just sitting there. It dropped out of the energy dimension exactly where it is now. It caused quite a stir, and one freighter almost collided with it. Her repellers failed, and the ship put her into orbit.”
“Put her?”
“Well, it moved the ship into orbit. It was decelerating, and -”
“I get the picture. Now I need to know if it’s the same ship returned, or is it another, with an Envoy on board?”
Marcon’s brows rose. “How do we find that out?”
“Good question.”
Tallyn glanced around at his officers, many of whom had been with him during the humiliating encounter with the Shrike five years ago. Never before had an Atlantean warship been so quickly disabled, or so much damage done in the space of a few minutes. The engineers who had repaired Vengeance had estimated that the Shrike’s weapons were at least twice as powerful as Vengeance’s, and the Council had wanted to know how that was possible. During the refit, they had tried to increase the energy shell’s power, but that had made it unstable, which was why it had not been increased in the past.
The Shrike’s little ships had far more powerful energy shells, and Tallyn suspected that this was due to their size. His brush with the outlaw had provided them with vital information about the Shrike’s weapons, and, in light of this, the Council had not reprimanded him for his part in antagonising its enemy. More diplomacy was recommended in future dealings with the slaver, however. The Council did not believe in paying for pointless, but expensive conflicts. The fact that Vengeance had not scored a single hit on the Shrike’s ship had only added insult to injury.
Many of his officers looked away when his eyes flicked over them, and he knew what they were thinking. The Golden Child could no longer help them if this ship was hostile. They had destroyed the only weapon that could defeat an Envoy in a useless bid to capture her husband.
Marcon said, “This might be a clue, sir. I’ve been comparing vidpics of the previous crystal ship with this one, and they’re not the same.”
“They’re not?”
“No, sir. This ship is larger and significantly brighter. One interesting thing, however, is that it’s in exactly the same place as the last one was when it vanished, to within a few hundred metres.”
“That doesn’t really help. Is there any way to contact it?”
Marcon checked the holograms. “Apparently they communicate telepathically, but only with those they choose.”
“So we can’t contact it. We have to wait for it to contact us?”
“Yes, sir. According to the files Rayne gave us, it will only communicate with a person who has the right sort of mind. It scans the people around it and chooses one, or not, if it doesn’t find what it’s looking for.”
“What kind of mind?” Tallyn asked.
“I would guess, an empath, sir.”
“And how many empaths are listed in your database?”
Marcon touched the sensor pad and read the information that scrolled up in the gloom. “None.”
“Just as I thought.” Tallyn clasped his hands behind him and gazed at the crystalline entity. “So all we can do is wait and see what it does, then decide what we’ll do about it.”
“Respectfully, sir, if that’s an Envoy, there’s not much we can do about it.”
“Then we’d better pray it’s not.”
Tarke looked up from his scribe pad as Vidan rushed into his office, irritated by the interruption that had broken his concentration just when he had been on the brink of solving a complex problem of shipping rights with a neighbouring territory. The scribe pad was filled with information he had downloaded from the station’s database, which he had just sorted into some a comprehensible order. Vidan’s flushed face and bright eyes made Tarke tilt his head as the Atlantean struggled to catch his breath, wondering why Vidan had chosen to run here instead of using the vidlink. Vidan sank onto the chair on the other side of the desk, gasping.
“You should exercise, Vidan. A lap or two around the dome each morning will do wonders for your wind,” Tarke advised.
Vidan shook his head. “I had to tell you in person.”
“So you could see my reaction, I suppose.”
“We’ve had news. An Atlantean communication.”
Tarke sat back. “Well, spit it out.”
“The Crystal Ship’s returned.”
Tarke stared at the panting man. “The same one?”
“They’re not sure. It appeared near Atlan two hours ago, in the same place it was before.”
“And?”
“It’s just sitting there. It hasn’t done anything. It’s as if it’s waiting for something... or someone.”
Tarke pushed the scribe pad away, his calculations forgotten.
Vidan went on, “The Atlanteans are in an uproar. They don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll bet. What are they doing?”
“Waiting to see what it does.”
Tarke jumped up and headed for the door. “If it had an Envoy, it would be moving towards Atlan, preparing to attack.”
Vidan hurried after him. “You think it’s the same one?”
“I certainly hope so. It has to be.”
“What are you going to do?”
Tarke turned a corner. “Get me some ships, as many as you can muster. I’m going to Atlan.”
“That’s dangerous. You’re not at your most popular with them since you attacked Vengeance.”
“I’ve never been popular with them.”
Vidan trotted after him down another long corridor, starting to pant again. “You’re going to take Rayne?”
“It’s her only chance.”
“
You don’t know it can help her.”
“But it might. You knew I’d do this. Why else were you so excited about it?”
Vidan gave up trying to keep up with the Shrike’s long strides and watched him march away down the corridor to Rayne’s apartment.
Tarke entered the quiet, church-like atmosphere of his wife’s room. Only the soft hum of the ozone machine and the beeping of her monitor broke the silence. The attendant who sat beside the bed rose to her feet, clearly surprised by his unscheduled visit. He ignored her and went to the bed to gaze down at Rayne. A simple silken gown clothed her, its whiteness offsetting the slight golden tint the special lights had given her skin.
Tarke had insisted that her dignity be preserved, so no tubes were used in her care. She spent several hours each day floating in a nutrient bath, and her prone existence had not affected her much. An especially designed neural net monitored her bodily functions and regulated them, and an attendant was always on hand. He bent and disconnected the neural net, removing the silver mesh headgear, then scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. The attendant gaped at him as he strode to the door, probably convinced that he had finally taken leave of his senses.
When Tarke entered the hangar where Scimarin was berthed, many people had gathered to see him go.
Vidan hurried over to trot beside him, looking worried. “You should have ordered a litter for her.”
“Why, do you think I can’t carry her?”
“No... It’s just strange.”
Tarke glanced down at his wife, whose hair flowed over his arm, her cheek resting against his chest. He stopped at Scimarin’s door and turned to the Atlantean. “I really don’t care if it looks silly.”
Vidan shook his head. “Not silly. You look... Never mind. Just go. And good luck.”
Tarke entered the ship and went to the cabin to place Rayne on the bed before making his way to the bridge. He waited while the people filed out of the hangar, and an alarm brayed as the dome doors rolled open. Scimarin drifted aloft on her anti-gravity, passing through the dome doors, then switched to repellers and shot up through the planet’s thin atmosphere. Five ships waited in orbit, three cruisers and two battleships. He set course for Atlan and ordered Scimarin to make maximum speed, leaving his escort to catch up.
Slave Empire III - The Shrike Page 7
