Slave Empire III - The Shrike

by Southwell, T C

  Rayne became aware that Rawn had fallen silent, and turned her attention back to him.

  He smiled. “Where did you go? You looked like you were a million miles away.”

  “Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “I know my life is pretty humdrum compared to yours, but sheesh, you could make an effort, hey. Anyway, visiting hours are over.” He nodded at a stern-faced nurse who stood at the end of his bed. “They want to give me a bath.”

  “Right.” She rose and bent to kiss his cheek. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “Cool. Try to leave your problems at the door this time, huh?”

  “I will.”

  He gripped her hand when she went to turn away. “You can always talk to me, if you want.”

  She forced a smile. “I can’t, but thanks. I’ll figure it out.”

  “If only you had found some normal guy, you’d have the whole house and kids thing, now.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She headed for the door, and the nurse watched her go.

  In the corridor, she marched towards the hospital entrance, keen to escape its antiseptic smell and sterile atmosphere. The hospital, like most public buildings on Atlan, had no transfer points inside it, since the Net was not used for planetary transportation. The traffic would have been too great and there was a danger of overlapping transfers. That was why public aircars were available. There was a transfer point just up the street, however. Of course, she could have ordered Shadowen to transfer her from anywhere, but there was no need, and it was frowned upon.

  A passing orderly sprayed something in her face, and she gasped, turning to rebuke him. The world spun away into blackness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Shrike walked along a corridor on the slaver space station Pertal, notorious for its menu of carnal depravities. Since Rayne had left, he had flung himself into his work, and ordered Vidan to return to Ironia to prevent his second-in-command from hovering over him like a drel-bear with one cub. Two of his cruisers orbited the base, and Scimarin was docked at one of the many spaceports. The Mansurian slaver who owned the base strolled at his side, extolling the virtues of the unsavoury goodies he had on offer. As always, Tarke had been accorded every courtesy, as the most powerful slaver lord in the galaxy, renowned for buying low-grade slaves in bulk. His rivals probably assumed he sold them to the Saurians on the Outer Rim, or at least someone who made them vanish without a trace. They did not care what he did with them; his money was good.

  Tarke missed Rayne, and spent his days looking forward to speaking to her on the space line every night. It had only been a week, but his longing to see her in person was becoming intolerable. The very thing he had dreaded had happened, and he blamed himself. He should never have told her anything about his past. He had promised himself he would not, and then he had told her about two of his experiences on the same day. He also cursed the stupid reaction that had ruined such a special moment. Just when he had thought he was making progress, she had surprised him and triggered a reflex. Nor would he ever be able to convince her it was all right. She had seen his scars, and she probably knew the experiences he had told her about were amongst his less horrendous, because he would not speak about the truly horrific ones, and he had plenty of those. He had seen it in her mind when he had gone aboard Shadowen. She thought she was hurting him, and that horrified her.

  During her battle with the Envoy, Rayne had been in contact with a slave mind: the Crystal Ship, a gentle, fragile being that had been forced to obey through pain. She had shared its pain, and that, he feared, had given her an unusual insight into his reasons for wanting to be alone, which made their relationship so much more difficult. He was not the only damaged person in it, and now his past had driven her away. Trust him, he thought bitterly, to fall in love with a beautiful, special girl who was the one person in the galaxy who would not be able to deal with his mental scars. She needed someone solid and dependable, who could give her the happiness she deserved, not a broken shadow of a man with a nightmare for a past.

  Yesterday he had received an alarming report from one of the cruisers he had assigned to escort her. Rayne had gone to Atlan. Her brother had been injured, and she, naturally, had rushed to his side. His cruisers could do nothing to prevent her, short of crippling Shadowen, and he would never authorise that. He had ordered the cruisers back to base and warned her to be careful. Rebuking her would only alienate her even more. He could only hope the Atlanteans would not try to probe her mind again, after their last, disastrous attempt. If they harmed her, they would answer to him, and they knew it. His oath was still in effect, and always would be. That did not stop him worrying about her. He shook himself from his thoughts and returned his attention to his host, who gestured to a doorway ahead.

  “Here we are. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with them.”

  “I’m always pleased with the wares you find, Gromall,” Tarke said. “You have a knack for sourcing better-quality burnouts than most.”

  Gromall smiled, revealing a set of large false teeth, since he was a Dravel-Saurian cross with shiny grey skin and frilly ears, an amphibian, thanks to his Dravel mother, while his Saurian father had given him the ability to walk upright on large webbed feet. His lack of dentition came from his mother, whose race had evolved in the mud of a sludge world in the Tarman Quadrant. Tarke would never understand how such weird crossbreeds came to be. The door ahead slid open, and Gromall led him into a vast slave pen where hundreds of unfortunates languished in communal enclosures. He was a level above them, able to look down on them, and a network of walkways gave access to all the pens. Each one held about a hundred slaves, Tarke calculated as he stopped at the railing to study the merchandise. Most were thin, unkempt females with matted hair and blank eyes.

  “From the Verdar Moon,” Gromall explained. “They were there for the miners’ use, but this batch is pretty much worthless. The miners suffer from shindar disease, and these are all infected. Good for fodder, though.”

  Tarke nodded. “Two regals apiece.”

  “I was thinking four, actually.”

  “Two. My clients aren’t partial to diseased food.”

  Gromall shrugged. “Fine.” He went to the next pen, which again held mostly females, these in better condition, some still wearing cosmetics and sparkly clothes. “From -”

  “I don’t really care,” Tarke interrupted. “Some pleasure club, I’m sure. Four apiece for these, and don’t bother to ask for six. They’re all burnouts and addicted to Stardust.”

  Gromall made a glugging sound that passed for laughter. “No one can fool you, eh, Shrike. Not that I was going to try, of course.”

  Tarke gazed across the vast warehouse. “I really don’t have time to inspect all of them. I have pressing business. Let’s say three apiece for the rest.”

  “Some of them are worth far more. I have fifty gladiators from -”

  “Fine, four regals apiece, and that’s my final offer.”

  Gromall gave a whistling sigh through his single nostril “You drive a hard bargain. All right, four apiece.”

  “I’m sure you only paid one apiece for the ones you didn’t steal.” The Shrike swung away. “I’ll send a transport for them. It will be here tomorrow. Contact Vidan on Ironia for the money.”

  Gromall hurried after him. “We must drink to seal the deal, Shrike. It will only take a moment of your time, and I have some specials, too.”

  Tarke followed the slaver further down the corridor and into a deviant den, one of the places he hated the most, where rich clients satisfied their debauched cravings. The conditioned air stung his nose and the familiar scent of pain and fear made his stomach clench. Dark blue carpet stretched away between pale green screened alcoves to a distant bar counter where well-dressed men and women chatted and drank. The ceiling gave off a pale pink glow, and soft music wafted from all around. The sounds emanating from the alcoves sickened him, and a few miserable-looking, pretty young slave girls and boys
sat in a huddle in an open area. Tarke turned down the audio pickups in the mask to try to block out the sounds. Gromall raised an arm and snapped his webbed fingers at a serving slave, who hurried over.

  “Bring us two glasses of drell and the blusher,” he ordered.

  The slave scuttled away, and Gromall beamed at the Shrike. “If you see anything you like, feel free to make an offer. Everything’s for sale.”

  “Even the clients?”

  “Except the clients,” the slaver said. “Congratulations on your marriage, by the way. The Golden Child, no less! But of course, you had to make a prominent marriage. I’m surprised to see you back dealing again so soon. I thought you’d still be making the most of her.” Gromall’s elbow jabbed in Tarke’s direction, but he knew better than to make contact. “I have a number of excellent sex slaves who would do a wonderful job of keeping her happy while you’re away on business. Fifty thousand regals for the best, and I’ll throw in a sterilisation for free, so you can be sure anything she produces is yours.”

  Tarke sighed. “Get on with it, Gromall. I don’t have all day.”

  The slaver clapped, and the serving slave sprinted back, a grav-tray following him and a young man at his heels. The blond youth was pretty, in a feminine way, and obviously cowed. Gromall handed Tarke a glass of drell.

  “To business, long may it be profitable.” The slaver raised his glass.

  Tarke pressed the rim of his glass to the mask’s aperture, which slid open to admit the juice, channelling it into two evaporators next to the air intakes. He never ingested anything a slaver handed him. Gromall put down his glass, gripped the boy’s lead chain and dragged him closer.

  “Look at this.” He slapped the youth’s face with a shocking report that made Tarke jump. The boy’s cheek blossomed bright pink, and Gromall glugged.

  “See? Isn’t that fun? He’s a real hit at parties. Get it? It works all over him, too, look -”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Tarke said. “How much do you want?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand. He’s a speciality slave, very rare.”

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  Gromall harrumphed. “That’s a paltry sum, Shrike. He’s worth three hundred thousand, easy.”

  “Then sell him to someone else.” Tarke turned away, unable to stomach the desperate pleading in the boy’s eyes.

  Tarke. Scimarin’s voice spoke through the Shrike’s implant, and he held up a hand to stem Gromall’s reply.

  What is it?

  A contact request from Atlan, marked urgent.

  Commander Tallyn?

  No, one of the Council members, named Darvan, Scimarin replied.

  Tarke said to Gromall, “I need a private room to accept a space line call.”

  “Of course, follow me.” The slaver headed across the room. “The boy?”

  “Fine, I’ll take him, and the other boys and girls. Put them with the others.”

  Gromall beamed and showed him into a side room, and the door slid shut. Tarke ordered Scimarin to relay the call and settled on a bright green comfy chair as a space line screen slid from its slot. An elderly, high-caste Atlantean appeared on it, his wrinkled neck pinched by a stiff, ornate collar. His black eyes glittered and his copper-hued skin gleamed against a backdrop of purple curtains. He looked irritable, as if he had been waiting for some time, and straightened, tugging at his royal blue robe.

  “Shrike.”

  “Councillor Darvan. To what do I owe this honour?”

  “We have your wife.”

  Tarke’s heart thudded. “Do you now? Can you prove it?”

  Darvan nodded to someone off screen, and a small picture appeared in the crystal beside him. It showed Rayne lying on a bed in a plain white room, apparently asleep.

  The Shrike leant forward to peer at it, and then sat back. “Looks like you tapped the security camera at her accommodations. She’s visiting her brother, as I’m sure you know.”

  “I assure you, she’s in our custody.”

  “Well now,” Tarke said, “let’s say that I believe you. What do you intend to do with her? You know you won’t get my image from her memory.”

  “Not with a telepathic probe, no, but there are other options. You brainwashed her into marrying you, and we won’t tolerate it. The priesthood wants her on Atlan. You’ll never see her again.”

  “So you’ve locked her up?” Tarke asked. “What crime has she committed?”

  “She’s not a prisoner.”

  “If she can’t leave, she’s a prisoner.”

  “She’s where she belongs,” Darvan said. “Once we’ve undone what you did to her, she’ll realise that you’re a slaver who took her against her will. Then I’m sure she’ll be happy to describe you.”

  “So, you intend to brainwash her.”

  “You’re the one who brainwashed her! We’ve saved her from you. And if you attack a single Atlantean planet, or any of our allies, we will have to speed up the process, and that means using drugs and hypnosis. You can’t free her, either. She’s at a secure facility. It’s in an oscillating -”

  “Stress shield. Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re deluding yourself, though, if you think you can make her betray me. It’s not going to happen. She proved her loyalty last time.” Tarke pretended to sip his drink. “So I’m not bothered. She was just a trophy, and we weren’t getting along too well, anyhow. Now she’s your trophy. Keep her. Anything else?”

  Darvan frowned. “So your offer to give yourself up last time was a lie? You would have given us another decoy.”

  “Of course. Do I look stupid to you?” Tarke waved his drink. “Don’t answer that. I was protecting my identity. Now I know you won’t succeed, so do your damnedest.”

  “Oh, I assure you, we will.” Darvan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re supposed to be her guardian. You helped her to fulfil the prophecy and took her to the Crystal Ship so it could heal her, and now you expect me to believe she means nothing to you?”

  “Why do you care? I didn’t want the prophecy coming true. You think I wanted to have to deal with the damned Draycons? They’d have made my life a misery. You lot, on the other hand, are such a namby-pamby bunch you’re a pleasure to have as enemies. As for reviving her, well hell, she’s my wife, and she wasn’t much good to me in the state she was in. I’m not a sick shit like you.”

  Darvan glowered. “She’ll tell us what we want to know. Your days are numbered, Shrike.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. My methods are foolproof, even against a bunch of fools like your Council of Elders. Council of Senile Old Farts is more like it. She’ll take my identity to her grave, but remember, I swore a blood oath to avenge her, so if she dies Atlan will pay.”

  “We have no intention of harming her.”

  Tarke shrugged. “Good. Now, if that’s it, I have business to attend to.”

  “You’re going to pay for what you did to her, you -”

  Tarke disconnected the space line, which faded to grey and slid back into its slot. As soon as it vanished, he jumped up. Scimarin, transfer me aboard.

  The Net shell dispersed on the bridge, and he unclipped the mask to throw it down on the pilot’s seat, running his hands through his hair. “Those bastards just won’t quit!”

  “Something’s happened?” Scimarin asked.

  “They’ve taken Rayne again.” Tarke paced up and down. “They’re going to try to brainwash her.”

  “There will be a public outcry -”

  “No, they’re covering it up. The priesthood has given its blessing because she disgraced herself by marrying me. They think they can make her betray me.”

  “Shadowen will transfer her out.”

  “Darvan said she’s inside a random-pattern stress shield. If that’s true...” He stopped and banged the console. “Contact Shadowen; I want a report.”

  A few seconds ticked past, and then Scimarin said, “He has detected no fluctuations in her biorhythms that indicate distress. He is in geosynch
ronous orbit over her location. She is inside a fluctuating stress shield, and appears to be asleep.”

  “Damn it!” Tarke leant on the console and bowed his head. “It was another trap.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Get her back, of course.” Tarke raised his head and stared at the stars. “Tell Shadowen to meet me at the Serian Stones. Go there now.”

  The ship undocked with a clunk and shudder and the stars outside wheeled as it turned away from the space station. “Tarke -”

  “You’re to tell no one, especially Vidan.”

  “This is dangerous.”

  “That’s called pointing out the obvious, Scimarin.”

  “If you’re captured -”

  “Enough! Just take me to the Serian Stones.”

  Tarke sank onto the pilot’s chair and stared out at the stars beyond the crawling tongues of Net energy. His heart still pounded and his throat was tight. Judging by her image in the space line feed, Rayne had been drugged. He had known that becoming his wife would put her in danger, but had not thought it would be this bad, especially from Atlan. She had imagined herself safe despite his warning. Just because they now knew they could not get his image by probing her mind, however, did not mean the Atlanteans would not try some other underhand tactic. He had suspected that her brother’s accident had been arranged, so she would rush to his side. Now he was sure of it. Foolish, foolish girl. She did not understand how badly the Atlantean Council of Elders wanted his head on a plate, and she was the perfect bait. It would not risk her life again, he was sure, but locking her up for the rest of it was almost as bad. The Atlanteans would most likely feed her drugs to keep her docile, and use hypnosis to try to brainwash her even if Tarke did not order his warships to attack their planets.

  The Atlantean leadership was courting disaster, but they did not know it; they did not understand how his empire worked. Their numerous attempts to capture and execute him proved that they thought that once he was dead his empire would just fall apart, since he had no successor. That would have been true, had he been a slaver who paid his captains to work for him. The Atlanteans had used the tactic successfully on three slaver lords, each with a fleet of armed ships that had disbanded when Atlan had executed its leader. Cut off the head of the snake, and the body dies. It was a logical and proven method of dealing with criminal empires large and small. The Slave Empire, too, would collapse if he died, but not before it had exacted the most terrible retribution. He did not consider it to be his empire; the ex-slaves had built it; he only protected and led it.