Imprisoning Rayne achieved two important goals for the Council, over and above the possibility that they could make her betray him. It ensured the Golden Child no longer associated with Atlan’s arch enemy and besmirched her good name by being the wife of a slaver lord, and it demonstrated its power to take away what was his. The Council members would, in all likelihood, tell the populace that Rayne had returned of her own free will, to escape the depravities of her slaver husband, and that he had abused her and forced her to marry him. That would restore her to her former state of grace in the eyes of the priesthood and the people, which he knew they longed to do. It did not sit well with them that Rayne had betrayed them, in effect, by marrying their enemy.
Last, but not least, they hoped he would try to free her, so they would have a chance to capture him. They would expect him to come to Atlan with at least some warships, and probably had a fair portion of their fleet waiting in orbit. Any real slaver lord in this situation would send an assault force to try to free her, if, indeed, he tried at all, since few would have the courage to take on the Atlanteans. Sabre rattling would not persuade them to hand her back, either, since they had already countered that with the threat of drugs and hypnosis if his fleet attacked their planets. He hoped he had convinced Darvan that he did not want her back; it might keep her safe for a while. He intended to get her back quietly, with minimal bloodshed.
The Shrike used a pair of magnifiers to study the luxury complex from a neighbouring knoll. Reaching this point had been easy. Shadowen had brought him to Atlan unchallenged, since he was Rayne’s ship and had been parked in orbit previously. If the Atlanteans wondered where he had gone to, they gave no sign of it, and they did not try to communicate with unpiloted ships, apparently. They had not even scanned him. Locating the complex where Rayne was held had been simple with Shadowen’s bio-link, and Tarke had transferred to within a kilometre of it.
The graceful white villa stood in a fairly large clearing, surrounded by lawns, pools and hedges, and the oscillating stress shield formed a faint, shimmering blue dome over it in the moonlight. The mask gave him night vision, and he checked his equipment one last time. A laser pistol was strapped to each thigh, space armour clad his torso, and four daggers rode in his belt alongside his medical kit, a decoder, ten shock grenades and a dozen power packs. The moon was almost at its zenith, shining through Atlan’s endless clouds, and dawn was four hours away.
Tarke moved around the knoll and sprinted for the nearest hedge, dodging from bush to hedge across the garden. Shadowen had scanned the complex and located ten guards, all of whom he could avoid except for the two outside Rayne’s room. The rest patrolled the villa and grounds. Arriving at the stress shield, he hunted up and down it for a portal. After five minutes of fruitless searching, he concluded that the Atlanteans had taken the portal primer with them, so would-be rescuers could not use it. He contacted Shadowen and told him to transfer down the portal primer he had brought with him. It appeared a few metres away in a flash of golden radiance, and he crouched behind a bush for a while, just in case a guard had seen the light. When he was sure no one was coming, he approached the stress shield again.
The portal primer was a collapsible, flexible length of terrium-drathin reflective alloy with tiny circulators around its edge, which reversed the charge of the air molecules in the shield, forming a gap. The domed stress shield was emitted by polarity generators at its base and a disc-shaped one on an anti-gravity unit above the villa, and a confinement field shaped it. He pulled the portal primer open, and it expanded to a metre-wide circle. Tarke placed it on the shield and waited while the circulators picked up the compressed, stressed air molecules’ frequency and circulated them. The shield inside the circle grew weaker, then flickered out. The rest of the shield held the portal in place, and he stepped through it, leaving it there for his exit. A portal was far more difficult to set up from the inside, where the shield was concave. Reaching the back door, he pressed a decoder to the lock and within seconds its light turned green. He stepped into a dark interior and walked along a corridor to a tastefully furnished lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the garden. Shadowen gave him directions via his implant, guiding him to a door at the far end of the lounge, where two helmeted, armour-clad guards armed with laser cannons stood. They appeared to be alert, and he drew a laser with a soft snick. Luckily, he was a crack shot.
The first guard died with a choked gurgle as the laser beam sliced through his neck, and the second collapsed as he raised his weapon, his throat pierced. Tarke trotted across the lounge and pressed the decoder to the door lock, which clicked an instant later. All he had to do now was avoid the two guards who patrolled inside the villa and take Rayne outside where Shadowen could transfer them. It seemed too easy, but then, the Council would not expect him to come to rescue her himself, alone. They probably did not expect him to try anything at all, after his performance for Darvan. The door slid aside to reveal a pale, dimly lighted room, and he strode over to the bed at the far side of it, where his wife lay on pale silk sheets, clad in a white nightgown.
Holstering the laser, he sat beside her and checked the pulse in her neck, which was slow and strong. Pulling off his right glove, he ran his fingers down her cheek, then leant forward. “Rayne. Wake up.”
Her lack of response made his throat close and his heart pound. It brought back painful memories of sitting beside her and holding her hand every day over the course of her five-year coma. He picked up her hand and rubbed it, pinching her skin, but whatever drug they had given her was potent. He checked the position of the guards with Shadowen, then bent and scooped Rayne up, cradling her against his chest.
Tarke, Shadowen said in his mind, there are two men in the lounge now, no, three... four… five. I don’t know where they’re coming from. Ten of them now. Is there another exit?
The Shrike scanned the windowless room, tension clenching his gut. Of course there was no other exit. The soldiers must have been hidden in a shielded basement, so Shadowen’s scanners could not detect them. The Atlanteans had set a sophisticated trap, which meant they had been planning this for some time. It surprised him somewhat that they would go to such lengths to catch a man who was unlikely to be the Shrike. Unless they were merely ensuring he could not free her, but then, they could have kept her in a more secure location. The fact that they had made it easy for him to reach her indicated that they wanted to capture her would-be rescuers. Perhaps they just wanted to humiliate him with his failure and execute his men.
Tarke lowered Rayne onto the bed and sat beside her again. At least the Atlanteans would have no reason to imprison her once he was dead. She would regain her freedom when his fleet arrived a few hours after Scimarin self-destructed, following his execution. There was no way he could have freed her, he realised now. Atlan had made sure of it. Even a sizeable strike force would have failed, for there were more than a hundred warships in orbit. If he had waited for their vigilance to wane and the warships to leave, they would have moved her to an impregnable location. He would have had to start a war to save her from the Atlanteans’ abuse, and, even then, they would have had time to do some damage. He could not allow that. They had forced him to choose between the lives and freedom of millions of ex-slaves and the girl he loved, and his attempt to save both had failed.
Tarke could not ask his people to lay down their lives to free her, and nor did he want to live without her. That was why he had chosen to come here himself, to free her or die trying. Self-reliance had always been his credo, but he knew his people would have tried to save her without him asking them to, at a terrible cost in lives. He could not prevent them taking revenge, however. Executing him would be the worst mistake Atlan ever made, and its last. The Slave Empire would destroy the Atlantean Empire, and be destroyed in turn. A few ships might survive, and maybe continue his legacy.
Perhaps his only hope now was to pretend to be the Shrike’s soldier, although the prospect repelled him. Or he could
try to fight his way out, with Shadowen’s help. He was well armed and armoured, and it held more appeal than removing his mask and trying to pass himself off as a soldier slave. That would only work until they found his discarded mask. If Rayne woke in a confused state she might identify him. She would call him by his true name, though, which the Atlanteans did not know. Still, they would know from her thoughts if they had a telepath nearby and allowed her to wake with Tarke beside her. There were so many possibilities, all fraught with peril. The prospect of being manhandled by soldiers and possibly tortured, then executed for being the Shrike’s agent held the least appeal. With Shadowen to back him up, he could try to fight his way out. They would not be expecting that, and, if it failed and he survived, he could still try the other options. In any event, his death was a certainty.
Shadowen, get down here, he ordered.
Tarke took hold of Rayne’s hand and clasped it to his chest, a lump of sadness clogging his throat. He had wanted to share so much with her, but instead her glimpse of his past had driven her away, straight into the clutches of his enemies. His refusal to tell her the truth had made her run from him last time, and now revealing it had had the same effect. He was damned if he did and damned if he did not, just as Vidan had said. Not that he blamed her in the least. Rayne was a runner; that was how she dealt with her fears. He remembered the first time he had seen her, racing along a filthy street on her dying world, dodging rusty wrecks, her hair streaming out behind her. The sight of the men chasing her had angered him, and he had almost ordered Shadowen to target them.
The Atlanteans’ presence and the spy-cam that followed her had made him pause to consider the wisdom of that action, and he had also wanted to intervene personally. He had wanted her to know that someone had helped her. That someone cared. The universe was rife with cruel, uncaring people, and he was not one of them. It had not worked, however. The despair and terror in her eyes when she had looked at him had appalled him. He had intended to take her from her dying world, or, at least, give her the option. He had already summoned a cruiser with decontamination facilities when the Atlanteans had picked her up, and then he had thought she would be better off with them.
Vengeance’s action had surprised him; the Atlanteans were not known for their helpfulness when it came to doomed civilisations on dying planets. They had a non-interference policy. All they had ever done for Earth was protect it from slavers like the Draycons, although some had probably slipped in and stolen a few humans from time to time. He had only found out about Earth a few days earlier, since it was deep in Atlantean territory, beyond their home world, where he never went. Had he found out sooner, he would have been able to save more, but by the time he got there, the survivors were already doomed, according to his scans. Only Rayne and her brother had been healthy.
Now he would pay the price for the subterfuge that had been necessary to save slaves, and for ending Elliadaren’s torment. Just when he might have found the happiness he had not believed possible, his life was over. Then again, she was better off without him. He bent and kissed her brow.
“Goodbye, my reyanne,” he whispered. “I love you.”
The door burst open and soldiers boiled in. Tarke shoved Rayne off the far side of the bed, where its bulk would protect her, then threw himself sideways, drawing his weapons. Laser fire webbed the room with blue brilliance and filled the air with buzzing hums, and three soldiers fell with holes in their necks. They, too, wore armour and helmets, and he aimed for their necks and legs.
“Don’t kill him!” someone shouted.
Laser shots cracked into the walls and floor beside him, and a jolt in his shoulder preceded a lance of pain, but adrenalin dulled it. It would take Shadowen at least ten minutes to descend through the atmosphere, and he cursed, but he could hardly have brought him beforehand. He was a little bit big to hide behind a bush. The only furniture in the room was the bed, and he could not use it for cover without endangering Rayne. He rolled across the floor, firing at the soldiers who poured into the room and spread out, and another shot hit his leg as a third tore into his forearm. His hand went numb and the laser clattered to the floor. He kept firing with his remaining weapon until it ran out of power, and he could not reload with only one hand. Tarke swore and dropped it, groped on his belt for a shock grenade and hurled it at the soldiers. Most leapt aside to avoid the flash of blinding light and deafening concussion, which his mask filtered out, but one man went down. The rest charged him, and something cracked into his skullcap, making stars dance in his eyes. Boots thudded into his ribs and hands gripped his arms, pinning them. Another boot cracked against the side of his head, and everything went black.
Shouts from the garden drew Sergeant Brammel’s attention from the masked man who lay on the floor, trussed and unconscious. He ran to the back door and stepped out, glancing around, then up. A pitch-black spaceship descended through the clouds, the speed of her fall leaving a hole in them. Hatches slid open in her sleek hull and glowing laser cannons emerged from hidden compartments, aimed at the villa. The hawk-like silver emblems on her flanks left him in no doubt as to her hostility. She bounced on her anti-gravity, leaving a ship-shaped depression in the ground, and her nose dipped as she accelerated towards the villa.
“Prepare to transfer to Vengeance,” Brammel bellowed over his shoulder.
The black ship opened fire, and a line of explosions tore into the ground towards him as brilliant blue beams shot from her forward laser cannons. Brammel ducked into the house as the lasers hit the stress shield, which shredded them. It would not hold for long against a warship’s cannons, though. Already it blazed, approaching overload under the fierce barrage. Most of his soldiers were already on the transfer pad in the lounge. The masked man lay at their feet and one carried the girl. Brammel joined them and deactivated the stress shield, and the golden haze of a transfer shell engulfed them.
Tallyn approached the group of soldiers that stepped off the transfer pad in docking bay twelve. The men removed their helmets and mopped their brows. A man who looked an awful lot like his arch enemy, the Shrike, lay on the floor, and a soldier carried Rayne.
Sergeant Brammel saluted. “We got him, sir.”
Tallyn nodded, studying the masked man. “At least, you got someone wearing a copy of his mask, Sergeant. How is the Golden Child?”
“Fine, sir. Not a scratch on her.”
“Good. Take her to the hospital.” Tallyn squatted beside the prisoner, wondering if they had really captured the Shrike this time. He tugged at the mask, but it was solidly attached to the skullcap that sheathed the unconscious man’s head. “How hard did you idiots hit him?”
“He put up a hell of a fight, sir.”
Tallyn eyed the blood that seeped from the man’s shirt and leg. “Get him to the hospital, on the double.”
“Sir,” Brammel said, “the Golden Child’s ship attacked us. It’s probably still razing the villa to the ground.”
“Of course it did, you put her in danger. I warned the Council, but those old idiots never listen. It knows where she is, though, so it will be on its way here now, I would imagine. I expect it has also sent a distress message to the Shrike’s nearest base. The Council has started something it might regret.”
“But we captured the Shrike.”
“That remains to be seen. And if we did, I think we’re going to regret it.”
Tallyn waited while the soldiers loaded the prisoner onto a floating stretcher, and then followed it to the hospital, where two medics came over as the man was placed on a bed.
“Make sure he stays unconscious,” Tallyn ordered.
One medic nodded and filled a syringe, injecting the prisoner, while the other doctor stripped off the man’s gloves and coat. Under his black shirt, the captive wore a blood-soaked grey vest. Tallyn moved to the head of the bed and bent to inspect the mask, which looked hi-tech. It had vents on the cheeks that were probably air filters, and tiny microphones next to the man’s ears to provide
enhanced audio. He noticed a miniature DNA sensor on either side of the mask, just above where the man’s ears would be. Picking up the captive’s right hand, he pressed the index finger to the sensor. The mask clicked, and one side of it unsealed. Tallyn repeated the process with the prisoner’s left hand, and pulled the mask off. His immediate suspicions at the sight of the handsome face behind it were confirmed by a glance at the captive’s scarred chest when the medic cut off his vest.
“He’s just a slave,” Tallyn said.
The medic nodded. “Looks like he’s been in service for a long time.”
Tallyn pushed aside the thick material that covered the man’s throat to reveal the oily black gleam of a Xiltran slave collar. “Damn.”
Tallyn frowned, hefting the mask, which was rather heavy. He lifted it to examine it more closely. The inside was padded along the cheekbones, and it contained a number of sophisticated instruments, including air filters, evaporator pads, optical and auditory enhancers, and an aperture in front of the mouth that slid aside at a touch. The previous decoys, he recalled, had worn simple plasteel masks that had not even looked particularly comfortable, while this one was clearly designed to be comfortably worn for long periods of time. It appeared to be made of a polymer alloy, and the padding was velvet, which, together with the instruments, meant that it was expensive. Perhaps the Shrike was simply making sure this decoy was believable. Tallyn put the mask on the table beside the bed and headed for the door. The Council would be waiting for his report. The fact that another decoy slave would be executed for the Shrike’s crimes did not sit well with him.
Slave Empire III - The Shrike Page 24
