Cat Star 03 - Rogue

by Brooks, Cheryl - Cat Star 03

  "Yeah, I know, but we do have a bunch of acrobats with us," I reminded him. "They could probably climb up there to take a look."

  "And we could then spray any of the rebels standing down below with a wide stun beam." Wazak rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, that would be helpful."

  "Hear that, Nindala?" I said eagerly. "See if you guys can climb that wall."

  The Edraitians had all been running and were un­doubtedly as tired as the rest of us, but they were still quite nimble, and several of them formed a pyramid with Racknay and two of his brothers joining in to form the base. Even so, they still weren't high enough to top the wall.

  "Hey, Sladnil!" Trag shouted. "Why don't you take your sticky fingers and climb up those guys and take a look." In an aside to me, he added, "So, these are the blue redheads you were telling us about, huh?"

  "Yeah," I replied. "Pretty cool, aren't they?"

  "Well, maybe," he said, not sounding terribly en­thused. "If you like blue."

  "You don't like blue?"

  "Not particularly."

  I thought this was a rather odd prejudice for him to have, but then I remembered the crack he'd made about

  Tychar's blue eyes and wondered if that had anything to do with it.

  Sladnil was climbing up the pyramid of blue-skinned acrobats, who were getting completely weirded out whenever his fingers sucked onto one of them. He slowed down when he got to Nindala, seeming to savor her "essence" just a bit before moving on.

  "He'll come all over himself if he keeps that up," Tychar muttered. "Stop that, Sladnil!" he called out to him.

  "Oh, all right!" Sladnil said, his voice even more shrill than usual. "But if I am to die anyway..."

  "You won't die," Tychar called back. "You're too ugly to die! Heaven wouldn't let you in, and hell would probably spit you back out!"

  "Known each other for a long time, have you?" I commented as I watched Sladnil reach the top of the wall. Crawling on his hands and knees, he crept toward the outer edge.

  "Too long," Tychar said. "He's the strangest one of the bunch—but also one of Scalia's favorites."

  I wasn't quite sure how to tell them. "Urn, you guys, about Scalia. I think, that is, I'm pretty sure she's..." I stopped there, hating to say it aloud again. In the heat of the moment, I'd spat it out at Nindala—and in front of the children, too—so I don't know why I was finding it so difficult to tell her slaves, but for some reason, I did.

  "Dead?" Tychar gasped. "So that's what's going on here? Someone else has taken the throne?"

  Nodding, I went on, "It was Dobraton, and she doesn't like offworlders one little bit!"

  "In deep shit, aren't we?" said Trag.

  "You bet," I agreed. "Along with any of the royal family and anyone else loyal to them."

  I could see the slaves were having trouble grasp­ing this. I wondered if they realized that Scalia's death would probably set them free—most slaves would see the death of their master as a blessing, but this was an unusual situation, one which could just as easily result in their own deaths, in addition to hers.

  Of course, Dobraton wasn't the only thing we had to fear, and I abandoned that line of thought as another problem occurred to me. "Hey, we shouldn't be stand­ing around here watching," I exclaimed suddenly. "You guys need clothes! You won't last long naked outside the palace, especially if we're heading across the desert to the mountains! Get a sheet and make a poncho out of it, at least. Bring one for me while you're at it—and some pillowcases, too. Wish I could have gone back to my quarters," I grumbled. "I hate being unprepared."

  Tychar came back with some sheets and asked, "What's a poncho?"

  "I'll show you," I said. "Got a knife, Dragus?"

  The one he handed me looked like something out of a museum with a curved blade and an ornately carved handle. It was sharp as a razor, too, and I cut a slit in the middle of the sheet and slipped it over Tychar's head. Then I knelt and ripped a strip of fabric from the bottom. "Here, tie this around your waist," I told him. Ripping open a pillowcase, I made a headdress out of it, tying another strip of cloth around his head to hold it in place. "Wow!" I said softly, looking up at him. "It's freakin' Lawrence of Arabia! With darker skin, you'd look like a real Arabian sheik."

  "It would be better if we looked like Darconians," Tychar pointed out. "Even dressed in this manner, we still look like offworlders."

  "Well, unless you want to go skin what's-his-name over there," I said, "this is the best we can do in a pinch. At least the sun won't burn you to a crisp." I ripped up some more sheets and donned my own desert attire while Trag made his own.

  "I see them!" Sladnil reported from his perch on the wall. "There are six of them down there."

  "Here!" Wazak called out, tossing him a pistol. "Shoot them."

  Catching the pistol effortlessly with his sticky fin­gers, Sladnil hissed incredulously, "All of them?"

  "It is set for a wide stun beam," Wazak said dryly. "You will not miss."

  "There may be more that he can't see," Dragus mut­tered. "It's a wonder they haven't heard us up here and taken cover."

  "They will not have the chance," said Wazak, and then sent the four guards down the stairwell with orders to unlock the door at the bottom and come out firing on his signal. He gave them time to descend, and then called up to Sladnil. "Have you got a clear shot?"

  "Yes," Sladnil called back.

  Wazak muttered something into his comlink and then waved at Sladnil. "Fire!"

  I heard the pulse pistol fire, and Sladnil let out a squeal. For a second I thought he'd been shot, but it was a shout of triumph.

  "He's really enjoying that, isn't he?" Tychar mut­tered, shaking his head. "Strange fellow..."

  "The way is clear," Wazak said, motioning us on down the passage. The children went first, followed by me with Trag ahead and Tychar behind. Inside, the air was stuffy and stale, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone had been through there. Given the political climate, I wouldn't have been surprised if it hadn't been checked out fairly recently, but it felt more like we were descending into an Egyptian tomb that had been sealed for eons rather than a secret passage to the outside.

  And suddenly, we were outside. It felt strange enough for me to be leaving the palace, though I'd only been in residence for a couple of months, but the slaves must have been feeling very peculiar, indeed. So near the source of the oasis, I could feel the moisture in the cooler air as my flowing garment was caught by the wind. Looking about, I felt a frisson of fear pass through me as I caught sight of a number of shadowy shapes in the distance. At first I thought they might be the vanguard of some alien army, but then I realized that they were only the fruit trees, growing in neat ranks on the fertile plain surrounding the oasis.

  The tigers were like two ghosts walking beside me in their light-colored robes, while the blue-skinned Edraitians seemed to almost disappear into the shadows. I ought to have been relieved that we had escaped the palace, but it was still likely that the desert would consume us in the end. I couldn't understand why there hadn't been more in the way of survival gear in our escape route—something to carry water in at the very least. Wazak had said we would get water at The Shrine, but if we had, I'd missed it in all the excitement.

  The Darconians searched the fallen rebels, collect­ing their weapons and passing them on to those of us who weren't armed. Surprisingly, the first rifles Wazak gave out were to the two Zetithians. He must have trusted them more than the Edraitians, but they had been slaves to his queen, and it seemed to be a rather strange and ironic turn of events. After ensuring that the older children were armed, Wazak then checked the settings on a pulse pistol, after which, he handed it to me.

  "That is set to kill," he said evenly. "Do not hesitate to use it should the need arise."

  I took the pistol without protest, though Dobraton's men were the least of my worries at that point, since dying of thirst seemed far more likely. "Wazak?" I began in a hoarse whisper. "What about wat
er?"

  "There are secrets to this palace that many do not know," he said. "Follow me."

  I had no idea what he meant by that—and neither did anyone else—but we followed him anyway. What we would have done without him I couldn't begin to guess, and if Dobraton had had any sense at all, she'd have killed him even before she shot Scalia.

  It was still hard to believe what I'd seen. In the events which followed, I hadn't had much time to think about it, but the horror of watching someone be killed was now creeping into me like a chill, and I shuddered in spite of the heat. Then something took my hand, startling me to the point that I nearly screamed.

  Looking down I saw two shining eyes blinking up at me. It was Uragus. "Kyra," he whispered. "I would like a hug."

  Gathering him up in my arms, I gave him a squeeze. "Are you scared?" "Yes," he replied. "Me, too," I said.

  Then he asked the most surprising question. "Was it because of me?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Was my mother killed because I played the piano?"

  "Oh, no, sweetheart!" I said, giving him another hug. "Your playing was marvelous! Dobraton had other rea­sons for doing what she did. What you did had absolutely nothing to do with it!"

  But even while I was saying it, I knew it wasn't true—at least, not completely. Attitudes toward males on Darconia could be just as prejudiced as they were against offworlders in some respects, and he was not only male, but he'd been playing music written by a human, on an instrument which had been manufactured on Earth, and had been taught to play it by a Terran—and did it re­markably well, which was possibly the greatest offense of all. Perhaps it was symbolic that Dobraton had chosen that particular moment to assassinate his mother.

  "Is she going to kill us, too?" he asked.

  "I don't think so," I replied. "Wazak is a good leader. He'll keep us safe."

  To my surprise, Wazak heard that. "I did not protect his mother," he said bluntly. "I have failed in my duty to her."

  "I wouldn't exactly call that failing, because there was no defense against what Dobraton did," I said briskly, "but if you're looking for redemption, Wazak, now's the time to do something about it! You just keep the rest of us alive, and I think even Scalia would forgive you."

  Zealon spoke up just then, but if I'd have expected tears from her, I would have been disappointed. With barely contained anger, she said, "Yes, I forgive you, Wazak, but I will not forgive Dobraton. She will pay for this."

  Racknay was close by as well, and if looks could have killed, Dobraton would already be dead.

  "I'm so sorry for your loss, Zealon, Racknay," I began. "I know—"

  "We have no time for sorrow," Zealon said, cutting off my expression of sympathy. With a defiant lift of her chin, she added: "And Darconians do not cry."

  Wazak didn't comment, but led us on through the por­tico a litde way before stopping at a perfectly blank place in the wall. Taking a small key from his breastplate, he inserted it into yet another lock which would have seemed invisible if we hadn't watched him do it. A moment later, a heavy section of stone swung out from the wall.

  "In here," Wazak said.

  It was dark inside, but I could hear the sound of flow­ing water. Illuminating the glowstones on my necklace, I held them up. Though their light was dim inside such a large space, I could see that this must be the oasis source, for there was a dark pool inside with a cascade of water erupting from the center.

  "Put down your stones, Kyra," Wazak said. "They will not be necessary."

  Then he focused his gaze on the ceiling, and the whole place lit up—so brightly that I had to close my eyes and wait a moment for them to adjust from the darkness outside. Looking up, I saw that the entire room appeared to be lined with glowstone—not just a few of them set into the ceiling here and there, mind you, but forming every surface, with the exception of the floor. Even the catchbasin for the water was glowing.

  "This is the true Shrine of the Desert," he said qui­etly. "It was closed off long ago by a ruler who feared it might be desecrated." He glanced around briefly, and the light dimmed to a more comfortable level. "I disagree. It is only water, and the walls are only made of stone. Life is far more important than either of these things."

  He was obviously referring to Scalia, and though she might have been no more than his queen, her death must have affected him deeply—as it had affected us all. I was no more than a visitor to her realm, but I already missed her. She had been a strong ruler, but, unlike the usurper of her throne, there was no malice in her, nor had she been corrupt—at least, not beyond her penchant for exotic slaves. The people of Darconia had been for­tunate in their queen, and they would feel the effects of her loss soon enough. My only hope was that they would choose to do something about it. Up until this moment, we had simply been running for our lives; the will of the people of this region would determine what would happen next.

  Chapter 15

  Darconians had never struck me as being a flock of docile sheep to be herded wherever their queen chose. Scalia's policies toward offworld trade had been gradu­ally introduced to her people, not forced upon them. She had brought in offworld culture in an effort to dem­onstrate the advantages of contact with the rest of the galaxy. There were also disadvantages to this, which Dobraton had been quick to focus upon—the dilution of their own culture, the loss to their own people of planetary resources, not to mention the influx of radical ideas—but there were many advantages, which included advances in science, technology, and medicine. These things, when managed wisely, could be of great benefit to a world that had always been focused entirely upon itself. Scalia, who saw it as progress, understood that; Dobraton, who clung to the old, isolationist ways, did not.

  If the other shrine had been a tribute to the beauty which water could bring to a dry and desolate world, this was a shrine to the water itself; an altar to the life-giving liquid. In the past, Darconians must have been allowed to come here not only to see the miracle of the oasis source, but also to partake of the waters, for there were containers in niches near the doorway for carrying the water. This had been what Wazak had meant when he'd said we would get water at The Shrine—this shrine, and not the place where the slaves lived. I agreed with

  Wazak; it should have been reopened. Scalia should have done it herself. In a place where water was at a premium, it would have been a gesture that would have solidly united the people in her support. Dobraton would then have been unable to recruit many followers, and the coup would never have taken place. Promising your people a McDonald's was one thing; opening this shrine would have been something else altogether.

  Having overcome our initial sense of awe, we filled the empty bottles and slung them over our shoulders with the carrying harnesses hanging nearby. Unfortu­nately, these had been made with Darconians in mind and were too big for most of us, so we had to make a few modifications. The bottles themselves were surpris­ingly light and strong—like glass in some ways, but like plastic in others—undoubtedly having been intended for carrying water over long distances.

  I'd never been part of a band of refugees before; I'd always been as solitary as Dobraton wanted their planet to be, but already I could feel a sense of camaraderie be­ginning to develop. We all knew the danger we were in, and we also knew that there was no hope for our survival if we didn't stick together. Wazak, it seemed, was of the same opinion as Tychar had been about escaping to the mountains, though what we would do after that was unclear. It was possible that we could round up enough support there and in the city to take back the palace, but before that, some regrouping was necessary—as was the time for the people to become discontented with their new ruler.

  And discontent was something which I was quite certain would arise from Dobraton's rule—and I hoped it would come quickly. I had known them both, and even without Dobraton's prejudice against me, I be­lieve I would have chosen to follow Scalia's banner, for she possessed the character of a good leader, which Dobraton did not.


  Dodging a few patrols, we melted into the trees, mov­ing quickly. The need for speed was understood by us all; we needed to get as far as we possibly could under cover of darkness.

  The Darconians were tough, but we did have some children with us. I carried Uragus for a while, but it soon became apparent that I was no tougher than he was— probably less so—and I handed him off to Racknay. We snatched a bit of fruit as we passed through the trees, and it wasn't long before I was wishing for some pock­ets and a backpack. I tied my headdress to the harness for my water bottle, making a pouch of sorts, and col­lected what I could, but there was a limit to what I could carry and still keep moving.

  The tigers stayed close beside me, as did Dragus. I must say that, at a time like that, it was very nice to have a surplus of big, strong, male admirers! The only thing they didn't do was try to pick me up and carry me, though Dragus did make the offer, which I promised to keep in mind.

  Reaching the edge of the farmland by midnight, the city streets were quiet as we passed down roadways that were completely deserted at that hour. Alert for any signs of pursuit, we moved stealthily from shadow to shadow.