The Stars Like Ice (The Star Sojourner Series Book 8)

by Jean Kilczer

  I had stopped walking. Now a guard pushed me forward. “You wanted to know if this was a party,” he said. “You are the guest of honor, heathen.”

  My vision blurred as I walked toward the altar. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but I didn't wipe it. I held my head high. Let the bastards see what honor and courage looked like. That is, if I could maintain the act a little longer. My heart was slamming against my chest as though to fly away like a bird from a cage. Soon it might be released, I thought, and stumbled. A guard grabbed my arm. The room seemed to be moving. I felt weak and nauseous. Spirit!

  I am here, Jules.

  Stay with me, please.

  I told you I will. I am by your side within my tel-projection.

  OK. My head began to pound. I'm so scared.

  I know. I am here. I will not allow you to suffer.

  OK.

  My jacket was unzipped and pulled off by a guard, then my turtleneck sweater was yanked over my head. I hoped they'd let me keep my pants. We are so vulnerable when we're naked.

  Two guards took my arms, led me up the steps, and shoved me onto the slab. It was cold, and sticky with fresh blood. I didn't fight them. Fighting was useless. I heard the rattle of chains and stared at the moon as they chained my wrists and ankles to the slab.

  Lord Aburra mounted the steps and stood over me. “Well, Terran, are you all out of quips and snide remarks?” He dug into a pouch tied around his waist, withdrew a pawful of powder and threw it into an urn beside the altar. Fire burst out of the urn. Smoke swirled around the altar.

  “Shrive him!” a black-banded Slattie called, “before we are consumed by his evil.”

  Working the crowd, I thought numbly.

  A hidden computer projected images on the wall of blue-banded Slatties being eaten alive by red demons. Nice graphics, I thought and tried not to throw up from fear. My throat was dry and bitter with rising bile. The smell of blood was in my mouth. I wondered about the man or Slattie who had faced this before me.

  “Free his soul and save us,” a black-banded Slattie shouted.

  A cry went up from the congregation. “Shrive us!”

  “They want your blood,” Aburra said with a leer. “Should I give it to them?”

  “I'd rather you didn't,” I gasped.

  “Then you choose life?”

  “If I can.” My ears were ringing and his words became muffled.

  He reached down, grabbed a fire-hot knife from the flaming urn, and held it above my chest. I felt the heat.

  Spirit!

  He is not of a mind to kill you, Jules. I sense another motive.

  Tell me what it is. Quick!

  I think he will.

  I took Spirit's cue. “I'll do whatever you want, Lord Aburra, if you'll let me live.” The words were more bitter than bile in my throat, but I was desperate.

  “Anything?” He let the knife hover so close, the heat was burning my chest.

  “Yes! Just tell me.”

  He lifted the knife and I saw his shoulders relax. I was gasping in breaths and the hanging moon seemed to be taking a journey across the ceiling.

  “Your services to my cause, Terran. That is all I ask.” His eyes narrowed. “A small thing,” he hissed.

  “What services?”

  “We are about to embark on a holy crusade across the land, cleansing it with the blood of infidels and Rebels as we go.”

  “I had a feeling you might be,” I mumbled.

  “Will you agree, on your honor this time, to be my right hand in the cause?”

  “How?”

  “To use your famous tel powers to aid me in learning of enemy plans, positions, weaknesses, strengths. Not a great task, for you, as I purge land and sea of heathens who are in collusion with the Dark Lord.”

  I felt like telling him to save the pitch, but I was in no position for quips and snide remarks. I tried to slow my breathing.

  “Do you agree?” He lowered the knife closer to my chest.

  “I don't think I have a choice, Lord Aburra. Yes! I agree. The knife. You're giving me a sunburn.”

  He raised it and I sighed deeply. “I have a request.”

  His smile became a smirk. “I am listening.”

  “My friend Huff.”

  “Huff, the fool, the traitor to his race?”

  “Unless there is another Huff? I want your word that you'll keep him safe, not hurt him, and generally see to his needs, which are few.”

  “While it galls me to care for a Rebel traitor, I will acquiesce to your conditions.”

  Noble of you, I thought, but didn't say. “On your honor?”

  “Don't push it, Terran. I also have a condition. Your traitorous friend will live as long as you do my bidding.” He came closer, his snout almost touching my chin. “If you try to escape, if you attempt to trick me, as you did during the attack on the Rebel village, he will lie where you lie now, and there will be no conditions.”

  He straightened, placed the knife in a slot inside the urn, and faced his congregation with raised forearms. “This Terran is not evil, my brethren, just misguided. He has had his epiphany. Now he wishes to join our rightful cause. I am of a mind to let him. What say you, my people?”

  One of the black-banded Slatties threw up his forearms. “Praise be to the Ten Gods, for they have shrived this errant soul. Save him, great-souled Lord Aburra.”

  “Save him,” the drugged Slatties responded. “Yes, save him.”

  Spirit.

  I don't know how you do it, Terran, but somehow, you always manage to squeak through.

  With you for a guardian angel, my friend. Thank you.

  You are very welcome. Now may I return to my own work?

  Why not?

  I have created a creature with the ability to control its own genes and its evolution. It will be interesting to see the form and the path it decides to take.

  Just no more blackroot. OK?

  That's bristra to you, Terran heathen. I felt his chuckle as he broke the link.

  Speaking of links, the chains were removed from my wrists and ankles. I sat up, but the room reeled, the ringing in my ears became a teapot spouting.

  “Now stand before my people, Terran Jules Rammis,” Aburra said.

  “Get up!” a guard whispered to me.

  Aburra deepened his voice to an authoritative drone. “Let them see the strength of he who is saved.”

  I stood up, but my knees buckled. A guard caught me and held me straight. The room darkened down to a deep well. I felt myself pitch forward.

  “Thank you for that show of strength,” Aburra growled as I fell.

  I heard no more.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  “That's just plain murder!” General Ara Saun Stamped a forepaw.

  “You have a better definition for war?” Sarge asked him.

  “A war fought with honor,” Ara Saun responded, “and that does not include murdering prisoners.”

  Rebel and merc captains were gathered in Big Sarge's tent to hear his plans for Operation Ice Ball, the final assault on Lord Aburra's Cultist forces. Sarge's mercs were camped around him on a Southern plain where snow was just patchy, waiting for their leader's word to launch the attack.

  Sarge leaned back against his desk and fingered the air beetle in his hand. Capable of firing a missile, or making a swift suicide dive to a targeted explosion, the beetle looked more like a large bird.

  He stroked his drooping mustache and spoke softly to hide his irritation with the Slattie Rebel officer. “I believe you're aware, General, that the Northern Cleocean clan was almost wiped out by Aburra's forces. Would you prefer that we sat on our heels and let them finish the job?”

  “Of course not! But to take no prisoners, even if they surrender, is…” Ara Saun looked around at his and Big Sarge's captains, “it's barbaric.”

  “Then I imagine,” Sarge said, “that you have POW camps set up to house and guard them for the rest of their lives?” He checked the beetle to mak
e certain that it was armed. This time around, he thought, the Cultists wouldn't be fooled into thinking it was an indigenous birdlike creature. But he had other weaponry at his disposal. “General, your Rebel forces, the Cleoceans, and the Druids, did not start this war, if I have my facts straight.”

  Ara Saun shook his snout. A sign of disgust. “But you'll finish it your way, right, Sergeant?”

  “That's what the Cleoceans are paying us to do. The contract doesn't include giving Cultists a chance to break free and continue their Holy Crusade.”

  Ara Saun slapped his chest. “But there should be honor in battle!”

  Sarge glanced at Captain Attila and smirked.

  Attila lifted his hands from where he sat and chopped the air in a swift karate move.

  That was a death blow, Sarge thought. “What do you suppose,” he asked Ara Saun, “would be the fate of their POWs, should there be any?”

  Ara Saun lowered his head.

  “Well, General?”

  “The altar,” Ara Saun mumbled.

  “Better known as the flight deck,” Sarge said.

  “Flight deck to Hell!” Apache John Crossbow jumped up and looked around. “I don't know how you tags feel about it, but I'm not here to count coup, and then have to fight them again.”

  “Are you aware, General,” Sarge put aside the air beetle, “that it was not space pirates who came close to wiping out the Cleocean village, looking for gold that was no longer there, but Cultists? The Cleoceans used all their gold to hire us,” Sarge lied. “But try telling that to Aburra.” Sarge hoped that if word got around that all the gold was gone, it might save the Cleocean people from future attacks. In reality, he knew, there was still a cache of gold inside the sunken vessel.

  Ara Saun stood up on his hind legs. “If any of my soldiers still desires to join the sergeant's forces, feel free. As for myself, I want nothing more to do with Operation Ice Ball and the murder of prisoners.”

  “Maybe you should go back to fishing,” Sarge told him.

  “General Ara Saun,” Captain Justrop stood up, “there is a Terran saying, and I know you are fond of them. 'The end justifies the means', sir.”

  General Ara Saun walked to the tent flap and turned. “There is another, Captain Justrop. 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you'.”

  “But they won't, General,” Justrop said, “and that's the point.”

  Ara Saun threw open the flap and paused. “I have read, Sergeant, in one of your own Terran books, about honor on the field. It is called The Iliad.”

  “That went out with the ancient Greeks,” Sarge answered. “You should've read Machiavelli.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. 'It is better to be feared than to be loved.' I couldn't finish it.” Ara Saun turned and left. Most of his captains filed out after him.

  Captain Justrop watched them go. “What a schmuck.” He turned to Big Sarge. “I would like to remain with you, Sergeant, if you'll have me and my platoon.” He sat back down. A few other Rebel captains remained seated.

  Sarge folded his arms. “Thank you, Captain Justrop. We can use all the help we can get.” He maintained an air of confidence, but losing most of the Rebel forces was a setback. On the other hand, the Cleoceans, those gentle sea people, had hired him and his men not just to wipe out the Cultist movement, but also the Cultists themselves. Fulfilling the contract was a point of honor.

  He glanced around at his captains. All good men, tested and proven in battle. But his soldiers would be outnumbered by about four to one. He picked up the air beetle and stroked a polished metal wing in the silence. If Great Mind be with him, as the cupcake would say, then technology would even up the odds.

  He pictured Jules, that lanky blond-haired, blue-eyed tag with a grin to melt tough hearts. Too bad the bastard wasn't gay. Where was he and his team anyway? Had they turned tail and headed back to Earth? He shook his head. Not if Jules had anything to say about it. Damn him for being so appealing. He put down the air beetle. He'd never get past the broad with him anyway. Well, this was a time to plan for war, and not for love. He went to a map taped to the tent wall. “Come closer,” he said over his shoulder. “I'll give you the details of Operation Ice Ball.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the Slattie leaning over me. He raised a forepaw.

  “No!” I rolled and fell off a bunk.

  “No what?” Huff said. “I wanted to touch your skin. Your head was hot, for a human.”

  I looked around. We were in the cell.

  “How do you feel?” Huff asked.

  I was still shaky. “Not so hot.”

  “Oh, good. I was afraid you were too hot.”

  I shook my head. Someday I'd learn not to use clichés with my Vegan friend.

  “There is food for you under the dome,” Huff said.

  “Help me up, buddy.” He did and I got to my feet and saw a covered dish on the table. “That dome?”

  He nodded his snout.

  I sat down and uncovered the meal. “I could eat a horse.”

  “You do not mean that, do you?”

  “No.” It was a fish dinner, with fried kelp and an orange sea tuber. I took a digestall tablet from my jacket, behind me on the bunk, and swallowed it. The fillets had a strong fishy odor, but there were lots of them and I was starved. “Did they feed you, Huff?”

  “Yes, but they had no lard and eyeballs. Only fish.”

  “I think you're getting addicted to human food. The lard anyway. You still have candy bars in your pouch?”

  He shook his head dejectedly.

  “They sogged out when I swam to throw away the cometogetherlinks.”

  “Sorry. If we make it back to Earth, I'll buy you a lifetime supply of candy bars.”

  He put his head on my thigh. “And I will buy you a horse to eat.” He drew back lips in an imitation of a human grin.

  I grinned back. “That's a deal, buddy.” I scratched him behind his ear. “Huff, I have to leave with Lord Aburra. But he gave his word that you'd be cared for.”

  “If he cared for me, he would let me leave with you.”

  “Sorry, Huff.”

  I didn't know what the future held, except that I wouldn't betray my team, Big Sarge, or Ara Saun. I hoped Spirit was right when he said I always managed to squeak through. In Lord Aburra's grand plan, Huff was dispensable, and I was surely just a mouse.

  Chapter Thirty

  From out of the frozen northland they came. In hordes as white as waves, they covered glaciers and leaped in the sea. Their sleek, furred bodies, their pectoral fins that ended in stubby, clawed fingers, their webbed feet, all spoke of land creatures returning to Mother Sea. The great white heads and curved tusks of Druids plowed the waves beside their smaller companions.

  “What the hell is that?” Chancey cupped his hands over his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun.

  “Cleoceans,” Joe said, “and Druids.”

  “I figured they were Cleoceans and Druids,” Chancey told him.

  Bat peered northeast. “Maybe they swarm, like locusts.”

  “Don't locusts eat everything in their path?” Chancey asked.

  “They do,” Sophia said, “but these are not bugs. These are a civilized race of people.”

  “But ain't locusts,” Chancey persisted, “just grasshoppers that got pissed?”

  “I don't know, Chance,” she said tightly. “Ask Jules when we see him again.”

  Joe studied the approaching horde. “I wonder what they have in mind?”

  “South,” was the whispered word that ran through the horde. South was the mission as more clans gathered in the march.

  “They're coming fast, boss,” Chancey lowered his hands, “whatever they have in mind.”

  Joe studied the landscape. “Are you tags green on your stinglers?”

  They all nodded.

  “Keep them set on stun,” Joe said, “until we find out what they're after.” He pointed to a gro
ve of old-growth Shingle trees, with fire-red pines and twisted trunks. “Take cover behind those trees. Don't anybody panic and fire unless I give the order. If you bring one of them down, even on stun, he's likely to be trampled by the rest.”

  As they trotted toward the grove, Joe heard the song of the fast-approaching Cleoceans.

  “Pru paii!” the leaders sang. The ones behind took up the chant. "Pru paii tai creii.

  Startled sea birds flapped into the air, shrieking their alarm, until they were drowned out by a thousand shrill voices.

  The team huddled behind thick-boled trees while clawed feet raised snow and dust as the horde approached.

  “They have no leader!” Joe shouted above the din. “The ones in front are following the dirt road.” He hung onto a heavy branch when the first Cleoceans swept by, leaping on stalk legs. The song rose to a deafening pitch as Cleoceans parted around the grove like running white water. More or less following the dirt road, Joe thought.

  A Cleocean stopped behind the trees and approached the team. “Where is the Terran Jules?” he asked, “and why are you hiding?”

  “We don't know,” Chancey told him, “and because we don't want to get trampled. And where's the party?”

  The Cleocean cocked his head and two of his three sets of violet eyes blinked.

  “Where y'all going in such a hurry?” Bat asked.

  The Cleocean straightened. “We received a message on the comlink Large Sergeant gave us, that he needed help in his mission to conquer the Cultists.”

  “Which one of you has the comlink?” Joe coughed on raised dust and brushed it from his face. “I'd like to get in touch with Big Sarge myself.”

  “Which one?” The Cleocean chortled as streams of his companions leaped by. “We do not have the concept of one, except when we are born, or mate, or give birth, or die. Have a happy day.” He leaped back into the headlong flight.

  Swirling snow and raised dust marked the Cleoceans path south along the dirt road.

  “They've got no weapons,” Chancey said.

  Bat picked up his medkit and blew dust off it. “They're going to get themselves killed.”