by Cheree Alsop
“The shred boxes destroyed it,” the Cherum replied.
His lack of expression bothered Liora. An image flashed through her mind of Tariq’s body being torn apart by Ketulans, destroyed the way they had annihilated his ship. Her arm throbbed at the reminder of being gripped in unforgiving claws. Tariq’s blood froze as his tattered body floated through the vast depths of space.
“No!” Liora said. “He’s alive. I know he is!”
She ran for the door. The hole in the wall let her pass into a long white hallway. A glance behind her showed the Cherum following on his tiny feet, his eyes yellow and eerily long fingers still linked in front of his chest.
“Take me to him!” Liora demanded.
She turned in her half-jog and her feet moved slower than her thoughts. She tripped and fell toward the floor. Through the fog of just awakening from a long sleep, Liora put out an arm to break her landing despite her training that said to do so was a terrible idea. When her body hit the floor, sharp, angry pain coursed up her damage arm. She slumped against the wall and felt the darkness pressing against her mind. She refused to succumb to the escape unconsciousness promised.
“Would you like assistance?”
What Liora wanted was her weapons back so that she could slice the infuriating Cherum from navel to throat. Instinct warned her that violence wouldn’t get her what she wanted. Sometimes she hated her instincts.
“I’m fine,” she lied. She pushed slowly back to her feet. Weakness from nearly freezing to death made her movements sluggish. Through sheer strength of will, she stood upright and put on an expression of calm.
Inside, Liora’s thoughts tumbled against each other. Was Tariq truly dead? She refused to believe it. Yet how could he have survived the extreme temperatures? She had survived, but he had put her helmet on. His atmosphere suit had been torn; there had been no way to keep his temperature regulated.
A sob of despair welled up in Liora’s chest. She met the Cherum’s greenish-blue gaze and forced the emotions away. She had to put on a front of calm; she had to find out where she was and why they had rescued her. Once she had a stable foundation to work with, she could sort through the truth. She willed her Damaclan training to the forefront and took a breath to center herself.
Tariq’s face remained in her mind, his eyes closed and frost from his breath clinging to his lips.
“Where am I?” she asked. The Berverek came more easily to her tongue. Thanks to Shegare’s careful tutoring, language had become more of an art than a skill. She merely had to find the cadence to unlock the careful schooling she had received in the belly of the slaver ship so many years ago.
The Cherum’s eyes changed back to green and the mouth at the base of his throat said, “You are on the planet Basttist in the Triangulum Galaxy. Welcome to the home of the Cherum.”
“Thank you,” Liora replied. Diplomacy had never been her strong point, but she figured that the faster she got the Cherum to trust her, the easier she would find out what she needed to know. “My name is Liora Day. What is your name?”
The Cherum bowed his head at her name. “Lioraday,” he said as if it was one word. “You are welcome here.” He paused and his eyes took on a shade of light purple. “I am Cherum.”
Liora thought he hadn’t understood her question. “Your race is Cherum, but what is your name?”
The purple of the being’s eyes deepened. “My race and my name is Cherum. We are Cherum.”
Liora had heard of species that shared the same identity, but she had never met a member of such a race.
She gave the same nod. “Cherum, I appreciate your hospitality. Would you mind showing me where I am?”
The Cherum eyes changed back to green and he motioned with one long-fingered hand. “Happy to assist you. Come this way.”
Liora wanted to ask where her weapons were, how she had arrived at Basttist, and why she had been brought to the planet. In the back of her mind, the voice she couldn’t quite lock away screamed Tariq’s name. It threatened to undermine every other thought she had. She wanted to tear things apart, to kill, to leave blood and carnage in her wake; at the same time, she wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and never move again.
Her Damaclan training kept one foot moving in front of the other. Obruo’s voice, while unwelcome, was the ironic counterbalance that helped her maintain her blank expression and carefully unemotional tone.
‘Don’t cry, mongrel. Don’t let your human emotions betray you. Only a true Damaclan can suffer in silence. Prove that you are worthy of your heritage. Each tear is a symbol of your weakness, and weakness will ultimately be your downfall. If you let your human side win, I will kill you myself.’
The sting of the needle-lined training stick hitting her back was nothing compared to the thought of Tariq’s death. Liora struggled to breathe. Each pump of blood through her veins felt like it betrayed her.
“Live together or die together,” Tariq’s voice said quietly in her mind.
Liora’s eyes burned. She gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached, yet the pain continued. Liora felt her control slipping. Her walls would fall and the Cherum would see her weakness.
Liora clenched the hand of her damaged arm into a fist and slammed it against her thigh. Pain shot up beneath the metal cast. Liora concentrated on it, letting it flow through her, up her arm and into her chest where it combated the ache of Tariq’s absence. Her breathing calmed and she focused on the path in front of her.
The hallway opened onto an arch where hundreds of hallways joined high above a room as big as one of Brandis’ Golden Condors. The glass around the oval hallway kept out any sound, but Liora could see other Cherum walking through hordes of humanoids below.
Thousands of every member of mortalkind Liora had ever seen filled the ranks beneath her feet. Groups held weapons while others fought in hand-to-hand combat. Everywhere she looked, fighting, training, and disciplinary drills were being held.
“What is this place?” she asked.
The Cherum continued walking as though the sight was as familiar as his white robes.
“This is the core,” he said without looking at her.
“What is it for?” Liora pressed.
“They will protect us from the Vos,” the Cherum answered simply.
Liora kept herself from asking what the Vos was. From the looks of the battle-training below, the enemy was dangerous. One of Obruo’s mantras came to her mind. ‘The strength of the foe dictates the strength of the friend.’ If such an army was required to meet the Vos, their strength was extreme.
Other Cherum walked the long, oval glass hallways. Liora could see them with their fingers linked in front of their chests, their eyes different shades as they walked to their unknown destinations.
Liora wondered if the eye color was a means of expression. The Cherum were unable to smile with the tiny mouth in their throat, and there was no other way to show expression that she could tell on the skin-tight white face.
A glance at the Cherum beside her showed that his eyes were green. It seemed to be his regular color, something akin to happiness or contentment. When she had jumped off the bed in an effort to find Tariq, his eyes had turned yellow. Surprise, then. He had shown purple when she asked his name. Perhaps that was his sign of amusement. If the Cherum had no individual identity, there was no reason for a name. She supposed it could be a humorous situation.
His eyes had turn the dark blue of the Gliese depths when she asked about Tariq. Fear gripped her heart. If blue was sadness, then the Cherum could be telling the truth. Was there a way for them to lie with such an expressive tell? She told herself there had to be, but tightness filled her chest at the thought that perhaps the Cherum couldn’t lie. He had no reason to tell her Tariq had died if he hadn’t.
She shoved the thoughts away.
“Where do they come from?” she asked in an effort to distract herself.
“Everywhere,” the Cherum replied. He didn’t appear to mind her ques
tions, and he answered them without hesitation. “We have battled against the Vos since they first landed on our planet. Basttist is a planet rich in ore; because of this, the Cherum send vast amounts of wealth to planets across the Macrocosm and in return, the families send second sons and daughters so they can have wealth of their own. We train up our,” he paused as though searching for a word. He chose, “Hordes, using both science and physical coaching.”
They reached another hallway lined with glass. A glance inside showed hundreds of individuals from a variety of races strapped to tables. Some appeared unconscious, others screamed; several frothed at the mouth and struggled against the energy bonds that held them down. Liora remembered the feeling of the bands around her arms and a shiver ran down her spine.
She could feel the Cherum watching her. When she didn’t comment, he continued walking.
At the next intersection, the Cherum paused. His eyes changed from green to blue-green. Liora attributed the emotion to being contemplative. His eyes shifted back to green and he motioned for her to walk with him down a hall to their left.
At the next set of windows, Liora paused.
Cherum stood around individuals strapped in the chairs. The lights from the walls were stronger and the Cherum worked above the exposed brain cavities of the species in front of them.
Liora made herself ask, “What are they doing?”
The Cherum answered, “They are implanting chips in the brains of our hordes to inhibit flight tendencies and provoke aggression so they are better warriors.”
His words felt wrong. Liora had grown up in a violence-dictated society. The thought of creating warriors wasn’t something new; yet manipulating their instincts and even their personalities seemed immoral.
“Do they know that’s what you are doing to them?” she asked.
Several of the faces of the unconscious beings strapped to the tables appeared young. Their closed eyes and peaceful expressions felt like an ironic counterpoint to the brain surgery that was happening.
“When the wealth is paid and they arrive at Basttist, they belong to us,” the Cherum replied.
Liora opened her mouth to snap back that nobody owned anyone, but the thought that the Cherum were connected stayed her tongue. If yelling at one summoned the rest of those she had seen, she would perhaps find herself in the middle of the training below. She didn’t relish the thought of battling various members of mortalkind who no longer had the sense to avoid a Damaclan and would attack without the instinct for self-preservation.
The Cherum watched the surgeries, his eyes green with happiness as a green-skinned Roonite was rotated for the operation. The energy straps held her to the table and when she was turned upside down, a hole in the table proved perfect for access to the back of her skull.
Liora kept her face expressionless as the Cherum surgeons sliced with their delicate, long fingers and peeled back the skin.
“It’s a thing of beauty,” the Cherum beside her said.
“Is it?” she replied, her voice level.
“To take away everything else, all worry, all doubt, all inhibitions, and let only pure battle rage and violence dictate one’s actions makes it so simple.” The Cherum opened one hand briefly to indicate the Roonite. “This creature will no longer have to worry about where she fits into the scheme of things. We are giving her a place, a family, a reason.”
“You don’t create a family with microchips,” Liora replied. A hint of bite snaked into her words that she couldn’t keep back.
The Cherum’s green gaze was touched with blue, changing into the shade Liora recognized as pensive.
“We thought you would see the purity of our actions,” he said.
Liora kept her gaze on his. “Why is that?”
The Cherum’s gaze shifted from yellow to purple and back to greenish blue. “Because you are our first Damaclan.”
Something about his tone set Liora on edge. There was an awe in his voice that showed in the yellow hue around his eyes. His fingers moved against each other as if he couldn’t quite keep still given his remarkable situation.
Liora’s eyes flickered to the window. “So am I to be implanted as well?”
The Cherum’s gaze turned to the purple of amusement. “There’s no need, is there? Damaclans have everything we are trying to create. Your race is one of unmatched violence and hostility. When you fight for something, you don’t hold back out of fear. If we had a horde of Damaclans fighting for the Cherum, the Vos would no longer be a threat.”
Liora took a steadying breath to chase away the edge of weakness she felt from standing so long.
“I want to see these Vos.”
The Cherum paused, his gaze distant for a moment. He then nodded and said, “The arrangements are made.”
Liora glanced at the Cherum on their way to wherever the hallway led. The being’s eyes were orange. Given the slowness of his gait and the obvious reluctance in the bow of his slender shoulders, Liora could only guess that orange meant fear. She wished again that she had her weapons, and had to remind herself that a hostile, violent creature such as she did not need weapons to cause destruction.
Chapter 5
The Cherum led her up many long hallways. Given the orange of his eyes which deepened with each winding flight, she hadn’t asked any other questions. The Cherum hadn’t spoken since agreeing to show her the Vos. Tingles ran along her limbs. Instinct warned her to leave Basttist instead of investigate, yet the long halls of warriors being implanted with chips stayed in her mind.
She had to know why parents would sell their children to such a place, and why the Cherum would pay so heavily for warriors. If young humanoids of both male and female genders were indeed stock with which to barter, perhaps it was from a worse life than the one in which they were given purpose. Yet it didn’t sit well with her. Raised Damaclan, she understood harsh realities; however, she had always had her own spirit and conscience, and with it, the ability to refuse if instincts warned her when an action might lead to her death. Why take away that ability from others?
The Cherum stopped at the end of the last winding hallway. Light showed through windows further on. Liora realized it was the first sunlight she had seen since awakening on Basttist. If the rest of the architecture proved similar to what she had walked through, the city of Basttist lay deep underground.
A glance behind her showed the Cherum watching her with eyes so orange they nearly glowed. The skin of his face appeared even paler than before, if that was possible. His long-fingered hands held onto the rounded edge of the wall as if he was afraid of being pulled into the hallway against his will.
“Care for a stroll in the sunlight?” Liora asked. It was foolish, she knew, but somehow, she couldn’t help herself. It was something Tariq would have said.
The reminder of him sent a pang through her so sharp she sucked in a breath.
“It’s not the sunlight, but what the sunlight brings that we fear,” the Cherum admitted. “Your answers await you at the end of the hall.”
With that, he left her. She could hear the swift shush of his robes as he hurried back down the winding hallways far faster than they had come.
Liora was used to people running from her. The fact that the Cherum had walked beside her and then ran at the nearness of the Vos bothered her. She listened until his footsteps were gone, then continued along the only path she had available.
She paused in the sunlight. The wash of it across her skin felt colder than other suns, yet she welcomed the way the warmth sunk into her bare arms. The landscape out the window appeared lifeless. Yellow sand as far as she could see rose in hills and sunk in valleys before the window. Nothing stirred beneath the sun’s harsh rays. It was as though she looked out at a dead land.
A chill ran up Liora’s arms and for a moment it felt like fingers tracing along her skin.
“Tariq.”
The word whispered from her lips before she realized she had formed it.
She looked
behind her even though she knew nobody was there before her eyes confirmed the fact.
Liora gritted her teeth and continued to the end of the hallway.
The hall ended in a flat wall. It didn’t glow with the gentle light of the others around her. Liora studied it in confusion. Like the room in which she had first awoken, there wasn’t a door, yet the Cherum had passed through.
Liora lifted a hand. Before she touched the wall, an oval appeared silently in the center and grew wider until she could step through. When she did, instead of remaining open, the oval closed behind her. She put a hand on the wall, but the door didn’t respond.
With only one direction available to her, Liora followed the long, oval hallway. It sloped downward; she had the impression that she had covered the same distance as she had at the Cherum’s side by the time she finished. Why there wasn’t a shortcut through the building was a warning.
She knew by the fear in the Cherum’s eyes that her visit to the Vos would be more than that. The Cherum valued strength and destroyed weakness, much in the way of the Damaclan. If their whole goal was to create an army of microchipped warriors with the same mindset as a Damaclan, their interest in finding one of her race made sense. It would be a test, then. She had survived many of Obruo’s tests; yet those trials came from tradition. Here on Basttist she faced the unknown.
The hall ended at another wall. Liora knew it would open if she raised a hand to it. Tingles ran along her skin, trepidation at what lay beyond. She was alone on a strange planet in a distant galaxy. As far as she knew, nobody who cared about her knew she was there.
The feeling of emptiness in her chest used to be one that she held onto for strength; instead, she felt a rise of despair. If she died in the room beyond the door, there would be nobody to tell her brother that she had tried to find him, there would be no one to tell her father that she was touched by how much he cared, and there was nobody to mourn both her and Tariq, the brief glimmers of love between them, and a simple promise that meant more to her than the entire Macrocosm.
