The Crimson Claw

by Deborah Chester

  The Kelth janitor took her pledge and tossed it in the trash, then went on scrubbing.

  Halehl summoned the nearby lift, which was slow in coming. That gave Ampris the opportunity to stare longer through the ports. The view was so beautiful, she wanted to drink it in forever. For a moment she felt renewed in spirit, almost young again.

  The station arms reached out on either side of the boundary hull, pincherlike, to form the jump gate, which was larger than any Ampris had seen in all her travels. She could imagine what an engineering marvel it had once been. Now the accelerator rings hung black and unused, just one more testament to the darkening future of the Viis empire.

  Clutching her Eye of Clarity, Ampris whispered a prayer of her own, “Your despair is our hope.”

  Then she hurried on to catch up with the others.

  The arena was an elliptical structure at the bottom of the station, reached only via lifts that plunged down deep shafts at dizzying speeds. By the time the lift doors slid open, Ampris could hear the frenzied shouting of the crowd, punctuated by roars of excitement.

  Her blood began to pound in anticipation. Tired as she was, she still responded instinctively to the sounds and smells of battle.

  “Quick,” Halehl ordered, shoving the fighters into a corridor lined with metal bulkhead ribs. “Elrabin, get out their glaudoons and take them to the chute.”

  Not giving Elrabin time to respond, Halehl turned away to flash his trainer’s pass at an official and produce the entry documents.

  “You’re late,” the official said.

  Ampris heard nothing else, for she was being hustled along by the Toth bodyguards. As she jogged along into the chute, she shrugged off travel garb in exchange for her fighting harness and sword belt.

  “Hey!” shouted an arena guard, noticing what they were doing. “You can’t arm those fighters here. Who’s in charge?”

  Elrabin cast Ampris a wicked look and stepped in front of the guard with an obsequious bow. “Please, good sir. Our trainer be coming right away, see? We’re the Blues, from Galard Stables.”

  “Don’t care if you’re purple, from the gutter,” the guard retorted. “You can’t arm those fighters out here.”

  While the argument continued, Ampris and her teammates continued to pull out weapons cases and wrist guards.

  “Fine way to arrive,” Sanvath muttered. He and Teinth exchanged dour glances. “Fine way to look, and us champions.”

  “Keep on fighting in these dives,” Omtat said, tugging on his wrist guards with his teeth, “and we won’t be champions long. Should have gone to Mynchepop.”

  “Clear the way!” bellowed a voice.

  Ampris looked around and scrambled to one side as arena guards came bustling past. They were escorting a pair of Gorlicans who carried a Zrhel trussed in a net. He wore a black smock that identified him as a station employee. Dropping feathers and snapping viciously with his beak, he struggled and screamed curses.

  The gate ahead swung open, letting in the cheers of the crowd and the death cry of a victim in the arena. Ampris’s blood ran cold. She froze with her sheathed glaudoon in her hand.

  “Zrheli-baiting?” she asked. She swung around ferociously, her ears back and her eyes flashing. “Is that what we are doing today? Slaughtering helpless victims?”

  Halehl came striding up, his rill flared out, his tongue flicking in and out. “Ampris, be silent,” he ordered. “The rest of you, get ready. We’re up next.”

  Ampris stepped in his path, forgetting all about obedience and humility. “We’re champions, not executioners. We’re fighters, not—”

  “No speeches, Ampris,” Halehl said impatiently, gesturing for them to line up. “Shut up and take your place.”

  Something in her snapped. She backed her ears. “I won’t. What have these Zrheli done, to be killed like this? If they’ve broken laws, why aren’t they executed by the authorities? Why force us to do the work?”

  Her questions were designed to needle Halehl. She already knew the answers from her network. The Zrheli on this station were quantum engineers assigned to repair the jump gate. As a race, Zrheli were rude, stubborn, independent, and unlikable. Their spindly, lightweight frames and hollow skeletons made them unfit for manual labor. But their minds were brilliant. They made superb engineers, ship pilots, and navigators. They kept to themselves, associating only with their own kind, and generally refused to even call themselves abiru with the other assorted slave races. Never had she been able to get any Zrheli involved with her rebellion network. The Zrheli had their own methods of causing their Viis owners trouble. They failed to report maintenance problems, rewired circuitry and sabotaged machinery to malfunction, and worked with deliberate infinitesimal slowness on the repairs to the Ruu-113 jump gate.

  Periodically they were caught at sabotage, and a whole staff of engineers would be condemned and thrown into the arena for slaughter. The deaths of their comrades were supposed to spur the survivors to genuine effort, but to Ampris’s knowledge it never worked. Zrheli defiance never waned; they seemed to consider death a small price to pay for giving continual problems to the Viis.

  Ampris thought of all she’d worked for these past seven years. She thought of the risks she’d taken, of the rebellions she’d tried to foster. To enter the arena today and slaughter some helpless engineer would be to betray all she’d worked so hard and so long for. Every abiru on this station would know her for a hypocrite.

  “It is wrong,” she said, her voice thick with emotions. “It is immoral. I won’t do this, no matter what prize money we have been offered. And neither will my teammates.”

  A jolt hit her throat from her restraint collar, jarring her teeth together and knocking her off her feet.

  Ampris landed hard and lay there gasping for air. It took her a moment to realize what had happened.

  She hadn’t been disciplined by her restraint collar since her first season. Now, rolling her eye back to see Halehl looming over her, she felt her fury burn hotter. Growling, she pulled herself to her feet.

  Elrabin darted up to her and gripped her harness. “No,” he whispered, trying to warn her. “Don’t do it—”

  She pushed him aside and turned on Halehl. The Viis trainer stood his ground, his eyes stony. She took one step toward him, and he tapped the transmitter with his finger.

  Again the jolt hit her in the throat. Again she was knocked off her feet. This time she lost consciousness for a moment. She came to because Halehl kicked her in the side.

  “Get up and take your place in line,” he said in contempt. “If you speak again, I’ll have you whipped. Get up!”

  Slowly, feeling dazed, Ampris staggered upright. The world looked unsteady around her, and she was panting for air. She still clutched her sheathed glaudoon in her hand. For a white-hot moment she was tempted to draw it and attack. She could slit him from gullet to tail in a single stroke, but a glance at Elrabin’s horrified face brought her back to sanity.

  She looked at her teammates, resenting them for not joining her. But they stood quietly, refusing to take sides, refusing to protest their orders. She hated them for being such cowards.

  After all the grumbles, after all the resentment they expressed in private, still they would not stand against this wrong. In that moment, Ampris told herself they deserved to be slaves. Talk was easy, but no one was willing to work for freedom, or fight for it, or sacrifice for it. No one, it seemed, but these pathetic Zrheli engineers.

  “Let me deal with her,” Elrabin was saying to Halehl. He cringed and bowed, holding out his hands in supplication. “Please, master. I can calm her back to reason.”

  “See that you do it,” Halehl said. “We’ve only a few minutes left.”

  Elrabin swung to face Ampris. With both hands, he gripped her by the front of her fighting harness. “Ampris, listen to me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “You’ve worked too hard to get where you are. Don’t throw everything away now.”

  His eyes pleade
d with her as he spoke. Ampris was well aware of the double meaning in his words. She shook her head, more to clear it than in argument, but Elrabin misunderstood.

  “You want to get yourself sold as a troublemaker?” he asked, his voice shrill and frantic. “You want to go to some low-rate team that gets more beatings than grub? You want to lose your privileges, your status, your chance to travel? You been places, Goldie. You done a lot. You got it so much better than most, but now you want to throw that away? Goldie, use your sense.”

  Tears stung her eyes. Tears of helplessness, frustration, and rage. They spilled down her muzzle, and she sniffed. “It’s wrong,” she insisted, her voice hoarse. “They don’t stand a chance against us.”

  “And you don’t stand a chance against the master,” Elrabin said, his voice low and furious. He glared deep into her eyes. “Think, you! What right you got to throw yourself away? Can’t do nothing about this, see? Can’t do nothing!”

  He was right, and that galled her the most. Slowly, her emotions tangling in her throat, Ampris nodded and hunched her shoulders. She had no choice. Elrabin was absolutely right.

  But her disgust ran through her in hot waves. She wanted to roar. She wanted to turn on Halehl and drive her claws deep.

  If only her teammates would back her, but they weren’t even looking at her now. In silence, they stood against the wall and stared at nothing. They were cowards, but so was she . . . because she slowly hooked her sheathed glaudoon on her belt and lifted a gaze of surrender to Master Halehl.

  “I will obey,” she said sullenly.

  He said nothing, did not even bother to acknowledge her obedience or what it had clearly cost her. Gesturing impatiently, he turned away and strode ahead to the gate.

  “Make way!” shouted a voice.

  More arena guards jogged past, followed by a herd of Skeks being driven along by more Gorlicans. The Skeks jostled and shrieked in panic. No taller than Ampris’s knees, they scuttled along on their multiple legs, holding their arms aloft in terror and letting their hands flop almost bonelessly. They milled around in all directions, forcing their Gorlican herders to close ranks to keep them from doubling back and escaping the way they’d come.

  One of the creatures rammed into Ampris’s legs, nearly knocking her off balance. Its fear-crazed eyes met hers, and it jabbered something rapid and incomprehensible, patting her with its soft, repulsive hands before a Gorlican struck it hard across the back with his staff and drove it onward.

  The Skeks were driven into the gate with much commotion and struggle, then they were released into the arena, spilling forth in all directions.

  Laughter and shouts rose from the crowd. Applause followed.

  Beside Ampris, Teinth growled deep in his throat. “You protesting Skek-baiting too?” he asked, his voice low with contempt.

  She did not look at him. She did not answer.

  “Skeks,” Lamina muttered in disgust. “That’s what we’re down to? Killing Skeks for money?”

  Her teammates would not risk punishment and protest Zrheli-baiting. They would not refuse to kill intelligent, sentient, unarmed individuals of value. But they grumbled at the prospect of hunting down brainless, useless, thieving, gutter-life Skeks. Ampris closed her eyes. She didn’t want to harm the stupid creatures either, but the distinction seemed lost to everyone but her.

  “Just how deep in debt has Lord Galard really got himself?” Teinth asked. “We’ve hit bottom, Ampris. We really have.”

  Ampris opened her eyes and saw Halehl gesturing them forward.

  “Time,” he said. “All of you, get inside.”

  She pivoted on her heel to lead the gladiators into the gate. “No, Teinth,” she said softly over her shoulder. “Bottom can go a lot lower than this.”

  On Viisymel, inside the Imperial Palace, Israi swept through the long audience hall with a loud rustling of her gown. Her train swept the ground behind her. Every rapid step of her gold-embroidered slippers made the tasseled bells on the toes jingle merrily.

  But there was nothing merry in her heart. Grim with alarm, she hurried past the gawking courtiers without heed for what they thought or their spoken speculations. The Kaa had collapsed suddenly during his audience and had to be carried out.

  Now his physicians were with him, and as yet Israi had no word except that he had been taken seriously ill.

  Reaching the Kaa’s imposing apartments, she found the outer chambers choked with lords in waiting, idle servants, ambassadors, guards, and members of the imperial court. The loud buzz of conversation filled the air.

  Israi’s escort had to shout orders to clear way for her before anyone even noticed her arrival.

  Her rill stiffened behind her head and darkened to deep indigo. She curled her tongue inside her mouth, seething at having to force her way inside like a mere courtier. As people became aware of her presence, they moved aside and bowed to her with open speculation in their eyes. Then their gazes returned to the tall, gold-embossed doors leading to the Kaa’s private chambers.

  Israi reached these, and they were opened for her without delay. As soon as they shut behind her, she was conscious of a profound silence that contrasted markedly with the noise outside.

  The lights had been turned down until the room’s interior was dim and shadowy. Chancellor Temondahl and Lord Huthaldraril stood conferring on one side with a tall, red-eyed male whom Israi had not seen at court in several years.

  Recognizing her uncle, Lord Telvrahd, who had been exiled from court years ago for his affiliation with the Progressionist Party, she felt a jolt to her self-confidence. How dared he return? How had he heard of the Kaa’s collapse so quickly? She knew he had once had aspirations to the throne himself, and finding him here now, at this fragile time, seemed a portent of political danger.

  On the opposite side of Telvrahd stood another figure. This one leaned back to glance at her, and Israi realized it was Oviel.

  She received another internal jolt. Oviel had managed to recover his standing at court despite his cowardice during the Malraaket riots years ago. While Telvrahd could not legally take the throne, since the Kaa had living progeny, Oviel was a far different matter. He was not the chosen successor, but he remained capable of causing her much trouble. Seeing him with not only a recognized troublemaker but also with two of the most influential members of the council seriously alarmed her.

  But there were other matters to attend to first. She turned herself toward the towering bed of state, with its carved columns and hangings of gossamer silk gauze. Physicians were bending over the Kaa’s still figure. Israi approached her father’s bedside and found him lying curled on his side with his eyes closed and sunken. His breathing came harsh and ragged, as though his lungs struggled. His bronze skin, always so resplendent, had turned an ashen shade of dingy gray.

  Israi, so impatient with her father of late, so eager to sweep him aside to take the throne for herself, now found herself face-to-face with the possibility of his death. She felt stunned and shaken, as though she’d walked into an invisible force shield. In that instant she forgot about succession and imperial privilege and her own impatience to live and do as she pleased. She forgot all her clawing ambition, all her scheming, all her plans for the future. And instead, she saw her father, always so tall and magnificent, always so indulgent of her whims and fancies. Once he used to carry her about the palace in his arms or on his shoulder, in defiance of imperial protocol and custom. He used to take her for rides in an open-air litter along the river, ordering the driver to fly them as fast as possible until Israi squealed with delight. He used to give her private lessons of statecraft in his study, teaching her how to pick loyal advisers, how to eliminate her political enemies, how to rule always with the benefit of the throne foremost in her mind. Her father had loved her, and she loved him. In that moment, she ached inside with a tangling of fear and grief.

  The chief physician stopped what he was doing and turned to bow to her.

  “Is he dead
?” she asked, her voice cracking as she spoke.

  “No, highness.”

  She closed her eyes, not certain whether she felt relief or disappointment. A strange feeling of destiny had settled over her like a mantle. It was time, or very near now. Soon she would be ascending to the throne. Soon she would carry the weight of her father’s endless responsibilities. Her throat closed up, and she swallowed hard, trying to find words.

  “What’s the matter with him?” she asked, her voice still a whisper. “What illness has suddenly struck him down like this?”

  For a moment she had the panicky thought that this might be the Dancing Death, which she had never seen, but the physician’s answer immediately negated her supposition.

  “This is no sudden illness, highness,” the physician replied. “He has been suffering from a weakness in his lungs for quite some time. This attack, however, has been the most severe.”

  “This attack?” she echoed, her voice rising slightly. She felt ignorant, a fool. “What do you mean? How many others? Why wasn’t I informed? Chancellor Temondahl, have you known of this illness?”

  The chancellor came to her at once, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes filled with a calm sadness. “Yes, highness,” he said, bowing low to her. “I happened to be in the Imperial Father’s presence when the first attack occurred some years ago. Otherwise, I should have been equally uninformed.”

  That he knew something this important when she did not infuriated Israi anew. She hated being shut out, hated any reminders that she was not yet the Supreme Being she felt herself to be.