The shape on the viewscreen had become clear. Brock stared at it, his mind clicking rapidly through alternatives, and did not need Rho to announce that their pursuers had increased speed.
“Twenty-five minutes to interception. Dire-lord, if we try to go any faster we’ll shake apart.”
Brock could already feel the shudders beneath his feet. The engines were groaning. Ellisne tapped her finger on the fuel level indicators. A green light blipped steadily at communications.
Trying to escape was a futile gesture. They were no match for the big cruiser, and there was nowhere to hide. Space had never looked so empty.
“Cuh,” said Brock in a Chaimu grunt of exasperation, and opened a communications channel.
“This is Captain Gahiani of the Im Naga. Surrender your ship. Repeat. Surrender your ship.”
Ellisne had downed magnification considerably, but still the cruiser with its blunt utilitarian lines filled the screen, dwarfing them.
Brock drew a deep breath. “Im Naga, this is a nonmilitary vessel. Veer off.”
There was a crackle of static, and then a familiar voice came on: “This is Falmah-Al, Dire-lord. Surrender or be destroyed.”
“Go ahead and shoot, Colonel,” said Brock. “We have no intention of surrendering.” He cut communications and made a chopping gesture with his hand. “Now, Rho! Hard about!”
The ship rolled over with a scream of her engines. Bracing himself with the holds provided, Brock grinned. “Again!”
Rho complied. “It won’t work, Dire-lord,” he said grimly, the safety web cutting into his shoulders as they tumbled in the opposite direction. “They’re too close. We can’t elude a tractor beam for long—S ’hk t ahc!”
The scoutship suddenly lurched with such violence Brock was thrown to the deck. Normally he would have been able to flick in time to save himself from harm, but he was helplessly slammed into metal. Dazed, he lay there, unable to breathe, unable to hear or see. He was barely aware of Rho cutting power. A sudden intense silence fell over them as the ship bucked lightly under the pull of the tractor beam. I could have been to Felca by now, thought Brock and sagged with defeat.
Then hands were gripping him, shaking him, pulling him up. And Ellisne’s mind touched his:
Are you hurt? Brock!
He opened his eyes and gasped as air swelled back into his lungs. He felt battered, bruised, old.
“I’m all right,” he said aloud, not wanting her to sense his despair, and climbed slowly to his feet.
“Dgits,” said Rho with a contemptuous hiss. His eyes were bright with battle fire. “They’ve got us.”
And there was nothing to do but stand there and watch the viewscreen as they were pulled helplessly into the bowels of the big ship.
12
Falmah-Al, trim and pacing in her black uniform, was waiting for them when they were dragged into what was a spacious chamber for a starship. It was fitted with a round conference table of black stone, sliced thin and highly polished, with nine backless chairs ringing it. She had reached the far side of the room where crossed swords displayed over a purple and amber banner hung upon the wall when Brock was shoved in roughly by his guards. One of them struck him hard in the back with the butt of his heavy disruptor, and Brock fell to his knees with a grunt.
“Enough!” Falmah-Al shouted.
But before the guard could move aside Brock snaked out one leg in the vicious third strike of harchi and sent the man sprawling with a cry. Brock was immediately on his feet, holding down the momentary pain of the blow he’d taken, his eyes sweeping the other guards standing ready for the order to shoot him.
“I said enough!” Falmah-Al came forward with a gesture that brought the guards to stiff attention. Brock relaxed a fraction, and took advantage of this first opportunity to study the woman who was his enemy. He had seen her likeness before in intelligence reports. But prints made from holographs, although easier to smuggle across enemy lines, also failed to exhibit the fiery vital force of this slight, dark-haired woman. Like most old-humans, she was small of stature, possessing a wiry body in superb physical shape and an acquiline face marked by chiseled bones. Her dark eyes, almond shaped and slanted just a bit beneath heavy black brows, were stern and cynical.
Brock’s attacker lifted himself up awkwardly, only to gasp and fall again.
Brock’s eyes met Falmah-Al’s. “His leg is broken.”
Her face was flushed with anger. She barked commands and the injured man was dragged out. “I am growing very tired of you, Dire-lord.”
Brock stared through her in the Held manner of supreme indifference. “Then kill me and put an end to your troubles, Colonel,” he said as Ellisne and Rho were brought in.
Ellisne gasped, but his mind shot out to reassure her, and she remained quiet.
“Dire-lord, please,” said Falmah-Al with an abrupt change to a more pleasant tone. The sight of Rho’s long ugly face and tall, pointed ears brought her brows sharply together. She started to speak, then returned her gaze to Brock and held out her hands. “You seem to think we are barbarians. I promise you we are not. Do you think we hold life so cheaply? It is sacred to us.”
“Nothing is sacred to you except the total destruction of the Held,” snapped Brock.
“We are finished with war,” said Falmah-Al. “We seek now to build. Why won’t you believe this? Why are you so afraid?”
He did not reply.
Her eyes swept over him, studying him, measuring him. Brock moved his own gaze to the man in grey fatigues standing watchfully in the farthest corner. He was a mixture: half-human, half-Varlax. Brock frowned slightly in surprise. He thought the Colonids avoided close contact with other species. Perhaps the man was a spy, but that did not explain the uniform with rank bands of a major.
“Three of you,” said Falmah-Al with a brief smile. “Such a small band of resistance. Has it not yet occurred to you, Dire-lord, why the Held does not follow you? Your people are tired. They have lost the will to fight year after year. They can’t face more bloodshed and loss of loved ones. And why should they have to? We are not monsters. One government is being exchanged for another. Oh, I realize that we seem harsh now. But transition is an uneasy time. We really are as tired as you of fighting. We want peace. It is time for peace. It is time for an end to fear and despair.”
“An appealing argument,” said Brock. “But one without purpose. I am not inciting what remains of the Held to resistance. I am merely traveling to a quiet corner of the galaxy to be out of your way.”
Falmah-Al snorted. “Really?”
He could feel Ellisne’s distress sawing through him. She was not used to lying. Despite the tenderness of their sharing, he knew he would continue to shock her. Give nothing away, my beloved.
“My suprin is dead. I do not serve Tregher. There is nothing else for a dire-lord to do but remove—”
“Liar!” Falmah-Al barked.
Brock’s gaze shot to the half-breed and saw the watchfulness there. Danger seemed to ring itself more tightly about the room. Brock eased out a breath and decided to cut this game short.
“I will tell you nothing about the godas. You waste your time.” As he spoke he felt Rho’s touch briefly upon his arm. A warning? All of his senses were alert, expecting attack at any time from any direction. They will have to kill us, my friends. We have nowhere to run.
Brock, is there no way to deal rationally with them? asked Ellisne, her thoughts mingling warmly through his.
“You persist in misunderstanding us,” said Falmah-Al, pacing back and forth on the other side of the table. “We don’t want to use the godas for war. The war is over. We want to deactivate them, so that they will never again be a threat to us.”
“They are no threat now.”
“Aren’t they? For centuries we have lived under their horrible threat. Can you imagine what it means to grow up in such an atmosphere, what it means to plan your future when at any time a Chaimu whim could mean annihilation, what it
means to bear children without any certainty that they will live to be old? You think we are fierce, savage barbarians. You have made us so, Heldman! We had no choice but to come out and put an end to this threat hanging over us day after eternal day!”
“You will use them,” said Brock.
She snapped something scornful he did not understand. “How could we? Fearing the godas as we do? They are horrible, something to be destroyed. And we shall destroy them, render their terrible threat void forever, never to be activated again. Tell me the locations, Dire-lord. If you have any compassion for life, if you have any mercy in your alien heart, tell me!” She leaned forward, placing her hands upon the gleaming black surface of the table, and stared at him earnestly. “There is no chance for our peoples to live peaceably together until you do.”
Brock hesitated, caught by her persuasion in spite of his suspicions. If only he could reach past that mental protector she wore! Then he would know the truth. But his mind, while powerful enough to crush her, still could not penetrate the distorted patterns made by the protector. He could only study her external manifestations: the dilation of her pupils, the expression on her face, the movements of her hands, the rapidity of her heartbeat, the smell of her. Her voice rang with the passion of sincerity.
Behind him, Ellisne stirred. “Brock,” she said softly, her voice filled with hope. “If it could be true!”
“Yes,” said Brock, frowning at Falmah-Al. She was tense, eager. Too eager. He still did not trust her. “If it only could be true. And if the godas were deactivated, what would stop you from eliminating every member of the Held who is not human or acceptably humanoid? While you remain afraid, we have a little safety.”
A slight measure of respect entered the colonel’s dark eyes. She spread out her hands. “Very well. If you cannot bring yourself to trust us, then we must try other, less pleasant methods. Either way, Dire-lord, we shall have the godas. They must be deactivated. Now…” Her eyes moved thoughtfully from him to Ellisne and then to Rho. “Who will be first? Not you, Dire-lord. You have proven yourself to be too stubborn. But perhaps you are less stoic when it is your friends who are in pain.”
“No!”
Falmah-Al lifted her brows and waited, but Brock bit back his protest, clenching his fists helplessly.
“Let me deactivate them,” he said. “It will be done. I give you the word of a dire-lord.”
To his rage, she laughed loudly and scornfully.
“The word of a dire-lord? You wish me to let the three of you go and hope that you will keep your word? Oh, no, ghost. I would be canned out of the service quicker than you can flick. No, we shall deactivate the godas together. Where are they?”
“Tell her, Brock. Please,” said Ellisne. She clutched his tensed arm, pouring reassurance and pleading into him. “Let us put an end to this.”
Perhaps she was right. Brock struggled with himself, but all he could see was the suprin, burned and dying, reaching out for his hand, giving his trust and his final command. He bowed his head. He could not tell Falmah-Al.
Fury flashed in her face. “Millen!” she snapped, pointing at Ellisne. “Take the female!”
At once Brock seized Ellisne’s arm and pulled her protectively behind him as he faced the major. Beside him Rho hissed fiercely, baring poisonous fangs. They were ringed by pointed disruptors from the guards lining the room. There was nowhere to run, and nowhere to flick except into the cold death of space. Brock held down despair. He could not let anything happen to Ellisne! After so many years of loneliness, he had found in her something infinitely precious. He could not bear to lose her to these animals.
“Forget it,” said Millen in a harsh voice. “You can’t resist us, unless you’re particularly eager to die.”
Death, whispered Ellisne to Brock. Let us die together if we must, but let this be ended!
No! he shot back. We’re not going to die. Felca is not worth suicide.
But Brock—
It is not worth your life!
Brock lifted his chin and shot Falmah-Al a bitter, defeated look. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you the location of Goda Prime—”
“Merc ch’ t!” broke in Rho, unfurling his wings in such agitation one buffeted Brock and Ellisne. “It’s in Dena Minor system, fifth planet. You deactivate it, perhaps then we trust you. Torture of Ellisne unnecessary, you who would not be called barbarian.” And he hissed insolently, his eyes glowing orange.
“Rho!” said Brock in dismay, but the Slathese angrily averted his face.
“Good!” said Falmah-Al in satisfaction, seeming to take Brock’s shocked protest as all the confirmation she needed. “Major, escort our prisoners to the brig. I have a new course to relay to the captain.”
For Brock the trip to the force-shielded cells was a blur. He took no notice of details. His mind spun over and over with the same question that he blurted out as soon as their guards shoved them into their cell.
“Rho! Great Meir above, why did you tell them that? It wasn’t necessary. I was going to—”
“You are dire-lord,” retorted Rho with equal fierceness as Ellisne backed away from both of them, her eyes dark with fear. The Slathese slashed a finger across his throat. “Up to here you are filled with Chaimu pride. It is fact, merc? It is your training. How would you bend to their threats? How would you choose between she who has become your heart and the home which you mourn having left?”
“I don’t—” began Brock fiercely and then broke off the denial. He frowned at the Slathese who had shown him so much loyalty and devotion, trying to see past the fierce defiance and bravado for the anguish that must be tearing at Rho. Brock had long ago faced the responsibility of being the eventual destroyer of Felca. He had been prepared to sacrifice it for Ellisne. But Rho had acted on the moment, and now his eyes were dull and his cheeks sunken.
“And what about you, my friend?” Brock asked softly. “How were you able to choose?”
Rho shut his eyes and turned away. “Aya!” It was a thin, keening sound that sent an eerie chill through Brock. “Don’t ask me, Dire-lord. Don’t ask me that.”
Brock drew back, seeking some way to thank Rho. What could he say that would offer comfort? “When the suprin was dying, I asked him who would follow me in carrying out his last command. He said those who were Held would follow. Son of Kesmail the Mighty, you are truly Held.”
It was the highest praise a dire-lord could bestow. Rho lifted his hand as though in acknowledgment, but his face remained averted.
“Brock.” Ellisne stepped forward. “We must believe that they are going to keep their word.” Her gaze met Brock’s, warning him to probe Rho no further. “We must believe that they have said the truth. Are they so different from us, growing up in terror and dread? They deserve a chance to prove their compassion.”
“Very well.” Brock bowed his head in outward submission to her argument more for Rho’s sake than anything else. But his eyes remained hard, and beneath his atrox his heart thumped angrily. “One chance,” he said. “One.”
Dena Minor was a cramped little system of planets spinning around a yellow dwarf. As the shuttle launched itself down from the Im Naga, Rho pressed himself hungrily against the tiny port in an effort to see Slath among the stars scattered in constellations unfamiliar to Brock. Ellisne sat slumped in her seat with her eyes closed. Brock gently smoothed a strand of hair from her face, then turned his gaze to the rear of the shuttle where Falmah-Al sat with Major Millen, discussing plans in low but excited voices.
“A celebration…the Collective’s brightest moment…”
“No brighter than your record for achieving this, Colonel.”
Brock sighed, not bothering to listen to more. The change in all the Colonids on board the ship had been noticable since Rho’s admission. Troopers patrolled the restricted areas accessible to the prisoners with a definite bounce in their step. Smiles were frequent, and laughter rang out along the ship’s corridors. Even the capture of Daijahl
Imperial and the stunning defeat of Heldfleet had not aroused such high spirits. Brock frowned, surrounded by self-doubt and guilt. Had he been so wrong? Had Ellisne and the Sedkethrans been so right? All the Colonids seemed to talk about was deactivation. The deputy lieutenants seated on the shuttle between the prisoners and Falmah-Al also had their heads together, arguing in genial whispers over the merits of sagei, the fiery Chaimu drink of fermented panta fruit, good mellow Walica brandy, or Bensha bloodmix—whatever that was—and whether they should team up for the dancing over coals.
I was wrong, thought Brock wearily. I misjudged these people as much as my Chaimu masters, more so, perhaps. His fingers sought the goda band, smooth and warmed by his flesh, and turned it about his wrist. Had he been so warped by bitterness and rebellion that he had lost all compassion himself? Had he been so eager to escape being a puppet of the magstrusi that he made himself one of Suprin Utdi’s instead? No, not even now would he criticize his suprin. Utdi had been a corrupt hedonist with many faults, but he had been a leader of judgment and insight as well.
With a sigh, Brock leaned back against the flat hard cushions of the seat which were covered in drab, scratchy, hard-wearing material. The whole interior of the shuttle was strictly utilitarian without a single splash of color or attempt at aesthetics. Use over beauty; conformity over creativity; discipline over freedom. These might as well be the battle cries of the Colonids. They seemed to oppress his very soul. He did not care what Ellisne and Falmah-Al said; it was not merely an exchange of one government for another. It was an exchange of philosophies and tolerance. Diversity would be hammered away. And then what future would the galaxy have? The Colonids drew all of their fierce energy from tackling insurmountable challenges. They had spent centuries united in an attempt to defeat the Held. Now they would turn their energies to converting everyone to Im. And when that was accomplished they would collapse, as the mighty Chaimu honorables had following a glorious reign of great achievements. Now those Achievements were dust, remembered only as legends by the hedonists who had given the Held away.
The Goda War Page 15
