by L. E. Horn
Power beyond anything Lianndra had ever experienced flowed into her. More than she could contain, it crashed through her brain—burning with an intensity that caused her entire body to convulse and her head to fling backward. Lianndra’s lips parted in a soundless scream as she struggled to guide the energy beam. Her mind flashed to white.
Something . . . broke.
Michael . . . or me? Her mouth flooded with a coppery metallic taste and something warm flowed from her nose. As she collapsed in the seat restraints, an enormous explosion sent their ship spinning out of control.
EWTK’FISK SAT IN HER FRIEND’S private quarters, staring out the external portal. Far below them, the gold and green planet hung in space, apparently defenseless without its shield.
The area around the Motherships reflected the chaos on the planet’s surface. Multitudes of defunct drones drifted motionless. The laborious process of retrieving them via tractor beams had begun, but with the massive ships still reeling from the damage to their power grids, it would take time. Within the bellies of the monstrous ships, she knew the techs scurried to make repairs. The rebellion’s foresight prevented cataclysmic damage, but the Motherships’ halls would be full of dark shadows for a long time to come.
It enraged Ewtk’fisk that a minority of Tlok’mk, strategically placed high in the political structure, could have brought their entire species to this. The mere fact she experienced such rage, especially against her own kind, indicated how far her people had devolved. She remembered her friend’s words: “Rebuild from the core.” Her species needed rebuilding at the genetic level.
This can never happen again.
Ewtk’fisk regarded her friend Xoek’sank, who slumped in her seat. A small generator provided rudimentary lighting in the private quarters. For the first time, the room was too cold for comfort. The ship itself remained in darkness.
Suddenly, Ewtk’fisk saw what they’d been waiting for: far below on the planet’s surface, something rose into space.
It is a battle cruiser. No, three, four of them! she thought. But where is the fifth?
Her fervency must have alerted Xoek’sank because she joined her at the portal. They watched as the massive battle cruisers drew closer. Then their attention diverted toward the planet as a light blossomed on the surface. A miniature sun so bright it hurt their eyes was born and died in a matter of seconds.
Xoek’sank strode to her console and activated it. The image on the console’s screen fluttered, but the Fara’s voice remained quite clear, caught in mid-report, “. . . lost all but a few fighters. The war coordinator’s cruiser is destroyed, with no survivors. As promised, the fleet retreats. It is over. The war is officially over. We have lost.”
While the two friends watched the battle cruisers’ slow return, the console flickered again. The image changed to show the face of an elderly Fara, who Ewtk’fisk recognized as a supreme elder of the fleet.
“Honored sisters,” she began, “today marks a new beginning for the Tlok’mk. In light of recent events concerning the war on the planet Tarin, the Interim Chamber will ask certain colleagues on all five Chamber of Elders to resign. We will remove and detain those refusing to submit. We are also asking for resignations from other positions within our political structure. These individuals cannot apply for future positions. Since we require leadership in this time of upheaval, the Interim Chamber will be in place until new elders are appointed. The irresponsible waste of resources in the pursuit of this war has brought our people to the brink of commercial and intellectual ruin. Rest assured the lessons learned will have a lasting effect as we seek to rebuild. We all look forward to working together toward this goal. There will be a delay in leaving Tarin’s orbit while we pull our resources from the planet surface and gather the malfunctioning drone fighters. We plan to update everyone with regular progress reports until then.”
The screen flickered and died. The two Fara looked at each other. Ewtk’fisk knew they thought the same thing: what could be salvaged? Most Farr had succumbed to the war, their manned fighters destroyed, and the ground army decimated—its component of slaves either dead or freed. They had lost the majority of slaves they relied on as merchandise. There would be gaps in their political structure that might take generations to fill, and the crippled Motherships would run with skeleton crews for many years. Until the drones were repaired, their only defense from other, opportunistic species would be the four battle cruisers now retreating from the planet surface. They would be forced to slink away from Tarin and hide, or face a fate they had inflicted on so many through generations of producing slaves.
Once hidden safely away, the Tlok’mk race would have to regress to the beginning and restructure at the genetic level.
It is a disaster—or an opportunity, Ewtk’fisk thought. I prefer to be an optimist.
Chapter Thirty-Five
HOLD ON, LIANNDRA, MICHAEL’S voice echoed as if it came from the end of a long tunnel. Stay with me!
Of course, where else would I go? Lianndra tried to answer, but the words couldn’t surface through the swirling maelstrom of pain.
Sounds rose and fell around her.
Human voices.
Gryphon speaking in their musical language.
The trilling sounds of Darkon.
She tried to claw her way back to consciousness, but the pain overwhelmed her. So much more appealing to let the darkness sweep her away—but Michael’s voice kept calling to her, distracting her from oblivion. As long as he remained, she couldn’t slip away.
The worst pain eventually subsided and with it went the chaos within her mind. She reached for Michael, but this time, another voice answered.
A familiar feminine voice—she couldn’t place it—filled her aching head with a musical trill. Sleep, little one. Everything is all right. Just sleep.
She stopped fighting and let herself slide into a deep slumber.
When she next became aware of her surroundings, she lay on something soft. Her head throbbed when she moved it, so she slowly opened her eyes, fearful of triggering any fresh stabs of pain.
Lianndra squinted toward the walls and thatched roof of a Gryphon hut. Outside, the murmuring of soft voices, birdsong, and the squeals of happy children brought warmth to her heart.
Her eyes widened in surprise. She heard young voices. The words they spoke were in the Gryphon native tongue, full of birdlike trills and chirps.
The children have returned to the valley.
That reassured her like nothing else could. It must be safe, or the Gryphon would never have brought them back.
She turned her head toward the window. To her surprise, a pair of Darkon sat in the opening. As soon as she spotted them, they made joyful chirruping noises and left with a flutter of dark wings.
Blinking against the light, Lianndra noticed a still form beneath the window.
Michael lounged in a chair across the room from her bed, his long form sprawled among a mound of spare blankets. An arm flung out toward her and his head pointed away. The light emphasized the line of lean muscle on his arm, the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the hollow along his jaw. His thin shirt did little to hide the curve of his ribs, and the threadbare pants outlined his narrow hips and long legs. He looked so young, much like the gangly boy she first met, but with one major exception: a massive ridge of new scar tissue puckered the fabric along his lower ribs.
He’s so skinny. Lianndra sat up and clutched the sides of her bed as the world spun around her.
“Hey there.”
She hadn’t even heard him move. Strong hands steadied her as she looked into his beautiful silver eyes. She had been correct about the weight loss; all the bones of his face stood out beneath the skin.
Before she could say anything, he gently lifted her and slipped his body beneath. She smelled his unique combination of man and musk as his soft lips brushed her forehead. His jaw bristled with stubble, and as she rubbed her cheek against his chest, the rapid thumping of his heart poun
ded through her. She pulled away just enough to run worried fingers over his new scar, tracing its length beneath the shirt.
She heard his breath catch, and he grabbed her hand, folding it into his. “Let’s not start something neither of us is in any shape to finish,” he said. He rolled her so her back rested against his chest and held her arms crossed in front of her.
She smiled, thinking of the first time he tried this. At least, this time, he’s not biting my neck. Lianndra tried to turn her head to look at him. The movement hurt.
Michael’s arms tightened around her. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said, his voice trembling. His lips moved across her forehead.
Lianndra frowned, trying to remember what happened. “The battle cruiser?”
He sighed. “You blew it up. It, the missiles, and the two accompanying carriers—along with part of the entrance to the valley, and some grasslands beyond. All at once.” He paused. “I didn’t see it, but I sensed it through you and the Darkon. The blast wave hit your ship, and you crashed into the valley wall.”
She gasped. “Berr and the others . . .”
“The crew members are okay, as are all your little friends. I’m holding the only serious casualty.” He grimaced. “Although we all needed healing afterward. It seems merging with a few thousand telepathic critters is hard on the human brain.”
After a few moments of silence, he sighed and ran a big hand along her forearm. “The Fang called for a retreat after you decimated their fighters. All obeyed the command except for the battle cruiser you tangled with.” He interlocked his roaming hand with hers and gently squeezed her fingers. “Apparently the Fang war coordinator wished to test your mettle. She almost finished you. The Healers say the last burst of Darkon energy caused your brain to hemorrhage. They have been working on you for over three weeks.”
Lianndra closed her eyes. Three weeks—have I been unconscious for that long? Her head throbbed. She focused on the other bit of news he imparted. “Are the Fang really gone?”
“Yep.” His tired voice also sounded relieved. “Packed up and limped away. It’d be ironic if they struck now. They would meet no resistance. You, Kate, and Olive are laid up, and the shield is still down.” He shrugged, his body rising and falling behind her. “I don’t think the Fang had much left to come at us with and they wouldn’t know our main weapon is”—he kissed her forehead—“temporarily offline.”
Gone. The Fang are gone. A wave of exhaustion passed through her. She settled her head under his chin and breathed him in. He freed his hand again to stroke her forehead, letting his long fingers trail along her cheek and jaw.
Lianndra smiled. He can’t keep his hands off me. It feels so good, but I’m too tired to enjoy it.
His heartrate had slowed, and its rhythmic thumping soothed her as nothing else could. As sleep beckoned, she sensed a strange hitch in his breathing and thought she smelled salt on his skin.
Before she could form another thought, darkness swept her away.
THE WRECKAGE OF THE FANG BATTLE cruiser still glowed hot when the Gryphon loaded their scout ships with supplies and flew to aid the stranded slaves. Drake and any Healers within hailing distance accompanied them.
Many times during the first week following the war’s end, Drake thought he would lose his mind.
The rebel leader remained proud of his ability to control himself even in times of extreme stress. He considered self-control his main virtue, the thing that gave him value as a leader. It enabled him to stabilize a situation even when chaos proved the only constant, and to survive conflicts with his mind intact. Yet the situation left behind by the Fang pushed him in ways he’d never been pushed before.
Drake knew from experience the aftermath of a war could be just as devastating as the event itself. Therefore, the grim situation on Tarin didn’t surprise him, but the scope daunted him. The traumatized slaves didn’t trust anyone. Some remained terrified of the Gryphon, and with weapons still accessible, the first few days proved dangerous to all. Many slaves preferred to bolt into the jungle rather than stay in the big creatures’ presence.
Drake turned to the Healers to bridge the gap. Exhausted as they were from their efforts in the war, they provided the most effective link between the Gryphon and the slaves. The soldiers held Healers in high esteem when they fought for the Fang, and with the slaves now freed, the trust seemed to carry forward. Many Blooddancers trusted only the Healers or each other, not letting even the human male soldiers anywhere close. Their fear might be understandable, but it stretched the available resources to the limit.
Drake called for reinforcements. He selected his men with care and grouped them with Healers to scour the jungle for terrified slaves. The mission required empathy and a delicate touch.
For the first weeks, the Fang lurked within the jungle as they gathered their resources before leaving the planet. Their slow and disorganized withdrawal often brought them into contact with fleeing slaves. If Fang soldiers came across slaves in the jungle, particularly those with active collars, the outcome proved bloody and Drake’s men found many bodies. In the end, the pervasive Fang threat helped convince the fleeing slaves that alliance with the Gryphon provided the safest route forward.
The work continued—exhausting, frustrating, and heartrending. The Healers worked long hours assessing the slaves. Drake helped to coordinate relief efforts when he was in the military back on Earth, but he’d had the assistance of experienced people. The human rebels lacked training in relief efforts, and the thousands of desperate slaves overwhelmed them.
The slaves that had served as soldiers were in terrible shape. Some were little more than walking skeletons and many were sick. For the first few days, the Gryphon struggled to mobilize sufficient supplies. To facilitate supply drops from the Gryphon ships, Drake set up four camps along the jungle’s edge, and the slaves gathered at these points. Drake didn’t enforce the groupings, and when he noticed individuals making their own choices, he went with the flow. The Blooddancers stuck together, and the small group of aliens surviving the war formed a cohesive unit. It left huge numbers of freed male human slaves that spent most of the first week consolidating into two large bands.
The fear among the freed slaves decreased as the groups became established. Some semblance of order appeared: camps set up, fires started, food distributed, and medical help provided.
Once they addressed the immediate health concerns and fed and sheltered everyone, many slaves asked for the collars’ removal. The Healers discussed it at length because removal would be problematic. The Fang devices possessed a remote kill function designed to send a lethal electric shock should anyone try to tamper with them. The Healers sheathed the kill nodes in scar cells, but if the nodes embedded in the brain moved beyond those cells, the kill function could activate. A Blooddancer inadvertently reinforced this suspicion when she tried to pry her collar off and died before a Healer could get to her. Her gruesome death curtailed any other such efforts.
The dynamics within the camps evolved. Some slaves accepted the invitation to the Gryphon valleys, but most seemed to find comfort among themselves. Assisted by Drake and his men, the four enclaves shared common goals. Drake realized that building a community helped people to heal. Each shelter completed, and every wall erected represented a step forward into a new life.
The Gryphon lent help where necessary while wisely allowing some things to develop naturally. As Virra pointed out, the slaves’ path of healing would be a long one. Certain milestones must be accomplished on their own.
One group of aliens was absent: the Bernaf slaves that had slipped off into the jungle. When the comm system at the largest human enclave went missing, they were the obvious suspects. A short time afterward, a large discoid vessel arrived above the Gryphon home world.
The Gryphon recognized the ship as Bernaf when it appeared and hovered above the planet. It stayed only long enough to scoop its people and left without offering a single word. It didn’t concern Virr
a. Apparently Bernaf, known throughout the universe as a mysterious race, were uncommunicative by nature.
THE NEXT TIME LIANNDRA AWOKE, she opened her eyes to see Andrea sitting next to her.
Andrea smiled, dropping to her knees beside the bed. “Hey, sweetheart. How’s the head?”
Lianndra tried to sit up. Her friend helped, propping blankets beneath her shoulders. The effort left her distressingly weak.
“My head doesn’t ache anymore,” Lianndra said.
Andrea nodded and appeared relieved. She handed Lianndra a container full of fruit juice.
As Lianndra drank, she glanced at the window. No Darkon today. The chair beneath also appeared vacant. She asked the question most on her mind. “Where’s Michael?”
Andrea rolled her eyes. “I ordered him off to his hut to get some rest. I threatened to do serious remodeling to his anatomy before he would go. The man is obsessed.”
Lianndra blushed. “But he’s okay?”
Andrea snorted. “Honestly, you two. Yes, he’s fine. He just needs to rest, relax, and eat.”
“What about that scar?” Lianndra asked and Andrea’s expression darkened.
“Yeah,” she sighed. “He was pretty messed up. Took a sword clear through him. If he didn’t have his own healing abilities . . . he’s fine now. Just a giant pain in the ass with some impressive scars.”
Lianndra smiled. By the time Andrea helped her with some necessities she trembled with exhaustion.
This must have been easier when I was out of it, she thought with embarrassment as she drifted back to sleep.
THE SUN BURNED HOT ON his bare back.
Do I have to worry about skin cancer on Tarin? On Earth, we always slathered on sunscreen before doing things like this.
