Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel) (31 page)

The Vomags gripping Cyrus released him. He flexed his arms. The two soldiers fell onto their bellies. So did the inquisitor.

Cyrus glanced around. Everywhere in the cavernous hanger, movement and work ceased. Truck-like vehicles screeched to a halt. Drivers leaped out and fell prostrate onto the metal deck plates. Those dragging massive hoses dropped the lines and fell onto their faces. Mechanics, techs, soldiers, inquisitors, pilots, every human aimed his head toward five Kresh. The towering aliens rode a lift descending from near the top of a shuttle.

“Cast yourself down!” the inquisitor hissed at Cyrus. “Bask in their radiance and fill your soul with their brilliance. I will never forget this day. Five move together, and one of them is a Hundred. Blessed is Chengal Ras, my master, the 109th in the arts of philosophical excellence.”

Cyrus scanned the hanger. Dr. Wexx fell prostrate, so did Captain Jones. Argon hesitated. The chief monitor groaned then and sank to his knees, writhing onto his belly. Argon’s inquisitor must have applied the pain device. Cyrus wondered why he didn’t spy Roxie or Jasper.

“Are you daft?” the inquisitor asked Cyrus. “Why do you wait? Do you wish to be singled out as the prize of the Docking Ceremony?”

“What happens to the prize?” Cyrus asked.

“Base and foul creature of the stars, do you not understand? The Kresh will sacrifice to the Ultimate for another safe journey into the void. One soul
must pay with blood for the success of the whole. It is a matter of unity, a rare occurrence among the masters. Do you not see, a Hundred offers Chengal Ras the slaying wand?”

Cyrus glanced around. Movement everywhere had stopped. Humans near and far lay on their bellies to these alien lizards. The Kresh’s platform banged onto the deck plates. The five creatures strode off the platform and stalked toward the nearest clump of worshipful humans.

A screeching sound now reverberated through the hanger. It grew louder and abrasive, making Cyrus wince. The Vomags near him clapped their hands over their ears.

“Praise to the Ultimate,” the inquisitor whispered. Then he too clapped his hands over his ears. The mechanical screeching intensified.

Cyrus Gant of Milan watched the five Kresh approach the prone humans. He’d reached High Station 3, was out of the cell and surrounded by motionless people. Deciding this was as good a moment as any, Cyrus turned and began striding away from the Vomags and inquisitor. He started walking for a side entrance where he’d seen a number of trucks enter.

Suddenly, the screeching stopped. A horn blared. Cyrus didn’t bother looking back. Then the horn ceased.

“Human!” A Kresh spoke. “Human, abase yourself to the Ultimate.”

Cyrus finally looked back. The five Kresh watched him. One of the creatures held a slender, seven-foot wand.

“Faithless creature,” a Kresh said, “fall onto your belly!”

Cyrus raised his hand and gave the five aliens the finger. Then he turned away and began to sprint.

Another Kresh shout came, but he ignored it. He raced around a truck and used it to screen himself from them. He saw the driver looking up at him from on the floor. Then the man shut his eyes, pressing his forehead against the deck plates.

Cyrus kept sprinting. His endless days of running in place and doing squats had given him stamina. He neared the truck entrance.

A red light appeared above it. An automated muzzle thrust out of a slot. The tube had pitted edges, looking as if it had been used before. The thing tracked him as Cyrus concentrated, using telekinesis, shorting an electrical connection, and a red light above the muzzle turned dull.

In the distance from within the hanger a Kresh roared. At least, Cyrus assumed it must be a Kresh. He’d never heard a human make a sound like that. If they hadn’t before, they must realize now that he had psi-powers.

Cyrus darted into the entrance. The people in here lay on their bellies, too. Air wheezed down his throat and into his lungs. He kept sprinting, looking for a door or other exit. He didn’t know what he expected to find or how long he could keep out of their clutches. What he did remember from his youth was that big cities had slums. There, people could hide from the cops. That held true on Earth. Would it hold true on High Station 3?

Well, he was certainly going to try to find out. The Kresh had given him their language. Now, he was going to use it to his advantage.

5

Cyrus strode briskly through a warehouse that held thirty-foot shelves containing long tubes, assorted metal widgets, and plastic sheets. Behind him, an alarm blared. Workers driving alien forklifts glanced at him. They wore gray caps, most with single stars on the front and a few with three. Each wore a brown jacket with gray pants. Several workers frowned at him, but no one called out or asked what he was doing here.

I need to change my clothes and try to blend in
.

Actually, he needed many things. A station map would be great. A haircut would help and a complete makeover would be best.

They must see I’m different and don’t belong
.

“No,” he whispered. He needed to concentrate and act. He needed to find the station’s slums, if it had one.

The overhead lights began to blink on and off. Speakers crackled and a moment later, a Kresh spoke: “Attention, High Station 3 personnel. This is a class five announcement. An unwarranted alien stalks the premises. Report any suspicious actions to your superior. The alien predator has mocked the Hundred and the Ultimate Magnificence. He will expire in the Grand Agonizer as a spectacle to rightness. This is an urgent summons to achievement. See that you obey and earn splendor and advancement in caste.”

As workers listened to the announcement, Cyrus slipped into a deserted row. He checked to make sure no one saw him, leaped, and grabbed a shelf
six feet up. He hauled himself onto it. While squatting, he moved into shadows. He lay on plastic sheets and peered around, watching for what would happen next.

Workers shut off their forklifts and eased onto the floor. They congregated and began to whisper among themselves. One man took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. He appeared nervous. The others urged him toward some sort of action. He replaced the cap and sidled to his forklift. The others glanced around and finally called to the man. Cyrus couldn’t hear what they said. The worker at the forklift wore a bronze-colored badge on his jacket and his cap had three stars. He climbed into the seat and spoke into what must have been a communicator.

This was bad. The Kresh had just given him a death sentence. Cyrus shrugged moodily. Memory extracting would have probably been the same thing. Except… the Kresh said his death would be a spectacle in the Grand Agonizer. That didn’t sound like a dignified ending, but more like dying on a cross like Spartacus had done.

Closing his eyes, Cyrus wondered if he should have waited for a better chance. No. He had no idea if another chance would have come. He’d seen one and he’d taken it.

He cocked his head. In the distance sounded cadenced feet clashing against the deck plates. What would the Kresh do next? If he were in their place, he’d send a regiment of Vomags to flush him out. Right. He couldn’t hide here. This place was too open.

While crouching, he moved lengthwise down the shelf until he came to the end. He glanced about and risked it, jumping onto the floor. How much time did he have left?

Move, Cyrus. Get out of this warehouse
.

He hurried with his eyes staring, searching for workers who might report him. His heart thudded. He saw a door. He had no idea where it led. He rushed to it and pulled. It wouldn’t budge.

He concentrated and tweaked the locking mechanism with his telekinesis. He opened the door, stepped through, and shut it behind him. His knees threatened to unhinge. Leaning against a wall, he found himself trembling from the excitement.

You have to keep going. You need to get it together, Cyrus
.

He was in a long corridor with dim lights on the ceiling. The corridor went off into the distance farther than he could see. It reminded him of looking into a mirror that faced other mirrors and trying to see how far the reflections went. He started walking. Was this a maintenance shaft?

I need a map so I know where I am and where I’m going.

He shook his head. He needed to use what he had, not wish for the moon. If he was going to wish, why not ask for a spaceship or that he could magically teleport back to Sol?

Thinking about the approaching, hunting Vomags and the Grand Agonizer, he ran, putting distance between him and the warehouse. It didn’t take long for sweat to break out onto his skin. His breathing became harsh, and later his side ached. After a time, thirst began to torment him. Despite the exhaustion, or maybe because of it, he grinned savagely. He was tired and wanted to stop, but that would mean worse torture, so he kept running when normally he would have collapsed. He ran kilometer after kilometer and couldn’t figure out why there were no more openings in the corridor. If there had been the one, there should be others, right?

Behind him, in the far distance, he heard an ominous clang. Were hunters in the corridor? If the Kresh truly wanted him, couldn’t they use infrared tracking and follow his glowing footsteps?

The vanishing walls
, he told himself.

Cyrus staggered to a halt and leaned against a wall. Sweat dripped from his chin and struck the metal floor. He panted, wiped stinging sweat out of his eyes, and panted more. Finally, his breathing returned to a semblance of normal.

He walked, and he searched with his psi-talent. Sixty steps later, he discovered an escape.

He did the trick with his telekinesis, and a headache exploded into being in his frontal lobe. He’d used his psi-talent one too many times in quick succession. He should have rested first.

Even so, a small section of wall vanished. He heard voices in the new, branching corridor, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He moved through the opening and looked back. The smart move would be to hide where he’d left the straight corridor. He squeezed his eyes shut. The headache was bad, to use his telekinesis again so soon…

He willed himself to do it, and the wall reappeared.

Cyrus groaned as splotches appeared before his eyes. He clutched his knees and vomited the gruel in his stomach. He did it again, making grunting, gasping noises as the worsening headache pounded in his brain.

Finally, he used his sleeve and wiped his mouth. It was hard to see past the black spots in his vision, but he couldn’t stop here.

Maybe I can never stop again, because when I do they’ll catch me
. What a thing. Maybe by the time they found him, he would be glad to rest.

He crouched for a moment and put his head between his knees. It felt as if his brain was about to explode, it throbbed so hard. He squeezed his knees against his temples and waited, breathing through his mouth.

I can’t use my telekinesis for days now, maybe weeks
.

He waited until the throbbing lessened. He stood afterward. He felt dizzy and waited for that to pass. Afterward, he found that he could see past some of the splotches in his vision.

The dim light of earlier remained and there were more branching corridors, a bewildering web of them. He kept going right, deciding any kind of process was better than random selection. He turned right, and he heard a scuffle of sound ahead.

His heart began pounding, and his vision cleared a little. A scuffle meant people, right?

I can’t remain in these corridors forever. I need water and I need to eat
.

Warily, Cyrus advanced toward the next corner. He cocked his head, listening, striving to hear a giveaway sound. He heard a voice in the distance, but couldn’t decipher the words. What did it mean?

When Cyrus was five steps from the next intersection, a man stepped around the corner. The man was thick-shouldered, wore loose garments, and had a shaved head. He had a round tattoo with jagged edges on his forehead and he grinned nastily. He was missing some front teeth.

“You must be the alien predator,” the man said. He drew a blade—a knife—from the folds of his garments. “I found him, Blas!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Who are you?” Cyrus asked.

“Blas said a sneaky one like you would use the shafts,” the man informed him. “I told him the odds were astronomical of us finding the alien. He said, ‘All the more reason we should try.’ I thought he was crazy, but will you look at
this. You’re our prize. The Kresh will reinstate us now. I’m sick of living in the Maze.” The man’s grin widened. “Blas! Hurry up. The predator looks antsy.”

“Get out of my way,” Cyrus said.

“Do you see this in my hand?” the man asked. He waved the knife. “I can gut you if you play foul like you did with the masters.”

Cyrus weighed the odds. The corridor was narrow; two men could barely pass in it. It didn’t give him much maneuvering room and it meant the man with a knife had every advantage. Maybe he should try to talk his way out.

“Do you want to keep being a slave to the aliens?” Cyrus asked.

The man laughed. “You sound like a chaosict, and everyone knows they’re fools. The Kresh give us guidance. They give us meaning and help order our otherwise frenzied lives.”

“They’ve made you slaves.”

The man licked his lips. “You’re a human-firster, hey? That won’t do you any good here. I love the Kresh and this will prove it.”

“Larl!” another man shouted. “Where are you?”

“Here!” the knife-man shouted. “You’d better hurry. The predator is working himself up to attack me.”

Cyrus had nothing but his hands and he knew the foolishness of confronting a man with a knife. With fists, one had to punch hard to be effective. One needed speed and he had to hit the right spot. With a knife, it was different. You only needed to touch the other person and the blade did the work. It cut. The target bled, and in time, with the blood loss, came weakness. If he knew what he was doing, a man with a knife could beat an unarmed man ninety-nine times out of a hundred.