Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel) (32 page)

Cyrus backed away and tried to pull off his shirt. The fabric stuck to his sweaty skin, but a hard yank brought it off.

“What are you doing?” Larl asked.

Cyrus turned and ran.

“That ain’t going to do you any good,” Larl shouted. “Blas, he’s taking off! Call the others.”

Cyrus wrapped the shirt around his left hand. It wasn’t much protection, but it was a little. He turned a corner and twisted around, facing it. He heard Larl coming after him. The man didn’t run, but strode down the corridor. Larl turned the corner and his eyes widened in surprise.

“Tricky predator, ain’t you?” Larl said. He thrust the tip of the knife at Cyrus.

It told Cyrus that Larl wasn’t a professional knife-man, at least not of the Milan school of thinking. The man led with the knife, a critical mistake. Cyrus thrust his wrapped hand forward, taking the point. He shoved the knife back, and he stepped toward Larl, using the right, driving his fist against the man’s gut. It was muscled and hard, and the loose clothing helped absorb some of the strike. Still, Cyrus knocked Larl back. He stepped forward, using both hands, and grabbed the knife wrist. Cyrus thrust forward again as he put a heel behind one of Larl’s feet. He tripped the man, who went sprawling backward onto the floor. Larl’s grip loosened and Cyrus ripped the blade free.

Cyrus hefted the knife to get its feel. From on the floor, Larl scrambled to his feet. Indecision filled the man’s eyes. The knife had good balance.

“This ain’t going to help you,” Larl said.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“Blas! He has my—”

Cyrus attacked as the man shouted. It wasn’t a fair way to fight, but he didn’t have a choice anymore. The man had hunted for him. Such a thing came with risks. Cyrus made a killing strike as Larl sucked air to shout for reinforcements. With the knife sticking through the man’s throat, Cyrus eased Larl down gently, not wanting to alert this Blas.

It didn’t make any difference.

“Well, well, well, Larl never did practice the blade enough. I told him it was going to get him in trouble someday.”

Cyrus backed away, with the gory knife in his hand. Blood jetted from the corpse’s throat, wetting the floor around it, no doubt making the floor slick. It was by observing the little things that one often won a fight.

Blas—if that’s who this was—was a head taller than Larl. He had a gun in his right hand and an old scar running across his face. The left eye was white and appeared blind. He, too, had a shaved head, but without a tattoo. Instead of loose clothing, Blas wore leather or synthi-leather garments with metal clasps dotting the jacket.

“You’re a cagey one, aren’t you?” Blas asked. “Do you think you’re cagey enough to take my gun the way you did Larl’s blade?”

Before Cyrus could think of a reply, there came a sizzling sound. He’d heard the sound before on the alien ship when a Vomag had shot Argon. Cyrus didn’t feel anything and he noticed that Blas still held his gun so it aimed at the deck plates. Then who had taken the shot?

Blas sank to his knees and color drained from his features. “That ain’t right,” he muttered. He began to turn his head. Another sizzling sound ended his attempt as Blas pitched face first onto the deck plates.

A Vomag soldier stood behind the man. He looked just like the others of his kind. No, there was something different about his Vomag, or there was something familiar. In either case, the soldier held a heat gun.

“Do I know you?” Cyrus asked.

“Yes. I am Skar 192 of the Tenth Cohort. I watched you baffle the Rarified during the questioning. It was impressive.”

“How did you find me?”

“The third order Rarified gave me instructions as to where you would be.”

“How could he know?” Cyrus asked.

“He knew because the Rarified are wise beyond understanding. It’s what made your performance during the questioning all the more remarkable.”

“So now what, you shoot me?” Cyrus asked.

“No,” Skar said, holstering his weapon.

“I’m not going without a fight,” Cyrus told him.

The Vomag cocked his head. “I see. You do not grasp the situation.”

“You’re wrong. I know I’m never going back to face the Grand Agonizer.”

“Ah, then you do realize.”

“Realize what?” Cyrus asked. “Why are you here if you’re not going to shoot me and take me back to the Kresh?”

“I’m here to guide you to the Resisters,” Skar said.

“What?” Cyrus asked.

“Come. We must hurry.”

Before Cyrus went anywhere, he looted the corpses.

Skar watched impassively.

Cyrus took Blas’s gun and found several extra magazines. There was also a hand-sized disc with a switch.

“Don’t take that,” Skar said. “It is a locator. The Kresh will use it to track you.”

Cyrus hesitated before nodding, leaving the locator. He found a small package and opened it. It looked edible. So he nibbled at it before taking a bite. It tasted good. He devoured the bar before pulling out several small flat notes.

“What are these?” Cyrus asked.

“Toldecks.”

“Toldecks for what?” Cyrus asked.

“For exchange,” Skar said.

“Do you mean credits? You buy things with these?”

“Yes,” Skar said. “They are toldecks.”

Cyrus stuffed them away and found a few more on Larl. If the Maze was anything like the slums, one could always use cash as a bribe. He shrugged on Blas’s synthi-leather clothing, having stripped the man. There were two heat holes in the back where the Vomag had shot Blas, but that couldn’t be helped. The boots were too tight, but they fit after a fashion.

“A disguise is wise,” Skar said. “Have you done this before?”

“On my own world. Who are the Resisters?” Cyrus asked.

“We will discuss such things later. Now we must reach the Maze before the Kresh gas these levels.”

“Why haven’t they gassed them already?”

Skar grabbed him by an elbow and dragged him along. The soldier was shorter than he was, but wider shouldered and bigger chested. He was also strong.

“Listen to my instructions,” Skar said. “If I fall, you must go to the Crab Palace. There you must discover the Reacher. He will inform you.”

“Inform me of what?”

“I am Skar 192 of the Tenth Cohort. I am a soldier. I am not privy to the Higher Learning. I fight. I conquer enemies.”

“Yet you belong to the Resisters,” Cyrus said.

They exited the corridors and entered a large chamber with machines lining the walls. Lights showed on some of the machines and electric sounds emanated from others. There was a small, wheel-less vehicle here, lying on its side.

Skar righted the vehicle and straddled it. “Climb behind me,” the soldier said.

Skar bent lower, gripping handlebars. Cyrus climbed behind and almost yelped when the vehicle thrummed and lifted several inches off the floor.

“How does it do that?” Cyrus asked.

“I am a soldier, not a mechanic. Hang on.”

The Vomag twisted a throttle, taking them across the floor much too fast. Cyrus grabbed the soldier’s waist. The man seemed to be made of iron-hard muscle.

“Is this an antigravity cycle or does it do this through magnetic lift?” Cyrus asked.

“I must concentrate,” Skar said. “So you must cease talking.”

The next few minutes were wild. Skar shot through entrances and flashed across chambers. Several times, startled workers looked up. Twice, a man dived out of the way. One shouted angrily, shaking his fist.

“Get ready to jump,” Skar said. “Now!” he shouted, springing off the levitating cycle.

Cyrus leaped and hit the deck plates tumbling. The cycle flashed toward a corridor, flying away out of sight.

“Where’s it—”

A crash and an explosion ended Cyrus question of where the cycle went.

“Run,” Skar said.

The soldier sprinted into a new set of corridors. Instead of metallic colored deck plates, the floor was black, with various red symbols painted in places. The soldier had short legs, but the Vomag moved with astonishing speed. It made the short-handled axe dangling on his belt bounce so it struck the left leg.

Cyrus concentrated on keeping up. He’d always been fast-footed, but this squat, short soldier would have beaten anyone he knew in a race. The soldier was too far ahead and darted around a corner out of sight.

“Wait up!” Cyrus called. He ran, turned the corner, and found the soldier waiting for him.

Skar ran slower afterward. “I forgot. You are not Vomag.”

“Yeah, sure,” Cyrus puffed. The Vomag reminded him of the marines. “How much longer are we going to keep running like this?”

“This way,” Skar said, darting into a narrower corridor.

Their feet pounded on the metal floor. After what seemed like two more kilometers, Skar came to a sudden stop.

Cyrus barely halted in time. He panted and sweat dripped from him. He needed water soon or he was going to faint. To his disgust and surprise, Skar only showed a slight sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

“This is the spot,” Skar said. He dug out a flat device from his belt and tapped a sequence of buttons. Before them, metal slid away to reveal a crawl space.

“It looks narrow,” Cyrus said.

Skar studied him. “There are refreshments in the Maze. We must keep moving now before the Kresh realize you’ve been helped.”

“How many people belong to the Resisters? Are you planning a revolt?”

“I am a soldier. I fight.”

“Okay, okay, you don’t know. I get it. Let’s go.”

Skar went in first. Cyrus followed, squeezing and twisting through. The edges of the opening tugged at his clothes, trying to tear them off. Soon, he was on his hands and knees in a tight space.

“Wait,” Skar said. In the dim light, he aimed the flat device at the opening. The metal slid shut, casting them into pitch darkness.

“Do you have a light?” Cyrus asked. This place was already getting to him. He didn’t like it in here.

“No. Now we must crawl. Remember, there are refreshments at the end of our journey.”

“If I pass out are you going to drag me?”

“You cannot pass out,” Skar said.

“Yeah, I get it. If you have to drag me, the game is over. Okay. This is better than I’d ever hoped to do. Lead the way. Let’s go to the Crab Palace and talk to the Reacher.”

They crawled in the darkness until Cyrus’s hands and knees ached. The synthi-leather pants proved themselves. His other clothes would have worn through by now. He wrapped his hands in extra cloth and dreamed of stopping. He needed a drink. He badly needed to rest.

Would you rather be back aboard the shuttle on your cot?

Cyrus knew the answer to that. This was amazing. Despite his sluggishness, his mind kept whirling with questions. Humans resisted the aliens. That
was good to know. Now he’d like to know where these humans came from. Why were they so different from each other? Soldiers like Skar seemed a different race compared to the Rarified, the inquisitor. Oh, right, right. The inquisitor had referred to “the Races” once. Was that different races of humans?

“The Rarified hated me,” Cyrus said. “So how come it turns out he’s helping me?”

“He belongs to the Resisters.”

Despite his exhaustion, Cyrus grinned. “Do many people belong to the Resisters?”

“The Kresh exterminate all resistance.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“Save your breath,” Skar said. “We still have a long way to go.”

The hours passed as they crawled. Cyrus had never been this tired in his life. Twice, he collapsed. Skar waited each time for what seemed like mere seconds. Then the soldier urged him to continue crawling.

“Where are we?” Cyrus wheezed.

“Near the Maze,” Skar said.

“How big is High Station 3?”

“Huge,” Skar said.

Cyrus didn’t grin anymore, nor did he think much. He crawled, and sometimes he wished he were back in his cell. To lie on his cot and do nothing, that had been true glory.

Then light flooded around him and pain stung his eyes. He collapsed onto a new floor and closed his stinging orbs. He felt motion, a thud, a clang and wetness touched his lips. Greedily, Cyrus sucked at the wetness. It dampened his throat and took away some of the bone dryness.

“Slowly,” someone whispered to him.

Cyrus endured until more moisture touched his lips. In time, he dragged his tongue over the moisture. Drips of water teased him. He sucked every particle of wetness. After a longer wait, cool metal touched his lips and water gushed into his mouth. He drank and choked on water.

With a groan, he sat up. His muscles jerked in a spasm. He threw up, spewing what Skar had trickled into his stomach.

“You must relax.”

Cyrus opened an eye. A wall stood nearby, with garbage strewn on the ground. There were muffled sounds, many voices, although he didn’t see anyone. Skar squatted beside him, holding a canteen and looking worried.

“Where are…?” Cyrus whispered. He was too tired to keep talking.

“We have reached the Maze. You must take water, gain strength, and we must hurry to the Crab Palace.”

“Move me… where I can… lean against something.”

Skar dragged him near the wall, propping him against it. Cyrus looked up. The ceiling was three meters high and lights were embedded in it. The garbage stank. There were old wrappers, crumpled containers, and bones with bits of rotting meat clinging to them. Cyrus almost felt at home. This was too much like Level 40 Milan. For the first time, he really felt as if he had a chance. He knew how to survive in a slum.