Slave Empire III - The Shrike
Read Slave Empire III - The Shrike Online
Authors: T C Southwell
Tags: #vengeance, #rescue, #space battle, #retribution, #execution, #empaths, #telepaths, #war of empires
Slave Empire III
The Shrike
T C Southwell
Published by T
C Southwell at Smashwords
Copyright ©
2012 by T C Southwell
Smashwords
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Table of
Contents
Chapter One
Rayne fiddled
with her scribe pad while she waited for the four workers to
complete the installation of a new air seal in the outer door on
the eastern side of Ironia’s bio-dome. She had two more tasks to
oversee that day, the overhaul of a lift in quadrant four and
repairs to an air conditioner in mess hall three. In the two months
that had passed since her marriage to the Shrike, her life had
taken on a pleasant routine. Vidan gave her duties in the station’s
maintenance, tending to the bio-dome’s running. Each day presented
new challenges, and she enjoyed the satisfaction of fixing a minor
atmosphere leak or water seepage problem, even though all she did
was ensure the work was completed and check it off her list. She
was sure the workers could have done that themselves, but she
enjoyed chatting to them and learning how things worked.
The friendly
crews ignored her occasional reactions to their emotions and seemed
to welcome her supervision, casting her frequent warm smiles.
Although there had been no ceremony, everyone in the base, and
presumably the rest of the Shrike’s empire, knew she was now his
wife, thanks to the announcement Vidan had made on her strange
wedding day. She had hardly seen Tarke since then. According to
Vidan, her elusive husband was always away chasing slavers,
protecting his territory or rescuing slaves. On the ten occasions
he had been at the base, she had had dinner with him, and they had
discussed a variety of subjects, none of which touched on his past.
Whenever she had let slip a question about it, she had apologised
and withdrawn it. Sometimes he had answered her, other times he had
accepted her retraction. Rayne disliked the amount of walking on
eggshells she had to do, but enjoyed their times together and
looked forward to seeing him again. He seemed to enjoy her company,
and she longed to spend more time with him.
The workers’
murmur hushed, and the four men gazed past her, their expressions
joyful, radiating the intense adoration she had come to associate
with her husband’s presence. Rayne turned to find the Shrike
approaching, and smiled. The workers bowed to him when he arrived
at her side, their eyes darting from him to her and back again. At
times like these, she wished she was a telepath. He clasped his
hands behind his back and turned his head towards her.
“How’s it
going?”
“Almost
finished,” she replied.
The Shrike
faced the workers, who returned to their task with a will and
completed it in half the time she had expected it to take. As three
of them packed the tools into a floating container, one opened and
closed the door, allowing a brief rush of air out through it. It
sealed with a smooth clunk, and Tarke nodded.
“Good job.”
The workers
grinned, bowed to him again and hurried away, towing the hover
cart.
Rayne updated
her scribe pad with the door seal’s completion.
“I have to have
a meeting with a slaver later today,” Tarke said. “Would you like
to come?”
“Sure. I’d like
that.” She knew his meetings with slavers were onerous, but
necessary tasks, and was glad he wanted her to be a part of this
aspect of his life.
“Good. See you
later, then.” Tarke wandered off in the opposite direction to the
workers. She gazed after him with deep disappointment, wishing he
would stay longer when he made his odd visits to her workplace. She
suspected that this was a major reason the workers vied to be on
her crew, because the Shrike sometimes stopped by to offer advice
and encouragement.
That afternoon,
she accompanied the Shrike to the meeting venue on the far side of
the base’s living quarters. Vidan had informed her that the slaver
wanted to negotiate safe passage across part of the Shrike’s
territory, which he could not venture into without Tarke’s
permission. The slaver would have to pay for the privilege, too,
she guessed. Usually Vidan handled such things, but sometimes Tarke
did it so his rivals would not begin to doubt his existence.
Vidan waited
outside the conference room’s old-fashioned wooden doors, his eyes
twinkling. The presence of four armed guards surprised her
somewhat. Two pushed open the doors as Tarke approached, and all
four took up position just inside them. Vidan entered ahead of them
and stepped aside. Rayne preceded Tarke into a sumptuous room that
reeked of wealth and power, designed to intimidate his guests, she
guessed. Its white marble floor was inlaid with a series of complex
gold designs, some partly obscured by the priceless rugs and
surfeit of soft chairs, poufs and crystal-inlaid wooden tables.
Wood was a precious commodity on a desert planet, and the black
variety that framed the skilfully rendered images of deep space and
alien landscapes was particularly rare and expensive.
The embroidered
velvet hangings, trimmed with gold and picked out with gemstones,
were probably worth more than the ship the slaver had arrived in,
and some of the ornaments were ancient. Modern amenities were in
abundance; a sleek refreshment centre, a massive vidscreen covering
one wall, holograph consoles and security sensors in the ceiling
that tracked everyone’s movements. She found it overpowering, and
suspected there were probably hidden weapons, too.
A spindly
Shirran sat on a white leather settee, and stood up as Tarke
approached, his slanted black eyes darting. According to Vidan, he
was an unimportant slaver who had only been in the trade for
fifteen years, and this was the first time he had met the Shrike.
Tarke swept his coat aside and settled on the sofa opposite, a low
jade table between them, and Rayne sat next to him. The business,
he had assured her, would be brief.
The Shirran,
Bartoff, bowed, coughed and sat down again. “My humblest greetings,
Grey Shrike. I will be brief. Your time is precious, I know. I
would like permission for my ships to cross a distant corner of
your territory, beyond Asimaar.”
Tarke inclined
his head. “Very well. You will pay twenty-five thousand regals per
year.”
Bartoff nodded.
“A fair sum.”
“What’s the
nature of your cargo?”
“I’m
transporting equipment for a new base.”
Rayne sensed
his duplicity and opened her mouth to tell Tarke the slaver was
lying. He took her hand, which startled her so much she forgot what
she had been about to say.
“Dear wife,
would you bring our guest a drink?”
Vidan, who
stood on Tarke’s right hand, scribe pad at the ready, looked
surprised. This was his duty, but only after the deal had been
completed. The breach of protocol also seemed to startle Bartoff,
but he requested a beverage in response to Rayne’s enquiry, and she
went to pour it. While she was busy, Tarke turned to the
slaver.
“Your
freighters will be stopped and searched when they enter my
territory. I hope you haven’t lied about the cargo. If they’re
carrying anything else, it will be confiscated or destroyed.”
Bartoff gaped
at him, neglecting to take the glass Rayne held out. She put it on
the table and sat beside her husband again.
Bartoff
frowned. “Well, there might be a small amount of drugs, too.”
“You should
know I don’t allow drugs to be transported across my territory. If
you try it, they’ll be confiscated, so don’t carry them, or take
another route.”
“That would
mean entering the Varron space storm, or detouring around it, a
journey of some ten hours through pirate-infested space. I’m
offering good money to travel two hours inside your territory. What
difference does my cargo make?”
“You know my
rules, or you wouldn’t have lied to me. Where you go is your
business, as long as it isn’t in my territory. I don’t need your
money, so I can indulge my personal dislikes all I want.”
Bartoff stood
up, his sallow face pinched with ill-concealed displeasure, and
Tarke rose to face him. “Then I’ll make other arrangements, Shrike.
Thank you for your time.”
Tarke inclined
his head, and Vidan showed the slaver out. As the doors closed
behind them, Rayne raised her brows at her husband.
“How did you
know what I was going to say?”
“Your
expressions are as easy for me to read as people’s emotions are to
you. You looked so outraged. I had to stop you. I don’t want my
enemies to know about your talent.”
“Then it’s
useful to you?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ll have
to bring you to all my meetings. But next time a glance will be
enough.”
“I’m glad you
don’t allow drugs in your territory, although it surprises me a
little.”
“You thought I
was a drug runner, too?” He shook his head. “I hate them, and my
rivals know it. Bartoff was trying to pull a fast one, thinking I
wouldn’t search his ships. Usually I don’t bother, even though I
know they might be lying; they also sometimes tell the truth.
Searching every ship would take up too much time, but knowing he
was lying made it easy to catch him out. I had not suspected him of
being a drug runner.”
“Why do you
hate them?”
“Not all drugs
are recreational or medicinal. Some are used on slaves.”
“Oh. I see. It
was done to you.”
“Yes.” He went
to the doors and waited for her to precede him into the corridor.
His terse reply told her the subject was taboo.
She shot him a
smile as they walked down the corridor. “‘Dear wife’?”
“A common term
of endearment. After all, that’s what you are.”
Rayne grinned,
delighted by the reminder of the bond between them that meant so
much to her. It seemed to mean a lot less to him, although he
occasionally referred to it. He had not made any gestures of
affection, and adroitly avoided most of hers. Sometimes he allowed
her to hold his hand, but seemed far more comfortable with it when
he wore his gloves. Without them, he always found a reason to
extricate his hand as soon as possible.
At first, she
had thought he was giving her time to get to know him; now she
feared that the arrangement was nothing more than exactly what he
had said – a kindness he had extended to save her from her previous
life. She wanted to know what the ‘technical detail’ was that made
marriage to him a job that would otherwise not be filled, but
lacked the courage to ask him.
Each time they
dined together, she tried to look her best, wore a pretty dress and
a little make up, but he did not seem to notice. She longed for him
to give her a hint that he found her something more than just an
interesting dinner companion. If she sat too close to him on the
couch, he would find a reason to move away. If anything, he had
become more unapproachable, and she had noticed that it coincided
with the times when he was not wearing the mask. On those occasions
he was clearly uncomfortable, and avoided eye contact. She had
understood the reason for it at first, since he was so unused to
anyone being able to see his face, but that should have waned by
now. She longed to get to the bottom of the mystery, and, she
hoped, discover what, if anything, he felt for her. She decided to
see if she could find out more that evening.
“Let’s watch a
vidfilm after dinner tonight,” she said.