Slave Empire III - The Shrike (33 page)

“He’s just a
slave,” Tallyn said.

The medic
nodded. “Looks like he’s been in service for a long time.”

Tallyn pushed
aside the thick material that covered the man’s throat to reveal
the oily black gleam of a Xiltran slave collar. “Damn.”

Tallyn frowned,
hefting the mask, which was rather heavy. He lifted it to examine
it more closely. The inside was padded along the cheekbones, and it
contained a number of sophisticated instruments, including air
filters, evaporator pads, optical and auditory enhancers, and an
aperture in front of the mouth that slid aside at a touch. The
previous decoys, he recalled, had worn simple plasteel masks that
had not even looked particularly comfortable, while this one was
clearly designed to be comfortably worn for long periods of time.
It appeared to be made of a polymer alloy, and the padding was
velvet, which, together with the instruments, meant that it was
expensive. Perhaps the Shrike was simply making sure this decoy was
believable. Tallyn put the mask on the table beside the bed and
headed for the door. The Council would be waiting for his report.
The fact that another decoy slave would be executed for the
Shrike’s crimes did not sit well with him.

The Net shell
dispersed outside the Council building, and he strode within, his
footsteps echoing in the vast, pillared marble hall with its
crystal statues and verdant atriums. The guards outside the Council
chamber’s doors opened them for him, indicating that the Council
was eager to hear his report. The members were embroiled in a
muttered discussion when he entered, and fell silent as he
approached. Vargon straightened and smiled, his dark eyes
eager.

“Commander
Tallyn. I trust you have good news for us?”

“Not exactly.
We captured a man, but I don’t believe it’s the Shrike. He’s just
another decoy; a slave.”

Vargon frowned.
“Have you questioned him?”

“It won’t do
any good. He’ll say he’s the Shrike.”

“Then he must
be made to tell the truth. We have drugs for that, don’t we?”

“Yes. Will he
be spared if he admits that he’s not the Shrike?”

Vargon shook
his head. “He’s still guilty of killing two soldiers and breaking
into an Atlantean facility.”

“Then I don’t
see the point in questioning him if he’s going to die whether he’s
the Shrike or not. If he is the Shrike, allowing him to wake up
will be dangerous. He’ll call for help.”

“We need to
know, Commander, so we can announce the execution of such a
notorious criminal. We’ve been tricked too many times. It’s
embarrassing, and we don’t like to be embarrassed. This time we
must be sure.”

“There is a
foolproof way to find out the truth, sir, that won’t require waking
him up.”

“What’s that?”
Vargon asked.

“Allow Rayne to
see him, and have a telepath read her mind.”

“The last time
we tried that, it didn’t work too well.”

“Yes sir. I’m
not suggesting another memory probe. All we need is to read her
surface thoughts when she sees him. She won’t even be aware of
it.”

Vargon glanced
at the other Council members, who shrugged or nodded. He faced
Tallyn again. “Very well, do it, Commander, then report.”

“Yes, sir.”
Tallyn spun on his heel and marched out.

Rayne drifted
into wakefulness through the fading mists of sleep, and stretched
with a sigh. A pang of alarm made her heart flutter and her eyes
spring open as she remembered the hospital orderly spraying
something in her face. She sat up and looked around. She lay on a
broad bed, clad in a silken nightgown, in a dimly lighted room
decorated in soft pastels. Becoming aware of someone close to her,
she turned and gasped as she found Tarke lying beside her. He
seemed to be asleep, and he was not wearing the neural dampener.
She glanced around again, her uneasiness growing at her strange
surroundings and the bad taste in her mouth. Her head pounded and
her stomach growled. What was Tarke doing here? What had happened
after the orderly had sprayed her? Where was she?

Shifting away
from him, she said, “Tarke… wake up.”

Normally he
would have snapped awake at the slightest sound. Even her movement
should have woken him. He wore a grey shirt and trousers, which she
had never seen him in before. There were too many unfamiliar things
about the situation, and her suspicion and unease grew.

“Tarke!” Rayne
hesitated, then touched his shoulder. Alarmed by his lack of
response, she shook him. “Tarke? Wake up! Tarke!”

Thoroughly
panicked, Rayne shook him with growing desperation. Tears stung her
eyes and a sob closed her throat as an awful sense of foreboding
filled her. The last thing she remembered was visiting Rawn in
hospital on Atlan, but Tarke could not be on Atlan. If he was, all
hell was about to break loose. What had happened while she was
unconscious?

“Shadowen!” she
whispered, but no calm, reassuring voice answered her. “What the
hell is going on?”

The door opened
and Tallyn entered, looking disgruntled, or perhaps worried. It was
hard to tell, with him.

“Tallyn? What’s
going on? Where am I?”

He stopped
beside the bed. “I’m sorry, Rayne. We know who he is. Our telepath
just confirmed it. This is the Shrike, isn’t it?”

“No! He’s… one
of the Shrike’s men. What the hell is he doing in bed with me?”

He shook his
head. “It’s no use denying it now. Sorry.” Tallyn turned and
nodded, and two men entered with a floating stretcher.

“What are you
going to do with him?”

“Execute him,
of course.” He sighed. “It’s a shame, really. I’m surprised he’s an
ex-slave. I guess he liked doing to others what was once done to
him.”

“No, you don’t
understand.” She tried to cling to Tarke’s hand as the orderlies
lifted him onto the stretcher. “He’s not a slaver! Where are you
taking him? What’s wrong with him? Why can’t I call Shadowen?”

“He’s being
taken back to his cell, and he’s drugged, obviously. Your implant
has been deactivated; that’s why you can’t talk to your ship.”

Rayne climbed
off the bed, swaying, and tried to reach Tarke, but one of the
orderlies pushed the stretcher out of the door, and the other one
stepped closer to her at Tallyn’s nod. An air syringe hissed
against her arm, and Tallyn took hold of her elbow and helped her
onto the bed as a wave of dizziness made her reel. She gazed up at
him, tears blurring her vision.

“What have you
done?”

“We’ve finally
captured the Shrike, and soon his reign of terror will end.”

“You fool,” she
whispered. “He’s not a slaver. He saves slaves. If you kill him…
you’ll all die. The Slave Empire will strike back, and it won’t
stop until the last ex-slave is dead. Don’t you understand? They
love him. They’ll die for him… All of them.”

“Not once he’s
dead.”

“Especially if
he’s dead! They will utterly destroy Atlan out of vengeance,
because he saved them, and without him they’re doomed. They need
him… He’s their
Dalreen
…You’ve got to persuade the Council
to let him go!”

Tallyn shook
his head. “Impossible. Sleep now. It will all be over soon.”

“You’re killing
a good man who has saved hundreds of thousands of slaves from
misery; the man who saved me from the Envoy and the Draycons and
even you… How could you, Tallyn?” Tears spilt down her cheeks. “I
love him, and you’re going to be
so
sorry if you kill him.
Or maybe you won’t, because you’ll be dead.”

“The Shrike’s
empire is no match for Atlan.”

“He may not
have as many ships as you, but Vengeance stood no chance against
Shadowen and Scimarin, did she? And they’re the least of Tarke’s
ships. I’ve seen his flagship… Empire… She’s twice the size of
Vengeance and could reduce this planet to rubble on her own.
Millions are going to die…” Her eyelids drooped, and she tried to
cling to consciousness as her words became slurred. “Millions will
die…”

Vidan sat back,
cold with shock. Shadowen’s distress message, relayed through
Scimarin, repeated over and over from the speakers on the coms
console, and the men and women who manned the control centre on
Ironia sat as frozen as he.

“Atlan has
captured the Shrike… I repeat, Atlan has captured the Shrike. This
is Shadowen. Atlan has captured the Shrike… I repeat, Atlan…”

The message was
being broadcast on Tarke’s personal frequency, with his personal
identity codes, which meant every ship in the fleet was receiving
it. Mere moments after the message started, replies overlaid
Shadowen’s calm voice.

“This is the
frigate Sunray, responding... This is the troopship Starlight,
responding, nine hours away… This is the destroyer Fire Blade,
responding… This is the battle cruiser Invincible, responding,
eight hours away… This is the battleship Guardian, responding… This
is the destroyer Fearsome, responding, ten hours away … This is the
battle cruiser Star Blade, responding… This is the battleship
Dreadnaught, responding… This is the flagship, Empire,
responding…”

Vidan buried
his head in his hands as the control room crew leapt up and ran for
the doors. “It’s going to be a bloodbath,” he muttered.

The incoming
responses continued, and now other, stranger replies mixed with the
warships’ responses that even surprised Vidan, but not a lot.

“This is the
freighter, Brigand, responding… This is the leisure yacht, Lancer,
responding… This is the ore carrier, Juggernaut, responding… This
is the asteroid miner, Pulsar, responding…”

The control
room crew, Vidan knew, had run for the hangars to board any vessel
it could find, as were most of the people on all of Tarke’s other
bases and planets. A flotilla of unarmed civilian vessels,
shuttles, freighters, luxury yachts, liners and any other vaguely
space worthy vessel that could make the trip to Atlan, was on its
way. They would do whatever they could to aid Tarke’s warships,
from ramming Atlantean vessels to rescuing the crews of disabled
ships and shielding them from enemy fire. Others would land to
disgorge tens of thousands of ex-slaves armed with anything they
could lay their hands on, from laser cannons to kitchen knives.

Yet despite
their fierce retribution, which he did not doubt would be bloody
and final, his beloved friend and leader, whom they all loved so
much, would die. Vidan jumped up and followed the control room
crew, hoping he was not too late to find a ship.

Tallyn gazed
down at the man on the execution block, surprised by the regret
that filled him. The Shrike had been his enemy for as long as he
had been commander of Vengeance, yet, in all that time, they had
only crossed swords once, on the day Rayne had almost died.
Dressings covered the wounds in the Shrike’s shoulder, thigh and
forearm. He had not been allowed to wake since he had been
captured, for fear that he would signal his fleet. Tallyn was sure
his ship had already done that. There was going to be one hell of a
battle, but he did not think it would last long.

The Council had
rushed through the Shrike’s execution so he would die only an hour
from now, a mere nine hours after he had been captured, before his
ships could reach Atlan. The Shrike’s territory, where most of his
fleet was located, was at least twelve hours from Atlan, according
to the experts. Tallyn hoped they were right; he had chased a few
of the Shrike’s ships in the past, and had never been able to catch
one. Once the Shrike’s people were informed of his death, they
would abandon their futile attempt to save him. Perhaps some would
attack out of vengeance, but the majority, the Council was sure,
would turn away. Tallyn was not so sure about that, either. Rayne’s
words still echoed in his mind. What if she told the truth? What if
they were wrong about the Shrike? What if his empire really would
fight to the last man? It would be a disaster. How many ships were
on their way here, he wondered.

The execution
stage was a vast, floating platform whose gold ceremonial pillars
were hung with banners bearing Atlan’s various emblems. The bluish
shimmer of a stress shield surrounded it, the oscillating,
alternating layers of charged air molecules a barrier to lasers,
solid objects and locator beams. The Council sat at one end, on
three tiers of seats, and the priesthood occupied three tiers on
its left, while other high-ranking dignitaries filled another three
tiers to the right of the Council. The well-dressed, high-caste men
and women chatted and laughed, sipping drinks that wandering
servants handed out. The shaven-pated members of the priesthood
abstained, their faces grim above gold-trimmed orange robes. The
Council members looked smug, basking in the acclaim they received
from the world leaders, who toasted their success. Today, they
celebrated the end of a slaver empire that had defied and defeated
Atlan’s attempts to end it for five decades, and everyone was in a
jolly mood.

Rayne sat on a
chair in front of the VIPs, closest to the execution block. She
wore a shimmering white ankle-length gown, and her eyes were half
closed. She was so full of drugs she was hardly aware of what was
going on, and that was a mercy, he reflected. The despair in her
eyes had torn his heart. She really loved the Shrike, he could
tell. How could the Golden Child love a slaver? Yet, he reminded
himself, for all her strange ability to kill the Envoy, she was
just a human girl from a now-dead planet. She had no special powers
other than her empathy. She was not a seer, but her words to him
earlier had had a prophetic ring.

An officer
approached him. “Sir, we’ve received messages from some of our
outposts and scout ships. There are thousands of ships heading for
Atlan. Most of them are the Shrike’s.”