Slave Empire - Prophecy (16 page)

The people of
Gergonia rarely ventured outside, living in sealed dwellings with
filters to eradicate the stench, the buildings joined by an
underground system of travel. Entertainment of the worst kind
flourished; gambling, whorehouses, drug dens, pain parlours and the
buying and selling of stolen property. The clientele was made up
entirely of crooks, petty tyrants and wealthy psychopaths. No one
asked questions on Gergonia, and merchandise sold there rarely
surfaced on law-abiding worlds. The residents who ran the markets
and pleasure houses originated on some of the most obscure planets,
had arrived on Gergonia by unpleasant means, and cared nothing for
anyone else's misfortune.

The Draycon
ship docked amongst the assortment of converted freighters,
battered explorers, old fighters bought from defeated dictators and
a smattering of modern ships. Two armoured Draycon guards
manhandled Rayne from her cell, and a sting on the side of her neck
warned her that they had given her a drug. As they hustled her down
a passage to a smooth docking bay with a shuttle parked in it, a
wave of vertigo washed over her, followed by a strange detachment.
She barely registered the trip to the surface, and walked between
the guards when they dragged her from the shuttle.

A room, a
corridor and a busy chamber followed each other in a blur; voices
spoke in strange languages she did not understand. She was led into
a dim room filled with the stench of sweat and fear, a strong
sensation of misery pervading the air. She tried to rouse herself
sufficiently to take in her surroundings, noticing that the
Draycons now wore masks.

After a hissed
conversation with a blue-skinned man, the guards took her into an
empty area, leaving the other two Draycons behind. The blue-skinned
man followed, armed with a gavel, and mounted a podium. Rayne shook
her head to try to clear the fog and gazed around with dazed,
unfocussed eyes. The short, tubby blue man whose bald pate gleamed
under the bright lights stood on a podium to one side. He clasped
chubby hands and smiled down from his pedestal.

Rayne started
when she noticed the crowd seated in tiers of seats before him. A
sea of masks stared up at the stage on which she stood. She
shivered, aware of how little clothing she wore, and the horror of
her situation seeped into her dull brain. Closing her eyes to block
out the bright lights and weird masks, she swayed in her guards'
grip. They kept her upright when she would have fallen, and the
auctioneer's loud, brash voice jabbed her brain, reviving her
enough to understand his fluent Atlantean.

"Lords and
majesties, crooks and cutthroats! I present to you a special piece
of merchandise. A human! One of only two left in the universe; a
lovely creature. Obviously reluctant, but then some of you prefer
them that way."

A wave of
chuckling swept the audience. The auctioneer stepped down beside
Rayne and gripped her hair to lift her face to the light. She kept
her eyes closed, too numb to fight.

The man's
strident voice rang out. "Look at her! What a beauty! Descended
from Atlantean intervention; a rare success. Who will start the
bidding at twenty thousand? She's worth much more. Look at the
hair, the figure, the face! Come along gentlemen, imagine all the
fun you can have taming her! And if you can't tame her, have some
fun killing her! You have money to burn! Give me thirty thousand,
yes! Over there, fifty! Thank you sir, sixty there... yes? Seventy
thousand I am bid. Eighty! Thank you sir, ninety over there...
good, ninety-five? Yes! Any more? Come along gentlemen. Any more
than ninety-five? Look at her! Any more bids?"

The auctioneer
paused, evidently waiting for those who had not quite made up their
mind yet. Distant mutters mingled with the swish of a door closing
and footsteps that approached her, and Rayne opened her eyes. A
tall, black-clad figure with a dark grey coat and an intricate mask
sauntered to the front of the audience. People stepped from his
path, but she sensed it was not because of the two men in black and
silver uniforms who followed him. A hawk-like silver emblem glinted
on his chest as he stopped before the stage to gaze up at her. The
auctioneer stared at him, and the stranger nodded.

"Sold! For one
hundred thousand regals!" The auctioneer banged his gavel. "To the
Shrike!"

The Shrike
raised a gloved hand, and his men climbed onto the stage to relieve
the Draycon guards of their captive.

Chapter Ten

The men pulled
Rayne along, supporting her when her legs buckled, their shoes
tapping on a hard floor. Strange sensations penetrated her dazed
mind. A smell of burning oil, a pungent odour she could not
identify, and the passing of a nearby hum. Ephemeral bright lights
glowed through her eyelids, but she could not open them. A door
hissed open, and she was pushed onto a soft chair, which, she
discovered when she slipped sideways, was a couch. Alarms jangled
in her numb brain, but she could do nothing about it, for her limbs
refused to obey her. Her worries could not keep her awake, nor
could she summon the willpower to use her healing to oust the drug
that held her in its thrall, and sleep washed her away on a black
tide.

Rayne woke
with a start, and sat up to find everything back in focus. Pale
walls surrounded her, a thick maroon carpet covered the floor, and
some rather ugly paintings hung on the walls. For a moment she
thought she was back on Earth, for the room lacked the Atlantean
technology and propensity for flora. The faint but unmistakeable
smell of rotten eggs reminded her of where she was, and memories of
her recent ordeal rushed back. Thoughts of escape hammered at her
brain, and she rose to examine her prison.

When she
discovered that the door would not open and the room lacked any
other exit, she went back to the couch and sat down. Several
minutes later, a tall, black-clad man entered and paused, as if to
gauge her reaction, but she merely stared at him. A grey coat
relieved his sable garb, which included gloves with silver emblems
on the back and a strangely designed mask that covered his head and
neck. His well-cut suit clung to a whipcord figure with broad
shoulders and narrow hips. The suit's seams were ridged in the
Atlantean manner, concealing its fastenings. Nothing hinted at his
race other than his form, which appeared to be human, Atlantean, or
one of many other races that shared the humanoid physique.

Rayne's fears
multiplied as a dozen unsavoury prospects invaded her still-raw
mind. Tension curdled her stomach, and a sour taste crept into her
mouth. The Draycon woman's words shouted from her memory, drawing
dark images in her flinching mind. The man broke his immobile
stance to clasp his hands behind his back, and his action pushed
back his coat to reveal a weapon clipped to his belt. She wondered
if this was deliberate.

Rayne licked
her lips. "Who are you?" It came out as a croak, and she swallowed
to try to alleviate her dry throat. Her fuzzy recollection of the
auction supplied the name the auctioneer had given him: the Shrike.
It sounded ominous.

The Shrike
picked up a suit of clothes from a table by the door and threw them
onto the couch beside her, then left. Realising that she still wore
the scanty garment in which the Draycons had dressed her, she
changed into the black one-piece suit with a silver hawk emblem on
the right side of the chest. After throwing the dress into a
corner, she sat down again and tried to figure out what she should
do now. Perhaps her new captor would listen to reason and return
her to Atlan if she offered him a reward.

Whether or not
the council paid it was irrelevant, as long as she got back to
Atlan. He unnerved her, and, despite her hopes, she wondered if he
would be susceptible to bribes or blackmail. His silence, and the
Draycon woman's promise that her new owner would kill her,
increased her anxiety. The Draycon woman, however, had no way of
knowing who would buy her, and a chance existed that this man was
not the sort the woman had hoped for. Rayne's stomach rumbled and
she cursed it. Now was not the time to think of food.

Rayne jumped
when the door opened to admit her captor and a black-uniformed man
carrying a tray, which he set down on the table before leaving. She
watched the Shrike, wondering if he was going to speak this
time.

"Eat
something," he said in fluent, slightly accented Atlantean, his
voice deep and attractive. "You must be hungry."

She glanced at
the steaming food, which looked like nutri-paste, and shook her
head.

He sat in the
chair opposite. "What are you afraid of?"

"You." She
struggled to keep her voice from quivering. He radiated strength
and confidence as if it oozed from his pores.

"Why?"

"I don't know
you, but the woman who sold me said you would kill me."

"Really?
Drevina doesn't know me that well, I assure you. And I'm hardly
likely to do that when I just paid a hundred thousand regals for
you. Of course, you were too drugged to know anything."

Not quite, she
mused. "So now I'm a slave?" She wished he would take off the mask,
it bothered her.

"Legally,
yes."

"I see." She
strived to remain calm. It sounded like someone else spoke.

"Do you?"

"Probably not,
but I expect I'm going to find out. So, you're not a violent
pervert who enjoys killing slaves?"

"I flatter
myself that I'm not a pervert, and I'm not going to kill you."

"Then what do
you intend to do with me?"

"You'll find
out soon. How were you captured?" His husky voice sent shivers down
her spine.

"The Draycons
kidnapped me on Atlan. They must have used gas. I woke up on their
ship. They might have killed my brother. I don't know what happened
to him."

"So, the
Atlanteans took you from your home world before it died. I wondered
what happened to you."

She frowned.
"How do you know my world is dead? You don’t know where I’m
from."

"I do. We’ve
met before, in a manner of speaking, although you might not
remember such a brief encounter."

Rayne searched
her reeling mind for an explanation, finding a dim memory of a
black-clad man in a blind alley, blue laser humming over her as she
lay huddled on a dirty road. "You were there, on Earth. You shot
the store guards."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He shrugged.
"You needed help. I was there. Why not?"

"Will you help
me again? Take me back to Atlan? The council will reimburse
you."

The Shrike
paused, and she hoped that he was considering her request. His
rescue on Earth did not mean he was a good person, she reflected.
If he was a slaver, he might have been planning to capture her
then, but the Atlanteans had chased him away. He stood up, and she
leapt to her feet, backing away.

His head
turned to follow her retreat. "There's no need to fear me. I'm not
going to hurt you."

Rayne wanted
to believe him, but her instincts clamoured for caution. She could
sense neither friendliness nor hostility from him. He appeared to
have no emotions at all. He seemed taller than Rawn, but perhaps it
was the coat and mask.

"How can I
trust a man who hides his face?"

"Is that
what's worrying you?"

"Partly." She
moved closer to the wall and leant against it, feigning
confidence.

"I'm afraid I
can't take it off."

"Then I won't
trust you."

The Shrike
shook his head, the mask's flat planes gleaming. Most of it was
dull, but shiny, tinted plasglass covered his eyes, reflecting the
light.

"Suit
yourself." He turned and left.

Rayne closed
her eyes and slumped, then returned to the couch and ate the
meat-flavoured nutri-paste. Considering her situation again, she
found no good in it. Her only hope was the fact that he had not
refused to return her to Atlan, and perhaps considered it. Common
sense howled against this naive fantasy, reminding her that a
slaver who had just paid a small fortune for her would not be keen
on returning her to Atlan for the sake of getting his money back.
She should have offered him a reward to sweeten the deal. Then
again, it would be dangerous for him to go near Atlan, since they
imprisoned slavers. So she would have to guarantee his safety, too,
which she was not sure she could do. There was no reason for him to
trust her any more than she trusted him, either. As her thoughts
whirled in useless circles, her eyes grew leaden as her full
stomach compounded her fatigue, and the room was so quiet that she
fell asleep.

Rayne woke to
find her captor standing over her, and leapt off the couch like a
startled cat. Lacking feline reactions, she tripped over her feet
and landed with a thud on her rump. She grimaced, then tried to
scramble away in alarm when he stepped towards her. He gripped her
wrist before she could evade him and hauled her to her feet, and as
soon as she was upright she tried to pry his fingers loose. After a
futile struggle with his iron grip, she became aware that he was
merely watching her efforts, and glared up at the horrible
mask.

"Are you going
to just stand there and hold my arm all day?"

She sensed his
reluctant smile, and he said, "You should be more careful. I don't
want you to hurt yourself."

"Well your
wishes aren't exactly high on my list of priorities, you know."

"You're very
brave all of a sudden."

"This isn't
bravery, it's called desperation. Something you wouldn't know
anything about."

"I understand
better than you know," he replied.

"I'll bet you
get your kicks from terrorising helpless slaves, but I won't give
you the satisfaction again." She drew a shaking breath. "Look, if
you take me to Atlan, I'll see to it that you're rewarded as well
as reimbursed."