fortuneswheel (8 page)

* * *

Carrie sat looking bleakly at the door. Well, she'd gotten what she'd asked for. Her mind was quiet, just an awareness of a faint pressure that was Kusac, none of his thoughts. He'd given her the time and space that she'd asked for.
She sat there, going over in her mind what he'd said about the link. Unbidden, memories of time spent studying and practicing linking in to medics, to Chemerians and Touibans all came flooding in, demanding to be sorted and relearned by her. Whatever she chose, there would always be Kusac's memories. Her headache began to return as, panicking, she fought to control them, to push them down to a level where they wouldn't intrude on her consciousness.
"... the Link is still incomplete." She heard the echo of his voice as finally she succeeded, knowing it was only a temporary victory. Instinctively, she reached for him but met only solitude and the pain flaring behind her eyes.

Brother Dzaka had taken the seat reserved for him in the front row. Rhuso, one of the Telepath Guild tutors, had requested that he attend this unofficial gathering of those who'd lost clansfolk on the colony worlds of Khyaal and Szurtha. Already the meeting had given him cause for disquiet. Despite the counseling that had been given to all the relatives of those who had died, this small group of about twenty people had still not come to terms with their loss. The nuances of feelings he was experiencing from some of those gathered in the room were causing him concern.
Traditionally, only telepaths could become priests, but few telepaths entered the priesthood and those who did, didn't want to serve in the Forces. Consequently, the religious needs of the ships were often met by lay brothers like himself. A member of the Brotherhood of Vartra, Sub-Guild of the Warrior's, his position on the ship not to mention in society, was as ambiguous as the God Vartra Himself. Patron of both the Warrior and the Telepath Guilds, Vartra represented the ability of the warrior to fight for peace, then, like the telepaths, lay aside his weapons as one unable to fight. Theologians had argued for centuries as to whether the God was depicted laying his weapons down, or had halted in the act of picking them up. Dzaka had never been able to decide.
Unbidden, the God's image came to his mind's eye as powerfully as if he stood before the massive carved statue in the Brotherhood's temple.
Gentle laughter echoed in his mind. He knew it well, and the voice that spoke to him.
Well, Dzakayini— little-one-brought-in-from-the-cold!
Here you are again. You'll find no answer in staring at
my
image: look within yourself, that is where your harmony lies!
The laughter and the image faded, leaving him sitting there shaking because of the rebuke. It was no God-Vision and he knew it, but just the same... Lieutenant Nuada was trying to field questions from several angry individuals.
"I want to know why we haven't been given any real details concerning what happened," a young trooper was saying. "It's the inalienable right of surviving Clan members to be allowed to bury their relatives. We've been denied that right and given no concrete reasons for it! There might even be survivors!"
"There were no survivors, and you've been told that it would be impossible to identify the dead," said Nuada. "The devastation was global. There was no warning. People died where they were— in the streets, in their homes, at work."
"If they died in their homes, then all I need to do is go to my Clan's land. I'm not asking a lot, only that I be allowed to at least visit my home and bury my dead."
Dzaka looked at the trooper. Still a youngling, barely into adulthood. Tears of frustration and loss were trickling down the sides of his nose.
"I'm afraid that's impossible," began the Lieutenant. Dzaka stood up and turned round to face the room of angry and grieving Sholans.
"You feel angry and cheated because you haven't been given enough information, do you? You can't believe that your Clans are gone, your loved ones dead? 'But they were there yesterday,' I hear you say. 'How can they be gone?' " He stopped, aware that his own voice was rising in anger, an anger that should not be directed at his own people.
"You need to see for yourself that there is no chance of survivors," he said quietly, looking round the stunned faces of the young trainees and the few older career people. "I can understand, but thank the Gods that you haven't seen it for yourselves. You want facts? Then I'll give them to you, and when you wake in the night sweating and crying out for your loved ones, don't curse me for telling you!" He stopped to catch his breath.
"Brother Dzaka, I don't think..." began Nuada.
"No, you don't think," said Dzaka. "They need to know. We of the Brotherhood were called in from the first when the scale of the... destruction... was realized. It was as Nuada said, bodies everywhere. They lay where they'd fallen— on the streets, in the stores, in the still smoldering wrecks of vehicles gone out of control. There was no dignity in their deaths. They lay as if an angry giant had finished his game and had tossed his toy people away." He stopped, noticing that the younger ones had their ears laid back in distress. Well, they were getting what they'd demanded.
"Some buildings had been hit by falling vehicles and were still blazing when we landed. The stench of burning flesh and decomposing bodies filled the air and made us retch." He looked round the room again, picking out the previously vociferous youngster.
"But do you know what really brought the devastation home to us?" he asked, pinning the youngling to his seat with a look. "The silence. Not a bird, not an insect. Nothing. However they were killed, it was immediate and without warning. The only life left on those two worlds was microscopic— bacteria. No higher life survived, and we have no idea how it was done."
"That's classified, Brother Dzaka," said Lieutenant Nuada sharply.
Dzaka turned round. "Who the hell are they going to tell, Nuada?" he demanded. "Each other? Rumor is doing more harm." He turned back to his silent audience.
"We can't tell how it was done because of the damage caused by the deaths. It could have been nerve gas that dissipated within a few hours. It could have been an air attack— we just can't tell yet."
"What's being done to discover the cause?" asked a grizzled officer wearing the green flash of the Communications Guild on his shoulder.
"All the samples we needed were taken during our first, and last, visit. There were a hundred teams working at different locations on each planet," said Dzaka. "The samples are still being analyzed back on Nijidi, the orbiting science lab."
"What is being done about... seeing to the dead?" asked one of the young females, her voice barely audible.
Dzaka glanced at Nuada.
"There's no point in withholding that information from them since you've told them everything else," the Lieutenant said resignedly.
"A network of large incendiary devices was placed on each world. We detonated them simultaneously. When the global fires finally cease, we may be able to start reseeding the two worlds with life-forms from Shola and our remaining colony, Khoma."
"That could take hundreds of years!" exclaimed someone.
"There's no rush," said Nuada dryly. "We haven't the population now to warrant another colony."
There was a stunned silence as this last fact was absorbed. Now they finally understood that two worlds and millions of inhabitants had really died.
"I pray that now you can let your loved ones go," said Dzaka. "They have been cremated as custom demands, and, believe me, prayers were said. The manner of their deaths may have been ignoble, an act of cowardice against them by an enemy unwilling to face a fair fight, but we sent them to the Gods with all the honors of Warriors. Their names and Clans are listed in the Hall of Remembrance in the Governor's palace. Already the work of ensuring that no Clan is allowed to die out has begun. Relatives are being contacted— they'll be in touch with you soon— and, where possible, Clan Leaders are being appointed from the main family line. If this isn't possible, the nearest relative will be appointed. When the time is right for expansion, your Clans will be offered prime places on new worlds. This information will be posted to the comms of all the families involved within the next few days. There is no more we can do, except mourn with you."
There was nothing more to say, and within a couple of minutes the room had emptied.
Dzaka sat down heavily. His imagination and memory were too strong for his own good. While he spoke, he had been reliving the scenes on Khyaal. They would remain with him forever because he'd lost his own family on Szurtha.
At length, Nuada broke the silence. "I'll have to report this to the Commander."
"So report me," he said tiredly. "I don't really care. The only way to convince them their clansfolk were dead was to tell them. What I saw made me grateful that I didn't have to visit Szurtha."
"Don't think me unsympathetic," said the other, his tone gentle. "I have no option, you know that."
Dzaka nodded. "I was asked to close the matter as quickly as possible. I think I've done that. I'd be surprised if they tell anyone else what they heard tonight. No one in their right mind would wish to cause another that much grief. I still wake in the dead of night, and it's been four months now."
Nnya, I should have been with you, I should have been
there!
The ache of her loss welled up again. He would give his life just to see her, touch her, one more time. Yes, he knew how those others felt.

* * *

"Commander Vroozoi," said Raguul, keeping his temper in check. "I'm glad you could spare the time to talk to me."
"One of the disadvantages of command," said Vroozoi. "Never enough time, as you'll find out one day, eh, Raguul?" His mouth opened in an expansive, toothy smile. "Now, what was your problem?"
With a supreme effort of willpower, Raguul managed to keep his ears from moving. Damn you, he thought angrily. You're my problem!
"Commander, I believe you have another Valtegan captive," he said. "When can I expect him to be sent to the
Khalossa
for questioning?"
"My dear fellow, what makes you think he'll be coming over to you for questioning?" Vroozoi arched an eye ridge in surprise.
"Questioning the captives is my province," Raguul replied stiffly. "Chief Commander Chuz made that clear to me."
"He did?" Vroozoi managed to convey extreme surprise. "Then once the planet is considered secure, I'll make sure any captives are conveyed directly to you. At the moment, with everybody still on maximum alert, they are naturally being brought here since the craft conveying them off-planet are from the
Cheku."
"Then when will I get an opportunity to interrogate your prisoner?"
Vroozoi looked regretfully out of the screen at Raguul. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Commander Raguul. Once again the prisoner has decided that suicide is a preferable option to captivity."
"That's the third one dead in as many days," said Raguul, his voice tight with suppressed anger he could no longer completely contain. "Perhaps your interrogators are a little overenthusiastic?"
Vroozoi frowned. "Let me be sure I've got you right, Raguul. Are you inferring my officers are to blame?"
"Far from it, Commander," Raguul said through gritted teeth. He hated having to stalk around this male, watching what he said. "After all, your officers aren't trained in the diplomatic niceties as mine are. As you said, each to his own."
"I hear the treaty talks are hitting a few problems, and then there's your rogue telepath and his human Leska," Vroozoi drawled, absently arching his hands so his clawtips touched. "Perhaps you'd do better to solve your diplomatic problems and leave the other matters to me." In one fluid move, he reached forward and blanked the screen.
"Damn him!" swore Raguul, his fist thumping the desk. "That bastard isn't going to let me forget about the Aldatan cub! How in all the hells am I supposed to do my job when Vroozoi blocks me at every opportunity?"
"Commander, ignore him," said Myak soothingly, bringing over a mug of c'shar and putting it down in front of him. "He's trying to get you wound up."
Raguul growled deep in his throat before taking a drink. "I know what he's up to. He thinks if he interrogates the Valtegan captives, he'll be the one to get the information High Command wants. He's after another promotion!"
"I'm sure you're right, sir," said Myak, moving round to sort the papers on his Commander's desk. "May I suggest that a call to Alien Relations on Shola might expedite the situation? A suggestion that the true situation on Keiss is well under control may also help, shall we say, facilitate the removal of the
Cheku
and Fleet Commander Vroozoi back to sector eleven."
Raguul looked sideways at Myak. "Perhaps you'd like to make that call."
Myak's ears flicked backward, then righted themselves. "Ah, yes. Perhaps a message from our AlRel department would be more appropriate," he said hurriedly. "Shall I see to it, Commander?"
"Yes. As soon as possible."
A klaxon began to blare. "All personnel to battle stations. Commander Raguul to the bridge. All personnel to battle stations."
"What the hell...?" muttered Raguul, pushing his chair back and heading for the door at a run.

* * *

For three days they'd lain silent amongst the debris surrounding the dead planet on the outermost reaches of Keiss' solar system. Their craft the
M'ijikk,
wasn't large, certainly not up to defending itself against either of the two starships that had suddenly arrived several days ago.
M'ezozakk had the four prisoners dragged up to the command room to look at the alien craft, hoping by their reactions to discover if they were of the same species. They certainly didn't belong to the pale humans. They weren't capable of that level of technology. He thought he'd seen a spark of recognition in the eyes of one of them, but it had quickly died when he'd tried to question them.
Communicating with them was almost impossible. They'd refused food and drink until he'd ordered them force-fed; they were prepared to die rather than talk. These captives were his one edge over his enemies, and he had to have them beaten almost senseless to get a sound out of them. They lay chained in the Shrine Room, as much for their own safety as from his sense of foreboding regarding them. His men, like all those from the fighting class, were riddled with superstitious fears and saw these furred captives as demons incarnate, hating them with an almost psychotic fury.
Born to the leading tribe on M'Zull, he knew better. But even he, who normally only paid the barest courtesy demanded to the priests, had found his footsteps leading him to the Shrine. Like the priests, he had looked to the dark shape they revered for answers. None had been forthcoming. The dull faces of the cuboid remained as enigmatic as ever, its surface neither absorbing nor reflecting light, belonging neither to this world nor the next.
As he left, he nudged the nearest captive with his toe. It moved slightly, curling tighter round itself. On the filthy uniform jacket, he could see the flash of purple on the shoulder that told him it was one of the two small ones— females, the priests said. What kind of species let their females walk freely outside the nest? They were as contemptible as the humans, deserving of the sickly hatchlings they were bound to produce when allowed to breed without check.
Irritated, he kicked it this time, sending it sprawling.
A priest, all but concealed beneath his blood-red robes, glided unctuously forward, "General, the creature is chained. Do you wish me to release it?"
M'ezozakk leaned down and picked the creature up by the scruff of the neck, lifting her clear of the floor. A faint mewl escaped her as she tried to reach behind her to the hand gripping her neck.
"Yes," he snapped, raising his head crest in anger. "I'll try one more time to get sense out of it!" He set his captive's feet on the ground, ignoring the hands that clutched at his arm for support.
The priest approached the General, bowing low, and reached out to the collar round the captive's neck. Using his long nonretractable claws, he punched a combination into the lock that held the end of the chain. Released, it fell heavily to the deck floor.
Transferring his grip to the collar, M'ezozakk dragged the creature along the corridor to the command center.
They'd been running on emergency power till now, feeding just enough to the view screens every few hours so that they could monitor the situation around Keiss. His current predicament was unenviable, but at least he'd survived so far. Had his ship not been called away from this sector, he'd have been a sitting target when this enemy fleet had arrived.
He flung the creature on the floor at the base of his seat and turned to look at the main screen.
"Divert power to the forward scanner," he ordered. The lighting dimmed as the screen came on line, showing the
Cheku
and the
Khalossa
surrounded by their small fleet of cruisers floating starkly against the blackness of space.
"The passive scanners have shown that all is quiet for the moment, General. They sent out a patrol over an hour ago," said his first officer.
He sat down in his chair and reached forward, pulling the female up on her knees. Cupping the back of her head with his hand, he forced her to look at the screen. He pointed to the two craft. "Yours?" he asked, prodding her in the chest.
The inner nictitating lids were almost closed. She could barely see the screen.
Still holding her by the back of her head, he shook her until she finally mewled with pain and fear. Again he forced her to look at the screen and repeated his question, tightening the grip on her head and neck until he felt his talons pierce her flesh, then he eased off.
"Yours?" he demanded.
The inner lids closed and she went limp in his grasp. Disgusted, he pushed her away, letting her lie where she fell. He was sure that these ships belonged to her species, the same species whose planet he had helped destroy.
When he'd intercepted the small craft, he'd ordered it disabled so they could take captives. He'd intended to use them to add to his already strong position back home on M'Zull. He came from the ruling family— only a cousin to be sure— but his discovery of this world twelve years ago had ensured that his branch reached prominence in the Royal Court. Now he'd lost it all. The fact that he'd survived would be an embarrassment to his family. It was one they'd rectify by his murder— and call it an execution— if he didn't commit suicide as tradition demanded.
Somehow death had no appeal for him, which left him with very few options for the future. His crew would support him because his defeat was theirs and they would likewise be condemned to death. He had a plan, an audacious one worthy of the Emperor himself, if he could pull it off.
He stilled his hand, aware that he'd been tapping his claws on the armrest, an unacceptable sign of weakness. His men were twitchy enough without that. His plan was a double bluff, but first he had to hide the Holy object. He might appear to defect, but he couldn't allow his family's sacred totem to fall into the enemy's hands, and he would need to recover it before they could return to M'Zull. The captives were of no use to him now, but he knew where he could trade them for supplies, and hide the totem at the same time.
"Power up," he ordered, his mind finally made up. To wait longer was only to deny the obvious. The whole plan was fraught with danger, but this first step was the most daunting.