Slave Empire III - The Shrike (18 page)

Rayne twined
her arms around his neck, holding him close when he would have
released her, and he took the hint and lay down beside her.

“Stay until I
fall asleep,” she said.

“All
right.”

Rayne turned to
face him, holding his neck so they were nose to nose. He played
with her hair, his eyes avoiding hers. She traced the strong lines
of his face, stroking his brows and the bridge of his nose. Tarke
rolled onto his back, took her hand and clasped it to his
chest.

“Go to sleep
now.”

She snuggled
closer with a sigh.

Chapter Eight

Rayne opened
her eyes and gazed at the ceiling, alone in the vast bed. Tarke’s
bed would be empty, she knew. Her husband rose at dawn to tend to
his empire, and it took up most of his time. Since they had
returned five months ago, their routine had gone back to almost
exactly the way it had been before her coma. She lived in his
apartment now, and he spent a lot more time at the base, leaving
only for a few days each month. They dined together every night
when he was at the base, and he showed her a little more affection.
She wondered if it would ever change. He tolerated her occasional
attempts to lure him into compromising situations with good
humoured unease, becoming adroit at evading her in ways that were
not so hurtful. At times, his reaction gave rise to wonderful
hilarity. He still visited her at her workplace, usually once a
day, and, now that she knew why, it saddened her.

Rawn had gone
home after a week, and the Crystal Ship had taken a hundred
seasoned troops to free its kin. It had returned three months later
with ninety-four, but the other two hundred and seventy-nine ships
had been freed. The potent venom had worked well, and, with
Scrysalza’s help, the ships had fought for their freedom alongside
the men. The soldiers had split into groups of twenty, and got the
procedure down to a fine art. Towards the end, they had been able
to free a ship in a matter of hours. Only one crystal ship had
died.

Gentle exercise
and physiotherapy had long since restored Rayne’s muscle tone, and
her health was back to normal. Tarke showed his affection in many
little ways, but she would have traded all of his gifts for a night
in his arms. Although he often lay beside her until she fell
asleep, he was never there when she woke up.

Rayne sat up as
an alarm wailed outside, rose and pulled on her standard issue
black coverall. Tying back her hair, she strode to the door. People
ran past in the corridor, and she sprinted after them. They seemed
panicked, making her wonder if the base was under attack. There
were no thuds of explosions, however, and no smoke in the corridor,
besides which, if the dome had been breached it would have been
quite hard to breathe. The people ahead of her raced into the
hangar dome, and she followed, finding it crowded.

Rayne elbowed
her way through the throng, filled with a nameless dread. Some
people recognised her and stepped aside, pulling others from her
path. Reaching the front of the crowd, she froze, her gasp choked
off as her throat closed.

The Shrike lay
on the floor, his back arched and his limbs rigid. Several men
clustered around him, others held back the crowd, and a knot of men
kicked and punched another prone person a short distance away. Men
fought to reach the front of the mob around the second person, who
appeared to be in danger of being torn limb from limb, and looked
dead. Rayne ran to kneel at her husband’s side, recoiling when one
of the wild-eyed men who crouched beside him turned on her, raising
a fist. Another man grabbed him and dragged him away, and Rayne
gazed down at Tarke, her heart in her mouth.

A commotion
started at the back of the throng, which parted to allow four men
with a floating stretcher to run through. Rayne touched Tarke’s
sleeve, and he jerked away, making her draw back again. Someone
gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet, and she turned to meet
Vidan’s anguished eyes.

“Don’t, Rayne,”
he said. “Don’t touch him.”

“What’s
happened to him?”

He glanced at
the corpse still being battered to a bloody pulp. “An assassin. I
think he’s been poisoned.”

“Oh, god...
no,” she started towards Tarke again, but he held her back.

“No. Stay here.
The medics will take care of him.”

“How did this
happen? Will he be all right? Tell me he’ll be all right,
Vidan!”

“I don’t know.
The assassin was disguised as a slave; came in on a transport that
arrived a little while ago. She begged to be allowed to thank
Tarke. He was in the office. He came out, and she... He let her
touch him.”

“Oh god,” Rayne
raised a hand to her mouth, a sob closing her throat as her tears
overflowed.

One of the
medics jumped up and turned to Vidan. “He’s stopped breathing. We
have to get the mask off!”

Vidan shouted,
“Everyone turn away! Cover your eyes! Do it now!”

Every person
swung away and covered his or her face. Some clasped their hands
and muttered prayers. The men who still kicked the corpse stopped
and covered their eyes, and women wept. Two medics turned their
backs as Vidan knelt beside Tarke.

“You’ll be
mind-wiped,” he said to the two remaining medics, who nodded.

Vidan pulled
Tarke’s gloves off and gripped his hands, pressing his fingertips
to the controls on the sides of the mask. It unclipped, and he
pulled it off, revealing the Shrike’s ashen face. A medic clamped a
breather over his mouth and nose, activating it, and Tarke’s chest
rose. The other medic cut open Tarke’s shirt and the skin suit
under it, sticking electrodes on the Shrike’s chest to stimulate
his heart. The first man lowered the floating stretcher, and they
lifted Tarke onto it, raised it and set off for the hangar doors at
a run. Vidan waited until the stretcher left the hangar before he
addressed the crowd again.

“All right,
he’s gone.”

The people
straightened, and the men who stood over the corpse kicked it
again.

Vidan
approached them. “That’s enough. She’s dead.”

“She should
have been made to die a thousand deaths,” one man said.

Another
ex-slave bent and tugged at the slave collar around the woman’s
throat, twisting and bending it until it parted. He held it up. “A
free woman!”

“What else?”
the first man said, glaring at the battered corpse.

A man stepped
in front of Rayne, blocking her view. He shook his head. “Don’t
look.”

Vidan took her
arm and tugged her towards the door. Rayne longed to be with Tarke,
but dreaded what she might find in the hospital. Tears chilled her
cheeks, and her heart was leaden. People cast her anguished looks,
many with wet cheeks. She stared ahead as Vidan led her to the
doors, hardly aware of the hands that stroked her arms and touched
her back in silent empathy. The sorrow, rage and anguish in the
hangar stunned her, making it impossible to think.

The short
journey to the hospital passed in a blur. Vidan guided her to the
foot of a bed where Tarke lay, hooked up to a multitude of beeping,
hissing machines. The breather still covered his mouth and nose,
and sensors flashed on his breastbone and brow. Tortured glass
panels hid him from prying eyes, and the same two medics bent over
him, consulted their instruments and muttered.

She looked at
Vidan, unable to shake the sensation of unreality. “What are they
doing?”

“They’re trying
to identify the poison, and keeping him alive until they can.”

“He’s not going
to die, is he? He can’t.”

He shook his
head. “Trust me; we’ll do everything we can to ensure he doesn’t.
These are two of the best doctors in the quadrant. In the last
assassination attempt, they used trimordel. This looks like the
same thing.”

“How many
assassination attempts have there been?”

“This is the
seventh.”

She was aghast.
“Who keeps trying to kill him?”

Vidan grimaced.
“Slavers, of course. The ones who tried before are dead, like
whoever tried this time will be, as soon as we find out who it is.
Unfortunately, there’s not much left of the assassin.”

“What
happened?”

“He allowed her
to touch his glove, as he sometimes does. You’ve seen it. She must
have had a poisoned needle concealed in her hand. I saw him jerk
his hand away and punch her. She was dead before she hit the floor.
He just stood there, looking at his hand... No one moved. Then he
collapsed.” Vidan rubbed his eyes. “The men went nuts, dragged her
body away and tried to tear it apart.”

One of the
medics gave a cry of triumph. “Trimordel!”

The other man
picked up an injector from the row on a table and pressed it to the
side of Tarke’s neck.

Vidan slumped.
“That’s the antidote.”

“So he’s going
to be all right?”

“I hope so.
We’re well prepared for this sort of thing, after the other
attacks. Only once did the assassin try to use a weapon, a glass
dagger she concealed... Well, somewhere private. We don’t search
the slaves. Usually they arrive naked, and we can’t subject them to
any more humiliation. Tarke forbids it. All the other attempts were
with poison too, so we keep a supply of all the antidotes to every
known poison on hand. The closest he came to dying was a girl who
spent several months here. She got a job in the kitchens and
poisoned his food. He was alone in his apartment, but he triggered
the alarm when he fell ill, and we found the antidote in time.”

“Is it always
female assassins?”

Vidan nodded.
“So far. This is the first time one has tried to kill him by asking
to thank him. Now we’ll never know whether whoever sent her knew he
might allow her to touch him using that ruse, or if she came up
with the idea on her own.”

“How did the
others try?”

“They tried to
seduce him. When that didn’t work, they bumped into him in a
corridor, or got into a lift with him. Two stuck needles in his
back. They all died a split second later, by his hand.”

“So his deadly
reactions aren’t just because of what happened to him as a slave,”
she said.

“Oh, they are;
they’re just put to good use when an assassin tries to kill him.
But they all managed to inject the poison, because it only takes a
scratch to do it, and he came close to death each time.”

The medics
hovered over Tarke, monitored his vital signs, adjusted the
instruments and talked in hushed voices.

Vidan sighed
and rubbed his brow. “Much as I enjoy the rare privilege of seeing
his face, I’m not looking forward to the mind-wipe.”

“How can you be
sure none of the people in the hangar saw it, too?”

He shook his
head. “They’d never do that. They know better, and none of them
would ever put him in danger. You know that. You’ll see, after this
attempt, when he’s back on his feet, how paranoid they are. After
the last time, fifteen women were injured because they came too
close to him.”

“I can imagine.
I saw what they did to the assassin’s corpse.”

“Tarke did her
a favour. She wouldn’t have had an easy death at their hands; that
I can promise you.” He turned away. “I must tell them he’s had the
antidote.”

Rayne stood
vigil at the end of Tarke’s bed while the medics monitored the
beeping machines, hooked up fresh drips and gave him two more
injections. One brought her a chair, and she listened to the hiss
of the breathing machine and the steady beep of the heart monitor.
Vidan returned and waited for a while, then left again.

She had lost
track of the hours when one of the medics approached her and said,
“You mustn’t wear yourself out. He’ll want you to be well when he
wakes up.”

“Is he going to
wake up?”

The medic
nodded. “Oh yes, he’s going to be fine; nothing for you to worry
about.”

She sensed his
concern, and shook her head. “Don’t lie to me. You know I’m an
empath, Doctor.”

“Of course I’m
concerned, but he’ll be fine. Please go and rest now.”

When she shook
her head again, he pressed an injector to the side of her neck.
Rayne leapt up with a shout of outrage, but the room spun away into
darkness as firm hands took hold of her.

Chapter Nine

Rayne woke with
a sour taste in her mouth and pulled a face, sat up and rubbed her
eyes. She was in the bedroom of the apartment she shared with
Tarke, and a soft-eyed woman sat beside her bed, smiling at
her.

“Good morning.
How are you feeling?” she enquired.

“Some bastard
drugged me.”

“The doctor
gave you something to make you sleep. You were exhausted. The
Shrike wouldn’t want you to make yourself ill. Your health is still
fragile.”

Rayne
recognised one of the matronly women who greeted the freed female
slaves, and frowned at her. “That was a bit high-handed of
him.”

“The Shrike
would be unhappy if you became ill because we neglected to take
care of you.”

“Where is
he?”

The woman
pointed at a tortured glass partition around Tarke’s bed. “He’s out
of danger, but he’ll sleep for a while. We thought he’d be more
comfortable here, and that you’d like him close to you.”

Rayne nodded,
climbing off the bed. “Thank you.”

“Shall I bring
you some food, or something to drink?”

“Yes, that
would be nice, thanks.”

The woman left,
and Rayne slipped between the glass panels. Tarke’s colour was much
improved, and the covers were pulled up to his chin. The breather
had been removed, and he breathed slowly, in a deep sleep, due to
the saucer-shaped sleep inducer poised over his head. She sat
beside him, her heart buoyed by a huge bubble of joy.