Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance) (3 page)

“I’ll be moon-damned.” Thom’s attention was riveted on the sleeper as well. “An Ancient Observer?”

“Can’t be—no one’s ever found actual remains,” Haranda said from the other side. “Although this room certainly suggests a high level of technology, it’s not AO. Another sophisticated, highly advanced forerunner civilization. The galaxy is a big place after all.” Roused from his state of funk, he studied the walls, apparently more interested in the devices and displays than in the woman. “I minored in AO studies at the Academy.”

“I don’t think she’s a well-preserved corpse.” Nate couldn’t take his gaze from her, not even to watch what their captors were doing now. He took himself sharply to task for the lapse.
What if we’ve been brought here as a sacrifice?
He had to be mentally prepared to fight, not gawk at a pretty girl.
But the next moment he found himself studying her again, unable to keep himself from indulging in another view.

The woman was tall, probably his equal in height, definitely humanoid. She lay pillowed on her own hair, a thick, sweeping fall of glorious blue mixed with amethyst purple, set here and there with twinkling jewels. From his location across the room, he couldn’t see whether she was breathing, yet he had a definite sense of a living presence.

Her clothing was a simple, silvery white and lavender sheath, like finely woven metallic thread had been spun to make the dress. Thin jeweled straps held the garment at her shoulders. The finely pleated fabric clung to her curves sensuously. She lay on her back, arms stretched out a little on each side, her graceful, six-fingered hands spread open on the cushion. She wore no jewelry save for an elaborate bracelet on her left wrist, studded with colorful stones whose facets caught and amplified the lights in the main room.

Grimacing, the woman arched her spine as if in pain, moving her head on the pillow restlessly.
 

“What the—” Nate swiveled his head and saw the noble flipping small jeweled medallions set into one of the wall panels.

Apparently remaining unconscious, the woman struggled to raise her hands from the bedding, her face contorted. A harsh chiming emanated from the walls, as if warning against whatever procedure he’d initiated. Undeterred despite a second sirenlike sound joining the cacophony, the noble finished his task with a satisfied grunt. The black-clad priestesses seemed to want him to stop, one going so far as to touch his sleeve before being impatiently shaken off.

The lavender-clad lady cowered at the far wall, covering her ears and crouching pathetically.

Nate’s head suddenly filled with fire, and then icy cold replaced the heat, a piercing pain shooting through his entire nervous system from the top of his brain, along his spine and out to peripheral nerve endings. He fell to his knees, dragging the other three prisoners with him, exclaiming curses in their surprise. Barely hanging on to consciousness, Nate fought the alternating hot and cold waves and the associated pain in his head. Dazzling streaks and multicolored pinwheels obscured his vision, staying even though he screwed his eyes tightly shut.

“Sicondame sliquon…” came a deep, female voice from all around them.

Nate raised his head, eyes tearing, staring at the woman on the table.
Is that her voice? How can she sound so calm under apparent torture?

The alarms and klaxons abruptly shut off. Nate’s ears rang with the aftereffects of the discordant noises.

Hands on his hips, the noble nodded and made a declaration to the priestesses in a tone conveying satisfaction.

Nate shook his head again as the guards impatiently yanked him to his feet. The soldiers tugged at him and the other three prisoners, indicating their time in the chamber of the sleeping lady was at an end. He twisted to catch one last glimpse of her in the gradually fading light.

She opened her eyes, looked directly at him, and in his head he heard two words.

I’m sorry.

“She must have been lying there for centuries, maybe thousands of years, judging from the multiple layers of building remnants we passed through on our downward trek. You expect us to believe she spoke to you? And apologized in Basic?” Haranda’s voice conveyed his skepticism. “Captain, whatever equipment was running in the room obviously affected you—”

“I know what I heard.” Nate decided to ignore the edge of insubordination in the cadet pilot’s voice in the interest of discussing the phenomenon. “The private communication was the same female voice speaking out loud in the room, so what I heard in my head had to be her.”

“Maybe close to a language you were hypnotrained for on a past mission?” Thom asked. “I admit this local stuff don’t activate any of my stored files.”

Nate shook his head. “Basic. She spoke Basic to me. Now how could an alien woman entombed here all this time know Basic?”

Thom shrugged. “I got no answers. She’s a mystery stashed in a puzzle box, but we don’t exactly have the luxury of studying her. We gotta concentrate on our own problems. Better get some rest. No telling what new surprise they’ll have for us in the morning. Are you going to finish your bowl of mush?”

“No, you’re welcome to it.” Nate pushed the offending red clay bowl along the stony floor to Thom, straining against the chains binding him to the wall. They were in a big room with enough space for fifty more captives without crowding. The only light came through widely spaced, narrow slits in the wall near the ceiling as the sun set.

Nate sighed and tried to get comfortable, leaning against the rough stone wall. At least his headache was gone, possibly cured by the restorative effect of the few crumbs of dinner, or the mildly alcoholic beverage served with it. Nate drank his fair share once he realized it was an intoxicant, however low a dose. Anything to ward off a rebound of the pounding in his head. Not to mention the excruciating pain of returning circulation in his arms once he’d been freed from the restrictive bindings and locked into a looser set of chains attached to the prison wall.

Battered and bruised, he drifted into a troubled sleep.
 

He stood wreathed in gray-green mists coiling around him like the ghosts of snakes before falling away to reveal the mysterious subterranean room deep under the palace. He faced the sleeping woman. Finding himself unrestrained, Nate descended the three stairs and walked across the chamber until he stubbed his toe against an invisible but potent barrier. Trying to reach through or past this obstacle, Nate saw his hands outlined in pale green light. He shoved harder. If he could just reach her, wake her, ask her a few pointed questions… As if sensing his efforts, she moved her head on the mattress and opened her eyes, revealing dark lavender irises flecked with gold.
 

“I
am
sorry,” she said, clear as day, in Basic.
 

But no, Nate realized, he heard the words in his mind, not with his ears. Her lips moved, but not to shape the syllables he heard.
 

“Sarbordon thinks you and I are of the same people. Therefore, what he wants lies outside your power to provide,” she said, as if the piece of confusing information would help him navigate the perilous situation.
 

“Why are you sorry?” Nate stayed with her first words to him. “You’ve done nothing to harm us.”

“I pity anyone trapped here on this cursed planet. The king will sacrifice you to his hungry gods when you don’t produce the miracles he expects.
Demands
. I—I didn’t tell him the truth when he asked.” Brow furrowed, she studied Nate’s face. Biting her lower lip, she said, “Honesty on my part would have brought instant death for you. He believes you’re my father’s warriors, come to rescue me, so I agreed with his conclusion. I said you were also sent to retrieve certain possessions. He’s desperate to acquire the marvels my father wielded. My deception may give you time, perhaps a chance to save yourselves.” She studied him from head to toe, and her lips curved into a slight smile. “You have the attitude of a warrior, one able to survive. You must play the game.” After a moment, she averted her gaze, but Nate still heard her next words. “Sarbordon will bring you here again if you earn the privilege. If you can survive to that point, I may have a plan, a chance for you to seize freedom. I can’t promise.”

He was woozy, possibly an aftereffect of the wine with dinner. Maybe the drink had been laced with a primitive drug. His powers of concentration were affected, and frustration with his uncharacteristic lack of focus built. “What’s your name?”
 

This vision he was having was dangerously fascinating, and he wished it were real. No one had ever even seen a representation of a living Ancient Observer, much less conversed with one. He accepted Haranda’s educated assessment that she wasn’t a member of the mysterious race of galactic forerunners from a million years ago, but the way her chamber was encapsulated deep in the palace, as if the building had grown organically to house her, spoke of centuries, if not millennia, passing since she was placed in her high-tech prison. The equipment must have kept her alive, but why was she here in the first place?
 

The incongruity of trying to solve her puzzle while his life and the lives of his men hung in the balance made him shake his head. This was one hell of a dream, built on his fascination with her earlier in the day.

“We’re not dreaming.” Seizing on his unspoken thought, she denied his conclusion scornfully, staring at him with wide-eyed contempt. “I
dream
only of death. We’re communicating. Perhaps your people are too primitive for the concept, fallen from the sky or not.”

She was fading in front of his eyes, the edges of the scene going fuzzy and black. Nate focused on the pale oval of her face. “Tell me your name.” He wanted the conversation to continue, intent on coaxing her to keep her eyes open. He feared when she slept, his dream would end.
 

“These fools call me T’naritza, the Sleeping Goddess.” The woman’s tone held disdain and dislike. “It will do—”

“Tell me your real name.” If there was any chance this encounter was real, rather than a dream, he wanted to make a connection with her, convert her view of them from unfortunate beings to be pitied into allies. He’d clearly lost ground with her when he called their link a dream. She might represent a slim chance of escape. Apparently, she’d already interceded for them to a limited extent.

His use of his command voice to issue an order brought her back for a second from the brink of nodding off. Blinking, she focused on Nate’s face. “What will my name do for you, unfortunate one?”

“We’re both captives. We should be friends. Is a mere name so much to ask? I’m Nate Reilly.”

There was silence while her eyelids flickered heavily, like those of a sleepy child. The curling lashes brushed her cheeks as her eyes closed, then opened briefly. She sighed. “Bithia. My name of birth is Bithia. But a name has no magic to help you—”

It was a whisper floating into his mind at the same instant the dream ended. Nate jerked upright, startled awake by the abrupt loss of the images beguiling him. Thom grunted, shifting uneasily on the rancid straw serving as bedding, but didn’t waken. Haranda snored.
 

Eyes gleaming in the dark, Atletl watched him in the dim moonlight, a strangely satisfied expression on his face. He pointed at Nate and then indicated the tattoo on his arm. Nate recalled how fascinated the ruler and the women had been by the man’s inked artwork earlier. “T’naritza,” he said with a nod.

Nate settled against the wall, determined not to examine the recent dream too closely.

“Bithia,” he murmured, pleased by the sound of her name. Assuming he’d experienced a form of actual mind-to-mind communication, then her instant decision to lie on their behalf had bought precious time, maybe even a chance to escape—Nate couldn’t argue with her choice. Trying to think of how to leverage the tiny bits of information he now had, he fell asleep again.

CHAPTER TWO

In the morning, Nate roused from a deep, dreamless state when the guards crashed the door open. There were more soldiers this morning, lined up across the room, at ease against the opposite wall, not bothering the prisoners. The sweet-faced priestess with the braids came in, dressed today in pale green with touches of lavender at the collar and hem. Followed by two servants, she supervised the serving of hot, steaming mush into the four bowls. Each prisoner received a small cup of water, a hard roll and two pieces of fruit as well.

“Generous this morning, aren’t they?” Thom sniffed at the steaming mush and made a face. “Hope we can eat this stuff.”

“Scans showed this planet to be within the acceptable ranges.” Haranda bit into a purple fruit dripping juice. “If the locals can eat it, we probably can too. Mmm, tangy.”

“Food poisoning wouldn’t be my preferred way off this rock.” Nate searched for an unbruised section of the fruit on his tray. “Maja—thank you,” he said to the priestess as she handed him a roll.

She inclined her head graciously and shyly, the two braids falling across her cheeks. She unleashed a breathless explanation, of which Nate understood only the word
T’naritza
.

“We’ve got to get up to speed on this language,” he said, gazing speculatively at Atletl, who was flirtatiously exchanging words at great length with the lady until a guard intervened. “I’m thinking he’s going to have to do emergency tutoring here.”

“Didn’t hear him volunteer.” Thom took a heaping serving of mush. “Don’t they have eggs on this damn planet? All those bird feathers yesterday, you’d think the cook would serve eggs.”