Prologue
The air was icy, the wind a steady roar. Assurance had crashed well above the timberline, high in the mountains among jagged, rocky peaks and ridges. It was just past midday, but it was already dusky dark. Thick, lowlying cloud blocked any light or warmth from a feeble winter sun. In the few moments he spent outside the broken spaceship the boy found the sky of this alien world deep scarlet, while windblown flurries of crimson snow had pounded against his flesh like tiny, blood-red icicles.
Ash reached out with his mind, desperate.
There was no one at all close by.
He continued, seeking further, trembling. It was so cold.
He brushed against something. Mental fingers sought to contact the unfamiliar intelligence. Was it even human? He had no idea.
Contact was sudden and startling.
Without a ripple, Ash’s consciousness gracefully slid into the unfamiliar form as though diving into a warm pool of water. A rush of relief flowed through him as he escaped his own cold and injured body. Instead of freezing temperatures and the pain of a broken arm, his empty belly burned with hunger. But also, in that instant of contact, he could hear the snow fall.
Ash’s mind registered this fact curiously, but accepted it.
A trace of something caused his nostrils to flare, a creature, warm, inviting … alive. The scent was twill; he knew the smell, the taste. His stomach muscles contracted in anticipation. A thrill of flowing adrenaline surged through him and Ash quivered at the thought of life — pulsing hot blood, fleshy tissue, oozing fat and muscle.
His nose twitched and his long thick tongue flicked out to lick his lips.
Ash’s new world came into focus.
His panting breath misted, fogged and swirled in the crisp, frosty air. Fascinated, Ash looked down and saw that his paws were wet as they moved through hulking drifts of blood-red snow. His crimson fleece steamed. In the bone-deep chill of an icy winter, Ash felt warm in the thick hide of this living fur coat. Comfortable and content, despite the burn of hunger, Ash looked out from within this foreign wolfish flesh and wondered where he was.
PART ONE
Prince Ashton Rynan Chayton
Events of his Thirteenth Year
1. Escape
Every world is a garden, and as the gardener of humanity I tend each one. Any impediment to my husbandry — father, mother, sister, brother, world, culture — all must be swept away. No child, no seed, no weed must be left to reproduce and return for vengeance. I’m a merciless gardener, Neopol, and you are my spade. There are no enemies in my garden. I destroy them all.
— High Command, private records, Lord John Andros
The day his life changed forever, Ash’s morning began like any other.
Icom woke him with an internal mental alarm as chilly crimson fingers of light touched the windowsill of his bedroom in Castle Delian. The Castle had been his ancestors’ Imperial home for more than three centuries, which was about how long it felt that he’d slept. Groggily, the young prince slipped out of bed. Ash’s bare feet were warm on the heated flooring as he dressed.
“Tynan?” Ash lightly slapped his thigh. “Here, boy.”
Tynan, his hunting wolfhound, bounded up from the foot of the bed and pushed his large bulk against him. Ash hugged and patted his friend, laughing out loud. The sound was muffled by the heavy drapes, thick carpets and ornate coffered high ceilings of his bedroom. Tynan’s rough rasping tongue thoroughly bathed his face before Ash could urge him back. The room smelled of warmth, slumber and his wolfhound’s silky musky coat. To Ash, Tynan’s scent was mildly reminiscent of fresh-mown grass.
“Let’s go,” Ash whispered.
Together, the young prince and his wolfhound moved quietly through the palace. Ash gripped Tynan’s thick black coat and pushed his fingers into the downy gray fur that lay beneath. They were an odd couple. Tynan was more massive than an actual wolf, and only two heads shorter than Ash. The prince was less than half his weight and smaller than an eight year old.
In the shadowy hallway Ash saw a tall thin figure moving in a slow stately walk, too far away to have noticed them yet.
“It’s Hen,” Ash whispered, as a thrill of excitement swept through him. “Hide!”
Abruptly they both dropped to the hardwood parquet and scuttled behind a convenient statue where they remained perfectly still. Henry, the prince’s gray-haired valet, walked past …
Ash ducked his head, grinning at his companion. Evading Henry gave Ash particular pleasure. Tynan’s eyes were bright — he also enjoyed this game. Ash’s nickname for his valet “Hen,” was not a shortened form of Henry, but as in “Mother Hen.”
Of all the palace staff, his personal valet mothered him the most. If Hen caught Ash sneaking out he would be forced to listen to a long anxious lecture about the frailty of his health, of his “inadequate apparel,” and the imperative need for him to keep “warm, and dry.” He would never be allowed into the “treacherous cold” of the morning air. Guarded and secretive, Ash had been successfully slipping out into the dark near-dawn for weeks.
Together the boy and dog continued moving, keeping low and out of sight. Watchful, they leaped across a corridor and slipped down the servant’s stairwell to the second level. The sharp fragrant smell of oranges gave Ash a moment’s warning — fresh squeezed juice. With instinctive accord they both slid into a narrow alcove, pressing against the wall as two maids walked by along the dimly lit corridor, each carrying a tray.
“The Queen seems distracted …”
“Who wouldn’t be with a government warship in orbit around Delian?”
The voices trailed off as Ash knocked his bony elbow against unforgiving stone. He winced. He had only minutes to get away before morning staff would cut off their escape. Tynan’s nails clicked softly as they snuck along the colonnade, past the golden domed gallery filled with family portraits. Dangerously exposed, they scooted rapidly down the double marble staircase, through the ground floor atrium and then darted out to freedom. Once outside, Ash moved in a semi-crouch along the castle wall, enjoying the steamy warmth of sol-slate while hiding from unwanted eyes. The man-made stone was created to store energy from the distant sun’s rays, then to slowly discharge its heat during the night. Now with the first ambient light of daybreak the stone released the last of its captured warmth, mitigating the caustic morning chill.
Safely away, Ash increased his pace. He slipped into the Royal Botanical Park, choosing the soundless phosphorescent trail that glowed softly in the dim first morning light and avoiding the gravel paths of the summer promenade. His face tingled with cold. No one would be out at this hour except the head gardener. Maxwell was an angry, surly man, who smelled of honey-ginger beer and preferred his own company. He was the only palace servant that ignored him. That was what Ash liked most about the head gardener, a quality he valued above all others — Maxwell treated him with disdain and callous disregard. Ash recalled the man’s scowl, and smiled with real pleasure.
He paused for a moment on Foundation Hill and looked down toward the water. Thick tendrils of smoky gray mist obscured Queen’s Lake in the weak morning light. Earth colonists had created that vast ornamental watercourse, digging a decorative pattern not long after their arrival over three hundred years ago. It was said that the first king of Delian fashioned it as a gift for his queen, as she loved to gaze upon tranquil water. He smiled. His own queen mother enjoyed the same pastime.
Cold to the bone, Ash shivered as he and Tynan entered the Imperial Woodlands. Filling his lungs with icy damp air, he pulled his dog close and laughed out loud. Free!
Ash started to run. Now he had two hours of blissful solitude to enjoy, away from his life of constant coddling and interference, as long as he returned to his bedroom before anyone noticed he’d gone.
After less than a minute of jogging, Ash panted breathlessly. Why was his body so pathetic? At thirteen he had the scrawny build of a malnourished eight-year-old. Prince or not, no girl would want him when he looked like a child. He greatly feared that he would remain small and sickly for the rest of his life. Exercise exhausted him, but he pushed himself. His teeth clenched with determination. He must make himself strong. But so far nothing he did seemed to make any difference.
The wolfhound suddenly stopped and raised a foot, indicating that something strange and important was nearby. Ash sensed what Tynan knew: that while there was no danger, a visitor was in their woods. But who would come at this hour? Ash raised an eyebrow in query, but Tynan just smiled his wide dog grin and bounded ahead. The prince tried to keep up, moving through the forest on an old game trail. Chest heaving, Ash stopped to catch his breath for a moment. He looked across the horizon just as a blazing sunrise dawned.
The prince stopped and stared, frozen. Such red! Blood red.
His heart lurched as a thrill of urgency and danger shot through him. “Red sky, souls fly.” Ash licked his lips. Curiosity stilled his fear as he examined his unreasoned dread logically, as he had learned to do through the Disciplines. He had seen sunrise many times. Why should this one disturb him? So strange. Yet somehow this dawn blazed like an ominous portent.
Breathing heavily, he scanned the area, searching for any obvious or subtle menace. He sensed nothing. Whatever danger he felt, it was not here, not with him now. Unable to explain his unaccountable apprehension, he shrugged, shook off his fear, and decided to ignore it.
He jogged on, still panting, until he came upon the old woman. Ash arrived in time to witness Tynan’s most chivalrous greeting, something his dog gave only to those he considered noteworthy. Ash called it the “King’s Salute.” The wolfhound stretched his front legs forward, and bowed low with his head to the ground. Through canny canine intuition, Tynan knew this was the correct way to greet Mother Latnok.
A mental check on Icom confirmed her identity. Arguably the most powerful individual on Delian, the seer rarely gave audience. The white-haired crone sat cross-legged near the clearing, wearing a rough woven tunic. She rested under one of the few maple trees that grew in this pinewood forest. As he approached, an earthy smell filled Ash’s nostrils in a pleasant combination of bristle pine, musk and sandalwood incense. The old woman was thin and wrinkled and had the strangest eyes he had ever seen.
Mother Latnok said, “Welcome, young wolf.”
Ash bowed. Still trying to catch his breath, he made no reply. Hers was a strange greeting. Why had she said, “Welcome, young wolf?” Was the Seer talking to his dog?
She gestured. “Come, let me look at you.”
Ash knelt before her, his breath slowing.
The Seer placed both hands on his head, running them down his neck, over his shoulders and arms, and ending by taking hold of his hands.
The woman’s bony cold hands griped him and her nails bit into his palms. Ash inhaled sharply in surprise but didn’t move. He took the time in which she was studying him to study her in turn; his eyes moved down her form even as hers moved down his. Everyone knew Mother Latnok was sightless. He wondered why she hadn’t restored her vision, why she chose to remain blind. Most Delians preferred regular physical modification, so that they could continue to look and feel their best. And surely everyone would prefer to see, wouldn’t they? Her skin was dry, with deep crags and folds, her fingernails thick with vertical ridges.
“Yes,” she said. “I see.”
Ash looked up from where she held his hands and was caught by her empty eyes. Something in the woman’s intense, unnatural gaze unnerved him. She was sightless — so why did her eyes seem so penetrating? Frightened, feeling strangely naked and exposed, Ash couldn’t look away.
Tynan squirmed from where he rested on the dew-laden grass, and crawled closer to Ash, making an odd guttural noise. It was more a soft sympathetic whine than a growl.
The Seer glanced at the dog, an abrupt unspoken command. Her gaze silenced the animal instantly. “Yes, young wolfhound,” she said. “I know of your bond.” The woman turned to Ash, her expression intent. “Listen to what I tell you, young wolf.”
Ash hardly breathed. Why did she call him “young wolf”? The chill of Mother Latnok’s power flowed up through her hands and into his body in an ice cold brutal wave. He gasped. Warmth within him stirred and flashed to life — awakened by this menacing chill. Like walking from a sheltered space into a dry windstorm, heat rolled up and over him from somewhere within.
Is this my own power that burns inside me?
A strange thought came to Ash then, emptying his mind of everything else: I have lost something … something important. He waited, motionless, his attention fixed. Whatever it was, he wanted to find it.
The woods were silent in the presence of the Seer.
The air was empty and still … waiting.
The crone demanded, “Say this: ‘I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.’”
Ash frowned and felt a familiar feeling of resistance set within him. The Seer’s words were a lie. In his sixteenth year he would grasp his power and once so gifted, only then would he be named Trueborn. Ash, who knew he was not yet Trueborn, stared at the Seer. He was a quiet, compliant child but he had one flaw acknowledged by all: he could be stubborn. Palace staff, aware of this, gained his compliance through guilt or duty. He obeyed his parents because he loved them. But he didn’t have to obey this old woman! Ash didn’t want to repeat her lie, but for some strange reason he couldn’t seem to refuse. He was unable to correct her … or defy her. What is this power the Seer has over me?
Against his will, Ash swallowed and said in his thin, childish voice, “I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.”
“Louder!” she commanded.
His voice quavered, “I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.”
“Again! With conviction! From deep inside you … here!” She jabbed an index finger into his belly.
Ash gritted his teeth. The Seer obviously didn’t think he could say it well enough, and truthfully — he was afraid. This realization made him unexpectedly angry. Indignant, his heart thumped against his chest as his temper grew.
A strange sensation came to him then from somewhere inside. It clawed at him, wanting to get out: inherent courage, pride and … something else … something inhuman.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
He thought: This is what I’ve lost. This is what I seek … this truth.
His fear fled, banished by this colossal power, a sudden overwhelming awareness from within. Ash straightened and breathed in deeply. He said in a loud, almost animal snarl, “I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid!” A number of birds roosting in the trees above, startled en masse, squawked and took flight. Golden leaves shaken loose by the birds’ departure drifted down, falling upon their heads and shoulders, covering them both with a woodland cloak.
Without warning, Mother Latnok’s power poured over him in a fiery wave of approval. Ash gasped from the sudden, searing onslaught. Hyperaware and oddly at ease, Ash didn’t move. It felt so good … and strangely familiar. This extraordinary scorching heat flowed through his body as naturally as his own blood. Why then was he disturbingly reminded of a funeral pyre?
Trueborn! Inhuman!
“Very good, child.” The seer nodded and touched his cheek with one gnarled knuckle. Her blank gaze held an intense heat, hot as the fire that burned within him. “Now remember who you are, young wolf. Remember who you are.”
Ash’s father, King Jarith Chayton, was glad for the shelter provided by the pine trees. A stiff cool wind had begun to blow in blue cloudless sky and autumn’s sun gave little heat. It was early afternoon as he came through the woods, trudging uphill along a dubious stone path. Few travelled this trail. The seer, having obtained an exceptional age, had become withdrawn and irritable over the last few years. To successfully obtain an interview, one had to come alone to her dwelling and by foot.
The King was no exception.
The smell of wood smoke filled the air as he arrived. Vine tendrils clung to large boulders that lay like children’s marbles, scattered around the seer’s home. The entrance to the cave in which the old woman lived was set into the ground and almost completely covered by the vines, which flowed deep and lush like the thick full hair of a woman. If the King had come a month earlier, the strong smell of wood smoke would have been softened by an overwhelming fragrance of honeysuckle, but now only withered yellow blooms remained, still attached to the tendrils at the entrance. Bending down to the low, narrow opening, he called into the darkness, “Mother Latnok, I have come to speak with you.”
“You will wait,” replied a thin dry voice.
“But I have urgent business!”
“Even kings must wait for Mother Latnok.”
Resigned, the King breathed in deeply, and sat on a smaller stone outside the cave. He had come every day since Conqueror had arrived in orbit and he had lingered, only to be turned away. He willed that the Mother would grant him audience today.
The King shifted, his boots scuffing the gravel at his feet. His thoughts were dark, heavy burdens that he had carried only a short time, but the weight of which had already dragged him further down than he had ever been before. He prayed that Mother Latnok could advise him. She was blessed with a once-a-century gift of prescience and had never given false casting.
“Come,” her voice called.
Relieved, Jarith entered and unbuttoned his tunic, as the cave was thick with moist heat. The crone sat cross-legged and wizened. She pointed toward a homespun cushion. He bowed his respect and knelt before her.
Mother Latnok looked at him with her empty, all-seeing eyes and said, “The Wolf comes.”
The King’s brows drew down as he considered the appropriate reply. He had no idea what she was talking about. There were no wolves on Delian. He said nothing for some minutes, deliberating, and then offered, “Ashton will be King?”
“He will be King,” she agreed, her seamed face solemn. “And he will rule.” The wrinkled corners of her mouth twitched into an almost imperceptible frown, her expression betraying emotion for a heartbeat: restlessness, discontent.
The King said in a rush of apprehension. “But …?”
“He will not rule our people. We of Delian will start a fresh journey. For new life to begin the old must end.”
The King paled. Had he misunderstood?
The crone gave him a thin empty smile. “You do not misunderstand.”
“Conqueror?”
She nodded.
“When?”
“Events draw toward us, they run toward us.” She shrugged a bony shoulder. “Two days? Perhaps three?”
The King moved to his feet, his thoughts cascading. So much to do …
“Stay,” the crone commanded.
The King sank back to his knees. Her gaze chilled him; her empty eyes were cold and dark as water in an underground cave.
“We’ll evacuate.”
“You will strive, my King, with all your will, but it will not serve.”
He stiffened. “I do not accept this.”
She nodded, as to an equal. “I know.” She tilted her head, studying him as if looking beyond his mortal form. “I see you, Delian King. Oh, yes, I see you, and there is much pride in the seeing.” She placed one gnarled hand flat against his chest, above where his heart pounded. “The Goddess knows that such courage and determination should be rewarded.”
She paused and when she next spoke her voice was no longer thin and ancient; it echoed as if from a greater power. “Just one will survive, my King. He will be alone. It is his fate. No father, no mother, no people, no planet, no home. Lost …” The old woman bowed as if the burden of the future weighed upon her.
“You give no hope!”
“The boy is extremely powerful. He will endure.” She looked toward him, her rheumy blank eyes filled with dark knowledge. She gave a wheezing sigh. “There is much to endure.”
“He’ll go tomorrow, with the Queen.”
“The Queen and the son leave this day.”
He was silent, but accepted her demand.
“And my Queen?” he said finally. “You say even his mother … will pass?”
“Yes. You do not wait long for her. She follows close behind you. She hurries close behind you. You will journey to the Golden Lands together.”
The King stared, his mind overloaded. Impossible. His people were doomed? His son would be King, but he would be alone, with no one to guard him, to teach him, to love him. It was too much, and there was no time to stop this malicious fate. No time at all.
The King’s thoughts spun: disbelieving, scheming, despairing and then resolved. I will prove this prophecy wrong, he thought. But he said, “As Jana wills.”
“All is not lost.”
The King’s heart flared with hope.
She shook her head. “Only the Prince survives, my King.” An odd smile played about her mouth. With inexplicable, almost predatory satisfaction the seer repeated: “The Wolf is coming.”
Mother Latnok turned her head away.
The King’s audience was over.
King Jarith Chayton rose and left, hastening toward the future, whatever it may bring.
Hours later that same day, after feverish activity, the King, his Queen, the young prince and his wolfhound travelled by speeder to the unpopulated desert. There the Royal Delian Ship Assurance stood with loading ramp extended, her destination set for the backwater world of Kalar. The Delian Flagship gave the distinct impression it was impatient to be on its way.
King Jarith Chayton and his wife, the Lady Sartha, stood near the portal, listening to the sound of their son, Prince Ashton Rynan Chayton, giggling. The boy, who preferred to be called Ash, was seemingly oblivious to adult concerns and skipped across the landing field behind the large spacecraft, chasing after his wolfhound, Tynan.
Despite his fears, Jarith smiled at the lighthearted sound of childish joy. His son was small for his age. He had barely survived birth, failed to thrive during infancy, and was prone to illness — often languishing near death. The prince would never be robust or even obtain a modest height, but his constitution had strengthened. Jarith no longer feared for his son’s life. With his father’s black hair and his mother’s pale skin, Ash’s lips seemed impossibly red. At times his dark eyes were fathomless, as though they were able to view a reality no one else could see. It was in these moments that the extraordinary force of his power could touch you like a hot, dry wind. Perhaps his son had been given his astonishing mind to compensate for a small and weak body. In his sixteenth year Ash would realize the Delian gift of mind-touch, and learn to use and control it. Only then would he be considered Trueborn.
Both dog and boy raced from round the other side of Assurance, returning to the front of the vessel. “Father, can we go inside?” Ash asked breathlessly.
Jarith said with a trace of humor in his voice, “Of course. Just don’t press any buttons. You may accidentally start the ignition sequence. Then where will we be?”
Ash laughed. “Silly! C’mon, Tynan,” he shouted, and charged up the ramp.
The weak late afternoon sun glinted from the queen’s shining hair. Lady Sartha had genetically reprogrammed her wavy tresses into bright burnished gold. It was an unnecessary ostentation that had delighted her. Jarith was rather bemused by Sartha’s unexpected display of feminine vanity. He had enjoyed the pale blonde locks of her birthright.
Sartha glared meaningfully at him, with striking blue eyes. Her eyes had needed no alteration. Jarith took her hands. “I know — you don’t want to go.”
“It’s a risk either way. I’d rather die here, with you.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll both be safe aboard Assurance,” Jarith said, displaying a certainty he didn’t feel. “The sensors registering unauthorised liftoff will show aboard Conqueror for only an instant — I doubt anyone will notice.”
“We could hide …”
“No.” Jarith said. “We’ve been through this. Fleet vessels have advanced sensors; Conqueror is no exception. Survivors would be discovered. I’ll find a way to get through to Admiral Neopol.” His expression softened. “Please don’t worry, love.” He pulled her to him, stroked her hair, breathing in her familiar scent. “Have I ever let you down?”
Sartha gave a faint smile and shook her head, but they both knew the truth. She was afraid.
Jarith’s stomach clenched. How could he still her fears when he could not silence his own? He recalled the words of the Seer. “You will strive, my King, with all your will, but it will not serve. Just one will survive. He will be alone. It is his fate. No father, no mother, no people, no planet, no home.”
Tynan, from somewhere within Assurance, began a rapid series of barks.
Jarith turned, anxiously scanning the distant hills. There was no breeze and the sky remained cloudless. It was almost sundown and the desert was at peace. Low on the horizon, First Moon shone a pale pink crescent. The evening air was crisp yet to Jarith it clung like a shroud. With the passing of a single day his whole world had shattered. He mentally viewed Icom options. Ignoring unopened messages, he chose planetary strings. Projecting visual, he located the orbiting government vessel. No change, yet he couldn’t dispel his sense of urgency.
Jarith removed the priceless Delian talisman that circled his upper arm. “Take this with you.” He placed it in Sartha’s hand, closing her fingers around it.
The armguard was often called the “King’s Mirror,” or “King’s Guard.” Centuries old, the main stone was flat and oval, a little larger than an adult’s eye. It had been placed into the silver arm band with smaller crystals giving it the appearance of a continuous ring of blue. The stones were rich blue Damithst — a rare crystalline mineral unique to Delian. It took extraordinary wealth to procure such a jewel and few grew larger than a child’s fingernail. The King’s Mirror, the center stone, was the largest of its kind.
“This belongs with you and all our people,” Sartha said, clearly shocked by the sacrilege.
Jarith grasped her hand with a grip that made her wince. It was a grip guided more by anxiety than anger. “It’s mine to give, as Delian’s sovereign.”
“Then Ashton should have it.”
Jarith looked toward the talisman. It warmed from within his hand and seemed to glow in agreement. Something tight in his chest loosened. “Yes, of course. It is his birthright.”
“Hey, you guys,” Ash’s called out, his voice echoing with childish enthusiasm from somewhere within the ship. “Check this out!”
They smiled. Together Jarith and Sartha moved inside the stately vessel, walking up into the lounge and servery. Assurance was a Needle-Class vessel. Its living spaces were originally small, as they had been fitted for a battleship crew of less than ten. This one had been converted and generously laid out in a more lavish design. Its automated systems made single piloting an option. Ash circled around them both like a satellite, showing them all he had discovered. Jarith tolerated it for as long as possible, stretching out the moment.
Ash sat in the reclining chair designed for liftoff. His father said, “Son, I want you to have this.” Jarith held out the King’s Mirror.
“Me? Why? This belongs to you. I don’t want it.”
Jarith smiled with as much reassurance as he could manage. “Will you take it for now for safekeeping? Just for a little while? You can restore it to me when you return to Delian.”
Ash shrugged his acceptance, and took the talisman. Jarith engaged the protective cushioning web, securing Ash to his seat.
“Oh, wow,” Ash said, marveling at the webbing that protected him during takeoff. “How neat is this?” Sartha and Jarith chuckled at his reaction. Tynan began to pace anxiously back and forth, giving shrill barks of censure. “Oh poor Tynan,” Ash said. “Don’t worry boy, we won’t be gone long. You stay and guard my father for me, okay boy?”
The wolfhound sat down instantly, tilted his head and gave a slight, disapproving whine.
Sartha patted the dog, fondled his ears and said, “You are a good boy.”
The King reflected, not for the first time, that his son had a distinctive connection with his four-legged friend. Yet their relationship was not one of owner and pet; it was more like two best friends. Jarith wanted to send Tynan with Ash on Assurance, but animals rarely travelled well in space, and the wolfhound was not exactly small. His wife had enough to manage as it was. No. The dog would have to stay with him, here on Delian.
He could delay no longer. Jarith’s throat felt thick. He cleared it and his mouth tightened. He said, “It’s time to go.”
Ash’s eyes flew to his father’s face.
Shocked, Jarith felt the full force and burning heat of his son’s gaze. It was like standing in front of an open furnace. Ash had astonishing potential, and despite everything, Jarith, was thrilled to be reminded of this. He is so strong. So powerful.
Ash said in a strangely adult and somber tone, “Are either of you going to tell me what is really going on?”
Jarith realized then that despite his and Sartha’s attempts to hide their anxiety, Ash knew. Of course he would know. Ash wasn’t stupid, and like all children of Delian, he had been born with the gift. His son’s childish playfulness had been an act, camouflaging his awareness of their apprehension, their fear. He recalled the seer’s words: The boy is extremely powerful. He will endure. There is much to endure. But what could he tell his son? He was too young for such truths.
In the long silence the sound of their breathing seemed loud.
Jarith shook his head. “Sorry, Ash. King’s business.” He bent down, embraced and kissed him. “Look after your mother for me, all right?” Tynan nuzzled Ash’s hand as Jarith clipped a lead on him. The wolfhound was so large that Jarith didn’t even need to bend to reach the animal’s collar.
“I will,” Ash said.
“I’ll be right back, Ash,” Sartha said. “I’ll see your father out.”
Sartha and Jarith walked through the corridors and lounge area of Assurance, and down the ramp, to the desert. Tynan followed tamely behind them.
A rustling sound seemed loud in the desert silence. It disturbed Jarith’s thoughts and he stiffened, looking toward the source of the noise. A bo-plant was closing its leaves in the evening dusk. He studied the sunburnt landscape, alert for intruders, accessing Icom proximity alarms. They were definitely alone, yet the knowledge, instead of providing relief, seemed more like an evil portent. It was as though all living things had fled like birds sensing an imminent storm.
Jarith took Sartha’s arm. “Better hurry. I might be missed. If there’s a search and Assurance is found …” he paused, unwilling to speak of the consequences. Jarith wrapped his arms around Sartha and they held each other tightly, unwilling to let her go.
Their mouths came together, in sudden desperation.
After a long moment they broke apart, eyes locked, hearts pounding.
“Sartha,” Jarith whispered, breaking the spell. “Tell Ashton …” his voice trailed off. What could she tell him? He was only a child! The Seer was wrong. His people would escape. His mind strayed for a moment, drawn to the details of mass departure once more. His teeth clenched. No. Jarith thrust his thoughts aside and forced a smile. “Just tell Ash that I love him.”
As Sartha boarded Assurance Jarith projected a positive mental touch to his wife. He felt the same confident promise radiating from her. Having never hidden a thought or feeling from each other, they did so now with unvoiced agreement. Each hid a crushing fear. The future was dark but not unknown: it had been cast.
The airlock doors closed with the finality of a burial vault. Tynan pulled restively against his collar, whined and barked and barked. Jarith kept a firm grip on the animal’s lead. His rapid stride took them from the liftoff area, to a safe distance where they both watched and waited.
Minutes later, with a circle of blue flame, Assurance was gone.
Tynan’s agitation and restlessness vanished. The wolfhound sat unmoving. The King too remained still. He stood staring at the empty sky well after Assurance was out of sight. King Jarith Chayton’s features were strained and ashen, his emotions no longer concealed.
Despair was written across his face, obvious for all to see — even to those not Trueborn.
2. The Dark Sankomin
All souls suffer the Dark Sankomin. If one is in the present, if the mind remains in attendance, the Sankomin cannot seize or bind. The Sankomin is a combination of all that has been and all that can be. It is not evil in itself: it merely is. Time is like a river and the mind is the water. When the water flows, all is well and sequential, in chronological order. However, these past events, encompassing all the conscious feelings within them — thought, pain and emotion — can fall on one en masse. They attach to one’s soul like metal filings drawn to a magnet. At times presenting as burdened river eddies, they dam the river and the mind becomes bound. It will not flow. The Dark Sankomin is solid, a heavy mass in the mind, a dark burden to the soul. Unresolved, it will cause madness and despair.
— Seer Foweraker, The Interpretations
Ash woke, temporarily disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings. This was not his bed. He was in a bunk, secured by protective webbing. Taking a deep breath of air that had a recycled tang, Ash both felt and heard a rhythmic kind of hum.
I’m on a spaceship, traveling to another world.
But why? Nothing made sense. They had left in a departure so secret that even he didn’t know until the last moment. A United Worlds Government warship, Conqueror, had been in orbit around Delian. Warships protected the Freeworlds, yet Conqueror seemed somehow menacing. Was that why they had left? Could they actually be running away?
He studied the King’s Mirror, the blue armguard that circled his thigh. It looked silly there, but it was too big for his thin arm. His father had given it to him, yet the talisman belonged with the King. Everyone knew that. He had tried to give it to his mother for safekeeping, but she had refused, insisting he wear it at all times.
Rolling on to his back, Ash stared at the concave structure above him and considered the matter. There were heavy restrictions on space travel; it was a privilege granted only to members of the government or the armed services. He was lucky to be on Assurance. But his unanswered questions, combined with his mother’s anxiety, took away the pleasure of being in space. Ash grimaced, remembering the last of a stream of questions he had asked her.
His mother had secrets.
Ash knew about secrets, because he had secrets of his own. He thought of Tynan back on Delian and wished he was here. It felt strange to be without him. Ash had been drawn to Tynan at first sight. Separate from his litter mates, solemn and a little regal, the lonely little creature had reminded him of himself. They had been together ever since.
For some time now, Ash had been aware of the unique bond he had with Tynan. That was his first big secret.
Ash stared, remembering. Last year he and his ridiculous hound had been playing hide and seek. It was a silly pastime, as Ash always knew where Tynan was and Tynan knew that Ash knew. This time, Ash had pretended he had no idea that Tynan was behind a rock overlooking a small ledge. Tynan had jumped out barking and Ash had leaped in feigned surprise. But Ash’s fabricated astonishment quickly became genuine as he slipped, fell from the ten-meter-high cliff and broke his leg.
A wave of throbbing pain rolled through his body and he had almost fainted. But then from somewhere inside a burning gust of hot wind had come. It blasted through his flesh like a firestorm tearing through a dry pine forest.
Ash’s power flamed to life for the first time.
All his pain flew away, was blown away by a hot dry wind.
And at that exact moment, Ash became Tynan.
He sprinted from within the wolfhound’s body, strangely comfortable and familiar with four strong legs and a tail. Ash became conscious of the cool damp forest air as it moved across his thick, warm fur, knew the rich smells of earth, new growth and the musky odor of different animals and their tracks. He became aware of a mother bird feeding her babies, two distinct high pitched soft calls from high above. There were few insects in the woods, yet they buzzed so loudly! His aural awareness was so acute that he could discern the difference between a fly and a wasp meters away. He smelled a mole in its earth hideaway as he passed and heard the soft scratchy sounds of underground burrowing.
While his hearing and sense of smell were far superior in Tynan’s body, the colors Ash saw were much less vibrant. Greens were soft and dark, like shaded moss; yellows seemed muted, more like churned cream, not yet turned to the gold of butter; while blue was almost gray, and gray was everywhere. Astonishingly, all red disappeared. His wolfhound could not perceive shades of red or violet at all. In his human form Ash saw his dog’s favorite chew toy as a bright cherry red — yet all this time it had been gray-black to Tynan.
For almost an hour Ash experienced a whole new world through his friend’s senses. He had fully become Tynan as his wolfhound’s lithe, strong, sinewy body flowed with speed and agility. Together they raced back to the castle to raise the alarm and bring help. Ash found that he had lost consciousness, deep in that wood. But his power had taken control, unexpectedly bringing him, awake and aware, into Tynan.
While he had not yet learned to ride Tynan’s body at will, he had joined with him by accident a number of times. He loved the feel of his friend’s strength and vitality, and he didn’t mind the muted colors. Yet even four legs could not make up for a lack of human hands. Ash smiled. He recalled how once he had attempted to reach a cup of water while in Tynan’s body. It was human habit, his unthinking urge to make Tynan grasp something when his paws had no fingers or thumb to hold with.
Ash used Icom to retract Assurance’s protective sleep web. The web molded to his slim form, moving in his sleep as needed — he had become used to it. Then he jumped out of bed and reached for his clothes.
Ash kept his ability secret, because mental contact with an animal was considered impossible. He hated being different. If he had a choice he would prefer to be common and unnoticed, exactly like everyone else. Delians loved their monarchy and royalty watching was the people’s pastime. Nowhere could there be more loyal or loving subjects. As heir apparent, even undersized and sickly, the people of Delian treasured him.
Ash pulled on his jeans, reflecting that he was almost never left alone. It was another reason to enjoy his time on Assurance. If he was on Delian right now, his valet would be attempting to dress him — probably in something formal. With satisfaction he pulled on a treasured old sweater, something Hen would never have let him wear outside of his own quarters. Ash was cared for and cosseted by footmen, valets, groomsmen, tutors, and numerous personal physicians. He couldn’t sneeze without an army of panicked attendants worrying lest it presage oncoming illness. He hated it, but with stoic fortitude, he accepted it. Everyone loved him and wanted to help. He was trapped by affection and smothered by constant attentive kindness.
Surrounded by people, isolated by circumstances, Ash had no intention of further defining his differences by confiding to anyone about his bond with Tynan — at least not until yesterday, when he had found Mother Latnok in the forest. More like she found me, he realized. But why had she come? And why had she continued to call him “young wolf?” Ash swallowed, caught in the memory. He recalled the angry chill of her power. It had ignited the heat of his own gift. Something had happened while he was with her. For a moment, he had known some truth … something important.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
Ash frowned and shook his head. When his straight black hair fell into his eyes he pushed it back. Well, that fleeting awareness was out of reach now. Meeting with the seer was Ash’s second big secret. Like his bond with Tynan, Ash felt uncomfortable whenever he thought of confiding these events to anyone.
Dressed, he held his breath, listening. The ship hummed, alive with energy. He grinned. Despite everything it was still exciting to be in space. Assurance had already entered Omni via the Delian corridor. Theory postulated that natural law was suspended when in Omni-space, allowing rapid travel between worlds. To the human eye Omni-space appeared as a kind of a dirty gray fog.
“Mother?” he called.
“In navigation, Ash.”
For a moment her anxiety vibrated like a small insect trapped in his mind. It set his teeth on edge. For once her disquiet had nothing to do with his health. But why was she afraid? He frowned, recalling the ominous red dawn and his inexplicable fear. He had sensed danger then, a cold hard threat. Had his mother felt it, too? With mental awareness he reached out, searching, scanning.
Nothing. He didn’t feel it now.
A small service bot moved aside to let him pass as he jumped up to the landing. “I’m hungry, mother,” he yelled. He could hear her on the upper landing, probably in navigation. A day shipboard and he was already bored with the auto-chef menu.
“I thought you might be.”
Ash imagined her smiling as she worked. He had discovered a modest appetite and even put on a tiny bit of weight over the last few months, allaying his parents’ anxiety. Now that he was thirteen maybe he would actually grow.
“There’s warm kasha in the keep.” Kasha was a pungent, spicy nut indigenous to Delian. It had a savory flavor, a kind of peppery cumin taste.
“Thanks.” Ash placed meat and culdish cheese in his kasha roll and munched on it as he scanned his surroundings. The ship was an unending source of interest, from self-molding chairs and sleep webs to scenery-changing holovid walls. Such walls were common in many homes, but he wasn’t used to them. He had the antiquated glories of priceless paintings to view in the castle, not modern holovids that cycled photos.
On the lower level, Ash started toward navigation but paused on the landing. Near the portal was a plaque with the bright blue Delian emblem on it. He read, R.D.S. ASSURANCE 2322. Standing up on tiptoe, he touched the plaque, awed. Assurance had to be the last of her kind. When the United Worlds Government made warships redundant, the rest of the Delian Fleet had been decommissioned and sold.
The UWG had been humanity’s salvation, according to his history lessons. The human race came close to extinction during what was now known as the “Age of Perdition.” Millions of colonists had died during those destructive times. Many once-fertile worlds were now uninhabitable wastelands because of the use of world-destroying weapons.
Under the plaque was written, “Totus est pro optimus.” Ash snorted. Latin. No one spoke it, but for some reason it was traditional for space vessels to carry their motto in the ancient tongue. He stared at the foreign words and his Icom implant obliged him by translating, “All is for the best.” Ash frowned. That was a strange battle cry for a fighting ship. Perhaps her engineers, realizing they were building the last Delian warship, gave her that reassuring yet fatalistic name and motto. Still, it probably was for the best.
Without warning, an unseen force struck him, punching the air from his lungs like a fist to the chest. Ash gasped, his vision darkened — and he heard a scream.
No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t hear a scream.
He felt it.
A small part of his consciousness puzzled over this for an instant. The screaming stopped. The immediate empty silence seemed even more frightening. No! Nauseating, choking fire exploded in his lungs.
Ash’s mind shrieked in blind panic, Air! Give me air! I can’t breathe!
Gasping, Ash fell to the floor. His head swam, his ears rang and he knew that he had been screaming. He knew without seeing her that his mother had been screaming, too.
His chest burned, but more devastating was the thick, black desolation of despair. It slammed into him hard, an emotional avalanche that buried him alive.
It was agony — agony.
It went on forever.
Then, mercifully, the blackness of unconsciousness overtook him.
A soft white noise whirred, the sound of an engine engaged in significant work, the rhythmic hum of hydrogen propulsion. The resonance was so all-pervading that it was almost impossible to identify without intently listening. Aboard a spaceship, it was a familiar hum one would not normally perceive unless the sound stopped. On Assurance the sound did not stop.
The Delian warship, virtually self-reliant, moved through space guided by Icom. It discerned and measured temperatures, as well as a variety of waves: electromagnetic, sound, and gravitational. Hyperaware of its own systems, spectral analysis of the surrounding space, as well as the physical parameters of the organic life forms on board, the vessel had all-encompassing physical perceptions, yet it could not measure emotion.
The two life forms on board did feel emotion. When the people of Delian had been gassed, those on board Assurance felt their death on a psychic level. Ash and his mother experienced nausea and a choking inability to breathe as well as terror, grief, and death’s despair. Thankfully, the crushing desolation had pulled them into unconsciousness, where they, like Assurance, felt nothing at all, at least not until they woke …
A familiar sensation pulled Ash out of the darkness
His wolfhound, Tynan, put a large paw on Ash’s chest and licked his face, with one long, rough, doggy kiss. Such a terrible feeling of loss. Ash woke up on the floor of the lower deck with tears in his eyes. He knew Tynan had not been there, but it felt as though the ghostly presence of his friend had come to say goodbye. What was going on? He put his hand on his chest where he could still feel the familiar coarse padding and long nails of Tynan’s paw.
An alarm was shrilling continuously. Sitting up, Ash was promptly and repeatedly sick. Despite being a veteran of chronic illness, he could never remember feeling so unwell. Uncharacteristically, Ash wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater. Such vulgar behavior didn’t matter. Something terrible had occurred, and, child that he was, Ash’s first thought was that he wanted his mother.
“Mother?” Ash called. Too unsteady to stand, he crawled off to search. He found her in navigation. Sartha’s trim figure lay on the grooved flooring, eyes closed, skin clammy and white. Her shoulder length, golden blonde hair fanned around her face; she was dressed in an elegant off-white blouse and tan pant-skirt, her concession for being in space. As always with his mother, nothing appeared out of place. Had she intentionally lain down? Still on his knees, Ash bent over her and shook her with mounting fear.
“Mother!” he shouted.
Sartha’s bright blue eyes opened, first with a look of confusion and then with pain. They focused on her son.
“I thought you were dead,” Ash whispered. The din of the alarm intruded and Ash’s relief vanished. “That sound … will the illness come again?”
His mother sat up and her hands gripped his shoulders. “You felt it?”
“Of course.”
Her face flared with surprise and her hands tightened upon him. Eyes wild with anxiety she said, “Did you lose consciousness?”
“Yes.”
She came to her knees then, her desperate hands feeling all over his body for injuries. “Are you sick? Are you injured?” Her tone was frantic.
Ash’s mother’s concern over his physical health was so frequent an occurrence that this severe reaction on her part neither disturbed nor surprised him. Ash shrugged, minimizing any illness, as he had done all his life. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me, mother. You don’t look so good yourself.”
She expelled a relieved breath. “Thank Jana you’re all right.” She stood up, bringing him to his feet, one arm clutching him above the elbow. Ash’s heart jumped in alarm and shock. What Sartha’s distracted grip communicated was almost as disconcerting as the feel of his wolfhound’s paw. His mother needed to hold him. It was as if she would be utterly lost and alone without that contact. Why should she feel this way? His mother was strong and independent. She didn’t need him. It was he that needed her.
A gridded holovid map was projected at eye level. A transparent bluish screen, it projected the known galaxy and Assurance’s position within it. Sartha leaned over Assurance’s instruments. Her complexion, already white, paled further. She dropped both hands to the console and exclaimed in a shaky voice, “Forsaken Worlds, we’ve entered normal space, Ash. I must have hit emergency purge when — ” she paused and licked dry lips “ — when the illness came.” An expression came over his mother’s face, a blank, long-distance stare. Ash couldn’t recall ever seeing her look that way before. She wasn’t here; she appeared to be somewhere else altogether.
Ash touched her hand, wanting her back. Sartha took a deep breath and shut her eyes. She opened them once more. “I’ve work to do, son,” she said. “Get us a hot drink and something sweet to settle our stomachs.”
Ash left and soon returned with two large mugs of sweetened herbal tisanes and a plate of honey cakes. The ship’s small bot had already cleaned where he had been sick. “Mother, what’s going on?”
She gave him a graceful shrug.
“But why …”
Sartha pressed a finger to his lips, preventing the flood of questions that were forming. “I can’t tell you more,” she said, with just a hint of warning in her voice.
Ash thought his mother looked sad and lost. He felt a bit that way, too. He wanted to tell her about Tynan, the feel of his tongue, and the sensation of his large paw on his chest, but he couldn’t speak of it. The memory was too raw. Instead he asked, “What was that terrible feeling?”
“I don’t know, Ash,” she replied, her eyes sliding away from his own.
Astonished, Ash stared at his mother. She was lying. Why would she lie? Ash wanted to confront her and demand the truth but the words wouldn’t come. The knowledge burned inside him, but he said nothing. He knew now that they were in terrible danger and that in leaving Delian they had been running away. He recalled the red dawn, that ominous portent. It still made no sense, but Ash knew his mother. She would say nothing more unless she chose to.
“Patience, son.” Sartha took a long drink of hot, sweet tea, and studied the holovid. “I need to establish our position and plot a way back to Omni. Tomorrow, once I have time, we’ll begin Trueborn instruction. Such training is never started before the sixteenth year, but you’ve proven your need for it.”
Ash was startled. Trueborn instruction? Knowing the mysteries of one’s gift was the goal of every child born on Delian. But why now? Four years before tradition demanded?
“Ashton,” his mother said. She always used his full name when she was serious about something. “For now I want you to rest.”
“But I just woke up,” Ash protested, rebelling at the suggestion. He had been admonished to “rest” all his life.
“Son, the body is rested, but not the mind. Here, sit.”
They moved to the nearby dark blue lounge. It was a formfitting couch that could be guided by Icom for maximum ease, either by sitting, reclining or by delivering a massage. They both sat, neither directing Icom to provide further comfort. Ash sat in front of his mother and she held his hands, much as Mother Latnok had done. He frowned, disturbed by the sudden sharp memory of the Seer’s bony, cold grip.
“This is your first lesson, son. Shut your eyes. What do you feel?”
He closed his eyes and turned his mind inwards. After a moment he said, “I feel …” He bit his lip, trying to pinpoint the exact sensation. “I feel kind of sick, but not physically unwell,” he quickly assured her.
“Good. Tell me more.”
Ash took a deep breath. “I feel your grief, mother. You can’t mask it. You’re so sad. Why do we feel this way? It’s terrible.”
Sartha’s eyes widened slightly clearly surprised by his words, but she said, “You are burdened by the Dark Sankomin.”
“What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”
“The Dark Sankomin is all that has been and all that can be. If you were here, right now, it couldn’t touch you.” She shook her head at Ash’s puzzled expression. “This is so difficult to explain. Mind-touch can heal, but it’s not practical at your age. And yet the mind must rest.” She spoke almost to herself.
“What does this Dark Sankomin have to do with me?”
“The illness brought it to you.”
“I don’t want it!”
“All souls suffer the Dark Sankomin. You at least are Delian, and can have mind-touch to heal when you marry.” Sartha’s face darkened and her hand went to her heart.
“Mother?” Ash said. “Are you okay?”
“Give me a moment,” his mother said, turning away from him. A minute passed and she finally faced him with a forced smile.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I am fine. Just a little tired.”
“What were you going to say?”
“I don’t recall.”
He frowned, studying her face. More lies. Ash knew he had missed something. He had been following the trail of conversation, but then it had unaccountably reached a dead end when she had mentioned marriage. What was she hiding now? His mother was acting so odd, so unlike herself. He remembered the illness and said, “So what do the off-worlders do? You know, since they can’t mind-touch.”
“Off-worlders don’t understand the Dark Sankomin. They call it melancholy or depression. It often leads to madness or suicide. They suppress it through drugs, alcohol or entertainment and it can be often diverted through powerful emotions such as love, revenge or rage. Some find sensation effective — physical activity, for example, or pleasure. Strong purpose can also be used. All of these will work on a temporary basis.”
“Will I have the Dark Sankomin for long? How do I get rid of it?”
“Go to the sports room, Ash. Listen to your favorite music. Exercise until your body is as exhausted as your mind — practice the Disciplines. If that is still not enough, watch something on Icom 3D. Distract yourself, then sleep. Sleep will free you in time. If necessary I’ll give you a draught. With effort the Dark Sankomin will recede.”
After her son left, Sartha sat motionless for some time. The transparent bluish holovid remained on, but although she appeared to be looking she did not see. Numb with shock, Sartha was unable to take in the magnitude of her loss. Her people, her love — all gone.
Ash, too, had felt them die.
Sartha had been stunned by her son’s ability. Thank the Goddess his mind had disengaged. They both had lost consciousness, but not their lives. Appearances can be so deceiving. Her son’s slight, frail body held a powerful gift. Ash had felt the asphyxiating gas, the death of their people. At his age it was ordinarily impossible for one to achieve such a connection.
An alarm flashed, but she was already aware of the problem. Sartha reached over, and disabled it manually. Assurance had been built so that one person could fly her, but as advanced as the vessel was it had no tolerance for human error. When the people of her world were destroyed, Sartha’s impulse had been to stop. Without thought she had hit the purge button had taken them out of Omni. Now they needed to alter course to the nearest corridor, but that could take weeks to reach. Without Omni they would be forced to travel slowly in normal space.
At least she could use this time to begin her son’s Trueborn training. Ash would rebel at learning the Testimonials verbatim, she knew. Tradition held that he must memorize and recite the Testimonials before he could read the Interpretations. If the Seer’s casting was accurate, she would need to teach him quickly. It may be years or only months before she, too, passed.
She couldn’t tell him about his people, or his father. Not yet. Sartha frowned. It was true what she had told Ash that “All souls suffer the Dark Sankomin.” She had also told him that off-worlders call it melancholy or depression and that it can lead to madness or suicide. What she hadn’t told him was that those born on Delian were prone to extremes of madness and empty despair that off-worlders were not.
The first colonists from Earth had begun to go mad about twenty years after arrival on Delian. The histories spoke of that time, a dark age, three-hundred years in their past. Innate human powers were magnified upon their world. Passionate and psychically powerful, they could be heavily influenced by the Dark Sankomin. Delians had been given a great gift, and like all such gifts it was balanced by a flaw. No Delian could avoid insanity without healing mind-touch. Mass suicides, war and sudden homicidal violence had been frequent occurrences. It was Meg Kloekat, an unconventional anthropologist and sociologist who came up with the theory and concept of the Dark Sankomin. Soon after, her wife Jacque, a physician and therapist, discovered healing mind touch. Without this evolution the people of Delian would have destroyed themselves.
This was why the Testimonials and the Interpretations were so important for every Delian to understand. Studies had been made, and results published in the Interpretations. Without healing mind-touch, the Dark Sankomin closes in. First the individual becomes unable to sleep; their rest becomes filled with active, anxious dreams and then nightmares. They stop eating and drinking, and stop taking care of themselves. They become preoccupied by unnatural ideas and overpowering emotions. Passions rage up and down the scale, extremes of hate, guilt, anger and despair. Jealousy, envy … what may in small degrees be rational rapidly grew out of all proportion. Some Delians were able to hide this process, appearing quite normal, until without warning they took their own lives — or someone else’s.
“All become marred in time,” the Testimonial warned. And it was true. Once Ash was trained, he could mind-touch her and free the rivers of her mind, providing release from the Dark Sankomin. It could take years for him to learn, however. It would be difficult for her to wait for such mental and spiritual healing. It had only been a matter of hours and already she was so burdened that she found it difficult to think clearly. Worse, if she honestly faced the truth, she knew she would welcome her own death when the time came.
When she felt a bit better, with Ash’s permission she would at least be able to mind-touch him in order to clear his mind. But what would become of her son if she died?
She would have to teach him effective ways to suppress or divert the Dark Sankomin. Without healing mind-touch, Ash’s powerful gift would turn against him. Sartha trembled with dread at that thought. When she perished he would be the last Delian alive. Without a healing touch Ash would, in time, be condemned to madness and despair. Delian born, such an outcome was inevitable. Had it all been for naught? Had Ash been saved in order to suffer worse trials before he, too, died?
Her people, her love — all gone.
She recalled her thoughtless comment to her son, “You at least are Delian, and can have mind-touch to heal when you marry.” There would be no Delian bride for Ashton. He may know love, but he would never know the joy and completion of healing consummation. He would spend his life alone. It seemed impossible to comprehend. Desolate, Sartha went to bed but slept little, working to push her own Dark Sankomin away. Grief and despair overwhelmed her. Too many painful emotions were firmly blocked in the river of her mind. She thrashed restlessly in her sleep and ground her teeth. In her dreams she ran and ran, unable to escape.
Someone was trying to kill her.
“No!” Screaming, Sartha woke, sitting bolt upright with shock, heart pounding. She trembled and swallowed and smelled fresh blood. That nightmare had been so vivid, so real! She felt death still upon her, and in her dream she had intentionally slit her own throat.
Sartha’s soul was burdened, crushed by the Dark Sankomin. And like Ash, Sartha had no one who could provide a healing touch.
3. Mind-Touch
Mind-touch is a secret ability unique to those that are Trueborn of Delian. This gift is the power to contact another’s thoughts, to be inside another individual’s body, to in fact BE another person. Mind-touch is also a healing tool used to relieve the Dark Sankomin.
— Prof. Chris Lampton, The Interpretations
Three weeks passed while they traveled in normal space. During that time Ash made no attempt to press his mother for more information.
In normal circumstances he would have been determined to find answers to the mystery of the strange illness, but instead he had let it go. He feared a return of the Dark Sankomin — it had taken days to be free of it. Luckily his mother had started his Trueborn training, and that unexpected novelty demanded all his attention.
Ash had read the Testimonials and had begun to memorize them. Today was the first day he would attempt mind-touch. His mother had warned him that it took some students years to master the skills necessary to be in another person’s mind and body, to know another’s soul. Would it be like slipping into Tynan’s skin? His mother would help — after all, it was she that he was attempting to touch. But the skill and power to do so would need to come entirely from him.
Ash lay on the bed in his room with his eyes shut, concentrating. His mother, Sartha, sat nearby. They had started with relaxation exercises until he had become calm and hyperaware. His body was a light weight on the bed — it seemed far away, almost detached from him. Sartha had been giving instruction for some time now, speaking in a soft, quiet voice. The tone and rhythm of her voice was hypnotic. The subtle scent of her perfume lingered. It was a safe, familiar smell that gave him confidence.
“Detach yourself from the physical, son, as you do when practicing the Disciplines. In order to mind-touch me, you’ll need to become me. Ignore your body, Ash. Reach for your power. Can you feel the energy of it? Some perceive it as water; some sense it as air. It could even be an impression of time or dense matter.”
“I feel it,” Ash whispered, an echo of an answer to her murmured directions. He knew this flame that burned within him. He had felt it before. His voice was strange to his ears: a high-pitched whisper that seemed separate from himself. His power was enormous, like an endless heated ocean, an immeasurable … something. It felt larger than his insignificant childish flesh … or Assurance or even space itself. It was vast. Limitless.
“Very good,” Sartha said. There was a delicate hint of surprise and excitement in her voice. “This is your gift, Ash. It waits only for your command.” Her words became distant, like sound reverberating from far away, down a long, narrow tunnel.
“Yes,” Ash thought. Warmth. Heat. A flowing vibration came from the ocean within him. He consciously pulled on his power, something he’d never attempted to do before this moment, this timeless moment. His gift reacted like water, a fluid quicksilver sensation, pouring a burning wave of flame over his skin. Heat cascaded through him.
He began to feel good — really, really good. Ash knew that if someone asked, he would be unable to describe it. He had felt a glimmer of this with the seer. He knew moments of it when he slid into Tynan’s skin. For the first time he really examined the sensation. It was unique, something he had never really known before, yet it was an impression and awareness as familiar as his own right hand. Exquisite pleasure rippled through him. This was the opposite of the Dark Sankomin. There was a lightness of spirit to it. It felt … right.
“Command it, son,” his mother directed, her voice echoing with an abnormal musical precision. It was as if he used more than his ears to hear her.
Hyperaware yet completely relaxed, he thought of his mother, a simple thought: “I want to be there.”
Contact was immediate.
His viewpoint shifted and his entire world changed.
Ash became his mother. He was in her body. Within her skin.
It was an entirely new experience for him to feel such human physical vitality. His mother’s body, compared to his own, was strong, yet it was so soft, so womanly. He breathed with her: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He felt the rise and fall of her breasts. Breasts! They seemed so foreign to him and yet, while he viewed the world from within her flesh, they seemed familiar and right. Her physical form was quite unlike his own. Such superior size and strength! She had just had a coffee, and while Ash thought the taste of coffee was bitter and unpleasant, on her tongue that same burnt flavor tasted good.
Ash was looking through her eyes, still awed by the differences in height, in weight — in the entire experience. His mother sat in a chair next to his own resting form, legs crossed with a feminine grace. Together they watched the holovid wall beyond, at a view set to a dark, star-filled, moonless night. Sartha was dressed in a soft blue bodysuit. It was made from a fiber that molded for comfort and would have been almost common, but Ash knew she had had it specially designed. His mother loved the feeling of synthetic silk. She wore it with her usual casual elegance. Ash had seen her in such garments before.
The difference this time was that he was her. He was aware of the silk as it caressed her skin. So extraordinary. Descriptions filled his mind: feminine, graceful, alluring, light, delicate and beautiful. Ash, of course, was none of these things, but within his mother’s body he was. Time passed while he savored the experience. And always, while he was within her, he knew the now familiar background of white noise, the ocean of his power, the fire and heat that surrounded him. Breathing. Inhaling and exhaling. The rise and fall of breasts. The taste, the smell, the feel: the sensations that were her essence. He had thought he knew his mother well. But now, from within her flesh, he understood her better than he ever had before.
Sartha’s face turned toward his own slight form. Ash was incapable of controlling his mother’s body, but his viewpoint moved as hers did. He shifted his vision within her and saw his own motionless form, slight and undersized on the bed before him.
I look so frail. This thought caused a physical reaction. Anxiety. Ash felt his mother’s heart speed up, her pulse pounding, and he became aware of a sense of longing, of a vital need. He was drawn to his own small, childish form as it lay alone on the bed.
He tried to puzzle out these potent feelings. I’m worried about my body, he realized. He wondered if those were his own thoughts or his mother’s. Was he reading her mind?
“You are not reading my mind, Ash. These are your own thoughts, but you are having them as the result of being within my body.” This communication came to him directly from his mother, mind to mind.
Sartha had given birth to him. Her genetic imperative was to reproduce, then to nurture and protect. He was within her flesh and he knew the feelings of her body, but they were being filtered through his own thought processes. “Ah, I see,” he reflected, remembering the teachings. “Body, mind, soul: all three distinct and separate, with purpose and plan unique to each. Every individual is a composite of being.”
“Yes, son,” Sartha thought. “You understand.”
Minutes passed as Ash listened with his mother’s ears, touched surfaces with her hands, smelled, tasted … these senses were all similar to his own. It was her womanly body that felt so different.
Ash had studied anatomy, so the female body held no real mystery. But his mother’s emotions and physical sensations — they awed him. There was an innate quality within this feminine form. The yearning that it communicated: womanly softness and kindness combined with that compelling desire to be a mother, to love and nurture a child. Ash’s reaction to this was simple and it surprised him. He thought, “If this were my body, then I should be glad to be a woman and a mother, too.” It was so obvious, yet it was an astounding realization. He knew now that his true self was separate from the masculine identity of his own boyish flesh. He had always assumed that maleness was a part of his essence, of the soul that was uniquely his, yet he now understood that this was simply not so.
It was the body he inhabited that made him male, a boy even now growing into manhood.
But this fleshly form he wore was not his true self.
“Yes,” his mother responded, “Very good, Ash. You know my body, now learn my mind.”
Ash concentrated, shutting mental eyes, putting away the distraction of his mother’s scent, the feel of being within her skin, and her feminine yet robust physical form. With effort he focused. Many minutes passed.
He heard nothing.
There was nothing there.
He wanted to know his mother’s thoughts. He wanted to push against the barriers that separated him from them. He began to experience a growing bubble of discontent and aggravation which built and built and grew out of all proportion. Instinctively he sensed that struggling wouldn’t help. He waited for these overwhelming feelings to pass, and when they finally did, when the frustration had at last finished flowing through him and ebbed away like a receding tide, he found that he was left with nothing.
Nothing.
He was surprised at how liberating this was. Awash in the heated ocean of his power, he did nothing. He thought nothing. Freed of emotion and freed of thought, he allowed himself simply “to be.”
It was like opening a door.
Words from Sartha’s mind flew into his consciousness, her thoughts filling his awareness like billions upon billions of air molecules being sucked into a vacuum. It was as if she were shouting, “My son, my son, my beautiful son.” The love his mother felt for him! He knew she loved him, but there was no way he could appreciate the nearly infinite depths of her affection until this one mental touch showed him. Ash knew an awkward need to pull away. The intensity of it was thrilling, yet at the same time embarrassing.
“Enough, son. We’ll do more tomorrow. Imagine opening your eyes.”
Ash’s eyes opened and he found himself back in his own flesh. Small, weak, male. The astonishing difference between the two physical forms struck him, as well as his extraordinary achievement. His smile was so big he jaw almost hurt. I did it. I can mind-touch.
“Mother,” he said. “That was amazing! Much easier than I imagined.” He stood up and found he was a little dizzy. He sat back down.
“You need to eat something, Ash. That empty feeling is normal.”
“You projected those thoughts, didn’t you?”
“Yes, son.”
“Then I wasn’t really able to read your mind?”
“So greedy,” Sartha said. “You should leave something to achieve later. With more experience you’ll be able to look deeper than the superficial. You did well for your first time. While I helped you to connect, I honestly didn’t expect that you would. Most Trueborn take months to achieve mere body contact. Yet you were able to hear my thoughts, projected or not. You are quite gifted, son.”
They moved to the meal area, where the auto-chef prepared lunch. While they ate, his mother answered Ash’s questions. He didn’t have many. He found it difficult to do more than simply bask in a sense of wonder. He had mind-touched. He had been within his mother. It wasn’t unlike touching his wolfhound, Tynan. Of course he guessed that it would be more difficult to mentally contact a stranger. Once they arrived at Kalar he could try that.
For days Ash had been searching Icom, seeking information concerning the obscure planet to which they were headed. Kalar was remote, at the opposite end of the known galaxy, parsecs away from most inhabited worlds. The first colony had arrived around 2090. Kalarians tended to be Traditionalists, not holding with the usual “Body Beautiful” ideal of the rest of the Freeworlds. They minded their own interests and liked to be left alone. He and his mother would be safe there, where privacy was a sacred right.
They finished their meal and Ash returned to reciting the Testimonials. He could almost recite them faultlessly. He said, “Hold thee now and pay heed, Trueborn of Delian. I speak now of thy Power, a gift from Jana the Goddess of Truth to our people that provides sanctuary, sword and shield from Taro the Deceiver.”
Sartha nodded as she checked his narration against the Testimonials.
“Hate crushes the power. In blindness thou shalt see a world of enemies, eyes cast toward revenge, not gentle truth.”
“Excellent.” Sartha smiled in encouragement. “Continue.”
“Evil thought and deed shall surely burn and fester. Poisoned arrows …”
“No,” Sartha interrupted. “These poisoned arrows.”
Frowning in annoyance, Ash didn’t trust himself to reply.
Sartha, undisturbed, was well aware of his irritation. “Son,” she said calmly, “as you know, the Testimonials must be word perfect. Once you know them you can read the Interpretations. The Interpretations are a pleasure to study, much easier to understand, and you are not required to memorize them.”
Exasperated, Ash rolled his eyes.
“Ashton,” Sartha admonished. “I don’t expect you to understand the Testimonials. I didn’t understand them when I started my training and I was three years older than you are now. Trust me, these words must be etched into your mind. They must come to you without thought. You will be grateful for this knowledge. In time …”
The high-pitched sound of an alarm interrupted her.
All color left Sartha’s face. She spoke swiftly, her words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s a proximity alarm. Curse me for hitting the purge button. No one would have found us in Omni-space.” Sartha grabbed Ash by the shoulders, propelling him out of the room. “Hide in storage.” She thrust the Testimonials into his hands. “Take these. Hurry.”
Ash didn’t question her — he ran, his boots making quick, loud steps though the corridors of the ship, down to the lower hold. Climbing in between two large crates he sat with his legs curled, the Testimonials on his lap. He both felt and heard an echoing bang — it was an eerie sound. Ash breathed rapidly. With effort he slowed his breathing, straining to listen. His heart pounded in his ears. Minutes later he heard the sound of two ships coming together and the scrape of airlocks settling. Assurance was going to be boarded.
Had they come for them? The people they were running from?
Ash remembered the Imperial Seer. With a firm grip on the Testimonials he thought: “I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.” His pulse and breathing slowed, so he repeated the thought once more, and then again and again. Oddly, the King’s Mirror suddenly seemed warm and reassuring against his thigh. Knowing his father’s talisman was with him helped him regain his composure. That, together with the mantra, stilled his fear. Calm settled upon him.
He sighed, deeply grateful to Mother Latnok. Ash began to recite the Testimonials, surprised to find that they came smoothly. With a thrill of excitement he realized that this was his chance. He had mind-touched his mother and it didn’t seem that difficult. Of course she had assisted him; she had reached for his contact. His mother told him that it would take months, perhaps years, to develop the skills necessary to mind-touch others. Still, there was no harm in trying.
I will mind-touch these off-worlders, he decided.
Ash reached for the warm ocean of his power and shut his eyes with the pleasure of it. So good. Heat poured over his skin, a strange yet familiar burning sensation, as he attempted to contact someone, anyone, from the other ship.
Sartha looked out the observation window. Alongside Assurance, a police cruiser waited. Freeworlds Patrol 171, Darla Wu, had submitted a boarding request. The request had been polite but the threat was unspoken. They would board her whether she wanted them to or not.
Jana, help me, she prayed, pacing the deck. Her mind strayed to thoughts of her son hiding somewhere in the lower storage area, frightened and alone. She had to protect him. Were the police her enemy? Or were they what they professed to be, the protectors and defenders of the Freeworlds? Could they be trusted? Perhaps she should confide in them and tell them about Delian. No. She couldn’t take that chance.
But why had they stopped Assurance? Did they already know about Delian? Were they here to kill her and Ash? If she hadn’t been so frightened she would have used mind-touch to read their intentions. Sartha remembered the Seer’s casting. Her mind worked against her, vividly imagining people pursuing and killing her while she attempted to escape. She thought of Ash in hiding, unaware that his mother was dead. The seer had said Ash would be alone, no mother, no father, no home — but not so soon, surely? And how could she fight the police? She wondered why her mind leapt to such stupid, useless and uncontrollable thoughts. She glanced at her hands. They were trembling.
A determined voice interrupted Sartha’s frightened reflections. “Assurance. This is the police. Release guidance. I repeat: Release guidance controls.” The man added darkly, “Assurance, we don’t want to force override.”
Sartha swallowed. She could delay no longer. She opened communications, intentionally omitting visual. “Assurance to Darla Wu.”
“This is Darla Wu,” came an instant response.
“I’ve released guidance. You’re free to board.” Sartha prayed that she sounded nonchalant.
“Very good.” After a momentary pause the man continued, “I expect, Lady, that we shall be aboard your vessel in about twenty minutes. Ah … if you don’t mind my asking?” He sounded disconcerted at having to make the request. “Have you got any honest-to-goodness, planet-grown coffee on board?”
Sartha was startled and yet at the same time oddly reassured by the sheer mundanity of the request. She replied immediately. “Yes, of course.” Then, before she could stop herself, she asked, “Am I to understand that you gentlemen stopped Assurance simply for a cup of coffee?”
There was a brief hesitation in the reply. “Ah, Assurance … it gets pretty lonely on patrol and we haven’t seen another ship for six months. To add insult to injury, we really have run out of coffee.”
Sartha laughed out loud, astonished to find that she was no longer tense. These men would not harm either of them. Ash would be safe. “You’re welcome aboard, gentlemen.” She became aware of an unaccustomed need to keep talking, an impulse that she knew was the result of nerves, but she held her tongue. The connection had been broken and Sartha leaned back in her chair. There was still a dangerous encounter ahead, but she was back in control. Now she would be able to mind-touch these strangers.
But first she had better put on the coffee!
4. The Freeworlds Police
The Freeworlds Police enforce UWG law, protect property and reduce civil disorder in both domestic and intergalactic arenas. Preventing piracy, ensuring regulated travel between worlds, protecting trade and cooperating with planetary governments for civil control, their powers include the legitimized use of force.
— Police Operations Manual
Aboard Freeworlds Police Cruiser 171, Darla Wu, Captain Larren Forseth stood absently rubbing his chin as he looked out an observation window. R.D.S. Assurance, a compact vessel, was waiting patiently for him to board. She apparently carried only one passenger, a woman.
Forsaken Worlds, he swore under his breath. Why did it have to be a woman?
A few of his men were working nearby, his pilot Drake at the controls. The Delian Warship had relinquished controls but still … Captain Forseth’s sixth sense was working overtime. There was something peculiar about Assurance and the woman aboard her, but he couldn’t identify what it was. She had neglected to allow visual communication — was it intentional? Or had she simply forgotten to do so? He hadn’t pressed the subject, although he had the authority and the capability to override.
No, there was no need to upset the woman without reason. She already sounded nervous. He had mentioned loneliness and the coffee in order to put her at ease — although they were running out of coffee.
Captain Forseth stood next to his pilot. “Well, Mr. Drake,” he said, resting his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Shall we get on with it?”
“Yes, sir.” Drake said, guiding the cruiser with an ease that only years of experience could bestow. In a thoughtful tone he added, “I never like to keep a Lady waiting, sir.”
Their eyes met and both men grinned with companionable accord. They had been through numerous trials together, along with the rest of the crew. A crew became a team after they survived a battle or two, and this particular crew had been through many. Somehow, during the worst combat, the best in each man had been revealed. He was proud of his men.
Dismissing his crew from his mind, Captain Forseth looked back out the window. He considered Assurance. What was so odd about it? He recalled the sound of the woman’s laughter and smiled. He had certainly put her at ease. Some people, even though they had done nothing wrong, were afraid when they saw a police vessel. That was normal and expected. But this woman — she was too shrill, too rapid in her speech. And there was a tension in her voice that she had been unable to conceal.
Something was wrong here.
Larren froze, caught in a memory. That’s it. That is what this reminds me of. He remembered when he had last heard a voice with a similar pitch, a voice with the same edge of hysteria to it.
It was that woman in the Alliance, the group of terrorists who fought against the UWG. There had been an explosion and an Info ship had been destroyed. The Police had been called to search out the band responsible. At the time he had been a junior policeman, uninitiated and angry. Why did those mad revolutionaries have to ruin everything? It had been his unit that located the terrorists, effectively surrounding them. Their orders were clear: attempt capture. If necessary, kill.
Unexpectedly tense, Captain Forseth sat down on the bridge console and loosened the top two buttons of the collar of his uniform. His left hand went to his pocket, where he kept a little blue stone encased in clear Plexiglas. A friend had told him that his little marble might actually be Delian Damithst — a ridiculous idea, of course. If it was, it would be worth five years pay. His parents had given it to him as a child, and he superstitiously felt that it was his good luck charm. His fingers touched the smoothness of the stone. He stroked it and some of his tension left him.
Back then, as an innocent youth, he had not as yet met “the Enemy” face to face. Not once had he considered what it would be like to kill another human being. If someone were crazy, he had supposed that they would look crazy and perhaps be physically ugly. But that hadn’t proved to be the case. The Alliance woman had looked and acted quite sane. She had also been young and striking, although too thin for her frame. There had been a vulnerability to her expression that had tightened something in his chest.
Staring unseeing out the observation window, Larren let his mind go back to that time.
He and his companions were under attack. They had pinned down the dissidents and had ordered them to come out to be arrested. Unexpectedly, there had been the sound of a shot, then a scream, followed by the large booming echo of a high explosive. He learned later that a patrolman had been wounded and the man’s companion had fired an incendiary in retaliation.
The resulting blast had caused further explosions from inside the storage area where those in the Alliance had been hiding. He had been one of the first members of his unit to run blindly through the smoke into the doomed building.
It had been a nightmare inside, with people running, crying out, and dying. They looked like normal people, like the friends and acquaintances one saw any day of the week … except, of course, that they were dying. Looking around, Larren had not seen any that he was able to reach, and none that he thought could survive.
Then he saw the woman. She could not have been more than twenty. Miraculously untouched by flames, she stared without emotion at a man’s dead body. Larren had rushed to her side, to help her to escape, urgently grabbing her arm. Unresponsive, she had simply looked up at him.
Larren shook his head, captured by the dream, the old, repeating nightmare.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here. Quickly, before the whole place blows.”
“No,” she said, looking at the dead man, her expression set like a mask. With a grim, determined stare, she trained her weapon on him. “I’m not going.”
Larren stared, mesmerized, looking death in the face.
The mask was gone. Emotions lit up her face: grief and despair, the mental companions of a woman on the edge.
“My name is Linetta. I’m twenty-two. You people have raped Orone, my homeworld, killed my father, and dug my mother’s early grave. I have no home and — ” Her voice broke. “ — my friends and family are gone.”
She looked down, face flushed with grief. “This was my husband. Neither he nor my parents nor I have ever had the opportunity to kill a patrolman.” She kept the weapon trained on his chest.
Larren looked at her, unbelieving. Was he then to be the first? “I don’t understand. The police are here to help and protect.”
Linetta laughed, a high, mad, keening sound. “You? Protect me? You don’t even know your own masters. I may have failed but at least I know the truth. You consider yourself a success, but you know nothing. At least I’ll die having fought for what’s right. You will continue, a puppet to the end, harming that which you profess to save.”
Her look was intense. “Don’t forget me. My name is Linetta.” Without stopping for second thoughts or last requests, she had turned the weapon on her temple and blasted herself out of existence.
He remembered her all right: her beauty, her passion and, of course, the incredible shock of her disintegration.
A solid jarring sensation made Captain Forseth look up, startled out of his reflections. They had locked on to Assurance and he would now be able to board. He stood up, re-buttoning his uniform and fully returning to the present.
I hope this woman isn’t anything like the other one, he thought, shaking his head ruefully. Other than repeating nightmares, he had not consciously thought of Linetta for some time. She had obviously been crazy. And all that talk about him being a “puppet” — she must have been through some sort of Alliance indoctrination program, standard black propaganda. The UWG had been of great benefit to humanity.
Larren frowned. There was only one thing that worried him. Once, when he was on leave, he had visited Orone. At one time a thriving farmland planet, it had been heavily mined. Now it held a small population, all consisting of relatively new colonists. Whatever happened to its original settlers, Larren was afraid he would never find out.
The pilot, Malcolm Drake, an older man, whistled happily to himself, thinking about Assurance and what the Captain had told the Lady. It hadn’t been six months since they had been aboard another vessel — more like six weeks. Of course, the last vessel hadn’t exactly been friendly. Piloted by pirates running stolen goods, they had forcibly impounded that ship.
Drake smiled. This will be a much more pleasurable visit, he thought. He nodded as the men left the main deck, moving down the gangway toward the outer hatch.
Away from the bridge, the Captain and two security officers gathered, discussing contingencies. This was an inspection like thousands of others, routine and by the book. Still, it was important to be prepared for any possibility. They waited patiently as Darla Wu and Assurance silently came together. There was a small bump and a mechanical hum, and moments later the two vessels were safely coupled. With a slight whoosh of air, the locks opened and the Captain and his security officers left Darla Wu and boarded Assurance.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as the Lady Sartha greeted her guests. After mind-touch with the Captain of Darla Wu, Sartha’s turbulent emotions vanished. While she still had a potentially dangerous encounter ahead of her, she now felt confident and sure of her approach. Sartha was informally attired in a blue, full-length, sleeveless gown. The gown wrapped around her — the soft, velvety material held together by a single sash, the neckline deliberately low and inviting. She was a small, slim woman, yet she had ensured that her dress accented the fact that she was not too slim; her curves were nicely rounded and in exactly the right places. Her genetically enhanced golden hair flowed in waves, just past shoulder length.
The large man with Captain’s stripes came to a complete stop at first sight of her.
Sartha suppressed a giggle. He looked at her in blank amazement as if he had been immobilized with a stunner — or perhaps hit by a lightning bolt. Sartha had hoped to put the man off his stride. She had dressed with that in mind, but she hadn’t realized that her plan would be so effective. She watched with delight as a tinge of color flushed his face. Sartha had lost her husband and the people of her world; she had been terrified of being boarded; she had been afraid for the life of her son. Yet despite everything, once she saw Captain Forseth and how uncomfortable she made him, she found it difficult not to laugh out loud. This was going to be so easy. The poor man was embarrassed.
Sartha came toward him, smiling in welcome, presenting her hand. “Hello, gentlemen. I am the Lady Sartha Chayton, Queen of Delian.”
Captain Forseth removed his cap, placing it under his arm. He took her hand, bowed with due ceremony and said in a low voice, “Your Majesty
“Please, Captain,” she said, “we can dispense with formality. You may address me as Lady Sartha.”
He nodded stiffly. “Pleased to meet you, Lady Sartha. I’m Captain Larren Forseth, and these are my officers, Mathes and Keorta.”
Sartha politely inclined her head.
The Captain turned away from her then, and appeared to inspect Assurance’s lounge and servery. The Needle-Class vessel’s living spaces were small, as they had been originally fitted out as fighting vessels. This one had been converted. The galley was generously laid out with more lavish design. Sartha thought it likely that Captain Forseth was not really looking at the interior of Assurance. He was probably taking a moment to gather his wits.
Forseth swung to face her, cleared his throat and said with a touch of humor in his voice, “Unless my senses deceive me, Lady, I detect the unique aroma of freshly brewed coffee.”
Sartha smiled and nodded graciously. “It is indeed, Captain.” Gesturing toward the dining area she added, “Would you and your men care to join me for a drink? Or perhaps you want something stronger?” Sartha knew Captain Forseth would never allow himself or his men to drink while on duty, but she decided that it wouldn’t hurt to test him. One of her eyebrows arched in question as she mischievously gestured to a bottle of Penatrale Umbra. Umbra was a potent liqueur, distilled from malted barley, cinnamon spices and cherries; it was a luxurious treat, considered a celebratory drink on Delian.
The Captain gave a low chuckle. “We’re honored to join you. Coffee only, I thank you.”
Sartha’s lips twitched. She wanted to laugh out loud with relief. Of course he wouldn’t drink on duty — not Captain Forseth. During the few minutes before the men came aboard, she had mind-touched the good Captain. Although brief, contact had been most satisfactory. Captain Forseth, she was pleased to discover, was a good man. His intentions were to help others. He had a strong sense of justice, and would never abuse his position. Oh, yes, she had nothing to fear from him.
“Please be seated,” she offered, and directed the men to the dining chairs.
Captain Forseth and Keorta sat down, but Mathes remained standing, with his back to the wall. Sartha looked at the officer quizzically, silently offering a chair, but the fellow remained unmoving. Vigilant, the man was preparing for an attack — protecting his Captain, no doubt. She didn’t press the subject. Instead she politely acted as though it was not unusual for one of her guests to stand near her dining table well-armed and intent.
Sartha poured out the coffee.
As the two men stirred in milk and cream and took their first sips, Sartha thought of Ash. He was safely hidden. She hated to leave him for so long without word, but it was for the best. While she was sure these men had nothing to do with the asphyxiating death of her people, it was best to trust no one. She was frightened that information might get back to Admiral Neopol and Conqueror. They could be searching for her even now. As she sat and prepared her own coffee, she gazed at the Freeworld patrolman.
Incredible as it seemed, she found herself drawn toward Captain Forseth. A kindred spirit, he shared some inner loss or grief. He had suffered the despair of failure. It was a shame that she hadn’t had enough time to discover more.
Strangely, Captain Forseth held a hard, rugged attraction. Patrol regalia suited him. He was tall — at least six four, broad shouldered, and lean. In his early 30s, he already had distinguished if premature gray in his brown hair. He was not vain, then, or he would have genetically modified that gray. Unless, of course, he was a Naturalist. She noticed the barest shadow on his face. Why hadn’t he had his beard permanently removed? Most men did, yet he chose to shave.
A Traditionalist, then? He looked as if he had seen and experienced all manner of life, yet it didn’t appear to have affected him. Neither cynical nor cruel, he was genuinely friendly, and his light brown eyes showed compassion and humor. But one couldn’t call Captain Forseth truly handsome — not with that ill-set broken nose and the unsightly scar that ran from his left ear to his chin. The scar appeared to be the result of a burn, the skin pink and waxy, melted across his cheek. These injuries must be recent, or surely he would have had cosmetic repair to eradicate such disfigurements. “Body Beautiful” was the accepted norm across the Freeworlds. She studied him, curious as to what could have made such a vicious wound. Laser?
Forseth looked up at her scrutiny.
Sartha’s heart jumped. Attempting to conceal her discomposure, she quickly looked away from his intense regard. She busied herself with the plates, feeling awkward, like a child caught trespassing on something private.
Sartha set her face determinedly. Friendly or not, Captain Forseth could still be a threat to her son, and she knew the best way to handle him. Through her gift she was aware that he felt ill at ease with attractive women, although she had been unable to determine why. Her manner of dress had intentionally been sexually alluring; her generous cleavage left little to the imagination. Sartha thought of Jarith, the love of her life. It felt wrong to dress this way, with him laying unburied on Delian, but it was necessary. She would put this Captain on the defensive. Soon he would be so uncomfortable that he would find it necessary to leave. Then she and Ash would continue their journey to Kalar.
Sartha sighed. She would like to confide in the man, but she simply couldn’t take the risk. She sat down with her guests, poured her own coffee and stirred in some cream.
“This is wonderful, Lady,” said Forseth. He raised his cup to his lips. “I must remember to stop Assurance whenever she undertakes a journey.”
Sartha laughed. “Certainly, Captain. You would be most welcome.” She leaned toward him provocatively, displaying her generous cleavage. “And tell me, sir, is it only the coffee you seek in this visit or,” she finished in a throaty, sensual voice, “is there something else you wish me to provide?”
Captain Forseth coughed as he almost choked on his coffee. All conversation stopped as everyone in the room looked at him in some surprise. He had spilled his beverage and the Lady Sartha was already wiping up the small spill.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, no, Lady. Routine stop only.” Forseth appeared to find an interest in his cup. “Ah, we are patrolling these lanes and are required to search any vessels for contraband, illegal passage — the, uh, usual things,” he finished lamely.
Sartha looked up at him through her lashes, her lips in a pout. It was a sensual invitation. “You are certainly most welcome to have as close a look as you like,” she added suggestively, “at anything aboard this vessel.”
Forseth actually squirmed, Sartha noted with satisfaction. She had taken him by surprise. No doubt he was already planning an escape back to the safety of his ship. He ran a nervous finger under the collar around his neck. What would he do now? she wondered. Now that he had an uncontrollable desire to flee, would he make an excuse and just go?
“Ah, Lady, duty requires that I ask you a few questions.” Forseth stood up and took a step backwards. His sudden clumsy movement jarred the table.
Sartha hid a smile. So. It seemed that when stressed he resorted to set police procedures. Throughout the visit the Captain had avoided looking directly at her face, or at her body. She, on the other hand, couldn’t take her eyes off him. So much had happened. She had been so worried, terrified of being boarded, frightened of this man. Finding out that he was more uncomfortable around her than she around him made her want to laugh out loud. It was amusing to watch such a confident man behave like an awkward adolescent.
Captain Forseth activated his remote, mumbled the place, date and subject. “Ah … now, what is your destination, and why are you in normal space?”
In her satisfaction at seeing Forseth squirm, Sartha had forgotten her story. She hesitated and blinked. Then she bit her lip and glanced up and to the left. What had she planned to say?
Forseth’s expression lost all trace of uneasiness and he became abnormally still. His dark intelligent eyes remained on her face.
“Well, Captain,” she said, “we were on our way to the holiday satellite, Seira Nuvon …”
“And?” He straightened, his attention focusing like a missile tracking a target. Forseth’s eyes met hers.
Sartha flushed under his penetrating regard. She spread her hands deprecatingly. “I inadvertently activated emergency purge. Since then I have been stranded in normal space until I can get to an Omni corridor.”
“I see. And who else is on board?”
Sartha gave him an innocent expression. “Why, no one else.”
“You said we.” Forseth positively jumped on it.
“I did? I must have meant my monkey. Poor Romeo died and left me all alone.”
“Too bad,” Captain Forseth said sincerely. He shook his head back and forth, while looking straight at her. She felt exposed, as if he could suddenly see past all her carefully constructed camouflage — as if he knew what she had been doing, and why. Impossible. Sartha’s breath caught with apprehension. But the man had such a peculiar expression in his eyes. What was it? It looked almost like regret. No. It was as if he genuinely felt sorry for her. But not for the loss of her imaginary monkey. The man looked like he was sorry for something he planned to do.
Then, just like that, Forseth relaxed completely. He smiled a self-satisfied grin and absently switched off the remote. He said in a low, soft tone, “Well, you poor thing. Have you been lonely without Romeo? It must have been difficult, travelling in a big ship like this all by yourself. You must have wanted company.” His voice was loaded with sexual connotation.
“Oh, no, sir. I’ve been quite comfortable, I assure you, sir.”
“My dear,” he said. He reached over and gripped her hand possessively. “I think that I will take you up on your kind offer to make a complete search of everything on this ship. Everything,” he stressed the last word as he towered over her even while seated. He looked at her in a hard, cold stare.
“You will?” She pulled her hand in a futile attempt to get him to release her.
Forseth tightened his grip. “I will.”
The room seemed a frozen tableau. All the men wore weapons. One man stood guard near the exit; two men and one unarmed woman were seated at the table. The largest man leaned with purpose toward the only woman in the room, and he gripped her hand in a firm, restraining clasp.
Amongst all these dangerous men, Sartha looked slight and vulnerable.
Lady Sartha’s mind was in turmoil. What should she do? How had she misread the Captain of Darla Wu to this degree? Could she have touched someone else?
Sartha wondered desperately what kind of trouble she had gotten herself into. More importantly, she wondered how she was going to get herself out of it!
5. Unexpected Answers
Icom: Interface Communications Online Management. Thanks to the cortical plasticity of the brain, signals from the neural implant are handled through effector channels. Thought controls audio, visual and holovid access, creating the ability to text, read and communicate. Icom is hosted by each world, as distance between worlds is too great for real-time access. Updates are provided by UWG info ships.
— Distinguished Professor Emeritus Allan Dyen-Shapiro, Icompedia
Larren Forseth, Captain of the police cruiser Darla Wu, sat in the galley of Assurance, holding Lady Sartha’s hand.
He wasn’t really holding her hand, he realized with an internal smirk. It was more like he had captured it. And the woman may as well be in handcuffs, because he didn’t plan on letting her go anytime soon. Larren picked up his cup of coffee and drank down the last of it without once taking his eyes off the Lady Sartha. He made his movements casual, almost languid, but his mind was alert, his body tense and ready. The satisfying taste of coffee on his tongue only added to the pure pleasure of the moment. Larren was a big man, and he was more than happy to use his size to intimidate or subdue a suspect. Right now he was looking forward to doing just that, because he intended to get some answers.
The silence in the room extended between them all, Mathes, Keorta, Larren and the woman. But between the Lady Sartha and Larren there was more than silence.
Tension stretched, linking them both like an invisible magnetic force.
Abruptly Larren stood up, intentionally towering over the Queen of Delian. His expression implacable, he gave her a stern glance. The woman looked up at him with wide eyes. Larren thought she looked frightened.
Good, he thought. So she should be, lying to the police. His lips curled in a derisive grin. To hell with what the men would think. He could explain his actions to his team later. Right now he was going to call her bluff and find out what was going on.
“Gentlemen,” he said, nodding toward his security detail, while keeping his relentless grip on the Lady Sartha’s hand. “Stay put. No one in or out; weapons at the ready. Send a message to our pilot that we’ve been delayed, but tell him everything is under control. I will be temporarily occupied in an inspection.” He raised his eyebrows at Sartha, daring her to refuse him.
The Lady Sartha didn’t refuse him.
Leaving his officers staring open-mouthed with surprise and envy, he pulled Sartha to her feet. He retained possession of her hand and pulled her along, unwillingly trailing in tow. She was wearing a subtle scent that made his stomach clench with desire. Her slender, feminine hand was dwarfed in his, and her skin was soft and smooth. He could almost feel perspiration beginning to form at the back of his neck. It had been so long since he had held a woman, especially a woman like her. He became aroused at the prospect. And she was Royalty. Yet here she was, claiming to be alone in normal space.
Accessing Assurance’s floor plan through Icom, Larren strode briskly down the corridor. He knew exactly where he was going.
He remembered when he first set eyes on the woman. He had known the Lady Sartha was trouble even then. Her gown had matched her eyes. They were the most beautiful light cobalt blue that he had ever seen. Had they been enhanced? Not an uncommon procedure these days. A thin dark blue rimmed each eye. Fascinated, he had wanted to look more closely, to examine those unique colors. But of course he had suppressed the impulse. Why was he always burdened with the good-looking ones? He could handle any number of hardened criminals while on duty, but a lady, especially a beautiful lady, was impossible. They made him nervous.
“Worlds of Perdition,” Larren swore under his breath. The woman was up to something. He knew it. But a full-scale ship search would be an embarrassing insult, and it seemed so unnecessary. It was hard to imagine her as a member of the Alliance, and even more inconceivable that she could belong to a pirate’s guild. Her ID checked out. She was Queen of Delian. She wasn’t engaged in something criminal, he’d bet a year’s pay on it. More likely she was in some sort of trouble. Queen or not, she was still trying to cover something up, and it was his job to get to the bottom of it. But what would someone like her need to conceal from the police?
He passed the first door in the corridor — he wanted the next one on the right. As he walked he could feel Lady Sartha’s weight as he pulled her along behind. She didn’t want to go with him, but she would do what he said, he thought with a growl. She had lied, and tried to trick him, and she had nearly succeeded. But he was calling the shots now.
The woman was a poor liar, which really was to her credit. The Lady Sartha had been unaware that the United Worlds Government stopped all travel to Seira Nuvon two months ago except for service personnel. And that business about a pet monkey named Romeo — ha to that. He had truly caught her out there. Five minutes with a DNA sampler would prove no monkey had ever been on board. No, there was someone else on this ship. Someone she wanted to hide, maybe more than one person.
How had she known that he felt uncomfortable when dealing with a beautiful woman? She had taken him by surprise with that sexual innuendo. She had practically thrust her breasts in his face and said, “Tell me, sir, is there something else you wish me to provide?” Somehow she knew his vulnerability and had been trying to make him leave. It had almost worked, too. The Lady would have gotten away with it, if she hadn’t slipped up.
He smiled. Well, he had the upper hand now. He located the largest bedroom and mentally opened the door. Without preamble, he pulled the Lady Sartha in and swung her heavily down on the double bed. The door shut and locked.
Sartha sat rigid, hands clapped in front of her, chin up, defiant. She stared straight ahead, not yet able to meet his eyes.
Larren studied her. The pulse pounded in her throat. She trembled and moistened her lips. A momentary twinge of conscience pricked him, but this was quickly eclipsed by the pleasure of triumph. He had certainly gotten even with the Lady Sartha! He sat down beside the woman and hid a smirk as she instinctively shrank away. She was really frightened.
The insanity of the situation was too much. Larren began to chuckle. The idea that a woman would be afraid of being molested — by him. That he would either need or want to resort to such methods. He chuckled at first almost noiselessly and then with more and more volume. Eventually he stood up, hands on his stomach, his laughter quite unrestrained.
As his mirth grew louder, Sartha turned toward him. “What?” she demanded
“You,” he pointed at her. “You look so funny!”
Sartha’s eyes glittered with fury. “What, pray tell, do you mean?” Her voice was caustic. Her now seething expression caused another uncontrollable outburst from Larren. It seemed that being raped was one thing, but being laughed at was another.
“I want to know the joke,” she said, “even if it’s apparently at my expense.”
Larren soon had his irrepressible laughter under control.
Sartha glared at him.
He met her angry gaze for a few moments, unrepentant and still amused. He grinned. “I’m sorry,” he offered, sitting back on the bed beside her. “However, you did take unfair advantage of me, you know.”
“I took advantage of you!”
“Yes. Yes, you did.” The woman, still beautiful, was no longer daunting. Having solved one problem he felt much more himself. He gave her a slow, thoughtful smile and leaned his broad shoulders back against the wall with his hands behind his head. “I don’t know how you knew, but I’m uncomfortable when the execution of my duty involves a good-looking woman. Even more so when the woman makes advances.”
Sartha frowned and her brows drew together, clearly bewildered.
Larren leaned forward again, enjoying her consternation. “Ha!” He said. “You still don’t know what’s going on, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” Chin held high, Sartha stood up in an attitude of moral indignation. “I believe you’re out of order. If you leave now I won’t report you, Captain.”
Larren suppressed a smile, momentarily enchanted by her bold but naive attempt to frighten him. A Captain of his years and standing was not so easily intimidated. His eyes narrowed. Reaching up he gripped Sartha’s wrist securely and pulled her back down on the bed next to him. “I think it’s time I had a few answers.” He towered over her, his size and strength an obvious threat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And I think you do.” Letting her go, he stood up and began to pace. “Point one, you said ‘we.’ There’s someone else aboard this ship and I want to know why they’re hiding. Don’t give me that story about ‘Romeo the Monkey,’ either. You’re a lousy liar.”
He looked down at her. She was quiet. Good. She would listen to what he had to say. Sternly he said, “Point two, where are you going on Assurance? Seira Nuvon? Ha to that. You’re not the type to visit that vice-filled dump. Besides, travel to Nuvon is prohibited to all except service personnel as of two months ago.”
He looked at her accusingly. She had her hands on her face and her head turned away from him. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? He hated it when women cried. It made him feel like a monster. Was she crying?
He gave a deep sigh as his anger evaporated. Larren sat back down and spoke gently, his tone kind. “I haven’t even told you point number three. I don’t understand how you read me so well, but you were positively brilliant at discovering where my abilities lapse.” He looked toward the woman for some sort of response. There was none. “I’ve decided to trust my instincts. I think you’re in some sort of trouble. I brought you in here in case — ” He hesitated and expelled his breath in a sigh, disconcerted. “Well, in case you’d find it easier to confide in me without anyone else listening in.”
Sartha wasn’t moving, but he could clearly hear her. Muffled behind her hands were the unmistakable sounds of soft sobs and irregular breathing. Looking away, disappointed, he finished his speech. “I just didn’t want to have to put you through the embarrassment of an honest-to-God, full-scale ship search.” Larren’s words slowed and trailed off into nothing. Yep. One thing he simply couldn’t tolerate, and that was a woman’s tears.
He pulled a service issue handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her.
Sartha looked up at him. She took his offering and blew her nose. It was a prosaic action, almost childlike.
Larren’s heart went out to her. He had disarmed her, seeing through her pretense and now, quite unreasonably, he was the one who felt disarmed. He wanted to help her. It was a character flaw and he knew it. Big tough Freeworlds Policeman. He sometimes felt like he had a sign on his forehead saying, “Sucker: Can’t resist rescuing hopeless cases that get themselves into trouble, particularly pretty women.”
“Look, nothing can be that serious,” he said. “Whatever it is, just tell me about it and we’ll sort it out. Honestly. How bad could it be? I’ll do everything in my power to help, I swear.”
She nodded, hiccupping and taking deep breaths.
“There. That’s better,” he soothed. His hand moved clumsily to gently pat her back. Then, to his astonishment, she put her face in her hands and began to cry all over again, even louder this time.
“What did I say?” he demanded throwing his hands up into the air. He felt an entirely warranted grievance with the injustice of life. Larren glared at the holovid on the wall — it was brightly showing a field of yellow flowers. Unreasonably, it irritated him. The wall went soft cream as he used Icom to switch it off. Why had he stopped and boarded this ship? He’d rather face an armada of pirates any day.
Sartha sobbed. “It’s just … it’s just … you’re being so nice.”
Larren cursed under his breath. Compliments now. Why should that embarrass him? He hoped that this wasn’t another ploy to get out of telling him the truth. He considered her tearful appearance. She seemed genuine enough. Well, he resolved firmly, he was going to have some answers come hell or high water — even if the high water was from tears. His impulse was to continue to reassure her, but now was not the time. He needed answers and his gut feeling was that she would give them as long as he kept his mouth shut. Larren sat back, waiting impatiently for the fresh onslaught to finish.
With a sigh he went out and obtained fresh coffee, keeping up the pretense by winking at his astonished men. Eventually, Sartha’s weeping subsided.
Over a cup of coffee, Sartha told him, leaving nothing out except the Seer’s foretelling. She told him about the power of mind-touch, why she and her son escaped, how the people of Delian had died and her fear of the police. She explained about the Testimonials and the priceless Damithst King’s Mirror and her need to pass on Trueborn knowledge and responsibility to Ash. Her overriding concern was for her son. Someone wanted them both dead. She told Captain Forseth that she had touched him only for a moment and discovered his weakness, discomfort with a beautiful woman during the course of his duties. She also knew he was trustworthy. She knew his name was Larren, and considering the circumstances they decided on first name informality.
Dumbfounded, Larren blinked, “That’s quite a story.”
“You think I’m lying?” she demanded, quick to take insult.
“I didn’t say that,” Larren said, unwilling to offend her. He stood up and began to pace the room. “No. I believe you.” He turned back toward her and changed the subject. “Do you really think that you’ll be safe on Kalar?”
“Yes, I do. You see, Kalar is so remote and no one there is really interested in who you are or where you came from. If there was a search for us they would get no assistance from the Kalarians.”
“But what will you do? Live there forever? What about your homeworld? And Ash, now King. Will he marry a nice Kalarian girl and settle down?”
Sartha was quiet. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, with great concentration. “I haven’t thought that far. I just know I must finish his training and ensure he is safe. He’ll have to be told about Delian — ” There was a catch in her voice. “ — and his father.” She looked like she was going to burst into tears again.
With natural compassion, Larren reached for Sartha. Taking her hand he pulled her to her feet, and up against him offering the natural comfort of a human embrace. She rested her head on his chest with neither encouragement nor resistance, and he wrapped his arms around her. Larren saw Sartha for who she was now. She wasn’t trying to play him. The woman had decided to trust him. He was surprised to find that, despite her nearness, her scent, and the feel of her soft skin next to his, he no longer felt an involuntary passion or the fear of a beautiful woman. Oh, the attraction was still there, but it was eclipsed by an inherent desire to help and protect her. Her courage fascinated him. She was all drive and determination wrapped up in a soft, feminine body. He breathed in deeply. And apparently, he thought wryly, she could read minds.
The holovid wall had started up again through an automatic default program. Now it showed a valley surrounded by white-capped mountains, all in twilight. The darkness of the setting reduced the light in the room, giving everything soft edges, making it seem quiet and protected.
“I don’t know why, It’s against all my service training, but I do believe you, Sartha,” Larren said as he idly patted her back. He kept his voice low, deep and soothing while he cradled her as he might an injured child. “And I’ll help you and your son in any way I can.”
After a few comfortable minutes, Sartha pulled away from him and sat back on the bed. Her emotions appeared to be more under control. She looked up at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said.
The holovid wall shifted. Flowers again. The light in the room increased and brightened as the view panned over an undulating field of yellow daffodils shining cheerfully on a brilliant sunny day.
Larren noticed that the flowers didn’t irritate him in the slightest now. He was genuinely surprised by how he felt. It was as if the woman had cast a spell. He had a sharp ache in his chest at the thought of her leaving, fleeing to Kalar, with her son. Sartha’s husband had recently been murdered, she still grieved, yet all he could feel was the overwhelming urge to remain with her. He wanted to see her again. All his life he had fought any possibility of a permanent attachment. Throughout his service history, his cherished vessel, the Lady Darla, had been his one true love. Like many beautiful but jealous women, she always demanded his full attention. What he felt for the Lady Sartha wasn’t love, but it was … something. It was an intractable feeling he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake. Not only that, he didn’t want to shake it.
Larren wondered what Sartha would think if she knew that he wanted to see her again. Having recently lost her husband, in fact her whole world, she would probably be appalled. He put his hands in his pockets and asked, “You say you can read minds?”
“It’s not really mind reading. Our gift is one of perception.”
“Can you read my mind?”
Her blue eyes lit with mischief. “I already have.”
“You said you only had a moment’s contact. I’d like you to do it properly this time.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
She tilted her head. “I suppose it is a new idea to know another so completely, but it is easily done. It may take a while,” she warned, then lay down on the bed, comfortably curled on her side.
“I’ll wait,” he assured. He wanted her to know him better. Then she could decide how he could best help her and, more importantly, if she wanted to see him again. As the minutes passed he moved restlessly, eventually laying down on the bed beside her, resting his head on one arm. Sartha faced him with her eyes shut, her golden hair loose about her. She looked peaceful and relaxed … and beautiful.
Larren didn’t feel anything. Was she reading his mind? He considered the matter and was surprised at the level of trust he had given her. He didn’t care what she knew about him. Had he ever met anyone like her before he would have pursued and courted her, determined to discover if she really was the unique, indomitable person that he suspected she was. Then he probably would have given up the service, as well as his beloved vessel, and begged her to stay with him.
He was astonished to discover genuine affection now. He had enjoyed many passing liaisons, but other than a number of childish infatuations in his youth, he didn’t think he had ever really been in love. His past experience with the opposite sex had been more of friendship and affection, or a release of sexual tension with neither party seeking permanent attachment.
He grinned and decided he was an idiot.
This current fascination was probably just the result of some need to rescue a woman in trouble. He frowned and rubbed the beginning growth of stubble on his chin. But she did attract him, and not just physically. No matter. He remembered that he was owed time off. He would visit her on Kalar and get to know her son. He would ensure for himself that they were okay. His left hand went to his pocket to his lucky marble, touching the smoothness of the Plexiglas that held that beautiful blue stone. Larren held it not with tension this time, but with a silly sort of happiness. So stupid. He was in the grip of some sort of mad, impractical joy. He shook his head with bemused chagrin.
I really like this woman, he thought.
Lying further back on the bed, almost touching her, he let his mind wander. Perhaps he could do a bit of mind-touching himself. Now what could she be thinking? Larren began a kind of mental reaching in Sartha’s direction, surprised to feel a warm, flowing sensation, a depth, an almost electric impression vibrating along his skin. The hairs on his arms stood on end — it was as if his body was humming.
It felt good. Really, really good.
With a confusion of senses, an electric combining of viewpoints, his perspective shifted.
Completely disoriented, Larren tried to focus on one thing, leaving everything else to spin. He stared and stared, until finally the blurred object at the center of his vision came into view.
A coarse expletive sounded in his mind. He tried to exclaim out loud, only his mouth didn’t respond. He was staring … at himself!
He saw it. Motionless and undisturbed, his body laying stationary on the bed.
He thought, “Am I dead?”
Terror swept through him. Mentally he screamed.
“Don’t be afraid. You are alive.”
Larren clearly heard someone reassure him — no, he felt someone reassure him.
“You are safe, with me.” Sartha’s whispered thought was a warm touch caressing his mind.
He was still looking at his own motionless form — from outside of it.
“Lady, please. What’s happening? Is this a dream?” It had to be some sort of nightmarish figment of his imagination. Had there been some sort of hallucinogenic in that coffee?
“Larren.” The fingers of her mind were soft and gentle. “You are disoriented. You’ve had no training.” He became aware of her astonishment as she added, “And you have touched me. I am having two-way contact with an off-worlder. This is impossible, for you are not Delian. You should be mentally blind.”
“This is mind-touch?” He asked the tentative question as he doggedly fought his fear. “If my body is over there, where am I?”
“We are together. You are with me,” she replied. “Try not to be shocked. Just look. You are regarding your own body, from my mind and vision.”
Looking, he was bombarded with sensory input: he was her. He felt his — no, her — breasts rise as she took in a long, deep breath. He felt small, light, delicate and soft. His long golden hair curled around his neck and there was a delightful female smell; he could feel her velvety dress against her skin. He could even experience her sense of taste — she had recently eaten something sweet, something with cinnamon and honey.
He was NOT in his body.
He stared at his own unconscious form, hyperaware of being within hers.
Sartha remained silent, allowing him time to master his fear.
After some minutes, Larren felt more in control. Fine, he thought. I am a woman. So what? It isn’t the end of the United Worlds or anything. Unaccountably, he felt like giggling. “Well,” he mentally voiced to Sartha, “you have a beautiful body. But — no offense — I prefer my own.” He was beginning to relax and could perceive her smiling. There was a bubble of amusement in her mind. Physically, he felt the corners of her — his — lips rise. She, he … well, they were smiling.
“The condition is quite temporary, Captain, I assure you. You are currently me, assuming my point of view, observing life as the Lady Sartha does.” She began to communicate mind to mind in an ordinary manner, as if discussing a favorite repast, she calm and natural, he barely recovered from utter panic. “A body is an animal of its own, Larren, with instincts, needs and desires. The mind and spirit are separate, yet joined. Delians have the power to take themselves, mind and spirit, into another’s body and mind.
“What about my brain? I thought my mind was in my brain?”
“The brain is simply another part of one’s flesh, Larren. A vital part, yes, as it helps the essence control the body. But your brain is not you.”
She gave him a moment to digest that, while he thought it through. He focused on Sartha’s body, her regular breathing: in, out, in, out. Despite the oddity of being aware that he now had breasts, simply breathing soothed him. Being her was so different from being within his own heavy, solid masculine self. She was so feminine. Was he using her brain? But that made no sense. He was who he was, intact. He was still a person with his own mind, his own memories. Nothing had changed there. And yet here he was looking through the Lady Sartha’s eyes. He was looking from outside himself.
He thought: “I am not my body.” It was a revelation.
“True.” After a moment Sartha thought, “I know you now, Larren. Look.” Like a mirror inside Larren’s mind, Sartha reflected the unaltered Truth of Larren’s past back to him, starting with his childhood. Kind parents, two sisters, both much younger than he — Larren loved them all. A loyal, kind and teasing big brother. A need to go off world. A desire to help others. Adolescent, idealistic, Service mad. Even as a boy Larren had been a natural leader. People wanted to follow him, not through fear but from admiration. Larren inspired others with a desire to live up to his expectations — and he had high expectations.
She knew his embarrassing moments — jealousy, greed, lust. She discovered all his stupid mistakes and seemed to understand his hard-won lessons. Larren heard an echo of Sartha’s thoughts: He is an honorable man. She understood him and delighted in knowing him. Somehow he felt flattered. He was a better man than he thought, when viewed through her eyes.
She found an incident where some of his crew had been injured. Sartha exposed Larren’s guilt as irrational, and he felt lighter. A number of battles, powerful events, flickered through his awareness like shuffling cards, stopping when he had not fully viewed something, until he had found the Truth. Through her insight he saw himself differently, more clearly. Linetta was there, and suddenly he understood why he still dreamed of her, why her passing continued to trouble him.
If he had been capable of it he would have laughed out loud.
Larren began to experience bubbles of joy from within. He felt good. So good. An incredible lightness of being. He saw his sleeping body through Sartha’s eyes once more and this cooled his pleasure. He dreaded entrapment. He thought, “I’ll go back to myself, right?”
“Oh, yes, Larren. You are with me for a short time only. As you know, the great thinkers of the past once said that one must “walk in another’s shoes” before one could honestly know another. There is no greater truth. How could one know another’s point of view, unless one assumed it? The ability to mind-touch allows one unique comprehension.”
“Is that what I am doing? Reading your mind?”
“No, but you can do so, it seems …” This tough, no-nonsense Captain was solid and real, something to hold on to. Sartha had felt safe in his arms, reassured by his integrity and his strength. She closed her eyes and envisioned her husband. There were similarities. They were both strong yet gentle. Jarith would be pleased that she had found a friend, a champion. Larren was a good man. She was incredibly grateful that he had come into her life. She had read his mind and knew why he had wanted her to do so. He felt guilty because he wanted to see her again. He was attracted to her. Honorable man that he was, he despised himself for thinking such a thing when she had so recently lost her love. Larren couldn’t explain what he felt, but he wanted her to know. It was sweet and he was kind and thoughtful.
Larren’s help was essential. He would do everything possible to assist her and her son. She needed him. She did not love him, but there was affection, respect and certainly physical attraction. What they were to each other now was not about black and white concepts of morality concerning the recently bereaved Queen of Delian and the Captain of a police cruiser. What was to come was unavoidable in any case. She and Larren were locked together in a two-way mind-touch. This circumstance had set into motion a series of events that were as inevitable as the pull of gravity. She had cured his demons; she just hoped that their joining would be enough to cure her own.
She tensed as the pain of her recent bereavement intruded, taking over once more. There was such an ache in her heart. Jarith was gone. Her people were dead. She was burdened by the Dark Sankomin. Without mind-touch that pain would remain in her present, blocked in her mind, a part of her now … forever.
The river of her mind did not flow: it was dammed by the Dark Sankomin and she was damned to a living hell.
Sartha felt a heady thrill of possibility. Could Larren share her burdens and set her free from the Dark Sankomin? Could an off-worlder save her from insanity and despair? She would always grieve for her husband and her people, but with healing mind-touch at least she need not fear madness. Her mind would flow without limit, and her soul would be released from darkness. She could be herself once more, no longer crippled. Please Jana let it be so.
“Larren,” she thought. “You have borrowed my gift. I will guide you in its use.” After an imperceptible hesitation she directed his mind: “Look.”
And he did. Recent thoughts came first: Larren saw Sartha’s first contact with him, in his body. She had wanted to confide in him. She knew now that Larren felt powerful emotions concerning her, and that he wondered if it was love. She knew he felt guilty because of her recent loss, but she had accepted how he felt without judgment.
“It is as it is.” Such pleasure in that simple truth.
Sartha’s life rolled out before him, a kaleidoscope of sensations, thoughts, emotions and pictures, moving so fast that he was unable to take it all in. A dark-haired man who Larren knew was Jarith. The spicy smell of her world, a heady combination of pine and sea salt. The sight of magical, pink moons and a sky full of stars in the crystal night sky.
Her first visit to Castle Delian. Her fright. Her excitement. A ship in full sail, a cool wind, and a thrilling headlong sprint on some animal.
Despite medical intervention she had had five pregnancies: two miscarriages, one stillborn, and one infant who died within weeks. They had implanted into artificial wombs, had tried every known technology, all to no avail. Jarith’s people had wanted her set aside and Sartha felt cursed. The joy in producing a viable heir was combined with the terrible fear for his survival. He knew her pride and love of the child, her awe of his power, so much greater than her own. He knew her ongoing anxiety for Ash’s health and the tentative ambition that he may yet grow strong.
Larren felt a black rock of emotions too, dark and heavy as if buried in her soul: grief and despair, the loss of her people. She was unable to look at this, to face it, but with his help she could. Larren experienced it all with her as if he had been there.
Such pain.
Sartha’s husband’s death shook him, as if it was someone he cared for that had died. Mentally, he shuddered. His own body flinched.
The death of her love and the destruction of her people. Larren shared her anguish. He could feel this hurt; it was right here in the present with them both. The loss was a stabbing agony, an open, bleeding wound that was draining all joy and resilience from her soul.
“I’m so sorry. Jarith was a good man. We would have been friends.”
“Yes.” Her thought whispered in his mind, a gentle caress.
They understood.
All at once, swiftly and without expectation, they both experienced a tremendous sense of relief. Heavy grief and loss moved away, departing as if in one solid mass.
The wound was gone.
Sartha knew what happened. She thought: It was the burden of the Dark Sankomin. The blockages in my mind, the blockages in your mind — both have been released. The rivers flow freely now. Larren couldn’t understand, but he could feel it. He knew her and she knew him more completely than anyone had known him before. Their combined emotions were rising, lifting, soaring. Then came a gentle mental wind, a tender, warm breeze of mutual affection and understanding. In concert, they experienced a lightness of being and an overpowering sensation of freedom.
“I feel wonderful!” His thought was a mental shout, bursting with an exultation of the soul. “What happened?”
Also enjoying an elevated state, Sartha explained, “We have provided to one another both mental and spiritual release. Only the need for physical release remains.”
Larren was unable to comprehend anything except the glorious sensations he was experiencing. Sartha’s mind flowed through him: images, emotions, and her power caressing, calming … intimate.
Words held no meaning.
He thought: I feel like I have landed in another universe altogether.
He was both bewildered and bewitched, yet those rarely experienced emotions did not alarm him. They thrilled him.
He simply couldn’t begin to comprehend what had happened. Not really. All he knew was that what had occurred was utterly out of his experience. His soul burned with wonder … with awe. Was this what poets and saints wrote about? This awareness? This glory?
It was something amazing. Extraordinary.
It changed everything — everything.
It was as if all he had done or thought or wanted was unimportant.
Right now, this instant: this was all that mattered.
There was a shift. He opened new eyes. He had returned to his own flesh, the powerful male form that was comfortably his. He felt invigorated. He’d never been more alive and aware in his life.
He was also responsive to and conscious of Sartha. He could feel her. She wanted him. They were still connected, body and soul. He felt so good. “Sartha?”
He turned to her. Sartha was looking down at him; she moved above him.
Larren felt an intense craving of the flesh. Such arousal, such need. He gave a sharp expulsion of breath. If lust was an ocean, he had landed far out to sea. He was surrounded by it, drowning in it. He was acutely aware of Sartha. More than anything he wanted to touch her. He knew what she was experiencing; her sensations were his; they were mixing, combining into an overwhelming surge of energy. She smelled so good. He felt her inhale deeply; her breath was as his own. A soft, sweet brush of air moved near his face. She was close enough to kiss.
The confusion was too much.
He held her just below her shoulders. Apprehension overrode pleasure. “I don’t understand. What happens now?”
She cupped his face. He felt the slight pressure of her fingers as she drew him toward the soft warmth of her lips.
“Now?” she whispered soundlessly inside his mind. “Why, now we touch.”
6. Consummation
One way contact with an off-worlder is always safe as they are mentally blind. Traditionally mind-touch is for partners. There is good reason for this: two-way contact, combined with physical attraction, will result in consummation. Be warned and take care. If there is physical attraction during two-way contact, a chain reaction will commence. This is inevitable and cannot be prevented. Soul-to-soul release; mind-to-mind release; flesh-to-flesh release. Mind-touch with a loving partner is the ultimate consummation. Only mutual climax will conclude such a joining.
— Queen Bardsley, The Interpretations
Their psychic connection may as well have been forged in tadium, sealed with Plexiglas and surrounded by force fields.
It was that solid.
Both Larren and Sartha, soul, mind and body, were locked in two-way mind-touch. According to the Delian Interpretations there was only one means to break such a hold. They had each experienced release of the soul and release of the mind. Now only flesh release would free them from each other.
Captain Larren Forseth and Lady Sartha Chayton lay together on a king-sized bed aboard Assurance. Darla Wu’s security detail remained in the galley and the hall of the Needle-Class vessel, standing guard.
Larren lay on his back, his body hard, tense and ready. By all the Freeworlds, please let her want me as I want her. Sartha had climbed on top of him, had placed her entire body down the length of his, pressing herself against him breasts, hips and thighs. Her sleeveless gown was soft and velvety against him, yet the skin of her arms felt smooth and softer still. Larren trailed his hands hand down her back, resting them against her buttocks to pull her closer as he lightly kissed her.
If the eyes are the windows to the soul, the kiss is the window to character, Sartha mused as she fell into Larren’s lips. Every kiss was a distinctive fingerprint. Larren, gentle and giving, held back his desire in consideration of her. Kind. So kind. Soul so bright …
Larren had heard that portion of Sartha’s thoughts as they kissed. He was back within his own body, but he was hungry for hers.
Holding Sartha, having her against him, had caused him to respond like a reactor splitting an atom: instant, all-consuming heat. He wanted to laugh. Gentle? Giving? Kind? Right now all he wanted to do was take her, hard and fast.
Sartha moved her slim hands over his neck and shoulders. She trembled with longing.
Oh yes. Thank you, Jana. She wants me, too.
He heard Sartha giggle, and he felt a bubble of laughter in her mind. Sartha knew what he was thinking. It seemed that his thoughts amused her.
Well, his thoughts shocked the hell out of him.
Larren’s pulse beat rapidly and his breath came in short gasps. Worlds of Perdition! This uncontrollable lust had appeared out of nowhere. He had the overwhelming urge to throw her down like some sort of caveman, to spread her legs and without preliminary thrust inside her. He wanted to pound into her ruthlessly, to use her mindlessly until she was senseless and he was spent. No foreplay, no finesse. He felt like an adolescent, or perhaps an animal.
He considered giving in to the urge.
His level-headed self patiently talked his impulsive, unreasonable self out of the plan. He reassured his unreasonable self that slow and steady would provide more enjoyment for both Sartha and himself.
Larren’s impulsive self just lusted: here, now.
His entire body responded, agreeing wholeheartedly.
His indecisiveness was back: to screw her silly right now or not? His reasonable self and his unreasonable self now seemed to be in agreement with the hard throbbing that was making itself known in the lower part of his anatomy. Evidently, instant gratification was best for both parties.
Larren looked at Sartha, who was studying his face with raised brows and a smile of approval. He knew she was on board with whatever he decided. He groaned, surrendering. It was pointless to resist. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so out of control — and he hadn’t even gotten her clothes off her yet.
He moved one hand up her shoulder to her neck. Sartha’s lips were soft and yielding. Her silky locks fell across his cheek in a gentle caress. She gave a low sound of pleasure that broke his control. His reaction was immediate and fierce. With one hand on her buttocks he grabbed a fist full of her hair while the other pulled her closer, deepening his kiss. He wanted to possess her completely, to bury himself inside her, to merge his body with hers.
But before he could do more, Larren felt an exact echo of the sensations Sartha felt as they kissed.
Curious, he drew back, frowning, and then kissed her again.
Oh!
Larren felt Sartha feel his lips, felt him grab her buttocks and fist her hair and drive his tongue inside her. Larren felt everything he did to her and her response to his actions. Such a sensual, feminine desire. Larren felt his own fevered kiss burn and flow like lava through Sartha’s entire body. His urgent, obvious desire made her breasts and lips tingle and her lower parts clench with need.
He shut his eyes as her lust poured over him. Amazing.
Larren had never experienced the sensations a woman felt during sex. What man could? Thus it was his curiosity that saved him from himself. When he kissed her or touched her he felt what she felt. There was a delay, but he felt it.
He moved slowly, cautiously, afraid that if he didn’t vigilantly pre-think and control each movement he would be swept away.
Larren carefully rolled Sartha over onto her back, put his weight on his left arm, and his chest against the pillow softness of her breasts. She looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes of deep, deep blue. Her pupils were large with desire and she moistened her lips, which were swollen and red from his bruising kiss. She made a soft little sound, a sigh of pleasure. Seeing her, hearing her, Larren felt another urgent spike of arousal and his jaw tightened.
He breathed in deeply, regaining power over himself. Larren slowly reached his right hand over, cupping her face, tracing her bottom lip. He moved it, following from Sartha’s forehead, caressing her cheek, across to her ear and neck and lower along her side. He wanted to touch her breasts, but he stopped himself. Not yet. He might lose what little control he had.
Yes. Larren shut his eyes again, the better to absorb her sensations.
He felt her feel the strength of him as he rolled her over and rested his weight partially on her breasts. He experienced her little gasp of breath as she became aware of the heaviness of his body. He felt her nipples tighten as the full heat of his large, hard body touched hers. A moment later he felt her feel his fingers trace her lip, her cheek, her neck, and come close — so close — to her breasts. He knew her rush of hunger as it bloomed from within her. Something tightened lower down, within the core of her body.
Oh, Goddess. Sartha’s lust nearly overwhelmed him. Again.
He clinched his teeth as he exerted control. He felt her breathe in, felt her inhale, knew her enjoyment of his masculine scent. She felt pleasure in the weight of him, heavy upon her. She wanted more.
It was incredible.
Sartha said, “Ours is not a perfect joining, Larren. When you feel me it is the precise echo of what I am feeling. There is a slight time lag. Do not let it disturb you.”
Their eyes met. A vast wealth of empathy passed between them.
“It doesn’t disturb me,” he assured her, his hands moving through her hair, tangling in her wavy golden strands. Lust was something he understood well, and his sexual need was riding him, but desire was warring with inquisitiveness. What he had here, at this moment, was an opportunity. His curiosity was now the more compelling urge, but only by the slightest of margins!
At last he could answer once and for all the question he had always wondered about in every sexual encounter he had ever enjoyed: Was it as good for you as it was for me? Larren gave her a predatory smile.
“You know what?” he raised his eyebrows with a sexy, mischievous look on his face.
Blue eyes dancing, Sartha laughed out loud.
Larren leaned down, cheek to cheek with her, his lips touching her ear. He knew Sartha felt his touch, the warmth of his breath, the heat of his skin. He knew, she knew, what he was thinking, but he wanted to say it anyway.
As he moved down her torso, he said in a low, deep voice that was thick with desire, “I’m going to feel you come.”
Much later, the subtle humming noises of a ship in space were the first thing Larren became aware of. But these were foreign sounds, with delicate differences in note and tone from his beloved vessel Darla Wu. Larren knew his own ship intimately. Lady Darla’s voice was so familiar to him he could have picked the sounds she made out from a thousand other ships. Gradually Larren remembered and understood. He was on Assurance. He heard soft breathing and the steady slow beat of his heart. He woke fully then and found himself in Sartha’s arms.
Shifting slightly, he sat up. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, dumbfounded. He had actually passed out during sex. That was a first.
Sartha smiled. “Well,” she said, her smile broadened into a grin, “on Delian, we consider that to be as close to the Goddess as one can get — without actual death, of course.”
Larren was filled with wonder. He pulled her into his embrace, reversing their positions so that he was holding her against his chest, cradling her to him, his cheek against her hair. He loved her fragrance and the feminine softness of her skin. His lips lifted in a wry smile. There was nothing like that on Darla Wu.
They lay together for some minutes.
“Sartha,” he eventually said. “I don’t feel you anymore.”
“That’s correct. Without physical release we would still be joined in a two-way mental touch — quite an impractical state, as you can imagine. Mutual climax completes consummation and that is just as well. Extended sexual mind-touch is for youngsters. That much pleasure would probably kill us both.”
“There would be no better way to go. Did you know that would happen?”
“No. I could never have suspected that you would have the ability to mind-touch, Larren. Once we formed a two-way mind-touch our sexual union was unavoidable.”
He hugged her. “I hope you didn’t mind.”
She smiled. “I didn’t.”
“But how could I …” He shook his head. “I’m not Delian.”
Sartha shrugged. “Off-worlders are supposed to be mentally blind. You seem to be an exception.”
“So that was mind-touch.” He pulled her closer.
“It was a bit more than just mind-touch,” she replied with a snort.
They both giggled and laughed together. Larren clearly remembered just what it had been. He was still awed.
Sartha’s expression became serious. “Before consummation, we joined in mental and spiritual healing. I could hardly think clearly, I was buried in so much pain and despair. You have freed me from that, Larren. You have no idea of how grateful I am. You experienced my thoughts, my emotions and my grief, as I have experienced yours. I have been healed — as have you.
Larren smiled back at her, filled with a tremendous sense of well being. Even the room seemed brighter, objects clear and distinct. She was right. He felt so alive. A thought struck him. “Have you done this kind of mind-touch with many others?” A strange sensation gripped him. He wasn’t used to feeling jealous and didn’t recognize the emotion.
Sartha’s brows knit at the question. She studied his face and chuckled. “You are the third. I haven’t experienced as many and varied companions as some.” She looked at him knowingly.
“Ouch,” Larren said, chagrined. “All right — so I have had a few.”
Sartha just looked at him, with an eyebrow raised in query.
Larren laughed. “Well, maybe more than a few. But none of them were anything like that, if it’s any consolation.” He hugged her. That experience. It nearly served to make him forget why he was here, even the fact that he was the Captain of a patrol vessel. He felt entirely at peace, probably for the first time in years.
He explored his mood for some moments, curious as to what it was. He felt smug; that was it. This was another emotion he didn’t experience often, and the feeling gave him a languorous pleasure. Despite the inherent difficulties, he had been self disciplined enough to satisfy his curiosity. While women were different, sex was absolutely as good for them as it was for men.
“Sartha,” he said, “I have leave coming.”
She interrupted, putting a finger on his lips, “I know.”
He grinned. “Of course you do. I’ll send a report telling your story, leaving out the Testimonials, the King’s Mirror, and Ash. Then I’ll go to Delian.”
“But …”
“No,” he interrupted. “I’m in the position to confirm what happened and to do something about it.” In a milder tone he added, “I’ll come to Kalar after that.”
“I’m afraid for you.”
“Don’t be,” he said, dismissing her concern. “I can take care of myself.”
“You don’t understand. I think that someone in the United Worlds Government is responsible.”
Larren stiffened. More and more she was reminding him of the woman in the Alliance. Linetta had said, “Don’t forget me,” and then she had taken her own life right in front of him. He asked casually, “What makes you think so?”
“I know you find it hard to believe, but before we left Delian I mind-touched an off-worlder from the battleship Conqueror …”
“Conqueror had something to do with this?” Larren interrupted. “She’s a Fleet vessel. How do you know it was her?”
“Icom tracked her arrival.” She bit her lip. “My husband, Jarith, mind-touched Admiral Neopol Jones. I didn’t. But Jarith said that the man is filled with hate. He was hurt and betrayed as a child somehow … I don’t know the details. Behind his hate is fear. He is afraid. In truth he is quite mad. In his mind the only way he will feel safe is to either control or destroy everyone. He is well connected and dangerous. I’m afraid he’ll kill you.”
“Sartha, I doubt if this man Neopol and I will even meet. He’ll never find out about you or Ash.”
Sartha remained silent, worrying her lip.
Larren stood up and began to dress. “Once I obtain proof of his actions, of Delian’s destruction, then all I need do is pass that confirmation on. After that, every patrol vessel in the known galaxy will be after him. He can’t fight us all. Don’t worry about me,” he said, buckling on his belt and holster and putting on his cap.
Larren could see that she was still concerned. He reached over and kissed her lightly. “Don’t even think about it,” he said with boyish charm. “I’m not that easy to kill.”
“I know. I’ve seen your scars.”
Larren was amazed at the attraction that she held for him. Yes, she does remind me of Linetta, he decided. Somehow he knew that old nightmare of his would no longer haunt him, for he had finally discovered the truth. It was clear now why the incident with Linetta had been so disquieting, so lasting and painful. Now he understood the reason for that unforgettable vision’s persistence. In the few moments he had been with Linetta he had admired her wild and desperate beauty, as well as her courageous, unyielding spirit. Now he loved Sartha and their situations were similar. What had happened? Could the same person be responsible for the disasters to both Linetta’s homeworld and Sartha’s Delian?
Sartha tilted her head with a considering look. “Yes, Linetta and I are similar, are we not? Alike in many ways.”
Larren’s eyes widened. “Can you read my mind all the time?”
“It was an educated guess,” Sartha laughed in reply. “I know about Linetta and I now know you well. That expression on your face. I just thought that might be what you were doing: comparing me with Linetta. You were so young then, Larren, so idealistic. In those few compressed moments in time when you confronted the real possibility of death at Linetta’s hands … well, you lived a lifetime in those moments. Every second was more acute with the shadow of death before you. You really saw Linetta in that instant of time — her beauty, her spirit, her passion and determination — and you fell in love with her. That old nightmare will not bother you now that you know the truth. Perhaps, from this moment on, will have pleasant dreams of me instead?”
Larren snorted and Sartha giggled. He hugged her, and she hugged him back in complete accord. Unexpectedly Larren held her away from him. “What am I thinking now?”
Sartha raised her eyebrows curiously. It was obvious that she had no idea.
“Ha!” he said. He picked up her slim form and spun her around, kissing her soundly. “That settles that. You don’t know everything.” Chuckling with satisfaction, he set her down. “I’d better be on my way. Do you need supplies? Anything?
“No, we have all that is necessary,” she replied. “We have a plot to the nearest Omni corridor.” A little line formed between her brows. “Shall I find Ash, so you can meet him?”
“No.” Larren rubbed his chin. “It’s too dangerous. I don’t want anyone to know about him, including my own crew. It’s not worth the risk — I don’t want anyone to know he’s on board.” He shook his head. “And I have stayed too long already.”
Sartha frowned, worried.
“The sooner you leave, the sooner I’ll visit you on Kalar.”
She brightened. “All right, but Larren …” She paused. “I just want to thank you.” She tipped her head up, rose, and gave him a kiss. “To thank you for everything.”
“Thank me? I should thank you.”
Larren rested his forehead against hers for a moment, breathed in deeply and shut his eyes. When he pulled back they stood face to face, holding hands.
“No, you don’t understand,” Sartha said. She turned her head away. “Before you came, I had no reason to continue. I planned to ensure that Ash was trained and safe, but I didn’t think I could live, not with the burden of my loss.” She looked down as if ashamed. “I don’t know that I would have done it. There were so many dreams — nightmares, really. I had become quite preoccupied with the idea. I was going to end my life as soon as my responsibilities were fulfilled.”
Larren stared at her.
Sartha raised her eyes to his. “You see, Linetta and I were much alike.” She nodded. “So, thank you.”
Larren drew her to him, folding her in his arms. Delians were known to be a passionate race, subject to overwhelming emotions. He understood that, now. But suicide? At least he had been able to prevent that. He recalled their mind-touch together, the naked exposure of them both, heart and soul. This woman saw him, and knew him as no one had before, nor ever would again. He hugged her with sudden urgency, his voice deep. “I’m the one who now has a reason for living. I’ll get to Kalar. Nothing can stop me, I swear it. It’ll take five or six months at the most. Tell Ash I look forward to meeting him. And Sartha,” he said, “will you wait for me?”
“I will wait,” she replied, her face grave. “But impatiently,” she added, with mischief in her eyes. They laughed again. Then, arm in arm, they strolled to the door of the room, not yet opening it.
Larren hesitated. “I forgot,” he said. “My security officers!”
With hands over their mouths, they chuckled like errant children.
“Well,” he said, “we had better keep up the pretense.”
“Of course, Larren.”
“For the love of the Goddess — don’t call me Larren in front of my men.”
She giggled and shook her head. He smiled broadly and snickered, too. When they were both composed, he opened the door. Standing straight backed, head high, the Captain gestured imperiously for Sartha to enter the room where his officers watched and waited. Captain Forseth was very much master of the situation.
“Yes, Lady,” he began. “There is no doubt about it. The inspection has proved satisfactory. Most satisfactory.” He stressed the last few words.
The Lady Sartha’s demeanor was demure and subdued, her head gracefully inclined. “I am pleased to have been of assistance.”
“Goodbye then, Lady Sartha.”
“Goodbye, Captain Forseth,” she said. “Gentlemen.” She nodded to his officers.
The two men turned to follow their Captain. Sartha watched them leave. As one of the officers began to close the lock of Assurance she was just able to spot Larren peering through the open portal. He gave her a small grin, a conspiratorial wink, and then the door closed. He was gone.
Sartha walked toward navigation, feeling a burst of hope for the future. Yes, Freeworlds Police Captain Larren Forseth is a capable man, she thought. She had seen every scar on his lean frame; they each told a story. The angry burn on his arm that he had tried to hide and that, unbelievably, he had been embarrassed by, as though he were ashamed of his own vulnerability. Placing little importance on vanity, he had never gotten around to cosmetically repairing any damage, although medical attention was freely available in the service. Fifteen years on the front lines and he had survived every encounter. He was indeed hard to kill.
He would survive, and he would come to Kalar. She now felt quite certain of it.
Malcolm Drake, Darla Wu’s pilot, sat at his console with an anxious frown. His features softened with relief as the Captain and his security officers re-boarded. Forsaken Worlds, he thought. Drake had spoken to Security via Icom, but they had been gone for hours.
“Whatever took so long?” he blurted, then added, “Sir?”
His Captain, clearly preoccupied, didn’t notice, continuing his even pace across the Bridge. “Oh, nothing. Routine ship inspection is all.”
Drake glanced at Mathes, who rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
Hmm. Drake considered. It was like that, was it? He shook his head. Lucky devil — and while on duty. Not like the Captain at all. The pilot thought back to the picture of Lady Sartha that was tucked away in his back pocket. He had had the computer do a holoshot of her. Quite the looker she was, too.
Drake shifted, reaching for the picture of Lady Sartha. He had planned on getting an extrapolation of her naked. It would have been just the thing to cheer up the heterosexual half of Darla’s crew, hanging in the mess. Actually it would probably cheer up anyone of any sexual orientation, the woman was so striking. But now it wasn’t such a good idea.
The pilot drew the picture from his pocket. Joining the captain on the bridge, he gave it to him. “For you, sir. Excuse me taking the liberty. Thought you might like it.”
Larren took the picture, his pleasure obvious. “Thank you, pilot. Thank you very much.”
With considerable difficulty Drake hid his shock. The Captain had fallen for the woman. For the love of lost worlds! She was Royal and she was married.
“You’re welcome, sir,” the pilot shrugged, his voice prudently neutral.
Larren put the holoshot in his breast pocket. “Prepare for departure, pilot. We’re good to go.”
“Yes, sir,” Drake said, moving purposefully at the controls.
“I’ll be in my quarters,” Larren said.
Captain Larren Forseth walked down a corridor and into his room. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He wanted to think about her.
He took the photo of the Lady Sartha from his breast pocket, and studied it, memorizing every part of her. It was a full frontal shot, and she was dressed formally, as a Queen. She was amazing. When he had time he would look though Icom for any other pictures of her, and of her husband and son. Larren felt a pang of sadness for Jarith, the dead king — he had been a good man. He also felt affection for her son, Ashton. These were Sartha’s memories and emotions, but they had combined and become an integral part of how he felt. It was so strange. After being in her mind, Jarith and Ashton felt like family to him now.
From his quarters Larren could hear only the soft hum of power generation. He mentally toggled observation and a screen appeared, affording him a clear view of Assurance. He stopped and looked on as the two vessels separated, watching Assurance drift slowly apart from Darla Wu. He felt a sharp pang of anxiety, but thrust it away.
Goodbye and good fortune to you both, Larren thought. Sartha and her son would be safe. He wouldn’t have left them otherwise.
Walking to his bedroom console, Captain Forseth sat down and began to compose a message for HC, telling them of their new course, and the unsubstantiated report of Delian’s destruction. When the message was safely gone, along with Assurance, he would call his pilot to his quarters and confide in him. His best friend, Malcolm Drake, could keep a secret, though he wouldn’t mention Sartha’s son or their destination of Kalar to him. He wouldn’t mention that to anyone.
Assurance engaged her engines, and was moving away faster now. Good. After speaking to Drake, he would notify the crew of the unverified report concerning Delian. Their mission now would be to execute standard reconnaissance of that Freeworld.
He sat back in his chair.
Larren’s jaw clenched as he grimly considered a number of possibilities. Was there a conspiracy? If the Fleet was involved, this was a dangerous mission indeed. His stomach tightened. And if he was killed, who would help Sartha and her son?
He would survive, he thought, pushing his fears away. He must.
7. With Training Incomplete
Mind-touch is a healing tool used to relieve the Dark Sankomin. To be in another Delian’s mind and body without agreement is illegal, proof of which may result in lawful death. There are possible exceptions in unusual and specific circumstances, or during training or special need. These instances must be cleared afterwards by council. To violate another’s privacy is sordid. It is never done.
Chief Justice Stephen Bryan, The Interpretations
Sartha stared anxiously out the observation window. They were too vulnerable. She would only relax once they entered Omni, where Conqueror could not find them.
Assurance continued through the velvet black of normal space, carrying the Lady Sartha and her son toward the nearest Omni corridor. At least one good thing had occurred as a result of Assurance unintentionally leaving Omni Space — she had met Larren Forseth. While she would always know the loss of her people and her love, she was glad to have been healed by him from the soul-destroying despair of the Dark Sankomin. Sartha smiled at the thought of the police Captain, recalling his good-natured humor. Larren would arrive at Delian soon and his life could be in danger. May the Goddess protect you, Larren Forseth, she prayed. You who are not Trueborn but when with me can become so.
With Larren’s future safely in the hands of Jana, Sartha noted Assurance’s position. They were making good time, despite an unexpected venture through an asteroid field. Ash would complete his training on Kalar. He would have the Testimonials memorized soon, and then he could read the Interpretations. With intensive practice and study, he could master Trueborn knowledge and duties over the next two years. They could protect each other then, healing themselves from the Dark Sankomin.
“Hello, mother.”
Sartha jumped. “Ash, you frightened me, slipping up from behind like that.”
“Sorry,” he said, his words almost inaudible.
Sartha covertly studied her son. Ash looked like a plant that had been living without light or water. His springy thirteen-year-old enthusiasm had disappeared. Over the last two days he had hardly eaten and Sartha had barely seen him, as he preferred to stay in his room. He was engaged in Icom gaming and repeatedly stated that he wished to be left alone. Ash hated it when she pressed him about his health, but she knew something was wrong.
“Are you feeling better today?” Sartha asked, with a calmness she didn’t feel. He had no fever and hadn’t complained of any specific pain or symptom, yet he certainly didn’t look well.
“Fine. Shall we continue training?”
“Of course.” Sartha smiled. He must be feeling better if he wanted to study. She immediately went to the security console and took out the golden volume. Ash’s face lightened a little at the sight of it.
Good, Sartha thought with satisfaction. Perhaps after a taste of the Interpretations, which he had wanted to read for so long, he would be back to his old self. “Come and sit here with me, at the table.” She smiled, patting the chair nearest her own. Ash came and sat down, but he chose to sit opposite her.
Sartha opened the Testimonials. “I’m ready,” she announced.
Ash began to recite, “Hate crushes the power …” However, after only a few short lines, it was evident to both that he had forgotten many of the words, and could no longer even vaguely repeat them to his prior standard.
“Ash, where has your concentration gone?” Sartha remembered that he seemed unwell, and felt instantly contrite. “Never mind,” she consoled. “I’ll help you run through; you’ll get your memory back.”
“I’d rather practice by myself,” Ash mumbled sullenly. His tone bordered on the discourteous.
Sartha stood and went to him. Her son was never ill mannered. “Ash, what’s bothering you?” she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders.
He jerked away from her touch. “Nothing.”
She had had enough. Two days of it, in fact. Whatever was his problem? Well, it was time to get to the bottom of it. “Something is bothering you and I want to know what it is.”
“There isn’t anything wrong with me,” Ash stressed the last word. Face flushed in anger, he glared at her with hard, cold eyes: two dark stones that seemed to cut right through her. “Why don’t you just read my mind and find out?”
Sartha felt the blood leave her face as Ash’s words hit her in the chest with the force of a clenched fist. She was shocked at his implied accusation. To steal someone’s thoughts would violate the most sacred vows and beliefs of Delian. How could he suggest such a thing? While it was common to monitor off-worlders, as no one knew what they might do, it was considered depraved to see another Delian’s thoughts without consent. There were hundreds of Delian morality tales adjuring such a violation of privacy. Culturally it was as vile a crime as premeditated murder.
With effort, she managed to keep a bland expression and said, “Ash, do you want me to touch your mind?”
He jumped up instantly, as if burnt. “No. I don’t want your touch. Not now — not ever!” he shouted, and ran down the ship’s corridor to his quarters.
Sartha stood staring in disbelief. Listening intently, she thought she could hear Ash crying. Why wouldn’t he confide in her? What could a thirteen-year-old boy do that he couldn’t tell his mother?
Two people alone in space were already an unusual circumstance, even more unusual due to the dangerous situation they were in. Neopol and Conqueror were out there, searching for them. And she and her son must be in full agreement and harmony when they arrived on Kalar — to arrive otherwise would court disaster. This was an exception and a time of special need. There was only one thing to do, she decided, her jaw set. As Ash’s mother, to heal him she would have to touch him without his permission.
Having made the decision Sartha didn’t wait. She sat down and shut her eyes, reaching out. With an unpredicted jolt, Sartha touched Ash. She was overwhelmed with a storm of tumult and upheaval. His thoughts were whirling, thick, and heavy.
Sartha physically recoiled with shock and surprise. Ash, her quiet and obedient son, the loving child she had never once had to raise her voice to, hated her and wished she were dead. He planned to escape the moment that they reached Kalar. He wanted to finish his training before then so that nothing would stop him from leaving her as soon as possible. Never before had Sartha encountered such fierce hostility — toward her! She lost her grip on Ash’s mind.
Sartha sat still for some time, dazed.
Her wits returned and she ordered up two hot chocolates; all the while her mind was busy with explanations. Perhaps Ash had somehow guessed the truth about his father and had blamed his death on her? No, he couldn’t hide that knowledge, she was certain. Yet he was caught in the grip of the Dark Sankomin. What trigger had brought it on? Perhaps Ash had, without her consent, mind-touched her?
Sartha caught her breath at the thought. great
Could he? He had only touched her mind on one occasion, while under close supervision. Ash was capable of enormous psychic power — he was a great deal stronger than she was, but his was an untrained gift. Even if he was able to touch her, would he actually do it? Sartha swallowed, revolted. The thought was so abhorrent that her stomach twisted and she almost gagged. For a moment she thought she might actually throw up.
She rubbed her face, wondering how any Delian could consider violating such an inflexible moral convention. In early times, people found to be reading other Delian’s minds without consent were killed out of hand. Who could forget Prime Minister Batalov the thrice damned? His High Office didn’t save him or his entire family when it was found that he had been reading the thoughts of others.
First he had been damned through the loss of his wife. After she died he neglected to seek another’s help, to provide himself with healing mind-touch. This let him to become blocked and burdened by the Dark Sankomin, where he lost control of his mind and his sanity. He had no insight into his condition and deluded himself into thinking he was mentally well. In fact, in his diaries he wrote that he thought himself a God, so completely had his mind been overwhelmed.
Thus he was secondly damned through the madness that came to him when he avoided all healing mind-touch. For how could someone allow a personal touch of their mind when they were intentionally committing crimes? The odd thing was that there was no sign. The man was articulate, cultured and educated — one of those rare people capable of concealing madness.
Thirdly, he was damned by violating strict moral convention. He used his powers to forward his career and achieve his personal goals, his own personal gain. He read the thoughts of hundreds of people and kept a comprehensive diary. When this diary was found, and the details disseminated through broad Icom report, the reaction was like setting off an incendiary device in an ordnance depot.
The mob that gathered when his offenses were exposed was merciless. Prime Minister Batalov and all four of his children, each under fifteen years old, as well as his housekeeper, cook, and a maid, were all killed. The mob virtually tore them apart. His home was set alight and burned to the ground, along with five other homes nearby. Batalov died in a town called Callasburg, which shortly after changed its name to Bannock after the Prime Minister that replaced him. To this day Delians were known to say during a crisis, “It could be worse. Don’t forget Callasburg.”
Crime could never be hidden on Delian, not when lawful orders allowed authorized persons to see into the mind of the accused. When a population’s only sanctuary from madness was through mind-touch, what wouldn’t one be willing to do to those who violated such security? As in all things Delian, passions ruled. Criminals were lucky to live long enough to be lawfully killed. Those convicted were allowed to choose a self-delivered lethal injection or death by starvation.
Sartha felt ill at the idea of anyone peering into her mind without her agreement. Was it possible? If so, how could Ash justify it? Yet it certainly explained his irrational behavior. Had he read her mind without permission? She had to know, but she was too distressed to mind-touch. For now there was only one way to find the truth.
She took the two drinks from the auto-chef. Then, with clenched teeth, she strode down the hall of Assurance. Sartha went to her son, hoping to soothe him with a peace offering of hot chocolate.
Ash was lying on his bunk, his face dark. He sat up but didn’t look at her when she tapped on his door and walked through to his bed. Sartha handed him the cup. He took it, but gave no thanks and made no effort to drink it. He ended by putting it on the bedside table.
“Son of Jarith,” she began, her voice soft and reasonable, “you will someday be King. A king cannot refuse the healing power of mind-touch.”
“I will not refuse the power of mind-touch,” he replied. “I just don’t want to be touched by you.”
“What is wrong with me?” she demanded, incensed by the insult. He was a child — her child and he needed discipline.
Ash stood up and faced her, his dark eyes fierce and a little wild, his pale skin flushed. His movement caused the cup of hot chocolate to fall to the floor, but neither Sartha nor her son noticed. “What is wrong with you? I’ll tell you what is wrong with you. You are a traitor to my father, the King of Delian. You are not honest nor pure nor worthy to be King’s Consort. You’re no better than an off-world whore!”
Sartha stared in disbelief. She gripped the edge of the bunk, lest she fall.
Ash drew in a long breath, his overwhelming passion burning him, consuming him. “I’m ashamed you are my mother. I wish I’d never been born!” He threw himself on his bunk, curled up into fetal position, and began to weep with racking sobs and gulps, his tears flowing unchecked.
Sartha sat down heavily, as if someone had pushed her. Shaken, stunned, she felt unable to breathe. Her poor son. For the love of the Goddess. He must have mind-touched her when she was with Larren Forseth. She forced the implications of that idea away, unwilling for the moment to look further at what that involved.
No wonder he thought she had betrayed him and his father, she realized, piecing it all together. She had no idea how he had done it, but it was clear that he had. Astonishing. Such a powerful gift in the body of a child. Poor Ash. He is burdened with an even greater wrong than my assumed unfaithfulness. He had committed the immoral act of mind-touch without permission on me. She trembled at the thought. How could he have done it? When it was against everything that he had ever been taught?
No matter what he had done, her son needed her now. Sartha shifted closer, and put a hand out, touching him on his shoulder.
He shrank back. “Get away from me,” he said.
“No, Ashton, we must talk.”
He sat up and turned toward her. “And what shall we talk about, mother?” He spoke the word like an obscenity. “Perhaps you would like to explain that you were using your body as payment, so we could continue our journey to Kalar? I suppose it’s the Freeworlds Police who are after us?” His voice rang with sarcasm.
Sartha’s whole body went cold.
Ash stood up remorselessly continued his attack, before she could interrupt. “We could discuss comparisons. Tell me, would you say that the Captain of that cruiser was a better lover than my father?”
Without conscious thought, Sartha slapped Ash with the full force of her hand, silencing that vicious scourge of words. “How can you think of pointing a finger at what I have done? You who have none of the facts, you who are guilty of almost the most dishonorable crime of all: looking into my mind without my permission.” Sartha was sickened by his behavior. He had been with her during an intimate mind-touch. Like some sort of pervert — there, unseen, crudely participating. She shook with repugnance, humiliation and shame; her healing touch now felt cheap and soiled.
Ash straightened like a soldier on parade, his long black hair just touched his shoulders. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his fists were clinched so tightly his knuckles were white. “I never saw your mind,” he said. “I only touched you that once when you allowed it.”
Sartha remained silent, her body taut with disbelief.
Ash’s grim resolve seemed to relax. He looking away and became quiet, contemplative, as if the memory were already becoming obscured with age. “That was when I was learning,” he said. Sartha wondered if Ash was there now, reliving the past, that moment when he had first been within her flesh, had first touched her mind.
All at once, Ash turned and faced her with rekindled rage. “But I didn’t need to look into your mind to find out what you were doing.”
Sartha took a step back, instinctively retreating from such anger. Then she held her breath, her thoughts frozen, as she began to comprehend.
“Don’t you understand?” Ash demanded in a loud, shrill voice. His eyes seemed wild and bright with something Sartha couldn’t quite grasp, some sort of madness or pain. “I wanted to practice what I had learned. I reached for the off-worlder exactly as you taught me. And I succeeded! I mind-touched Captain Forseth — but my contact was incomplete. Although I was able to experience his body, I couldn’t know his mind. I knew only a small portion of his thoughts … and that was only at first.” He swallowed.
Sartha stared at him with dawning comprehension.
A flush of red colored Ash’s face. “One moment I was reading his thoughts. He wanted to know where Assurance was bound and he knew you were lying when you said you were the only one on board. Then he began to think you were beautiful. I could see you through his eyes. The next moment I was there, holding you, having sex with my own mother!” Ash trembled with emotion. He collapsed back on to the bunk, exhausted. “I was caught, mother,” he whispered. “Caught within his body. I couldn’t break contact. I tried to get away. But I couldn’t stop being there, doing … what he was doing. I couldn’t stop seeing … what I know now.”
How could I have been so blind? Sartha thought with remorse. She had only begun the mind-touch drills with her son. Of course he would want to practice — especially on an off-worlder who could pose a threat. But to successfully touch Larren at his age, with his complete lack of experience? Powerful and gifted as he was, she could never have predicted that. Ash had become disoriented. His mind naturally ignored the abstract aspects of Larren’s thoughts and had concentrated on the sensory. Thus his power had focused on the physical as identified from an aroused male adult.
Sartha hadn’t yet warned him of the dangers of mind-touch, of how one could become trapped in another’s body. Nor had she had the opportunity to teach him how to escape from another if caught. Becoming trapped in another’s mind was rare. It was a recorded fact that some Delians had been known to die while in mind-touch with someone while they were killed. Though remote, it was still a possibility.
Looking at her son, Sartha felt her heart twist. He was too young to have had such an experience, and to have had it with his own mother. If she herself felt disgusted, how much worse must he feel? And for him to believe that she had been unfaithful to his father would only increase his pain.
Sartha raised a hand toward him, wanting to explain.
His reaction was instant. “Don’t touch me,” he snarled. Then in a hushed sort of whisper, “Don’t ever touch me again.”
Sartha didn’t know what to do. She had to make him understand, to know about Delian and his father, and the truth about Captain Forseth. What was difficult to put into words could be easily explained by the mind.
“Ash?” she began tentatively. He wouldn’t look at her and made no sign of having heard. “Ash, I want you to read my mind.”
He made no response.
“Ashton,” Sartha said. “It’s not what you think. I need your contact. Please. You must try. Don’t deny me.”
Ash shook his head. “I can’t, mother. I’m afraid.” He quoted from the Testimonials, word perfect: “Fear hides the power. O’ coward, will thy gift abandon? Canst thou use thy power if afraid what thou might see?” He shrugged. “I don’t want to know the truth. I’m sick from what I already know … about you,” he looked away and added quietly, “and about myself.”
Sartha sat down on a chair across from him. They were in the same room, but the distance between them was incalculable. Sartha felt a painful combination of shame and misery. In her joy in finding Larren and having her own Dark Sankomin lifted, she had neglected her son. Ash had had his first sexual experience … with her!
Ash still knew nothing about the death of his father and his people. She turned things over in her mind, wondering the best way to explain, to get them both out of this mess. She didn’t want Ash to know about his father’s death until he recovered from this. But how was he to recover? What could she say to him? Her son was exhausted and sick at heart, and so was she.
An empty gulf stretched between them. There was only a hushed, waiting silence.
The lack of sound seemed almost loud after all the shouting.
A soft whirring noise intruded. The auto-bot had sensed the overturned cup of chocolate and had arrived to clean up the mess. It was unobtrusive and thorough. Some minutes later it left.
In the returning silence Sartha still could still think of nothing to say.
Please, Jana, Ash thought as he sat on his bed, holding a pillow over his stomach and rocking back and forth. Make this all go away. The King’s Mirror rested against Ash’s thigh, a heavy burden. Thoughts of the King could only add to this pain. What would his father say when he found out what had happened?
It was the Dark Sankomin. This evil dark deed was lodged firmly in his mind: it was in the present … in the present … in the present … forever. Such guilt. Such shame. He could not escape it. In his mind was the vision of his mother’s nakedness. He was disgusted yet attracted, he hated her and he loved her. What could he do?
Ash had sought to touch an off-worlder and to his total surprise he had made contact. At thirteen, he had the physique of an underweight eight-year-old. During mind-touch he had been in Forseth’s body. He had felt such strength in the Captain’s lean, muscular form. To be so powerful! To be such a man! He could imagine no greater feeling. Weak and sickly all his life, such size and strength was an impossible goal. Nevertheless it was Ash’s secret ambition, a dream he had had for as long as he could remember. At first he simply absorbed the sensations, the wonderful male power of the man, reveling in the joy of feeling physically robust.
Except then Ash felt more. He felt the adult craving of a healthy male: lust. He was strong, he was driven … he was hard. Ash became aware of the powerful urge to mate. He had been shocked at what he had seen, at what he had felt. The emotions — the sensations! He was caught up in the experience before he realized what was happening.
Arousal.
All-consuming sexual desire.
It was too much!
It was overwhelming!
And then Ash, with Forseth’s mouth, had kissed his mother’s soft lips; with Forseth’s hands he had touched her bare skin …
Horrified, Ash immediately tried to break contact, but his efforts were in vain. He was trapped within the Captain’s flesh, an unwilling participant, a prisoner to the man’s desire. Then, the worst! Ash shut his eyes tightly. He could never be absolved. For Ash discovered, despite his resistance, that he enjoyed it.
I wanted my own mother, exactly as Forseth did.
Ash opened his eyes, feeling perspiration tickling his neck and running down his back. He was sweating, as he had done continuously for the last two days. His mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. That memory. Those sensations. He had never ever experienced such a powerful need. His mother, soft and desirable … wanting him! Just like he had wanted her. But there was no escape. He couldn’t get the experience out of his mind. Would he ever be able to get these images out of his mind?
The high-pitched ring of the asteroid alarm destroyed the silence.
Both Sartha and Ash were thrown across the room with the force of an impact. There was a jolting crunch, and then it was quiet. A sullen, menacing stillness surrounded them, like the empty hush in the eye of a storm.
Sartha was on her feet in an instant, grabbing Ash by the arm. “Quickly Ashton!” she thrust him toward an emergency locker and grabbed two fullsuits, handing him one. “Get this on — hurry! We’ve been hulled.”
Arriving at the control room, fullsuit in hand, she scanned the settings. Assurance gave another lurch, knocking her to the floor.
Dressed in his fullsuit, Ash stumbled through the portal.
Assurance was keening, exploding with sounds Ashton had never heard before. She rolled and lurched; her stabilizers had been damaged.
Sartha suited up while she spoke. She was a little breathless, but her voice was calm and practical. “How anything got past the shields — I don’t know. We won’t make Kalar. We have to land. The nearest possible world is …” She studied the chart. “Opan.”
Sartha watched probable trajectories plot and re-plot on Icom. “Right … sweet Jana, we make planetfall in minutes. We’re lucky to be so close to a habitable planet.”
Lucky? Ash thought with shock and despair. He didn’t feel lucky. His life had changed too much. He wanted to go back to the way he was — to the innocence he had once had. He wanted to return to the past where he could play in the woods with his wolfhound, Tynan, where he could be with his father and respect his mother. He wanted to be on Delian, where his greatest concern was keeping out of sight of the World Press and avoiding the multitude of palace staff that surrounded him, people whose only desire was to care for him. His servants had just wanted to make him comfortable and keep him safe. He realized with regret that he had always resented their efforts. Never once had he appreciated all they had done for him. Until now.
His mother grabbed Ash by the shoulders. This time he made no attempt to pull away. Ash was in a kind of mental overload. He felt disconnected, as if everything that was happening was happening to someone else. “Ashton,’ Sartha said, “There’s still time. I’ve put off telling you but I must tell you now,” she paused, “in case something happens to me. Delian..,” she started to say, but there was another plunging roll and she and Ash fell. The ship tilted badly.
“Prepare for landing,” Sartha shouted, “We’re in re-entry — we’re out of time!”
Ash struggled into a web and engaged the protective restraints. A piercing, tearing noise deafened him. He smelled something burning. Then he felt a choking heat and, despite his fullsuit, a crushing pressure. He couldn’t breathe. After that there was nothing, as Ash lost consciousness.
8. Conqueror
Breaking Point is that moment at which the subject’s physical, mental, or emotional strength gives way under stress. My genius lies in prediction and execution — when, how, and why a subject will break. I am the most accomplished master of the subject in the United Worlds today.
— Neopol Jones, CV, under “Strengths and hobbies”
“Well, Captain, let me have your report,” Neopol said.
“Sir, toxic reaction should now be inert. Sensors confirm — ” Captain Barlow cleared his throat, “ — the absence of human life.”
Commander Jon Barlow, Captain of Conqueror, stood in front of Admiral Neopol on the bridge, carefully concealing his emotions. His battleship remained in an established orbit around Delian after releasing its lethal payload of poisonous gas. An enormous United Worlds Government Warship, Conqueror’s crew numbered close to eight hundred, and it seemed to Captain Barlow that every one of them had been in opposition this mission. Most had queried the abnormal operation and he had protested most of all.
Barlow shifted imperceptibly under the Admiral’s gaze, wondering if his thick brown hair needed a cut. Why was the Admiral staring at him? Barlow felt uncomfortable, but damned if he would show it. While he was glad Admiral Satoshi was enjoying well deserved leave, it was unsettling to have a man like Neopol replace him. High Command had put Admiral Neopol Jones temporarily in charge of Conqueror and its crew. Apparently the Admiral disliked the surname Jones, and preferred to be addressed by his first name, Neopol.
Barlow felt drops of perspiration running down his back. The Admiral was actually making him sweat. This whole operation had been difficult from the start. First to find that the people of Delian were somehow guilty of treason and had to be destroyed, then to discover that three had been kept on board for “examination.” What did that mean? The detention deck was consequently off limits to all personnel, except for Neopol’s aide and his two doctor cronies. What was Neopol doing with the Delian prisoners? The man had certainly been secretive about it.
And why had Conqueror been ordered to commit full-scale genocide, when the UW Government and the Fleet itself was formally dedicated to the preservation of life and the expansion of the Freeworlds? That had been the reason he joined the Fleet: to help, not to destroy. But every protest or query had been ruthlessly silenced. There was nothing anyone could do except follow orders. Barlow ruthlessly suppressed his desire to swallow. What a nightmare.
Barlow secretly hoped that at least some Delians had escaped. A few days prior to gas release, he had noticed heat in G sector. Although unlikely, a ship may have lifted. He should have reported it, but failed to do so. He really didn’t know why he hadn’t. No one else had notice the scanner glow, and Barlow had remained silent.
Perhaps through some extraordinary destiny, a few lone survivors had avoided the fate of so many others on Delian. The idea heartened him. It was illogical, but he kept thinking of his own wife and his two children, aged five and seven. He would have wanted someone to give them that chance.
The Admiral was tall and heavyset, yet also quick and agile, unusual for a man of his size. Possessed of god-like capabilities in observation and intellect, Neopol was more than capable of command. He was competent, formidable and experienced; the Admiral knew exactly what he was doing around a fleet ship. These attributes were just what should be desired in a commanding officer. But there was something not quite right about the fellow, a lack of humanity or compassion. Admiral Neopol had listened to his detailed and well-argued protests about the gassing of Delian. He had been patient, nodding with apparent interest and understanding. But then he had calmly given the order to kill millions.
Neopol was always impeccably dressed, well-manicured, with thick, soft hands and heavy golden rings on his fingers. His age was indeterminate, as often could be the case with the prevalence of skin and body sculpting throughout the Freeworlds. Barlow guessed he was between forty and sixty, and he wore his black hair in a precision military cut. Rumor had it that he had once been a tall, muscular woman who had undergone a sex change. It was not that uncommon a procedure, from man to woman or from woman to man. The techniques had been perfected for over two centuries. Still, Barlow suspected that with Neopol the procedure had gone wrong. There certainly was something odd about him. It would explain those two peculiar physicians he kept company with.
No doubt about it, Neopol was the most frightening superior officer he had ever known. Barlow couldn’t exactly explain why the Admiral made his skin crawl, but he could never feel safe around him. The man was dangerous. There would be trouble if a ship had escaped Delian and Neopol found out. If Neopol was able to produce evidence to a Board of Investigation that Barlow was responsible, he could be fined, demoted or even imprisoned.
But there was no reason for the Admiral to review Conqueror’s scanning records. No reason at all. Why would he? Except … one could never tell with Neopol. No longer reassured, Barlow couldn’t stop himself from swallowing nervously.
“Well, Captain? Am I boring you? I asked if my shuttles are ready.”
Barlow had let his mind drift for an instant and the Admiral, ever astute, had noticed. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. They are ready to launch. I have two hundred and fifty men aboard, awaiting departure. They have their orders. Will you be joining them, sir?”
“Yes, of course,” Neopol said, his voice and demeanor composed. “I’ll want to personally ensure the accomplishment of our mission. You don’t think I’d rely on a junior officer, do you? On something this important? I intend to secure the Testimonials and the Delian Damithst myself. Is the equipment aboard?”
“Yes, sir,” Barlow replied evenly. “You’ll find all that you require.”
“Very well, we leave immediately. You’re in command while I’m on Delian.” Neopol’s eyes met his. His voice was cool, his expression calm. “If there are any problems, I’ll hold you responsible.”
“Of course, sir,” Barlow saluted, his spine tingling. The Admiral’s words were a statement of fact and his facial expression had been professional. Why then did he feel so threatened?
Admiral Neopol strode off with his aide, Sub-Lieutenant Janson. The man followed his master like a well-trained dog.
Captain Jon Barlow watched the retreating figures, soulfully relieved to see them leave. Lieutenant Commander Gene Pagett, his second-in-command as well as his best friend, was piloting the shuttle. A tall, slim man, Gene was clear-eyed and always clean shaven — having eradicated his beard as a teenager. Pagett hated fuss. He had brown hair, not unlike his own and had altered his hazel eyes to a deep and natural-looking green, the better to attract women he had said. It seemed to be working. Gene never lacked for a partner. Jon liked to tease him about this vanity, but Gene had explained that he was only being practical: women liked green.
On Delian, Pagett would serve directly under Neopol as his junior officer. Poor Gene, Barlow thought to himself. Is he in for a surprise. As Captain of Conqueror he was a buffer between the Admiral and his crew. Barlow felt a wave of misgiving. He wondered how Pagett would cope with the Admiral. Did Pagett have any idea what Neopol was like? He hadn’t had the opportunity to discuss the issue with his second-in-command, and he would never put such communication on Icom. Not when fleet communications were monitored.
Barlow wondered about Neopol’s aide. What kind of person could stand working so closely with the Admiral?
A white-faced, taciturn man, Janson seemed to know exactly what Neopol wanted. He followed orders exactly, never questioning and never offering anything either. The man was a puppet, Barlow thought sardonically. If Admiral Neopol told him to take out his weapon and shoot himself in the head, he probably would do so without a moment’s hesitation.
Barlow had always considered himself a strong individual, not easily intimidated, but the Admiral and his aide had changed that view. Having those two around supervising his every move was unnerving; between them they seemed omnipresent. Janson was bad enough, but with Neopol he felt as though he was being shadowed by the Deceiver himself.
The once cheerful and productive crew of Conqueror had kept up a good front, but he felt the tense undercurrents. There was nothing that he could pinpoint, but his men sensed that something was wrong. There was a kind of group awareness. Like an overstressed joint with metal fatigue, appearing solid but dangerously soft inside, every member of his crew expected something to give way.
They had not officially queried the destruction of the Delian people because their Captain had gone along with it. The slaughter had sickened him, but he hadn’t been given a choice, not with a direct order from High Command and a man like Neopol to enforce it. Barlow shook his head. Neopol was frightening, but his aide was soulless. He fervently hoped that Pagett would know what to expect and would be able to cope.
A junior ensign silently appeared beside Barlow, courteously waiting. Barlow turned and raised his eyebrows in query.
Excuse me, sir,” the man said, handing his Captain an envelope. “Lieutenant Commander Pagett asked me to ensure that this was personally delivered into your hands.”
Barlow nodded, accepting the envelope. It was obvious that his friend hadn’t wanted to risk Icom. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”
“No problem, sir,” Morgan answered cheerfully, his eyes shining with surprise and pleasure.
Captain Barlow nodded his farewell and strode off, walking at a brisk pace toward the bridge.
Morgan watched his Captain move down the corridor and shook his head.
How does he do it? Morgan wondered. On a ship this size the Captain knew everyone’s name. He must stay up nights studying personnel records. Ensign Morgan watched as Captain Barlow opened the envelope and glanced at the note from Lieutenant Commander Pagett.
The Captain roared with laughter. Then, turning a corner, he was gone.
Grinning broadly, Ensign Morgan left in a much better frame of mind. His encounter with the Captain and his superior’s ability with names would be interesting to mention to his friends over the next meal, or better yet when off duty and sharing a beer or two. More importantly he would be able to tell his friends about Lieutenant Commander Pagett’s note, which he shouldn’t have read but had.
Ensign Morgan shook his head. A pity Neopol had come to Conqueror. There was always a bad smell aboard any vessel. It was just bad luck that this particular one came from so high up. The Captain had hidden it well, but everyone knew he’d been having a rough time with the new Admiral. Well, the Admiral would find out. Their Captain and his number one were not so easily intimidated.
Morgan could recall the message exactly. It was in reference to the Admiral and his peculiar henchman, Janson. It said: “Chin up. Appears that I’m stuck with them for the time being — not you. I recognized Taro instantly; but who, pray tell, is the Deceiver’s Apprentice?”
Once the Admiral and his Aide boarded the shuttle for Delian, they were ready to depart. The shuttle was piloted by Conqueror’s second-in-command, Lieutenant Commander Gene Pagett. Clearance for takeoff was given and with a faint rhythmic hum they began their journey.
Admiral Neopol picked his teeth while considering the situation. He would get a promotion from Lord Andros for this and it had been easy. Right until the end he had fooled the Delians into thinking that they could negotiate. They had been an imprudent, trusting race; the United Worlds were well rid of them. Neopol knew why they had to be destroyed. Apparently they were able to read minds. Andros was unnecessarily concerned. The Delians hadn’t even discovered that he intended to exterminate them — that showed how well they could read minds.
Neopol shut his eyes and slept.
His rest was interrupted by a change in engine noise as they landed. The slim form of the ship’s pilot, Lieutenant Commander Pagett, came towards him.
“We have arrived on Delian, sir. Shall I have one of the troops disembark to test the air?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Admiral Neopol hesitated before further reply, his finger tips together.”Janson,” he called sharply.
“Yes, sir,” his aide appeared, standing to attention.
“You’ll be the first on Delian,” Neopol informed him. “I want you to test the air. The atmosphere may still be contaminated.” He paused and studied his aide through narrowed eyes. How would Janson take the news? He wondered with a thrill of excitement, savoring the moment. He added, alert to any reaction, “Begin immediately. A mask or fullsuit won’t be necessary.”
“Yes, sir.” If there was any thought of pain or death going through Janson’s mind, it was not showing. With a bland expression, he acquired the testing equipment and, without so much as a break in his stride, went through the lift locks unprotected.
The Admiral stood up and stared in silent fascination. When Janson reappeared he seemed to suffer no ill effects from his journey outside. Pity, Neopol thought. He would have liked to watch the man choke and slowly turn blue, struggling for air. If Janson were dying, would he react then? Or would he simply expire, with no observable agitation? Just once Neopol wanted to detect fear, anger or hate displayed on the man’s face. Never mind; there would be another chance. Some day he would penetrate that calm exterior, expose a tender nerve, and achieve a definite reaction, just as he had with the other sub-lieutenants that had served under him.
Neopol smiled, recalling Tennison, his last aide. Tennison lasted less than three months. Neopol felt a momentary twinge of regret. The fawning bootlicker had genuinely tried to please him. It was no surprise when he hanged himself. Neopol had predicted it. But so soon. He thought Tennison would survive at least a year — a misjudgment of character on his part. Ah, well, he consoled himself, he would know better next time. He had overestimated the fellow’s ability to cope. His type was a pleasure to break, but far too easy. If that sort would only last longer, the Admiral thought wistfully.
Then there had been the aide before Tennison, Reynolds. Neopol had driven him close to the edge, long before he had the opportunity to firmly push him over. Reynolds, a more resilient personality altogether, was able to weather his continuous barbs, the unrelenting attacks that made up his amusing little war of attrition.
Reynolds, like Janson, didn’t react. If the Admiral looked closely, he could sometimes tell that the man was seething, deep under his calm facade. He felt a thrill of adrenaline, recalling the anticipation he had enjoyed. Reynolds had kept up the front well. That was until Neopol had regularly brought Reynolds’s fourteen year-old daughter into their conversations.
Wasn’t it funny how one topic could cause such fantastic reactions, while others wouldn’t even create a twitch? Reynolds had, in a moment of passion, taken a knife to him.
Silly man. Neopol felt a predatory smile curl his lips. The fellow should have thoroughly planned the maneuver, if he actually considering killing his CO. Still, it had been satisfying to know that he had predicted the precise day and almost the exact moment of attack. It was synchronous, of course, with Reynolds breaking point.
Everyone had a breaking point, Neopol consoled himself, stroking his short black hair with one hand. He would find Sub-Lieutenant Janson’s. But four years — by the hells of Perdition. The man had set a record.
Admiral Neopol gazed out the viewing portal at his Aide. Hands by his side, the man was motionless. Janson stood so close that Neopol clearly observed the readout showing nil. Unlike the gauge, Janson’s emotionless face gave nothing away.
Did Janson hate him? He couldn’t imagine how the man could take the abuse that he had given him over the past four years and not abhor him. Neopol exhaled, comforted. It would be interesting to find out exactly what Janson thought. Never mind. He would find Janson’s breaking point. Then he would use it to destroy the man completely.
Lieutenant Commander Pagett arrived and stood to attention. “Sir, as you can see, the air is safe. The troops will disembark at your command.”
“Tell them to form groups and take the speeders to every major center of population. They know the drill: anything of value, jewels, artwork, credits and gold. The first to find the Delian Testimonials of Truth or the Talisman will receive one hundred credits, enough for quite a holiday on Seira Nuvon, eh? No one may search the castle, which I will attend to myself. All troops will be scanned to guarantee no one appropriates anything.” His eyes narrowed, but he said in a normal tone of voice. “I have the authority to ensure anyone guilty of theft executed. As such an extreme action would grieve us both, please ensure your men understand the situation. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Pagett saluted and forwarded the order. Notified by Icom, the troops left the shuttle through the lower portals.
Pagett took a deep breath. A service veteran, he had the alert yet relaxed demeanor that categorized so many experienced naval men. His neutral expression successfully concealed how much he hated every aspect of this mission. At times he had disliked his superior officers while in the service, but he had never despised anyone like he had learned to despise Admiral Neopol.
The sun was directly overhead. The air felt warm outside the shuttle, and Pagett’s service uniform felt too tight. A few pillow-shaped soft white clouds decorated a blue autumn sky. Delian was a pretty world. Pagett’s shrewd, farm-bred eyes scanned the distance. No sign of rain, yet the air had slight moisture in it, perhaps from that large lake he had flown over. As the Admiral disembarked the shuttle, Lieutenant Commander Pagett followed him, prepared for any last orders. Neopol moved quickly toward his aide and a waiting speeder.
As Neopol moved, he came across the dead body of a young man. It was a peculiar blue-green. He kicked it as he passed. “Get rid of this bug-ridden body.” He gestured to one of the men who were lined up with the rest of the troops, boarding shuttles and speeders of their own. “It’s bad enough coming to this Godforsaken world. I shouldn’t have to step over every stray corpse.”
“Yes, sir,” the man responded.
Neopol and Janson boarded a speeder and, to Pagett’s great relief, they left.
Lieutenant Commander Pagett let out a breath. His superior officer was inhuman, he thought, or perhaps insane. He didn’t trust Neopol. There was something about him. Pagett snorted. There were a lot of somethings about the Admiral. From his heavy-lidded, all seeing eyes to his little knowing smiles. The man smiled at the wrong times, it seemed to him. With Neopol it seemed that everything was done for a calculated effect. He had sent his aide out to test the air, without a mask. What was that about? Some sort of “in” joke? Neopol had certainly been smiling then. It had been a sort of wicked, smug smile. His aide, Janson, hadn’t been smiling. Janson had shown no emotion at all.
Pagett strode around aimlessly, pleased to be under an open sky. It was a quiet world and no wonder — it was empty of life. He had never known of so much slaughter as had seen here on Delian, not even in the Truso meteor storms, and those had killed over half the population. Still, it was an order from HC, and he had to suppose they knew what they were doing. To disobey would have resulted in court martial. Now that he knew the Admiral better, he was glad he hadn’t queried the order.
His brow beaded with sweat. He wiped it with a hand and felt a cooling breeze against his forehead. It was late in the year here on Delian and this unusual heat was reminiscent of the Indian summers of his childhood. It may even get hot here today. At least it made a change from the ship’s conditioning. He squatted down on his haunches and picked up a handful of soil. It felt soft and loamy and was blood red. It reminded him of where he had grown up on the tablelands of Shaku. Curious, Pagett walked to the entrance of a nearby building. Peering inside, he smelled coffee. Has a percolator been left running, or … might someone be alive?
He walked toward the nearest door and as it opened, the stench overwhelmed him.
Although he looked away, he couldn’t escape that horror. Fleeing, he fell to the ground and threw up. The building was a work space with the lower levels holding infant wards and nurseries. The entire area was littered with bodies, children of all shapes and sizes, in different poses — but all of them definitely dead. None looked older than five.
Admiral Neopol paced from within castle walls. The day was not going according to plan and he was in a rage. He rarely showed his temper to others, as he considered uncontrolled tantrums to be beneath him. Without stringent and herculean efforts on his part, Neopol might frequently succumb to angry outbursts. Rage was natural to a man like him, for he was surrounded by idiots. Who wouldn’t be enraged in such a circumstance? Not that he was averse to losing his temper on purpose. Anger obtained instant and complete compliance. Yet fury must be used lightly, and only when absolutely necessary. Experience had taught him that humans reacted much like dogs — constant beatings made them cower with their tails between their legs. Such abject cowardice made working fleet personnel useless to him in the long run.
The Testimonials and the King’s Mirror, the Damithst armguard, could not be found. Yet a ship couldn’t have flown them out. Such a departure would have been discovered. He would have been notified immediately. Neopol looked around the disordered palace sitting room. He was becoming fatigued, and in the heat of the day the castle was really beginning to stink. He sat down to think.
An unpleasant thought occurred to him.
What if there was a spy on Conqueror? If a traitor was correctly placed, any number of vessels could have escaped. Had he been tricked? Had the Delians been evacuating?
Neopol’s face warmed. The thought of being fooled by those idealistic idiots made him furious. He moved quickly from the room with his aide hurrying to keep up. “Back to the shuttle,” Neopol ordered, getting into the speeder. He could use Icom, but he preferred to deliver important orders in person.
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, accelerating to top speed.
Arriving at the shuttle, Neopol strode up to the Lieutenant Commander, brisk, determined … and anxious. “Quickly, man, is there any way to tell if a vessel has lifted from Delian in the last few weeks?”
“Yes, sir.” Pagett answered. “Particles linger. We have sensors that can measure a ship’s departure from five to seven days afterwards.”
“How many people will you need?”
“Ten men with speeders. I’ll check known spaceports first; it is unlikely a ship would depart from anywhere else. If I can’t find anything, we can do a planetary grid search.”
“Good.” Neopol grinned, intentionally using his “we are all here in this together” smile. He could achieve much using this practiced boyish charm. “Get it done immediately and get back to me. This is top priority, Commander.”
“Yes, sir,” Pagett said with a strained face that seemed unusually pale.
Neopol’s eyes narrowed slightly as he scrutinized Lieutenant Commander Pagett. The man was worried, but … no, that wasn’t it. He was upset. Neopol had observed these symptoms before. The man was hiding something. Was he a traitor? He resolved to watch the Lieutenant Commander closely until he solved the mystery. He said to his aide, Lieutenant Janson, “Go with Pagett and supervise his work. Ensure nothing is overlooked. I’ll be in my quarters.” He looked at Pagett once more. “Notify me instantly on Icom and in person if there is news of a ship’s departure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lying on a bunk in the shuttle, Admiral Neopol started a set of exercises he had fashioned. He slowly counted backwards from fifty. Then, in silent reverie, he recalled the entire day sequentially to the present. He went over each expression, every comment, every obvious thought or action on the part of anyone he had been in contact with.
Once relaxed and aware of the day’s details, he evaluated. Neopol let out a long sigh of pleasure. The mystery of Pagett’s distress was straightforward and obvious. The man was simply disturbed by the extent of death on this world. He looked the type. Neopol would test that theory. Smiling, he placed his hands behind his head. This was the perfect position for a man of his abilities, where he could continue his research into the human animal. What motivated it? How much could it take? What made it give up? When was it hiding and what did it consider necessary to hide?
The management and control of people was a project he had set himself from his earliest childhood. As Neopol had discovered, back when he was a vulnerable young woman, humans were extremely dangerous. They were destructive, erratic and impulsive. They needed to be controlled. In the entire history of civilization no one had ever discovered how to successfully predict or dominate individuals or the masses. Neopol planned to find the key. So far his extensive research was invaluable. Soon he would hold the solution.
Then he would feel safe.
There was still one Delian waiting for him aboard Conqueror. He sighed with pleasure. He had finished tests ordered by HC and had found nothing unusual. This last Delian was his to dispose of as he wished. Neopol grinned. He had a few experiments of his own in mind. He would find out for certain if she could read his thoughts or not.
He wondered if there was a spy on Conqueror. If there was evidence of an exodus from Delian, he would use mindtap to get to the bottom of it. HC would give permission under the circumstances. Lord Andros had counted on no one discovering the annihilation of the Delians until the next trade run in six months time. By then any evidence that Conqueror was responsible would be gone. The crew of Conqueror would be given a memory wipe and a false memory implant, and the genocide on Delian would remain a mystery forever. Renegades would be blamed for the slaughter, or better yet the Alliance.
From his bunk he stared at the convex ceiling of his quarters in the shuttle. If even one ship escaped there could be repercussions. He was Lord Andros’ right-hand man, but Andros didn’t tolerate failure. If the Freeworld Police investigated and reported to a lower echelon of the government it could have serious consequences for HC — perhaps even for himself. It could be construed as ineffectiveness on his part. Unthinkable. If a ship escaped, those responsible would suffer before he let them die.
Neopol smiled. While understanding human behavior was his main priority, he was not beneath the occasional need for revenge.
Anger spent, Admiral Neopol sat on the shuttle, drinking Scotch and watching Delian shrink in size. Lieutenant Commander Pagett had found that a ship had departed Delian from a desert area in sector G. The vessel lifted off five days previously, just prior to gas release. One ship, no more. By the size and shape of the liftoff markings, the escaping vessel had most likely been a Needle-Class warship.
Neopol sighed. It was probably one of the old Delian Fleet. Registration and listings showed a number of such decommissioned vessels; he would soon find out which one had escaped. He swirled the ice in his glass and drank the last of his Scotch. He put the glass in a special compartment. Technically he should have waited, or drunk from a flat flask container. The flat flask was designed to be sucked or squeezed in order to prevent spillage in space, in case of loss of artificial gravity. Neopol didn’t care. He liked his Scotch on ice. Rank had its privileges.
There was no doubt now. His suspicions had been correct. There were traitors aboard Conqueror. Neopol’s eyes stung and burned with emotion. He shut them. Such an unexpected sentiment. Was it a remnant of his former womanly self? He felt a pathetically weak and irrational sensation — a strange female desire to cry. He suppressed the urge and ruthlessly replaced the desire for tears with anger.
He had been betrayed. Again. Was there no one he could trust?
He opened his eyes and lifted one hand and picked up the data stick that contained all his research. Neopol wore a platinum bracelet to which he usually attached his data device. All his extensive knowledge — every interrogation, every fact he learned — was on this disk. To predict and control all of humankind, that was his goal. He knew so much now, and yet he still could trust no one, except possibly Lord Andros.
He tapped his lips with one finger. Then his lips curled in a slow, wicked smile.
Finding and breaking the traitors would be a pleasure. The men in charge of scanning and tracking — one or more of them would be guilty. With his skills he would quickly discover which ship had departed, where it was bound and who had been aboard her. He would find the escaping vessel and complete his mission as ordered by Lord Andros.
All Delians must die. No exceptions.
9. In Search of the Spy
Subsequent to a subtle campaign over a number of years, religious conviction became unfashionable. A source of disharmony, all religions were intentionally lost during the Age of Expansion. What happened then? People created new religions. Why? It’s human nature to believe in God.
— High Command, private records, Lord John Andros
Admiral Neopol watched through the viewscreen as his transport moved through space toward the massive battleship Conqueror.
The operation on Delian had been a failure, despite the recovery of numerous valuable items. Two main mission targets, acquisition of the Delian Testimonials and the priceless Damithst King’s Mirror, had not been achieved. Not only that, but there was evidence that one Delian vessel had fled just prior to the gassing of that world. The Admiral had notified the crew. He intended to find who was responsible. Let any little mice flee and tremble in fear. They could not hide from his traps.
While on final approach to Conqueror’s docking bay, Neopol unstrapped. Despite his size he moved gracefully down the aisle, coming forward to flight control. He wanted to watch Pagett guide the large craft, and he thought with amusement, to test his nerve.
Neopol’s lip curled. Well, well, what did he have here? The Lieutenant Commander must have landed such a vessel a thousand times, but under his scrutiny the man was actually sweating. Neopol wanted to laugh, but he controlled the impulse. Long ago he learned that to manipulate others, first he must be master of himself.
Pagett ran a nervous hand through his hair. With intense concentration he slowed the craft to a crawl and made a perfect landing. He turned and said, “Sir, you’re at liberty to disembark. Are there further orders?”
Shadows of movement could be seen through the vessel’s windows and sound penetrated the walls of the ship as various transports arrived and unloaded from within Conqueror’s enormous hold.
Neopol contemplated Pagett as he attempted to remain still under his penetrating inspection. The man had such lovely green eyes, Neopol mused. Really rather attractive — they had been genetically altered no doubt. A full two minutes passed without the Admiral saying a word, while Pagett showed more and more subtle signs of unease.
Yes, he thought. Our Lieutenant Commander is uncomfortable. Neopol was enchanted by his discomfort. He let another minute go by. At last he said, “Did you enjoy your visit to Delian, Lieutenant Commander?”
Pagett, already white with anxiety, paled even further. “Yes, sir.”
Neopol schooled his face to remain bland, but inside he hid a contemptuous and satisfied grin. It was just as he thought. Pagett was simply upset by the death of the Delians. He wasn’t a traitor. There was no mystery there. “That will be all.” He dismissed him with a wave and turned. “Sub-Lieutenant,” Neopol snapped.
“Yes, sir.” Janson said.
“Obtain duty rosters for the last five days — I’ll want a hardcopy. Notify Captain Barlow that I’ll expect him in my quarters at 1700.” With those instructions, he left.
Admiral Neopol’s quarters were opulent, with thick, expensive carpets and priceless paintings. The room was mainly decorated in gold, red and white, and was cluttered with gilded furnishings, and unexpected knickknacks. There was a fine lace comforter, fine bone china and antique porcelain figurines, a roman bust and delicate vases that would be destroyed if Conqueror lost gravity. It was as if Neopol had brought all the personal possessions he owned aboard. Renitu’s Seventh Symphony played loudly in the background.
Janson returned with the duty rosters, and held them out to his superior.
“Good. I can get started.” Neopol paused for a moment, as Janson stood before him as solid and still as one of his sculptures. The Admiral frowned. “Go away now,” he said to his aide. “I won’t need you. Go eat or something.” Without a sound, Janson left.
Neopol sat back and relaxed, studying the hard copy of the duty rosters. He could instruct Icom analysis, but it was more amusing to do it himself. He was quite good at spotting patterns. He had learned that from Lord Andros. Andros was a master at seeing the big picture from simple observation of symmetry via a variety of models, paradigms and designs. He enjoyed the hunt. Few activities gave him as much satisfaction as chasing his quarry to ground.
Neopol smiled, glancing through personnel list suspects. Barlow, as senior officer, was most likely involved in the Delian conspiracy. He would know for certain soon.
A gentle tap at the door interrupted his musings. The Admiral noted: seventeen-hundred. Exactly on time. “Come.”
Barlow came in and stood to attention.
“At ease, Captain. Come and sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite his. “You are, after all, among friends, eh?” The Admiral grinned and raised his glass. “Scotch? It is all I have, I am afraid.”
Barlow sat down. “No, thank you, sir.”
“Do you enjoy Renitu, Jon?” Neopol asked, lowering the volume of the music.
Captain Barlow stammered, apparently caught off guard by the question, “Ah, no, sir. I mean … I haven’t heard him before, but this particular composition sounds nice.”
Neopol chuckled and drawled in a condescending manner, “Ah, well, not everyone has had the opportunity to study the modern masters.”
“No, sir.”
Neopol noted that Barlow’s face showed more color than usual. The man shifted imperceptibly, adjusting the collar around his neck. The Admiral used his “we have a problem” voice, “Do you know why you’re here, Jon?”
“No, sir.”
“I have reason to believe that there is a spy aboard Conqueror.” Neopol watched closely to observe the effect of these words.
“Indeed, sir? Barlow queried calmly. “May I ask why?”
The Admiral studied Barlow for a moment, reflecting. He had expected a reaction from this direct question. He was certain Barlow was aware of the conspiracy. He would try another ploy. He said, “A ship left Delian five days ago.”
Barlow’s lips parted, and the pupils of his honey-brown eyes dilated a fraction.
That’s better, the Admiral thought. Now, was Captain Barlow astonished or afraid? Neopol said, “The vessel departed sector G. It wasn’t reported.”
Emotions flew across Barlow’s face for the merest moment.
Neopol smiled with satisfaction. Oh, yes, there was no doubt about it. Barlow was guilty. Suddenly Neopol didn’t want to continue. Let Barlow wait, let his fear work, eat away at him for a bit. He would be the last to undergo mindtap.
“Well, Jon, I see that you are as surprised as I was,” Neopol said in a loud, genial voice. “Never mind. We will get to the bottom of this with mindtap.”
“Mindtap?” the Captain echoed, his tone incredulous. “But mindtap is illegal.”
“Yes, of course,” replied the Admiral. “But mindtap is the best way to find the truth, and in cases of treason it is admissible.” He laughed. “I’ve permission to use any means to get to the bottom of this. I’ve notified HC,” he added, tapping his nose, as if letting Barlow in on a secret. “Unfortunately, your name was on the duty roster at the time. Never mind. Full mindtap interrogation will not be necessary, and as you know it produces no lasting effects.” Admiral Neopol stood up, signaling that their meeting was over. “I’ll call you when I require your attendance.”
Barlow’s frowned, his face registering surprise and confusion.
“Oh, I’ve had your Icom blocked for all communications,” the Admiral explained. “Not only yours, of course, but everyone’s from the duty roster. No need to tell you to keep this little secret hush-hush, is there?” The Admiral didn’t wait for a reply to his question. “You’re dismissed,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Captain Barlow walked from the room with what to the Admiral’s amusement appeared to be careful, wooden steps. All the color had drained from his face.
Neopol gave Janson his instructions after he left. “Follow Barlow; monitor his every action. If he asks why, tell him it’s on my orders. He’s not to communicate in any way that you are not able to fully view yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Good, Neopol thought happily, rubbing his hands together. He would start with the others and save Barlow for the last. Barlow wouldn’t be going anywhere. Whistling Renitu’s Seventh, the Admiral left his quarters and began a brisk stroll to the detention decks to begin on his first victim.
A young technician, one of the many rank and file responsible for Conqueror’s engines, saluted the Admiral smartly as they passed in the corridor.
Eyes gleaming with anticipation, a smile on his lips, Admiral Neopol automatically returned his salute, hardly noticing the man. His mind was on the detention deck and all the pleasures he would discover there.
The technician smiled and thought: The Admiral is in good spirits. That’s got to be a good omen. In a better state of mind, the enlisted man walked on.
Captain Barlow sat in his quarters going through hell. Forsaken Worlds, I’m in trouble, he thought. He felt quite lightheaded. Did Neopol suspect? What did he mean — not full mindtap? He would be caught now, he felt sure of it. Still, all was not lost — even if his guilt were discovered. Barlow forced himself to ruthlessly examine the possible consequences for the hundredth time in the last two days.
First, there was no real proof. Why couldn’t it have been a simple malfunction? He had toyed with the idea of ensuring that a fault would be found in the sensors, but with Janson watching him so closely it was too late for that.
It may be considered simple negligence on his part. He shook his head. If anyone but Neopol were involved, he would count on fine or demerit, at the most demotion, with no further action taken. After all, he wasn’t a spy. But with Neopol, he had to consider the worst.
He would spill everything on mindtap. He would then be tried and, if worse came to worst, convicted of treason. Surely a jury would be lenient for a first offense. But treason was a severe crime. Spending the rest of his life on the prison planet of Cirani was an unbearable option.
His mind ruthlessly pursued the worst possible consequences: death; or worse, torture then death. Barlow shut his eyes. His imagination was running away with him. If only this terrible waiting could be over.
Barlow picked up the holoshot of his wife and two children. Looking at the picture didn’t help ease his fear. On the contrary, it increased his misery. Carolle was so perfect. She was extraordinary. He had never felt that he deserved her. Jon had courted and pursued her unsuccessfully for months. A large part of the reason for her uncertainty was because of her family. How could Carolle take a low-ranked enlisted man home to meet her intolerant and prejudiced father? She had been well aware that no good would come of it.
Frowning, he remembered the first time he had been introduced to parents.
“So, you’re Barlow.” Carolle’s father had made the statement sound like an accusation.
“Yes, sir,” he had replied, carefully keeping his voice neutral.
“Your father served with the Fleet for years, but never rose above ensign.”
“That’s right, sir, though he was unable to finish out his entire service life,” Jon replied. His sudden anger helped calm him. What right did this man have to belittle his father? “My father lost his legs after serving with the fleet ten years. He was decorated with the Shedhand Cross for bravery. You see,” he said, as if explaining to a child, “he was wounded while evacuating the Enso colony from an unstable sun.” He paused to let the significance of the remark sink in. Venting his anger he asked, “Did you ever serve, sir?” The question sounded polite, but the implication was clear: what had this man ever done for anyone?
Carolle’s father had turned bright red. “I’ll not have her seen with an enlisted man, a man who will, like his sire, never rise to a position of responsibility.”
“Father, Jon! Please!” Carolle had implored, but it had been too late. The damage had been done. Carolle’s parents had disowned her when she married him.
To prove her father wrong, he worked relentlessly. He progressed in the fleet, finally obtaining the exalted position of Captain. But it made no difference. The same year he had obtained his promotion to Ship Captain, both her parents were killed in an accident. They left Carolle’s inheritance to the Temple of Jana.
The lesson had been a hard one. Being right was not the answer in human relations — not if it meant making someone else wrong and then rubbing their nose in it.
It had been difficult for Carolle to give up the home she had lived in, the place in which she had hoped to raise her own children. Jon was sure he could see the indecision in her eyes. Had she made the right choice? This could settle the matter for her, he decided grimly.
Captain Barlow returned the holo to the table where it belonged. He had regretted that his own father died before his promotion to Captain. Now, for the first time in his life, he was relieved that his father was no longer alive. Dad had been so proud when his son had enlisted.
“Son,” he had said, “over half the United Worlds would no longer exist if it wasn’t for the fine men and women of the Fleet. I’d rather you assist as the lowest-ranking man in the Services than take a well-paid civilian job.” Even now his compelling desire to help hadn’t dimmed. The question was — was the Fleet actually helping? Barlow shook his head. Now he was beginning to think like a traitor. It was all this unbearable waiting. It had been two days since his meeting with the Admiral.
He was even monitored while in the privacy of his own quarters. Neopol suspected him, that much was certain. The rest of the crew had also been affected. The news that their Captain was in trouble was spreading like a contagious airborne disease. Of course it was almost impossible to keep a secret on a ship, even a vessel this size. His crew was confused and worried; he could see it in their faces.
Captain Barlow smiled, recalling Lieutenant Commander Pagett’s expression when Janson was looking the other way. Pagett had attempted sign language, making strange faces and obscure motions with his hands, hoping to divine what sort of trouble he was in. The only signs that had really communicated were the obscene gestures he made toward Janson himself. Despite all the strain he almost laughed out loud.
Barlow grimaced. What would it be like? The other crew members who had been on duty with him had already had mindtap. They hadn’t suffered from the experience, each staying off post for no more than one shift. The use of mindtap had to be kept confidential. If any Freeworld found out, there would be enough rebellion to equal the Hundred Year War. Thus each crewmember had to be given a memory wipe, also illegal.
Surely it would happen soon. In the last two days he had discovered how far a person could sink. This rollercoaster of emotions was driving him mad. He had even woken from a bad dream one night, calling out for his mother! He hadn’t done that since he was a boy. Yes, bring on your mindtap, Neopol. Just let’s be done with waiting.
“Captain?” It was Janson, currently his own personal shadow, speaking in his emotionless tone.
“Yes?” His heart seemed to stop.
“The Admiral has requested that you accompany me to the detention deck, sir.”
“Fine. Let’s go,” he heard himself say. The waiting was over.
10. Barlow’s Story
There are so many choices to make in life, tough decisions, and opportunities to make grave mistakes. I was lucky because if I was uncertain, I merely thought of my father. At those times I simply asked myself, what would dad do? And then I would do that. Why? Because like a compass pointing true north, my father had an unfailingly ability to chose the honorable path.
— Private records, Captain Jon Barlow
Outwardly composed, Barlow walked into detention while his eyes took everything in. The room was white and there were lines of chairs all with soft restraining straps, neatly placed. An antiseptic smell pervaded, as in a medic’s room. Someone had cleaned up, no doubt, after the Delians.
Admiral Neopol stood welcoming, like a gracious host. He had a crisp white coat thrown over his fleet uniform that gave him the professional air of a physician. The man was enjoying himself, Barlow realized. Sadistic bastard.
“Welcome, Jon,” Neopol said. “Glad to see you could make it.”
Barlow felt a calming anger. Damned if he was going to give Neopol the pleasure. “Yes, sir, and I thank you for the generous assistance of your aide.” His comment was courteous, but the tone of his voice left no doubt as to the sarcasm in his words.
The Admiral’s genial smile froze. “You’ll regret that remark. Sit down.”
“Yes, sir.” Stupid thing to do, Barlow admonished himself. To irritate the person who held his career and even his life in his hands. Yet he still felt perversely pleased to have annoyed the Admiral.
Janson strapped Barlow’s feet, hands, waist, forehead and neck. He was quite unable to move. The straps were firm, but not uncomfortable.
A bot wheeled in some equipment.
“What is this, sir?” Barlow asked suspiciously, his eyes moving with the device. “I understood HC ordered mindtap.”
Neopol gave a malicious laugh. “They did and mindtap you shall have. Except first we shall conduct a purely scientific experiment on the subject of pain.”
Barlow stared stupidly. He couldn’t divine the purpose of the machine.
“Surely, Captain you’ve seen a probe before?”
Probe? Not a nerve oscillation probe? Barlow eyes widened with an understanding all too clear.
“Ah,” the Admiral’s tone was jovial. “I perceive that you comprehend precisely. Good. You see, we have some questions to answer.” Neopol had clearly warmed to the subject. “First, how much pain can an individual endure before unconsciousness? Believe me when I tell you I have examined this question on many occasions and have logged my findings most scientifically.”
Barlow felt too stunned to speak.
“Two, what will an individual be willing to do to stop the pain?” The Admiral’s face lit with interest. “From my experience only 8% of people never give in; that is to say, 92% reach a breaking point at some stage of interrogation.” He spread his thick, well-manicured hands. “It appears that the pain is too much.”
“Three, at what stage will an individual reach breaking point? Please understand that breaking point isn’t a simple matter of carefully administered pain. It’s a far more complex subject. As you can see, all these questions are interactive.”
“You can’t do this. I’m a Fleet Captain and a free citizen. I know my rights. HC ordered mindtap, not torture.”
Neopol gave a mocking sardonic laugh, “Very good, Captain. But who is to know?”
“You mean to kill me?” Barlow asked in an incredulous tone. “Execution is not permissible, unless the suspect is proven guilty. Such punishment is rarely approved, as those who commit Capital crimes are transported to Cirani.”
Neopol’s lips curled in a thin smile. “My dear Jon, I don’t want you dead. And as for your guilt — ” Anger flashed in his eyes “ — we will discover the proof of that in due course, with or without the use of mindtap. There will be no contravention. Believe me, whatever pain you experience, the memory wipe will ensure you never recall it. So, it never happened, did it?” He spoke with an almost fatherly concern.
“You’re insane!”
“I need not listen to that sort of remark.”
“Help! Help!” Barlow yelled in an instinctive animal impulse.
“Screaming won’t do you any good.” Neopol shook his head, as if disciplining a child. “I’ve had this room soundproofed. You know, I have been listening to your crew. The general consensus is that you are the best Captain they have ever had. Extremely well-liked. Touching, really. Too bad they won’t be able to help you now.” He grinned wolfishly.
Barlow remained silent as he realized his efforts were futile. There was nothing more to say.
Admiral Neopol was a professional. After injecting Barlow with a muscle relaxant to prevent tissue damage, he moved around capably, adjusting for best results. “You may be unaware that the probe has become an exact science,” he said. “You’re lucky to have a master looking after you. The probe has settings from one to five. Most subjects become unconscious at setting three. I have known only three individuals to actually make it all the way to five. Provided they are in good health, a subject can withstand the probe for an hour before physical problems occur. I never continue more than an hour.”
Captain Barlow’s heart pounded. He felt a little dizzy. He couldn’t really hear or understand Neopol’s discourse — his mind was too deeply absorbed with dread of a near and unavoidable future. Worlds of Perdition. I’m going to be tortured. How will I take it? Can I hold out and keep my secrets? What if Neopol finds out the truth?
“… so you see, the pain experience is so extreme it is beyond normal recognition and description, dealing as it does with nerve endings.” The Admiral had continued the lecture, but Barlow hadn’t heard a word. He understood then that he had become incapacitated with dread. He cursed and a punch of anger relieved his all-encompassing fear. He had had enough of this madman and his peculiar fascination with pain. “All right, Admiral Jones,” he drawled his actual surname as an insult. “I find the subject boring. Let’s just get on with it.”
Neopol stared down at Barlow with malice. “As you wish.” Using Icom he toggled the device “on.”
The effect was instantaneous; there was not even time for a gasp of air.
Without restraints, Barlow would have been thrown from the chair.
Barlow’s eyes were dark and wide with astonishment. Nerve spasms screamed throughout his body, as if every living cell was in agony, each crying out at once.
Moments later, the Admiral toggled the device “off.”
Neopol stood close, face to face with him. Barlow, suffering incredible pain, was still sensible enough to be aware of the man. The Admiral studied Barlow’s agonized response as if it were imminently important. It was as though Neopol had been telepathically communicating something or perhaps receiving something from the reaction in his expression. Neopol enjoyed his pain. Barlow couldn’t believe it. Neopol’s own expression was bright, his breath long and deep as if sexually aroused. He looked like he had just witnessed something inspiring or momentous, like the birth of a sun, or perhaps in this case a black hole.
Barlow witnessed Neopol’s rapturous expression with abhorrence, while his breath came in ragged gasps. Despite the muscle relaxant the tendons in his neck were taut. He felt a fine sheen of sweat forming as he absorbed the total shock of an all-consuming pain. He swallowed repeatedly with nausea and thought he might be sick. If he did throw up he planned to make every effort to do so on Neopol. Barlow was aware that Neopol was intently observing and probably cataloging his every reaction on Icom. He was disgusted by it, but couldn’t muster up enough energy to really care.
His eyelids felt heavy, his lids half closed. He opened them fully and glanced at the probe’s setting. To his horror, it was only on one. Barlow’s mind reeled. The pain could get worse? For the love of Jana. How could anyone survive this? Now, now, let’s look on the positive side, he thought to himself. Only fifty-nine minutes to go! The humor in this ridiculous idle reflection was out of proportion to the circumstances. Barlow began to giggle.
Enraged, Neopol threw the switch once more.
The procedure went on for some time, each shock a unique journey to a place he didn’t want to go.
First the probe flashed on, and a blinding torment pierced him so savagely it blanked out any other sensation …
Then, to his immeasurable relief, the pain stopped, yet each tortured nerve could still be felt screaming. Sweat poured from him now. He was panting, striving for more air, drained and exhausted. It took incredible physical effort to endure such torment.
Neopol, ever observant, spoke softly throughout it all. His tormenter asked questions with a nagging, persistent voice. He sounded so understanding.
Time ran together. Barlow wondered, had he been tortured for hours? Or only minutes? There was little of substance that Captain Jon Barlow could hold on to. Tears poured down his face. He tried not to beg but found himself begging anyway. He cravenly pleaded, lying about the sensor reading, telling Neopol anything while desperately hiding the truth.
Then unexpectedly, Neopol put the setting up, and Barlow lost consciousness.
Damn it. Too much, the Admiral thought. How did that happen? In his enthusiasm he had accidently put it on the highest setting.
Barlow sat strapped to his chair with eyes closed. His pulse was still high above normal, but it was starting to come down, his breath becoming less labored. That full shock of pain had put Barlow into a deep, deep sleep. Neopol knew that it would be some time before he woke. His subjects did from time to time pass out, but he preferred they experience a longer session before losing consciousness. Adrenaline would wake him, but Neopol didn’t mind the good Captain getting rest for now. As it was, Barlow had a full measure of his own adrenaline burning through his veins. Giving him more may cause him to have a stroke.
The Admiral studied Captain Barlow’s unconscious form. Who would have thought the man would be such a tough case? Although one could reason that the Captain of a Fleet battleship would be out of the ordinary. What had made Barlow do what he did? It was an interesting puzzle, and even though the fellow was proving to be difficult, Neopol felt no discontent. In truth he was enjoying himself immensely. The answer to Barlow was hidden deeply, no doubt interwoven with the mystery of what would break him. But what was it? What was the Captain so successfully hiding? Neopol was beginning to think that torture would not give him the answers he was seeking. He suspected that he could test this man to the death with no better result.
Neopol consoled himself with the thought that if the probe failed there was always mindtap. He didn’t want to use mindtap, however. There was no fun in that. He wanted to find the answer to Barlow himself. He breathed in deeply. The Captain was a strong, young man — his body could take a lot more punishment. Neopol tilted his head as an idea occurred to him. Empathy often broke a subject when anger, cruelty and pain would not. Would that be what solved the mystery of Barlow? Empathy? Neopol smiled a shrewd predatory smile. He could be compassionate and understanding when he wanted to be.
Neopol stood up and pointed to Janson, “Watch him. I’ll be in my quarters, taking a break. Notify me via Icom the moment he wakes.”
Captain Barlow enjoyed forty minutes of blissful unconsciousness before Janson notified his superior that his captive was ready to proceed. The next “session” was much more difficult for the Captain than the first. Barlow once more yearned for the blessing of oblivion … to rest, to sleep. But the probe settings were being raised incrementally higher and his body was learning to compensate. While that was bad enough, the real problem was his mental confusion. Captain Barlow seemed to be losing the ability to think. His judgment was affected, his vision blurred.
Pain on; pain off. Neopol talking.
Pain on; pain off. Neopol talking.
It was a short cycling pattern that seemed to repeat endlessly. There was one notion, one thought only, that Barlow stubbornly kept in his mind. He had been repeating it like a mantra: Don’t tell him about letting the Delian ship escape.
Barlow got to setting four and half and with great relief lost consciousness once more.
When he woke, Neopol stood above him, staring at him with a fatherly look. A fatherly look! Barlow wished his Icom wasn’t blocked. Then he could take a picture and send it to Pagett. Almost any caption would be hilarious. Even something like, “Son, we need to talk” seemed funny. Imagining Pagett receiving such a picture would ordinarily have made him laugh. Right now he simply didn’t have the energy.
The Admiral talked for some time, his voice soft, soothing and persuasive. His words made good sense. Barlow tried to tune him out, to listen to his tormentor’s dialogue as a hum of background noise, but everything was so difficult. Neopol wanted to know: Why didn’t he just give up? It would make things so much easier for him. Surely Barlow didn’t want to suffer, did he? Why was he being so stubborn? Barlow couldn’t seem to remember. He just knew that he had to keep his mouth shut.
Neopol gave Barlow a drink, squeezing a flask of water directly into his mouth. “Why don’t you just give up now, Jon?” he asked kindly. “I don’t really want to hurt you.”
These words clarified something in Barlow’s mind. Such an outright lie was way too large to swallow. He snorted, “Don’t … make me laugh.” Barlow’s voice was hoarse from screaming and he found speech difficult. “You love it. If I admitted to everything you would still continue your ‘test.’ You’re some kind of sexless sadist. I bet you’re impotent.”
Barlow felt momentary satisfaction as the comment enraged Neopol. He thought, Ha. Direct hit. and the probe switched on again. After a particularly lengthy period of agony, Captain Barlow mercifully slammed once more into the black painless refuge of unconsciousness.
Barlow woke. He was in his own quarters. Somehow his ordeal was over. He looked down and found that he had been washed and dressed in a newly pressed uniform, formal service blues. They had probably had to burn the one he’d been wearing. Barlow sat in his room with every muscle aching. Everything seemed the same. Janson, no doubt, had taken care to see that he was well presented. That must have been a challenge.
Barlow had puked, pissed and shat himself. His nose bled and bled, refusing to stop until one of the medical men intervened. Barlow shook his head. He was surprised that his eyes hadn’t bled or flown right out of their sockets every time Neopol hit “on.”
He checked Icom; still offline.
Perversely, he felt pleased. He had gone to four and a half and Neopol had been unable to “break” him. Barlow felt a quiet emptiness, strangely calm.
It was over.
He gazed around the room. Everything was so clear. It was as if, prior to this moment, he had been vision impaired and now he had perfect sight. Each chair, each table, appeared solidly outlined. Everything was so much more real and distinct than before. And that feeling. Kind of disconnected and floating.
Was this sensation simply an appreciation of the absence of pain? Or had his suffering forced him away from the physical, toward a more spiritual plane?
He felt awed to be alive.
With an abrupt shock, Barlow was pulled back to reality. He remembered something that made him go cold. He had been injected with mindtap, the powerful drug that worked as a truth serum. With his defenses down, he had been interrogated. How had he forgotten that? His memories rushed back and he recalled the events in detail:
The Admiral had been almost disappointed. “So, you’re not working for the Delians?”
“Never even seen a Delian,” he slurred slowly, voice hoarse, his breathing deep and even.
“Then why did you fail to report the sensor reading?” Neopol’s voice was relentless.
“It … only … showed for a moment. No one else saw it … decided to leave it. If it was a ship, let some poor bastard escape … if they could.” Captain Barlow was tired. That nagging voice. He wished that Neopol would leave him alone, so he could get some sleep. Why wouldn’t he go away?
Neopol’s snarled, his tone laced with anger. “But why? Why did you do it? You were jeopardizing your post, your position, your service in the Fleet. All for a people you’ve never seen.” He breathed in and out for a minute and seemed to regain control. He asked gently, “Why, Jon? What did you want to protect?”
The truth had tumbled out. Barlow found himself weeping like a child.
He knew why.
It was important to save them, he had to. “I thought of my wife, Carolle, and my two children. If they were in the same situation … I would’ve wanted someone to give them a chance.”
Neopol had looked at him, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Ah,” he said. “I see, Jon. I understand now. Thank you.”
Barlow came out of his reverie disgusted. During the probe he had begged, sobbed and wept with agony — it was impossible not to do that. But during mindtap he had cried with honest, heartfelt emotion. It seemed such personal exposure. The monster had gotten him to cry like a child. Neopol would have loved that.
Barlow felt tainted and unclean. It was a feeling he couldn’t shake.
He sighed. Where had that lovely floating sensation gone?
So. Neopol knew the truth. A jury would find him guilty, but there were extenuating circumstances. He wouldn’t get full penalties for compassion. Another thought struck him suddenly. He hadn’t had a memory wipe. Why?
Neopol strode in, his aide close behind him. “Ah, Captain Barlow.” Barlow moved to stand up but Neopol added, “No, no need to stand.” His comment was an order.
To remain seated while a superior was standing violated service protocol. Not only that but Neopol towered over him. Barlow felt at a disadvantage, which was no doubt Neopol’s intention.
The Admiral said, “You realize that you’ll stand trial?”
Barlow tried, but he could hardly speak. His vocal cords were rough from screaming. At Neopol’s nod, Jason produced a spray. Barlow opened his mouth, and something cool and soothing coated his ravaged throat. In a moment he was able to talk, but his voice was still graveled.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “But when the facts are taken into account I feel a jury will be lenient.” I may have earned a demotion, Barlow thought. But Neopol would earn more than that when his illegal use of the probe was discovered.
“Oh, I think your estimation of the jury may be misguided,” Neopol said, unperturbed by Barlow’s veiled the threat. “Have a look at the transcripts.” He handed him a tablet.
Barlow began to read. “I never said this,” he protested. “It isn’t true.”
“I am afraid that Janson and I are witnesses.” Neopol shook his head sadly. “It seems that you and your wife Carolle were involved in a conspiracy. I have notified HC and she, being a civilian, had an instant trial. The sentence passed on her was death.” He paused to let the thought sink in.
“I have no doubt that you will receive a similar sentence — or perhaps in your case it will be torture then death, eh?” His lips curled in a thin, mocking smile. “Don’t be concerned. You are a young, healthy man. You survived torture once, you can do it again. Your children will be placed in an orphanage; they can’t be legally adopted if they have a living parent on Cirani. Perhaps when older they will be able to be Indentured.”
An Indentureship was another word for slavery. Those who had no home or position and were unable to maintain themselves were forced into Indentureship for a period of years, preferably with a Freeworld government or, in the worst case, a commercial enterprise. After Indentureship they may have learned some trade and they would again be free citizens. Indentureships were policed, but one could never look into all of them, and certainly many people, a large portion of them children, would never survive to obtain freedom.
“Your trial starts today at 1400 hours. Did you really think that you could deceive me? Now I’ll need to find that Delian ship. You’ve wasted my time because of your pathetic flawed compassion.”
“You’ll never get away with this. I’ll testify,” Barlow said. He stood up on unsteady legs, anger overcoming the weakness in his body. “My wife and children have nothing to do with any of this. You have no evidence to implicate them. I’ll use ‘Right of Query.’ I’ll petition the Council of Civil Liberties.”
Neopol’s eyes narrowed as he delivered the final blow. “You’ll not be allowed to testify. This transcript constitutes sufficient evidence. In the interests of security it was a confidential hearing due to the use of mindtap and the severity of the crime. Your wife,” Neopol shook his head sadly, “well, I am afraid she was put to death an hour ago.” Neopol basked with pleasure in Barlow’s stunned expression.
No. No. Not Carolle. For Captain Barlow it was the final shock. His legs gave way and he sank to the couch.
Neopol said gently, as befitted the moment, “You’re to be confined in your quarters, Mr. Barlow. There is no use in attempting to communicate. In fact, I think you’ll agree that there is no use in doing anything at all, is there?”
In his own quarters, Neopol replayed that last scene, the breaking of Barlow again and again. He felt a thrill of joy each time as he watched the holovid, reliving the moment. He had watched Barlow experience tremendous pain, of course, but this pain had been entirely different. This had been emotional anguish. Poor Barlow. Reduced to such a state, just finding out about the death of his wife had shattered him. Then knowing his future: life imprisonment on Cirani, and the consequent Indentureship of his children. It just didn’t get any better. After that the man had been utterly crushed and broken. A thrill of pleasure went through Neopol, a tantalizing electric caress that caused a tingle on every bit of skin on his body. It was exquisite.
Part of his attention was on Conqueror’s internal monitors through Icom. His apprehension was part of the thrill. Had he judged the man correctly? Would he feel there was no other recourse? No choice except the last option that Neopol had carefully directed him toward — the final solution?
As expected, the internal sensor readings showed radiation emission. It flared briefly, and was gone.
Neopol smiled, delighted and relieved. He hadn’t misjudged anything. He jumped out of his chair in his excitement and looked at his aide. “Go to Mr. Barlow’s quarters and report what you find. Ask at least two duty officers to accompany you. I think you may discover that Captain Barlow has taken his life. So foolish. I was only planning to have him demoted. It wasn’t as if he were a spy.”
Neopol clapped his hands and began to laugh.
Sub-Lieutenant Janson stood waiting, face composed. When there was a pause in Neopol’s outburst, he replied, “Yes, sir.”
Janson left.
Neopol shook his head and began to pace the room. It was a shame he had no justification to use mindtap on his aide. Never mind. Janson was a puzzle that Neopol’s formidable intellect would take pleasure in unraveling — and solve it he would. Using mindtap to break Janson would be far too easy.
Minutes later, Janson returned, alone.
“Well?” Neopol asked.
“Sir,” Janson said in his bland, emotionless voice. “I have to report that Captain Barlow has committed suicide.”
Neopol stood near the desk and giggled. “I made certain there was no tablet there, nothing to write with. Did he attempt to leave some sort of note?”
“No, sir.”
“I didn’t think he would.” Grinning broadly, Neopol reached over and hit delete on the false transcripts he had created. Barlow was a fool to believe that he would try to get away with forgery as well as a false trial. Of course after over an hour’s torture and two maximum doses of mindtap, perhaps he hadn’t been thinking too clearly.
Neopol could have done it, of course. He could have falsified the recording of Barlow’s mindtap proceedings. Instead he had ensured that Barlow’s natural barriers had been broken down enough that he would believe anything. That story about his wife and children. That was the leverage, the event that broke him. It had been well hidden, but once found, Neopol had used the information to destroy him completely.
Neopol paused to consider Barlow’s wife. She would wonder why her husband killed himself. She would be certain that it was due to a flaw on her part. She would never know. Neopol would alter or delete any relevant Icom records. Barlow’s suicide would remain inexplicable, a mystery that would compel her to repeatedly ask herself those unanswerable questions: Was it her fault? Had she failed?
Neopol ran his hands through his short, black buzz cut, delighted. He had certainly gotten even with Barlow.
He sat back down in his recliner. There had been enough diversions. His two medical specialists were already preparing. The crew of Conqueror would have their memories wiped concerning the gassing of the Delian people. No Fleet personnel could be guilty of genocide. He gave a low chuckle. That might reflect badly on the government. Some plausible scapegoat would have to be found. After that he could concentrate on finding the vessel that had escaped.
It was time to recover the Testimonials and the priceless King’s Mirror.
And, above all, to kill the last of the Delians.
11. The Red Wolves of Opan
The Red Wolf of Opan mates for life. In winter they live in packs of three to fifteen with the strongest male as pack leader. One pup is born second-yearly. Wolves feed primarily on mammals, rodents and the native Twill, a large, prolific, flightless bird.
— Icompedia
Assurance smoldered, her hull ripped open by the impact of landing. Two people lay alive inside her, both injured and unconscious from the crash. The great vessel rested on the world of Opan, hidden in a crag near the top of a desolate mountain. Surrounded by sheer cliffs and an expanse of thick woodland, the wreck lay nowhere near human habitation. The culmination of years of skill and technology, Assurance was the last warship to be created and the most perfectly constructed of the entire Delian Fleet. Now the great Lady lay shattered, an epitaph to the end of an era: a monument to the extinction of a race.
Nearby a wolf pack moved through red drifts of snow in search of game. Many pack members were perilously close to starvation. Winter had been severe, with most predators leaving the mountains for the valleys in search of food. The pack leader, Long Fang, was no longer prone to such unwise and impulsive actions. A kind of deliberateness characterized his actions. He had the same instincts as any wolf, yet he had tempered his natural yearnings and the recklessness of his wild heart. Thus it was that he would not allow his pack to go further than Deep River. There were men in the valleys. He feared men and their weapons. It was not safe.
Long Fang had seen the crippled man-ship fall. He recalled a similar ship plummeting from the sky down onto the mountain peaks when he was a little more than a cub. He did not know why such a thing would occur, nor did he wonder about it or question such an occurrence. It was enough that such had happened before. Those many years ago, when Long Fang had survived his first year and had joined the pack, the leader had taken them to the broken ship. They had found food in the vessel and an unarmed man, alone and barely alive. The heavy scent of fresh blood had perfumed the air. Yet killing a man was dangerous. Other men, men with guns, would track down and kill a wolf for that. Wounded animals had always been good game, however, and in any case, the badly injured man would not have lived long.
The dim memory of the taste of human fat and flesh caused Long Fang’s mouth to salivate. He made his decision. The pack would continue the hunt while moving toward the ship. They may find game on the way. If not, there was always the chance that there may be another man, perhaps also alone and wounded, in the man-ship.
Long Fang had fought for his position as Leader. He had the scars to prove it. To lead was his right. He was the strongest of them all and he had enforced compliance many times with fierce nips of teeth, or a savage mauling that caused considerable pain but no serious injury. Only a stupid leader would kill what was his own. Long Fang wasn’t stupid. He wanted the strong to live, to be compliant and part of his pack.
Any disobedience was instantly punished, the offender held down with his strong jaws and smothered by virtue of Long Fang’s much greater weight. Any wolf that attempted to best Long Fang quickly ceased growling, snapping and biting and would soon whine for mercy. There were no more challengers. Quick thinking and quick acting, he had shown himself superior in every way. No pack member would consider questioning Long Fang’s judgment … for now. But at the start of every winter, when the wolf packs re-formed, he would have to fight for his position again. Only the strongest, fiercest and most cunning fighter could lead.
Long Fang’s mate trotted alongside him, easily matching his pace through the winter drifts of red snow. She was named Seeta, meaning “firm one.” Long Fang felt “stubborn one” would have been a more suitable title. He had chosen her for her strength, but had not understood until mated that she would dare to test him. She was rarely defiant, but when she was, Long Fang found that snarling and showing teeth — a method that would cause another wolf to immediately back down, bare their neck and submit — had little effect on her. Not when the she-wolf’s choice of path to travel was firmly set. In these rare incidences of defiance, Long Fang found that it was he that backed down.
The red wolves of Opan were a powerful breed, weighing up to two hundred kilos. Known for their intelligence and cunning, and particularly for stealing livestock, their hides commanded a large fee. With crimson coats they were easy to spot in the summer months. Summer was a time of plenty and there was little need for camouflage. In the winter, however, when food was scarce, they blended with the color of the Opan skies and snow.
Sniffing the air for prey, alert for danger, Long Fang, his mate and the wolf pack continued on toward the ship.
Aboard Assurance, Ash regained consciousness. His fullsuit helmet had torn off during the crash. At least it wasn’t my head, he thought with a giddy sort of amusement. His left arm was broken midway between his wrist and his elbow, but it didn’t hurt much. He guessed he must still be in shock. The fact that his arm was at the wrong angle captured his attention. Straightening it, illogically, was his first priority. Using his good arm he held his wrist firmly, shut his eyes, and pulled the broken arm straight.
The pain of it caused him to lose consciousness once more.
When Ash again awoke, his arm, his shoulder and all the way up to his neck and jaw throbbed. He threw up and then dry retched until he lay weak and exhausted. Hot wet tears trailed down his cheeks. He had known pain, but this seemed particularly bad. Ash examined his forearm, pleased that it hadn’t been his right arm. Icom helpfully informed him that he had broken both radius and ulna, and produced a picture automatically recorded, just before he had pulled his arm straight. Icom also reported that there was a 93% probability that his bones had been accurately set. Ash almost started crying again but this time with relief. This bland Icom acknowledgment was high praise, but even better, he need not try to straighten the arm again.
Icom also recommended a cast. Ash snorted. A cast. Right. He scanned the torn wreckage that had once been a tidy, well-ordered ship. He would be lucky if he could find a medical kit in this mess.
Ash shifted to his knees. He used ship’s webbing as a compression bandage to keep the swelling down. Then he wrapped it tightly against him, as high as possible around his neck. RICE: rest, ice, compression, elevation. Ash didn’t need to refer to Icom. He had broken a bone before.
When he was done he called out, “Mother?” His mouth was dry. Getting to his feet, Ash felt giddy. He found her amongst the twisted wreckage.
“Ash,” she whispered.
“Are you hurt?” Concerned, he bent down toward her. She, too, had lost the helmet of her fullsuit, or perhaps removed it herself. Her face was dotted with perspiration even though the ship had lost all warmth. It was really, really cold. Part of the internal framework of Assurance had landed upon Sartha’s hips and legs, crushing them. Ash stared for a moment, stunned. There was no possibility he could free her, and even if he did the shock would kill her. Icom began to list in detail why his mother’s injuries were fatal. Ash flicked it off.
Sartha breathed in shallow, ragged gasps.
“Oh, mother,” Ash said. He blinked a number of times to clear his vision, as water filled his eyes. He felt the warmth of tears once more as they rolled down his face. He wanted to wail and scream with grief. Quiet and self contained from earliest childhood, he controlled the impulse. Ash held her hand; it was as cold as the icy wind that blew through Assurance.
“Mother, you can’t die …”
“Nothing can stop … that now.”
“I’m sorry about what I said … about everything.”
“Ash, it doesn’t matter … my son. Thank Jana you are … well. Quiet … now … things to tell you, I have tried … remain alive … had to tell …” Her voice faded.
“What? What is it?”
“Keep the King’s Mirror and Testimonials safe … son. I … never betrayed you … or Jarith.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mother. Really it doesn’t.” Anguish and guilt rode over him, combining with doubt. Ash had seen her infidelity. He had been there. That experience lay between them. As much as he tried to prevent it, he knew his disbelief showed.
“The … Talisman,” Sartha whispered.
Ash pulled up the leg of his fullsuit and slid the King’s Mirror off his thigh. Sartha gripped the blue Talisman fiercely, as though drawing strength from its touch. Then she held the armguard out toward Ash, so that the eye-sized jewel was before him. The Talisman gleamed.
Sartha’s breath caught. She gasped. “On my oath as … Trueborn …”
The Talisman began to glow.
“I love Jarith … and I have never betrayed him …”
The Talisman’s light grew more intense, blinding him and confirming every word. It was then that Ash understood the power of the King’s Mirror. It glowed in the presence of Truth. Sartha stopped speaking and the Talisman dimmed.
“Mother, I want to mind-touch you. Please let me.”
“No!” Sartha voiced loudly, raising her head, despite the demanding effort it took. “Ash … it could kill you … now. Read the Interpretations. It … explains.” Sartha smiled, apparently attempting to smooth the abruptness of her words. It was a peculiar smile, for it was obvious that she was in great pain.
Her forced smile dissolved and she grasped his hand. “Ash, Delian, dead … your father, dead. Beware the Dark Sankomin. You must stay safe … hide your gift.” Her eyes grew large and fearful. “You must hide it. Captain Forseth … to get … responsible.”
Ash stared at her, conflicted and confused. “Mother,” he said, “How can my father be dead? What are you talking about?”
Sartha mumbled something and Ash leaned down even closer to hear.
With her eyes unfocused, his mother now seemed to be talking to herself. Ash only made out some of her words. “Jarith … Larren.” Wells of moisture glistened at the edge of her eyes but did not spill over. It was as if her tears, like Sartha herself, seemed too weary to weep.
His mother’s eyes focused on Ash like an arrow meeting its target. Face to face, Sartha heroically raised both her head and her voice, speaking with desperation. “Save yourself, Ashton. You are … the last …” Ash heard the tortured rattle of Sartha’s shallow labored breathing. It slowed and slowed and finally ceased altogether.
Then there was silence. Sartha’s eyes closed as her body relaxed. Ash heard a soft sigh as her last breath slowly escaped her lungs. With her empty shell lying still and growing cold, Sartha was gone. And Ash was alone.
Suddenly, wonderfully, all of Sartha’s pain left her.
She rose from her body … she flew from her fleshly form.
Her spirit was free.
Sartha saw Jarith in the distance. He stood on the road to the Golden Land. He smiled warmly at her and raised a hand in greeting. Sartha felt his soothing mental and spiritual caress. Jarith had been waiting. He had been waiting for her.
Time did not pass as she flew to him.
There was no distance. There was no space between them.
His eyes were bright as he raised his arms, ready to fold her against him in welcome.
“Jarith!” She reached for him with joy. “Here I am!”
Ash sat for some minutes, staring at his mother, stroking her hair, holding her cold hand. Hot tears continued to roll down his face and he ignored them. Eventually he made the sign of Jana, touching his chest and forehead. He said, “Peace be with you, Mother. May you be born again, finding purpose, understanding and love.”
Ash felt lost. Even the throbbing pain in his arm couldn’t touch him. The silence of his mother’s death left him with a strange roaring in his ears.
His mother was dead.
Grief caused his heart to ache with a pain greater than the burning throb of his injured arm. He recalled when he mind-touched her. The stupid embarrassment he had felt at her love. “My son, my son, my beautiful son.” All the special moments he had had with his mother crowded into his mind.
He had been mean to her, had called her a traitor and an off-world whore, and now she was dead. She said his father the King was also dead. The talisman glowed in affirmation when she vowed she hadn’t betrayed his father. Could it be true? The King’s Mirror would know. But how could that be, when she had willingly gone with Forseth?
It was all too much and there was no time to think about it or to grieve. Sartha had told him. He must save himself.
He wiped his eyes and fastened the talisman back onto his thigh. Searching through the wreckage, Ash found an aid kit. The painkilling drugs looked appealing as his wound was burning, but not yet. For now he must be clear-headed. He was far too weak already.
He peered out of a torn and broken section of Assurance and scanned his surroundings. They appeared to have landed near the top of a mountain, although the ship itself was protected, wedged between two cliff faces. It was dusky dark outside. Thick, lowlying red clouds blocked any light or warmth from a feeble sun. The sky of this alien planet was deep scarlet. Windblown flurries of crimson snow pounded against his face like tiny, blood-red icicles. He moved back inside.
Such a strange world they had come to. All planets were unique, but scarlet skies and red snow? The flurry was still falling and already had partially covered Assurance. Ash shivered from the strong drafts of wind. Snowdrifts had begun to form inside the ship, rose-colored crystals gleaming brightly against the floor.
The thin, freezing air burned as he inhaled. Subject to lung conditions, Ash felt a shock of dread. He was at high altitude, in a snowstorm. His lungs had always been vulnerable to extreme cold. Had he come all this way just to die of exposure? Afraid and alone, he switched Icom back on. It relayed to him that there was no human habitation for hundreds of kilometers.
Ash put together the things he would need: the kit, blankets, medications and dried food, all carefully stored in a backpack. He was unable to find a scattergun or stun in the wreckage. Was it against Freeworld regulations for civilians to have them? He wouldn’t know how to use one anyway, he thought philosophically. But he did have a knife.
The Testimonials would have to remain where they were in the security console. On this forsaken mountaintop they would never be found. A thrill of fear surged through him. He might never be found either. He remembered the seer, breathed in deeply and said aloud, “I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.” He shut his eyes and repeated it a number of times until the mantra calmed him.
What would his mother have done? Of course. She would reach out with mind-touch and contact the closest inhabitants. She would find the best way to get off this mountain. He had little experience with mind-touch, but he could think of no other option. Ash lay down, covering himself with a blanket.
Ash reached out with his mind, desperate.
There was no one at all close by.
He continued, seeking further, trembling. It was so cold!
He brushed against something. Mental fingers sought to contact the unfamiliar intelligence. Was it even human? He had no idea.
Contact was sudden and startling.
Without a ripple, Ash’s consciousness gracefully slid into the unfamiliar form as though diving into a warm pool of water. A rush of relief flowed through him as he escaped his own cold and injured body. Instead of freezing temperatures and the pain of a broken arm, his empty belly burned with hunger. But also, in that instant of contact, he could hear the snow fall.
Ash’s mind registered this fact curiously, but accepted it.
A trace of something caused his nostrils to flare, a creature, warm, inviting … alive. The scent was twill; he knew the smell, the taste. His stomach muscles contracted in anticipation. A thrill of flowing adrenaline surged through him and Ash quivered at the thought of life — pulsing hot blood, fleshy tissue, oozing fat and muscle.
His nose twitched and his long thick tongue flicked out to lick his lips.
Ash’s new world came into focus.
His panting breath misted, fogged and swirled in the crisp, frosty air. Fascinated, Ash looked down and saw that his paws were wet as they moved through hulking drifts of blood-red snow. His crimson fleece steamed. In the bone-deep chill of an icy winter, Ash felt warm in the thick hide of this living fur coat. Comfortable and content, despite the burn of hunger, Ash looked out from within this foreign wolfish flesh and wondered where he was.
The pack leader’s mate, Seeta, was warm from the steady trot. The wolf pack was on the way to the man-ship. So far they had eaten two long-tail yellow rats and one twill. This had not been enough for them all. Seeta licked her lips, recalling its taste. The twill had been half-grown, but it would have made quite a satisfying meal for two. Unfortunately there were eight hungry wolves in Long Fang’s pack.
She sniffed every scent and continued her pace. It had been best to get away, to help forget. Seeta had given birth off-season. Her firstborn cub had been sickly and ill and she had come to the den the day before to find it dead. Remembering her cub, she shivered, feeling the cold. The life in him was frail and weak, and he found it difficult to nurse, small and clumsy as he was. Seeta’s teats were unpleasantly full from the unused milk in them.
Seeta knew the law. The dead must feed the living. And so it was that her cub — once the frail young life in him disappeared — had been eaten by the pack. Seeta had known it would happen. She had run deep into the woods, leaving her little son to his fate. Long Fang had later found her in the heart of the forest. It had taken him hours to convince her to return to their den. Seeta had returned to find her little cub gone, without a trace to mark his brief passage. Now she had no cub, and an emptiness inside that left her without purpose.
She was beginning to feel that a cub was waiting for her at the man-ship. It was an odd impression, one that filled her with pleasure and anticipation. She decided not to tell Long Fang about it. He would snap and snarl and be angry. Could a cub be there, waiting for her? Seeta began to hurry, increasing the pace.
Less than an hour later, the wolf pack arrived at Assurance. They surrounded the broken vessel, but stayed back. The wolves waited, their dark respectful eyes remaining on Long Fang. They were his pack; they would follow his lead.
Long Fang stalked, moving slowly and cautiously, every sense on full alert, his ears twitching. His mate moved with him, and this he allowed. The man-ship was silent. Long Fang knew this circumstance: it flickered dimly in his memory, the sight, sound and smell of a broken man-ship. But there were other scents here, too. His nostrils quivered and his mouth salivated as he moved nearer and knew the thrilling smell of blood, human flesh and death.
He froze suddenly, hearing the soft shadow of a sound within. It obviously came from a living creature, one so small and light of weight its tread made little noise.
Unexpectedly, a small man-cub appeared from inside the ship, near Long Fang and his mate. It swayed unsteadily on its feet. It stood near the entry, watching the pack gather. One arm was bound up against its body, the other free, but there was nothing in its slender hand — the man-cub was unarmed and smelled of fresh blood. It was wounded. Beads of sweat stood out on its skin. Long Fang knew then that the creature was injured and in pain and would not fight death.
Long Fang stared warily for a moment, his senses hyper alert. But there was no danger. It was safe, he decided, safe to eat this fresh meat. As he tensed, preparing to spring, to make the kill, the man-cub turned his head and looked straight into Seeta’s eyes.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
Without warning, Seeta leaped in front of the man-cub, growling and snarling. “No. He is mine. He is my cub.”
The other wolves, restless with agitation, paced and skipped but remained where they were.
Long Fang growled.”He is a man-cub and he is wounded.” Long Fang stressed the last word.
“He is our cub.” She bared her teeth, daring him to dispute the fact.
“He will become a man. Dangerous.”
“Yes.” The others joined in. “He must die.” They whined, dancing back and forth with anticipation. It was impossible for the wolf pack to remain still with fresh food waiting to be eaten right there before them.
“I will fight,” Seeta growled, mane bristling.
The small clearing around Assurance was filled with large, snapping, snarling red wolves. A flurry of disagreement had divided the large predators and the outcome was still unclear. Every pack member could smell blood; their nostrils quivered, their mouths salivated. The wolf pack surrounded the broken vessel, hackles raised, teeth bared. Burning hunger threatened to overwhelm both their instinctive caution and the rigidly enforced compliance of their leader.
The pack moved closer. A decision was being made and the outcome was as yet undecided.
Would the man-cub live or die?
Uncertain and shaky, Ash leaned against the portal of Assurance watching the wolves snarl and fight. Icom had begun transmitting a long list of information concerning the red wolves of Opan, but Ash had silenced it. He knew these wolves already, much better than Icom did. Ash considered running and hiding, but somehow he just couldn’t seem to move. He was drawn to the large female wolf, the animal whose skin he had inhabited. Her name was Seeta and she had recently lost her cub. Ash understood so much about the mother wolf. He empathized with her loss, a loss he also recently suffered. He watched the snarling battle, but still couldn’t tell who was winning. Would Seeta be able to save him?
The she-wolf was in front of him, so close he could reach down and touch her. He wanted to touch her. Despite the burning of his wound and the dizziness, Ash still felt awed. It had been the most incredible thing to mind-touch a wolf. But it had also been completely natural, the connection he had made with the she-wolf, Seeta. He had lost his mother and she had lost her cub. They had met on the common ground of loss and despair and found understanding.
Ash had not been able to mind-touch any of the other wolves, but with Seeta there had been full contact, more complete than any time with his wolfhound Tynan. He wasn’t sure how he had done it. It was a mystery that would be fascinating to solve. The other wolves began to close in. It looked like Seeta had lost her battle. Now he would never find out. Ash felt unaffected by the outcome. Strangely calm, cold as stone and weak as if just getting out of bed after a ten-day fever, he didn’t seem to care.
Suddenly the biggest wolf jumped up beside Seeta. Its huge body was covered with thick red fur, its solid bunching muscles pressed warm against Ash’s leg. If he hadn’t been holding firmly to Assurance, Ash might have fallen with the weight and surprise of the animal’s touch. Snarling and growling, the large wolf’s ruff was on end. The other wolves whined, backing down and away.
Blessed Jana. The wolves are not going to eat me. The thought made Ash feel even more lightheaded. Sudden relief shocked him into action.
Reaching into his bag, Ash drew out some food. He held out the round roll to Seeta, who took it daintily in her teeth. She didn’t eat it, but trotted over to the pack, placing it in front of them. In a flurry of snarling bodies and fur, the roll was gone. Ash moved inside the ship, and the wolves followed. It took some time, but he showed them where the foodstuffs were on every level, even the dried provisions in the hold storage areas. He was astounded by the wolves’ behavior. Now that he was apparently off the menu they were following him, wagging their tails and dancing with pleasure whenever he threw them food. Dispatching each morsel instantly, they swallowed without chewing.
From the upper decks, Ash heard growling and tearing. The wolves were evidently fighting over something, but what had they found up there? “No!” he screamed, sprinting up the ramp to the control and observation deck, the pain in his arm momentarily forgotten.
Ash saw a large wolf, his jaw set firmly into bare flesh, holding Sartha’s broken body by the neck. The wolf was skirmishing with another. In a macabre tug-of-war, the contending wolf had his long, white teeth solidly gripping one of her arms. Between them they were tearing Sartha apart; her legs had been severed entirely, her torso now free of them.
“Stop,” Ash yelled, moving to throw himself on the nearest wolf. The wolf, sensing his movement, snarled as Ash came toward him, protecting his meal. He snapped at Ash.
A shadow blurred past, Ash felt the movement of air and a brush of fur. Seeta tore into the offending wolf. Ash fell to the ground like a leaf, his strength utterly exhausted.
“No. This one is mine too,” Seeta snarled, her fur standing on end.
“But this one is dead.” The other pack member was astonished at her temerity. “The dead must feed the living. It is the law.”
“No.” Seeta said, as if something in her mind and her heart had been broken. “This is the one who bore him, and she will not be eaten. This one is mine.” She bared her fangs and snarled in defiance of any who would suggest otherwise.
Long Fang moved toward the she-wolf. Once more forced to intervene, he took his place beside her. “I stand by my mate,” he growled, resigned but no less certain. “The man-cub has provided food.”
“Yes,” snarled one wolf. “But it is old and long dead.”
“Has your Leader found food?”
“Yes.”
“We will not eat this meat. It distresses my mate.”
Amongst few grumbles, the wolves moved off, noses to the ground in search of anything else edible on the ship.
Long Fang looked at the man-cub with his cool, implacable gaze. Ash sat curled up, his face buried in his good arm, his wounded limb hidden against his torso. Turning from Ash, he moved to Seeta and licked her face solicitously. The look he gave his mate seemed concerned, and then satisfied. The tension in his body relaxed. He left her with the man-cub and went in search of food.
Seeta nuzzled Ash. He lifted his head at Seeta’s touch, and looked into her dark, sympathetic eyes.
“Oh, Seeta,” he said. He reached his good arm around her and burying his face in her thick fur. “You understand.” She licked him lightly on the face. Ash shut his eyes and, reaching out with his mind, he was easily able to touch with her.
Seeta thought, “You are my cub. I will protect you.”
“I am your cub. Now … you are my mother.”
Ash opened his eyes. Somehow, contact was not fully broken. On Delian, mind-touch with an animal was considered impossible. But Seeta wasn’t only an animal. She was soulful, just like his wolfhound Tynan.
Seeta put a paw on him, confirming his thought. With maternal concern, she put her nose near his broken arm, attempting to discover the extent of his injury.
“I’ll be fine.” Forcing himself to his feet, he involuntarily glanced toward Sartha. He steeled himself long enough to bend and place the blanket back over her. He was dizzy with the effort. He touched his forehead with the hand of his good arm, then took a hypo from his pack and injected himself with a generous amount of antibiotics. He burned with fever, although he was shivering with cold. Ash had vast experience with infection and illness, so he knew what to do. He would have to sweat it out. His mind was beginning to wander, but he forced himself to ensure that he had everything he needed. “I must get to some place warm, Seeta. I need to rest.”
Seeta understood immediately. She howled, and the pack activity stopped. Heads turned to look at her. Long Fang gave a small yelp of acknowledgment, and then all the wolves resumed whatever they had been doing.
Seeta grasped Ash’s jacket in her teeth, pulling him along.
Ash picked up his pack. “I understand, Seeta. You’re going to take me home, right?” She looked at him with large, expressive yellow eyes. He ruffled the fur on her head affectionately.
Seeta’s mate trotted out of Assurance with them. Long Fang and Seeta touched noses, a silent farewell. Then she and Ash moved off with his small thin hand gripping her fur for support. Presently Ash raised his good arm, and circled it around her. Seeta’s thick, soft fur radiated heat. Comforted, Ash wrapped himself against her, letting her take some of his weight.
Long Fang watched them leave, waiting until he could no longer glimpse them through the thick curtain of red snow. The wind roared. He stared balefully at the sky much as he would study an opponent he intended to challenge. As expected, the temperature was dropping. The snowstorm was getting worse. Need alone made him bring the pack out to hunt this cold night. It was well that Seeta was moving to the safety of the den.
Long Fang knew Seeta was acting illogically in adopting the pup, but what could he do about it? He knew when he couldn’t change her mind. His mate was not herself since the loss of her cub. He had thought she was recovering, and now this.
Long Fang recalled the sweet smell of the man-cub’s blood and licked his lips. The cub was weak, and injured. The cub will die, he decided. The sooner the better.
When the man-cub and his mate were well gone, Long Fang padded back into Assurance in his comfortable swinging gait. The cub wore the scent of badly injured prey. It would not survive the journey. He would finish quickly and follow Seeta, releasing his pack to go to their own dens and wait out the storm. His mate was not herself.
Long Fang trailed through the broken wreck of Assurance. The rest of his pack, aware of where he was going, followed. He soon came to the dead woman. Now he would get his share of this fresh meat. To leave it uneaten would be wasteful. The dead must feed the living.
The other members of the pack silently gathered around. In deference to their leader, they waited for him to begin. Long Fang put his nose under the blanket and tore at the flesh of the dead woman, swallowing great chunks of fresh, sweet meat.
12. Journey to Delian
The Age of Perdition, also called the 100 year war, lasted from 2220 to 2320. The population of humankind was estimated to be 15 billion in 2160; by the war’s end human population was less than 8 billion. During that time five worlds were rendered uninhabitable, including Earth.
— Icompedia
Admiral Neopol and Sub-Lieutenant Janson remained out of sight in the Admiral’s quarters aboard Conqueror. Neopol wasn’t frightened of reprisals; he simply didn’t wish to be the focus of attention until the warship’s personnel settled. The Crew had been shocked by the suicide of Captain Barlow, and there was an odd ripple of disharmony on the warship, an almost mutinous energy. Lieutenant Commander Gene Barlow had been promoted to acting Commander. Now he was Captain of Conqueror.
“Excuse me, sir,” a Communications Officer tapped on the Admiral’s door. “I have a tube from HC, your eyes only.”
Neopol opened his door and took the tube. He had been expecting the man as the communications officer had sent an Icom alert. Sealed tubes were instantly transmitted wherever there were tubeports. Matter transmission had been perfected; however, the technology was mainly used by the UWG. Only small, light objects could be transmitted and they had to be made out of tadium. Tadium was many thousands of credits per gram and the cost of running one small tubeport was colossal. Despite the cost the UWG preferred tube communication.
“Thank you. You may go,” Neopol said. Conqueror was en route to Omni, having left Delian space as soon as possible. Two ship’s specialists, personal adjutants of Neopol, would ensure that the crew had a memory wipe. No one would be able to trace the genocide of the people of Delian to Conqueror.
Once the man left he opened the message. It read: “FP 171 Darla Wu, Captain Larren Forseth reports interception of Delian warship Assurance. Queen of Delian confirmed en route to Truso. Claims Delian gassed. This is serious accusation. Darla Wu expected to arrive on Delian for confirmation of report within six days. Question Forseth then make all haste to Truso to find Delian survivors. If report on Delian confirmed find those responsible. Pirates? Alliance? Request assistance re: media release. Lord Jon Andros.”
Neopol committed the message to memory and placed it in the neutralizer on his desk. Perfect. How auspicious. Now he knew which Delian ship had escaped and he would be able to intercept it. The last of the Delians would soon be destroyed. No doubt the Testimonials and King’s Mirror would also be on board. Not only that, he had plausible scapegoats for genocide now. And Darla Wu was traveling to Delian? He smiled with calculation, his mind working fast.
Neopol suddenly laughed out loud. Naughty, naughty!
Always nearby, his aide, Lieutenant Janson, did not react by so much as a flicker of an eyelid.
Neopol said to his aide, “The handsome police captain and the beautiful Delian Queen.” He moved toward the door. Yes, there was sure to be a believable story there. There was no need to pin this terrible, inhuman transgression on pirates or the Alliance. Not when the police on Darla Wu were so conveniently returning to the scene of the crime. With a bounce in his step Neopol strode briskly toward the Bridge with Janson at his side. The two men made a formidable pair. Any crew passing stepped aside and saluted as protocol demanded, courteously allowing their rapid passage on the ship.
“Captain,” Neopol said on arrival.
“Admiral, sir,” Captain Gene Pagett said.
“HC sent a change of orders. We’re returning to Delian immediately. Alter course and provide an ETA. I’ll be in detention.”
“Yes, sir,” Pagett saluted.
Neopol took a tube to the detention deck, and summoned his physicians, doctors Smith and Ching. Specialists in their fields, they were brought on board as the Admiral’s personal adjutants. The two men appeared the moment they heard the voice of their master.
“Yes, sir?” they responded, almost in unison.
Dr. Smith was a man about forty years old, thin, excitable and balding. He could have that genetically altered, he was in the perfect position to do so, but it seemed that this was not his priority. He also had an irritating twitch in his eye that, despite all his science, he was quite unable to cure. Dr. Ching was his assistant. Ching was a tranquil, meticulous man. Mannequin-like, his face never seemed to move. Only his eyes seemed alive.
Dr. Ching was an expert concerning anything to do with the human body. He could tell to the minute at which point a bone would break or a subject would reach unconsciousness. He was a specialist in the physical side of medical pursuits, where Dr. Smith was concerned with the mental side.
“Gentlemen,” Neopol began. He was at ease among those of his own profession, of his own kind. “There has been a change of plans. I’ve a job to be done involving a large amount of work in a relatively short period of time. I know you have been preparing to have Conqueror’s crew’s memories wiped concerning the gassing of the Delian people. Well and good. However, in addition to this I now need the crew to receive a memory implant as well. Both will need to be done within the next three to four days.”
Both doctors remained still with wide eyes, aghast.
“Can it be done?” The tone of Neopol’s voice indicated that a negative reply would not be well received, even from fellow colleagues.
A short-period memory wipe was noncomplex. One needed to simply hypnotize the subject; then, while in a hypnotic state, tell them not to remember. A simple command like “You will forget your visit to Delian” was quite effective. It was this idea that they planned to introduce into the crew’s mind. The real problem came about when one was implanting a new memory. First mindtap might be needed to discover the subject’s existing memories. Some of those memories might assist in giving the artificial implant more depth.
Dr. Smith finally replied, “Large sections of crew can be implanted en masse, section by section, provided the implant is not too complex. Depth will be provided to senior personnel only. Yes, it can be done.”
Neopol smiled. “The crew is to know that Delian was gassed and that Captain Forseth and the crew of Darla Wu were responsible. The motive for Forseth was a woman, the Queen of Delian. How long before you are finished?”
The twitch in Smith’s eye jumped. “Creating the holovid will take two days and administrating the implant will take two more. Conqueror will need to be on autopilot while the crew is put to sleep. We’ll need an explanation for their unconsciousness.”
“Yes, of course.” The Admiral’s eyes narrowed. “Get it done.”
“Yes, sir.” They got to work.
Lieutenant Commander Gene Pagett sat alone in his quarters, taking a much needed break. Working in such close proximity with the Admiral was unnerving. The man was professional, competent … and frightening. He remembered the Admiral’s irritation over the corpse on Delian.
There was something inhuman about Neopol. Pagett had been promoted after Barlow’s death to Captain of Conqueror. Ordinarily he would have been thrilled. Now he was worried. Barlow had everything to live for. Why had he killed himself? It didn’t make sense … unless he was driven to it. His Icom had been blocked, so Pagett had been unable to talk to him. A few days before his suicide, Barlow had walked around with a hunted expression, his every action watched by the evil puppet Janson. The Admiral said that Barlow must have committed suicide due to a guilty conscience. Apparently the Captain had intentionally let some Delians escape. If that was the case, Pagett admired him.
Pagett resolved to look up Barlow’s wife during his next leave. Poor woman. Someone should explain the circumstances of his death. Perhaps she would find solace in the visit of her late husband’s best friend.
An Icom message came in, alert flagged. It was from the Admiral.
Captain Pagett jumped up. He had been called to meet the Admiral in the officer’s lounge. Working with the Admiral was probably going to give him an ulcer. While Janson, the Admiral’s aide, made him nervous, the Admiral terrified him. There was no escape, however; he would have to ride it out and pretend all was well. It was six months before his next leave. He could apply for a transfer then.
Neopol nodded at the Captain’s arrival and said, “We have a few things to discuss.”
“Yes, sir,” Pagett replied, maintaining a neutral expression. An orderly arrived with a colorless beverage and placed it next to him. He was about to protest, when Neopol intervened.
“It’s on me,” he said, with a wave of the hand.
“Thank you,” Pagett offered meekly. It was a strong drink, some sort of gin, and one that he would not have chosen when working. In this case he was going to drink it anyway.
“Captain,” Neopol began. “If you were to attempt to hide Conqueror from another vessel while near Delian, how would you go about it?”
“Well, sir, I suppose the best way would be to monitor the ship and remain out of sight. We would need to activate the communications blanket so that our emissions would not be detected. Feasibly Conqueror would be concealed behind Delian itself, but to be on the safe side I would suggest hiding behind one of her moons.”
“Excellent,” the Admiral said, then rose to his feet. Pagett stood up.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to hurry your drink, Captain,” Neopol ordered. “There are some emergency procedures I want to drill.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Pagett replied. Afraid Neopol would be insulted if he didn’t drink it, he downed the rest of the glassful in one long gulp.
“Right then,” said Neopol. “Let’s get to the Bridge.”
Pagett walked after him. His throat was burning and his face was on fire. Worlds of Perdition. Who could drink that stuff straight?
On the Bridge, Neopol fired questions: “Where is the ship’s destruct device? What would happen during an emergency if half of the Bridge crew were wounded or killed? When does the autopilot activate? How is it done? If the entire crew of the Bridge were disabled, would the autopilot take over?” The questions seemed endless. Was it a test? After a drink like that?
“Very well, Mr. Pagett.” Neopol smiled. “We will continue these drills every day until I’m satisfied. We can’t leave anything to chance now, can we?”
Two days later, after twice daily drilling, Pagett was back doing the same exercises with the Admiral, answering question after question. Eventually Neopol said, “Now let’s discover if you can demonstrate your competence. Activate the autopilot with our current course to Delian.”
“Yes, sir,” Pagett said, setting the controls.
“Good. Very good,” Neopol said with a large smile on his face.
Finally, thought Pagett. Maybe I passed the bloody test.
“Excuse me, Captain. I’ll be back in a moment. Stay at your post and leave the controls as you have set them. When I return, we’ll continue.”
Pagett held his tongue. What? Was the man off to the toilet or something? He had so much work to do and he was stuck here, waiting. “Aye aye, sir.” He saluted smartly as Admiral Neopol left the Bridge.
Neopol went straight to the detention deck. “Well, gentleman? Are we ready?”
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Smith replied. “A soporific will be released into the ventilation system. Unconsciousness will be instantaneous and we’ll need to wear masks for an hour. The crew will remain unconscious until we supply the antidote, also via the ventilation system.” Smith paused as the twitch in his eye jumped. “Each crewmember will be supplied with a small amount of nourishment through skin patches. They’ll wake in good health but hungry; their suspicions won’t be aroused.
“Good. You have two days to accomplish your objective. Stay on stimulants.”
“Yes, sir,” Smith replied, handing Admiral Neopol a mask. Each man put their masks on.
“At your command, sir,” Smith politely informed him.
“Fine. You may begin.”
Smith nodded his head and pressed the button that released the sleeping gas into Conqueror’s air supply. Within moments, the crew dropped to the floor at their posts.
Darla Wu moved through normal space on its way to Delian, unaware that Conqueror was lying in wait for them.
“Captain?” Drake spoke from the pilot’s console. His Captain and best friend sat on the Bridge, and for the moment he appeared to be absorbed in a memory. He was looking at the holoshot of the Lady Sartha. Embarrassed and not wanting to intrude on so private a moment, Drake turned his head away as Forseth put the picture back in his breast pocket. “Sir, I estimate we’ll make planetfall in thirty-six hours.”
“Very well, Pilot.” Forseth stood and nervously tapped his fingers on the back of his chair. His left hand was in his pocket. Drake knew that he was rolling his lucky marble with the blue stone back and forth in the palm of his hand.
Malcolm Drake frowned. He knew all about the Captain’s lucky talisman, and how he held it whenever he was unsettled. The Captain had been edgy ever since he boarded Assurance. It was the Lady, no doubt, but it was having a queer effect. A confident man, Forseth had a “Do or die” and “to hell with them anyway” attitude. Now he snapped at everyone. If the Captain had ever felt overly concerned before he had never shown it.
Yes, Drake decided. His friend had changed. Without conscious thought he recalled the war on Stridos. Working with local police, they had safely landed, right on the front line. Their mission was to set a pulse bomb that deactivated armaments. The shockwave would kill every combatant within a ten-kilometer radius. All previous efforts towards reconciliation had proven futile — one nation stubbornly refusing to obey the cease fire. They intended to stop the fighting. If their comparatively moderate efforts failed, the UWG would use “The Device” and millions would die.
Drake flinched with the memory. A sniper had found them after the ordnance had been set to blow in less than fifteen minutes. He had shot the sniper but in return he had been hit in both legs.
He put his hand to the injuries. He had been hit by a burn bullet, which left a consuming fire that had continued to eat away a large portion of flesh after initial contact. He had opted not to repair the scars; he wanted to remember. Drake’s face hardened. As if he could forget.
Unable to move, he had lain where he had fallen. White-faced and strained, his legs burning like molten metal, Drake refused to lose consciousness. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he waited for the explosion and the end to come. Would he feel anything? Incredibly, through the smoke and chaos came the Captain.
“Righto, Drake, on your feet, man. We’ve got to get out of here,” he said in a steady voice.
“Captain,” Drake replied urgently. “Quickly, get away. Forget me. I can’t walk.”
Seeing the pilot’s wounds, Forseth’s expression became momentarily grim. He frowned and hesitated. Then he grinned broadly as if amused by the ill-timed circumstances. Shrugging, he appeared to dismiss yet one more obstacle. “Well, then, I’ll just have to carry you,” he replied, reaching toward him.
Drake stared in awe. Carry him? Through this mess? Was the Captain smiling at his mad decision, his attempt to defy fate? Or had he actually found some perverse humor in the situation?
Firmly grasping the Pilot by his arms, Forseth swung him over his shoulders. The pain was acute and Drake groaned and almost fainted. Another explosion went off, nearer this time. The enemy had seen them.
“Captain,” Drake begged, his appeal a mere whisper. “Save … yourself.”
Forseth gave a lighthearted laugh. “Are you kidding?” Picking his way through the wreckage he said, “I am saving myself. You don’t think I know how to pilot that cruiser, do you? Without you, how will we get off this lousy planet, for world’s sake?”
Drake passed out as he began a gleeful giggle. Beyond all reason he felt fortunate. His last conscious thought was that he had never known anyone like Forseth before, and if he died now he would die happy, having served under him.
When Drake came to he was on the medical deck, lying next to the Captain. Forseth lay on his stomach with a piece of shrapnel imbedded in his back the size of a saucer. He had apparently lost a lot of blood. It didn’t make sense. He had been lying on the Captain’s back so how had he received that injury? There was only one explanation. Forseth had been wounded before he rescued him, and that, Drake found out later, was exactly what had occurred. His friend had lifted him and carried him on his injured back. The pain must have been excruciating. Yet his Captain had saved his life and piloted them off-planet. He achieved both before finally collapsing from loss of blood.
Drake shook his head, coming out of his reminiscences, automatically checking Icom navigation and the time. It was late. The Captain and he were alone on the Bridge. It was his watch and Forseth should have been in his bunk as well.
“Are you going to turn in, sir?” Drake inquired, politely solicitous.
“No,” Forseth replied. “I can’t sleep.” He started to pace and said, “I just don’t get it, Malcolm. He stopped pacing and turned to face his pilot. “We are well past the Age of Perdition. The Freeworlds are at peace and the government appears to be operating without flaw. Those with injustices or grievances make pleas for redress to the Council. Oh, sure, there is the odd small civil skirmish, and the Alliance is still an issue. Sure, there are pirates to keep in check. So why? Why do I feel so certain that there’s a conspiracy? I tell you, I’ve never been so concerned about a mission in my life.”
The pilot shrugged, but he was pretty sure that he knew what the Captain’s problem was.
He sighed as he remembered. After two years, Malcolm Drake still missed his wife. Verla had been ill with a rare form of cancer, the one-in-a-million type that was resistant to treatment. She had lost her beautiful red hair, and had thinned to almost nothing.
As she got progressively more unwell, Drake had never felt so afraid, while he had been her sole concern. Who, she worried, would look after him when she was gone? One day as he was holding her, she had looked at him with an expression that communicated more clearly than any verbal utterance. Her eyes pleaded forgiveness for the separation she was responsible for, yet couldn’t avoid.
She had died in his arms.
Drake cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said with careful thought, “Ah … you know what? I think perhaps … Well, I think you’re in love.”
Aboard Conqueror, Captain Pagett slowly regained consciousness. He was startled to find himself on the deck. Shakily he got to his feet. Glancing toward the console, he swore. According to time standards, two days had passed. Looking around he saw others also awaking and pulling themselves off the floor. He ordered a scan to verify the timer and contacted operations via Icom. “Damage control,” he said. He noticed that his hands were shaking.
“Yes, sir,” a calm, professional voice answered. “I’ll have it for you in a moment, sir.”
Pagett rested against the console, trying to piece together his last conscious moments. The ship, having completed a scan, informed him there was no malfunction. Ship logs, however, only showed static.
Two days had passed.
Numb incredulity slowly wearing off, Pagett realized that they must have travelled through a distortion. These were incredibly rare. No one had retained consciousness while passing through one. There were many unproven theories about the cause. What they did know is that a distortion always put the vessel ahead in time. If too much time passed, everyone died of thirst or starvation. They must have passed through one — it was the only explanation.
Such luck! Neopol had been testing him on autopilot, otherwise who knows what would have happened? Captain Pagett pressed his lips together in anger. They would arrive in plenty of time to conceal Conqueror. Darla Wu would be taken by surprise. His eyes hardened. Anyone who could inhumanly murder everyone on that world deserved to die. He recalled the building with all the dead children. Forseth would be punished. And apparently he did it all for a woman.
“Sir?” came an enthusiastic voice. “It’s a miracle, sir. No one wounded except two technicians who lost consciousness with their carbonizers on. Both suffered minor burns. No mechanical problems. The ship never knew the difference, sir.” Pagett noticed that the officer spoke rapidly, an aftereffect of shock, no doubt. The man was relieved to be alive.
“Very good, and thank you. Captain out.” Admiral Neopol arrived on the Bridge. Pagett turned to meet him.
“I heard the report from Operations. What’s our status?”
“Sir,” Pagett said. “Conqueror will arrive at Delian within twenty-four hours.”
“Very good, Captain.” Neopol grinned. “Quite extraordinary. I’ll inform the crew.” Mentally accessing ship wide Icom, he said, “Crew of Conqueror, today we all go down in history. We have successfully passed through a time distortion. Damage control reports that of the entire crew, only two were harmed and those were minor injuries. Congratulations to you all.” The crew cheered.
“On a more serious subject, we will be in Delian’s orbit within the day. Our plan is to conceal Conqueror and capture their ship. Those responsible for the destruction of the Delian people will be punished for their crimes.”
The crew cheered once more, and the Admiral waited with amused patience for them to settle down. “The section officers will arrange for orderly meal provision. I’m sure that we all are rather hungry, having not eaten for the last two days.” He gave a good-natured laugh. “This is your Admiral out.”
Smiling at Conqueror’s Captain, the Admiral nodded. “Mr. Pagett, I’ll be in my quarters if you need me.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Captain Pagett replied, as Neopol strode toward the lift tube. They had survived a major crisis and the Admiral had managed the situation calmly and efficiently. That Neopol, Pagett thought. Sometimes he’s not too bad.
13. The Fate of Darla Wu
The “Age of Expansion” begun as a result of the discovery of Omni. By 2190, over 59 habitable worlds had been colonized. A number of factors made the exodus successful: inexpensive, accessible food and energy; an increase in viable lifespan; the use of robotics and Icom. The newly formed UWG gave colonists free travel, housing, and financial and tax incentives to colonize. Vast wealth was created by those early settlers.
— Icompedia
Darla Wu orbited Delian while Captain Larren Forseth and his crew focused upon their mission: to find out what happened to the people of Delian. Each man worked in their normal, professional capacity — completely unaware that they were going to have a bad day. A very bad day indeed.
Police sensors had already confirmed a total lack of human life. Now they needed hard evidence. The only way to get that was to land on the surface of the planet. With three crewmen left on board Darla, Larren and the rest of his men took a shuttle to Delian. It was clear that the Lady Sartha had told the truth. Larren never doubted it, but it was difficult to see the confirmation of genocide. They landed outside a fabricated stone building, surrounded by hundreds of dead horses. When the men disembarked they wore masks, not for the fear of poisonous gases but because everywhere they went there was still the sickly stench of death.
With a tightened jaw, Captain Forseth glanced toward his navigator. Heet’s face was ashen; he had always been an animal lover. Once on some planet or another, Larren had seen him put his own life at risk to rescue a stray pup from the flames of burning wreckage.
Stein, Darla’s Medical Officer, had been studying one of the corpses, recording everything, and obtaining medical and forensic samples. “No possibility of some freak biological illness or disease, sir,” he said. “These animals have been gassed.”
Drake, who had walked some distance, began to run back toward them. Larren wondered why his pilot was running and why he hadn’t just sent an Icom message. Larren tried to access Icom, but it was offline. What? Only an enormous power source could disable Icom. A thrill of shock and unease made him draw in a sharp breath as he searched the Delian skies. What in Perdition was going on?
“Captain,” Drake’s voice was high and urgent as he arrived out of breath. “Another vessel is signaling, relaying only to myself as Darla’s pilot. Icom is blocked for all communication. It’s Conqueror, ordering us to return to Darla Wu. They want us to dock within their vessel. They order immediate compliance or they’ll fire on us, sir. And sir,” he breathed, “the Admiral — his name is Neopol.”
That knowledge struck Captain Forseth like a punch to the chest. They were all in serious trouble. He and his crew were caught in a trap, with a fleet warship sealing off all chance of escape. But how had Neopol and Conqueror known where to find them?
With a solid thud of metal against metal, Darla Wu settled into Conqueror’s enormous holding bay. The sound of docking clamps engaging was typical and familiar, yet today it made him think of prison doors slamming shut.
With effort, Captain Larren Forseth maintained a composed expression. His crew looked toward him with trust in their eyes. Whatever this misunderstanding was, he knew they expected their Captain would get them out of it. Larren took a deep breath and hoped their confidence wasn’t misplaced. He had told no one except Drake the truth about the Lady Sartha and her son. It was safer that way. Knowing nothing was as much protection as he could give the Delian escapees. Now he was sorry that he had confided in Drake.
Sartha’s words about Neopol echoed in Larren’s mind. “I’m afraid he’ll kill you.” He reassured himself that the Lady Sartha was only a mind-reader and not a prophetic seer.
Darla’s portal opened to reveal an armed detachment of grim, no-nonsense Marines waiting with their service weapons drawn.
“You in Darla Wu. Come out unarmed, with your hands up where we can see them. Any unexpected move and you’ll be shot,” a voice outside ordered.
Darla’s crew filed out with arms held high. Once on Conqueror’s deck each man was hand cuffed, none too gently, arms behind their backs.
“Hey,” Larren objected, “go easy. We haven’t done anything. What’s this all about?” he asked, protesting their arrest as well as the rough treatment.
A Marine dressed in combat utility tan, twisted his arm with brutal force. “We know just what you’ve done, murderer.”
“Murderer?” Larren queried, repeating the word in an astonished tone. “We came to Delian to investigate a report that the planet had been gassed. We are policemen — not criminals …” A tall, heavyset Officer arrived, interrupting him before he could explain further. Larren noticed he wore Admiral’s stripes on his impeccable fleet dress blues.
“That is enough, Captain Forseth.” The Admiral slurred his title as if he had never earned or deserved the position. “We know exactly what you and your little band of traitors have done. We saw the results of your handiwork on Delian.” He gestured to the Captain of the Guard with well-manicured hands. Larren was momentarily surprised to see a number of heavy gold rings on the Admiral’s fingers. “Take them to detention. I’ll personally deal with them there.”
“Wait,” Larren said loudly. “We didn’t commit genocide …”
A man in charge of Larren hit him in the stomach with his baton, demonstrating the full force of his rage and disgust. Winded, Larren said no more as he was roughly dragged away, yet he didn’t understand it. Fleet personnel didn’t act like this. Why were these Marines so certain that he and his crew were guilty?
The rest of Darla Wu’s men received similar treatment. The arresting Marines of Conqueror despised them and they were determined to show it. Neopol stood by, listening to the sounds of struggle, beatings and protests, all in clear violation of Fleet detainment protocols. Larren noticed that the Admiral was not opposed to such blatant demonstrations of hostility, nor did he attempt to hide his satisfied smile.
On the detention deck, Darla Wu’s crew lined up, waiting for the Admiral. Many already had torn shirts and bloody faces. Individual possessions had been taken from the men, carefully labeled and placed in boxes for later examination. Larren, with dismay, had been forced to relinquish the clear Plexiglas marble that encompassed a little blue stone. The loss of his childhood good luck charm seemed an ominous portent.
The Admiral arrived and studied them dispassionately. “Men of Darla Wu … or should I say animals.” His face hardened. No one objected. They had already discovered what happened when one disagreed. “We know that you’re guilty of genocide.” He seemed amused at the silent opposition in their eyes. “Lock them into the chairs. Ensure they’re secure. After that, you may leave me to deal with them. Sub-Lieutenant Janson, Dr. Ching, Dr. Smith and I know what to do.”
“Aye aye, sir,” came a chorus of voices. The Marines did as ordered and then they were alone.
“My dear Captain Larren Forseth,” the Admiral said, standing over him. “So good to finally meet you face to face.”
Larren remained silent.
“I am Admiral Neopol, and you and your men have information I want. For instance, what was the planned destination of the Delian warship, Assurance?”
“That was in my report.”
“I don’t believe you, Captain. I think that you are hiding something.” Neopol’s voice seemed deceptively mild. He appeared calm, but his eyes, bright and excited, gave him away. Larren felt a shock of real fear after looking into those eyes. Neopol was enjoying this. Was he insane? Or some sort of sadist?
From further down the room, one of the crew from Darla Wu objected loudly over something. For a moment both men were distracted. Neopol intervened, giving instructions to one of his adjutants, and the room became quiet once more.
Neopol turned his alert, penetrating gaze back to Larren.
This man is dangerous, Larren thought. He steadily met Neopol’s examination, overcoming a nervous impulse to lick his lips or to give in to his now urgent need to swallow. Over an extended period of time Larren knew he wouldn’t be able to stand up to such concentrated scrutiny. Never had Sartha and her son been in more peril. Larren alone knew their actual plans. There was nothing for it. He had no idea how to achieve it, but the only safe way to ensure Neopol never knew his secret was for him to die with that knowledge unspoken. But how could he get Neopol to kill him? The Admiral had a supersized ego. Perhaps simple taunting would do the trick.
Neopol snapped his fingers and Janson placed a patch on Larren’s temporal pulse. Larren knew it for a lie detector.
“Now, Captain,” Neopol asked again, with a dangerous edge. “Where was the woman bound?”
“Truso.”
Neopol nodded and Janson hit him with a baton, a swinging full-strength blow to his unprotected shins. Larren bit back a scream and grunted as the sudden pain forced the air from his lungs.
“You were lying, Captain,” Neopol softly admonished.
Larren regained his breath and said, “Truso.”
The Admiral nodded and Janson, with detached precision struck him again in exactly the same place as before. This time Larren did scream.
“Listen, Captain Forseth,” Neopol explained. “I need to know where Assurance has gone and I need to know now. You may believe me when I say the woman won’t be harmed.” He crossed his arms and stared at his captive, his expression implacable.
Gritting his teeth, Larren raised his head, scanned the man’s face, and remained silent. The Admiral was lying. He intended to kill the Lady Sartha and her son, Larren felt sure of it. That thought made Larren angry and that was good. Anger brought out a stubborn quality within him that made him fearless.
“You know,” Neopol said, “I pride myself in being able to pick my man — to spot every weakness.” He spun and began to pace. “In your case, I have spent considerable time studying the police net concerning you and your exploits.” He turned to face his captive. “You are a mildly interesting case, but despite your accomplishments I believe that we will discover you are quite predictable.”
Neopol raised one heavily ringed hand with a flourish, and gestured into the air. “A dashing warrior. A hero. The man who risks his own life for others.” He grinned mockingly. “I know the type.”
“And what type are you, Neopol?” Larren was moved to ask with abrasive contempt. “Liar? Cheat? Baby killer?”
With unexpected fury Neopol punched his prisoner in the face. One ornate ring caught on Larren’s cheek, and the force of the blow drew blood. Larren’s vision blurred and he felt his eye begin to swell.
“You are a fool,” Neopol said, his face flushed with rage. “An unfortunate, tiny little man, who will never look further than helping others — others who are just as tiny and unfortunate as yourself. You have no idea of what I am capable, of what I have already achieved. My entire career I have researched the human animal, those base, senseless creatures that have no foresight. People need to be protected. Without direction and order they are too dangerous to live.” The Admiral’s expression became absorbed. “I am so close. I can feel it. Soon I’ll be able to control or destroy anyone, on any world.”
Larren began an intentionally derisive laugh. “Me the fool? You’re the fool. You’ve wasted your life. You began with the wrong premise.” In his heart he knew the truth, it was like a revelation. “You’ll never know how to control those who are better than you. People can be beaten into compliance. They can be forced to obey, but the moment your back is turned, they will fight their oppression. People have the choice of their own destiny,” he said with contempt, “and you are insane.”
In a fury Neopol pulled out his sidearm. His jaw clenched and his face became red with apoplectic rage. He aimed the weapon at Forseth and suddenly stopped. Larren saw the big man’s tight jaw begin to loosen. Neopol let out his breath and returned his side arm to its holster.
The two men stared silently at each other for a long moment.
Neopol’s lip curled and the tableau broke.
“Very clever, Captain, but I saw no fear in your eyes. Were you attempting to make me lose my temper and kill you out of hand?” He gave a satisfied nod and said, “You may be more intelligent than I thought.” Neopol paced for a few minutes until he appeared to regain his composure.
“Allow me to show you, Captain, just how predictable you are.” He gave Larren a mocking smile and a roguish conspiratorial wink. He pointed to the nearest of Larren’s men, who happened to be Wright.
“Doctor Ching,” he asked, “will you be so good as to examine this subject?”
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Ching replied. He scanned Wright, noticeably transmitting relevant information to an Icom display on the detention room wall. “Ready, sir.”
“The heart,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” replied Smith. He placed a small flat sphere of metal directly over the Armaments Officer’s heart. Wright was unable to keep the dread from showing in his expression.
“All set, sir.
“You may begin.”
Wright, despite tight bindings, almost leaped from his chair with a prolonged scream.
“Stop,” shouted Larren desperately. “You’re killing him.”
Neopol nodded. Wright collapsed back into his chair, a gray, agonized heap. Sweat coated his face in a shiny sheen. He panted, short of breath, clearly still in the grip of intense pain.
Dr. Ching scanned. “The subject will survive three more shocks.”
Neopol stood near Larren. “Now, Captain, where was the Delian woman bound?”
“All right, I lied,” Larren said, licking his lips. “We agreed that it was best if I didn’t know where she was going. She wanted to make sure I couldn’t tell anyone if I was interrogated.”
Neopol nodded and Wright was immediately thrown into a convulsion. When the pain circuit stopped beads of sweat dripped from his white, bloodless face.
Dr. Ching accessed Icom and shook his head. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “This man will not survive another shock. My original estimation was incorrect, an unfortunate error in judgment. So sorry.”
Neopol’s eyes narrowed and he moved in close to observe his captive.
Larren swallowed as the Admiral examined him attentively. Neopol’s eyes registered his swallow — the man missed nothing. Larren felt himself sweat and became aware of his breathing — short, fast, shallow breaths. He tried to hide his fear, forcing his breathing to slow, but Neopol appeared to be well aware of every physiological expression of anxiety. Larren felt the pulse pounding in his neck as Neopol scrutinized him, and was certain that the Admiral was alert to the elevated rate of his heart. He was having difficulty remaining motionless. Under an exterior that was valiantly attempting to remain calm, Larren was in a desperate state of panic.
Neopol’s face blazed with a fierce, burning joy. He shook his head and made a “tut-tut” sound. “You’re making this senselessly difficult, Captain,” he said. “I will get the truth in any case. I have authorization to use mindtap, you know.”
Larren’s breath caught at that little bombshell, and Neopol paused and smiled as he watched the ramifications of mindtap sank in. What next? Larren wondered. Illegal detainment. Torture, and now mindtap. Everything the Admiral did was in direct contravention to UW government law. Larren knew he would lose all his will once he was injected with mindtap. He would be unable to withhold anything. There was no escape. He could do nothing for Sartha, except perhaps pray and hope the Goddess was merciful.
“I will ask once you once more,” Neopol said. “Where was the Delian woman bound?”
Larren hedged, “If I tell you, you’ll kill my crewmember anyway. What guarantee can you give me that you won’t?”
“Why, you’ll have my word as an officer and a gentleman.”
There was a skeptical silence for Larren’s part, and a patient and interested calm from the Admiral.
Larren was out of choices. Unwilling to jeopardize the life of Wright, he gave in and said, “Very well. She was on her way to Kalar.”
The sensor glowed green, showing that he had told the truth.
Neopol gave a low, satisfied chuckle which turned into a deriding smirk. “Excellent, Captain. You may believe me when I say that when I find her, the woman won’t be maimed or seriously harmed. At least not until I have fully interrogated her first,” Neopol gave a loud and jeering laugh, except there was nothing funny to laugh about. “I wager I could have wasted my time testing you to your death, Captain, without gaining the truth. Yet I knew you wouldn’t risk your colleague. You can’t out-think me. I knew you would give in the moment I mentioned mindtap.” He shook a thick admonishing forefinger at his prisoner. “I warned you that I’ve made an extensive study, Captain, and I’m afraid that you are exactly as I surmised: utterly predictable.” Neopol nodded his head to Dr. Smith.
Mr. Wright began an agonized yell.
“No!” screamed Larren, physically flinging himself against the bindings of the chair.
The scream cut off suddenly, and turned into a deathly, choking rattle. Then there was silence.
“You gave your word!” Larren shouted, but it was too late. Wright was dead. “Why? I don’t understand … why?” Larren echoed, completely stunned. He had accepted that there was little chance he would come out of this alive, but surely his men would. They had done nothing wrong.
The little world of the interrogation chamber sat in a frozen tableau. Every captive stared in disbelief as the death of one of their crew had changed every rule, indeed the whole playing field, entirely. At first there had been an antiseptic smell in the detention room, and then came the odor of men’s anxious or pain-filled sweat. But now there was a different scent. If one could identify or define it, one would say that the room held the stench of terror.
Admiral Neopol grinned. “You want to know why? Well, I did it just because, my dear Captain Forseth. Because you didn’t want him dead.”
Neopol walked up and down, looking into the faces of remaining crew. He stopped in front of a man who had blood caked on the side of his face and said, “I will allow special treatment to anyone who volunteers to tell me everything I wish to know.” There was silence. “The first man to come forward will be taken to staff quarters.”
There was an instant response, from Drake.
Drake’s words came in an obsequious rush, “I will, sir. You can count on me. I’ll tell you everything. Anything you’d like. Please! Take me!”
Larren registered surprise through the shock of Wright’s death. Drake would never betray his crewmates, and the older man had a lifetime of engineering, and police experience to draw on. Drake was up to something, Larren knew. What was Drake planning? A new fear seized Larren. What if Neopol decided to question him about Drake while under mindtap?
Neopol gave a mocking bow and mocking snort. “Of course. Janson. Have two guards remove this man.”
“Yes, sir.” Janson left and returned with two Marines. They released the straps from Drake, placed him between them and left.
“Does anyone else wish to change their mind?”
The room was silent.
“Fine,” Neopol said, apparently satisfied with just one traitor in the group. “Well, gentlemen.” He noted the time. “I believe we have much to discover about ourselves tonight, so we may as well get started.” He looked at Wright’s still form. “One down and six to go.” Neopol’s lips curled and his eyes were bright with a mad sort of excitement. “I am afraid that it is going to be a long night.” He looked toward Larren. There was an unpleasant smile on his face. “You I will leave for last.”
Neopol motioned to Smith and Janson. A bot moved from an outer corridor wheeling the Probe.
Hours later Captain Larren began to surface from the unconsciousness in which he had, at last, found refuge. Someone was shaking him. Every part of his body hurt. He didn’t want to wake.
“Go away,” he whispered. His throat was raw. It had to be that demon, Neopol. His men were dead.
“Captain, Skipper,” an urgent voice called him, nagging and begging.
Larren wrestled with reality. Neopol had laughed as he discovered each new phobia or secret fear while tormenting his crew. He remembered him actually finding and torturing a cat in front of Heet, the well known animal lover. Neopol had been vastly entertained and amused to discover Heet seemed to suffer equally whether it was an animal under his knife or a fellow crewmember. The Admiral was inhuman … and insane.
Hours, his men had suffered for hours. Then Neopol had started on him. The pain had been indescribable. Still half dreaming, he wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. All his men were gone — except perhaps Drake. Good old Drake.
“Please, Larren. You must wake up.”
Larren opened his eyes. Focusing, he stared in disbelief. “Drake,” his voice was husky, hardly able to be heard. He had been thinking of Drake and now his pilot stood in front of him. Was he dreaming? “Malcolm?”
“That’s right. Drink this, Captain.” Larren swallowed. It was only water, but it soothed his throat like ice on a burn.
“God, Malcolm, you’re alive.” Larren automatically reached for him, and found he was no longer bound. Larren gripped his friend’s shoulders. “What’s going on?”
The Pilot’s eyes were full as he stared at his Captain. He hugged him gruffly.
“Why, Drake,” Larren managed. “I didn’t know you cared.” He laughed with relief.
“Quickly, sir …” While Drake spoke he pulled Larren to his feet. He put an arm around him, to steady him. “We’re still in detention, but I have a plan.” Drake gave him a sly, eloquent grin. “I don’t think you could’ve thought of a better scheme yourself, sir. Come on. I know a way out of here.”
Larren stood and swayed. With Malcolm’s help he was shaky, but he walked. Burning depravation — that probe. He felt drained. Neopol said that in time he planned to give him a memory wipe and implant. Once implanted, he would actually believe that he had committed genocide. Then he would receive a public trial, and the most extreme penalty possible. Brainwashed as he would have been, he would have not only accepted punishment for something he hadn’t done, but he would have sought it. Larren knew he would have wanted to kill himself if he thought he had committed genocide.
“Let’s go,” Larren said, increasing the pace, the thought of Neopol’s schemes urging him on.
“The sooner the better,” Drake rejoined fervently. The two men weaved through the halls of the great vessel to the docking bay.
“You haven’t found a way to fly out of here, have you?”
“I have.” Drake grinned like a pirate. He pointed to a small interstellar shuttle, one that had few comforts but could travel for extended distances. It was the type of craft that was ordinarily used for infrequent courier missions, where urgent messages had to be delivered by hand. He said, “You have the luck of the Goddess, Larren. There is an Omni corridor nearby. I’ve programmed the shuttle’s navigation through Conqueror already.”
“There’s room for only one on a ship of that size, surely,” Larren protested.
“That’s right. Your vessel will only be in Conqueror’s sights for a few moments. I plan to distract them while you enter Omni. They’ll be only a few hours behind when you exit. You’ll have to find a way to hide yourself on Kalar by then. I have a really good feeling about this, Larren. You only need to get in and go.”
“I’ll not leave without you.”
Drake ignored him. “Everything’s arranged. I’ll distract Conqueror, drawing their fire in our sweet Darla, while you escape. Rough on the old girl, but she’ll understand. I’ve jammed sensors so the dock will remain open.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “No one will be able to stop us. It’ll work — I know it will.”
Larren’s said in a carefully measured tone, “Why don’t we both get away safely?”
“No,” Drake said with stubborn determination. “I’ve had time to think this over — you haven’t. This is the only way to ensure one of us escapes.”
Larren was about to protest, but Drake silenced him, putting his hand up to stop him. “Listen to me. You saved my life …”
“Irrelevant,” Larren said. “You’d have done the same for me.”
Drake grabbed his arm, gripping him fiercely. “It was everything. It gave me many more years with Verla, years I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I loved Verla, Larren.” Drake spoke quietly. “Now she’s gone.”
“That’s no reason to give up.”
Drake took Larren by his shoulders and shook him, his anger flaring with the insult. “I’m not giving up. I’m giving you life. Don’t you see?” He pleaded. “Go and live your life now, with her.”
Larren said nothing. He had no reply to that.
“She needs you, Larren, to protect her.” Drake’s dark eyes hardened, his face set. “To avenge her.” His expression softened as he released Larren’s arms and stepped back. “God grant that you have the same amount of time together that Verla and I had. You love her. Go to her. Hurry.” He gave Larren a shove toward the small shuttle.
Larren hesitated, but only for a moment. Drake was right. Sartha and Ash needed him. Neopol knew they were escaping to Kalar … they were in more danger than ever. He gave his pilot a quick, firm hug, communicating the words he could not say, the feelings he’d never be able to express. “You are my best friend.”
“And you are mine.” Drake smiled. “Goodbye … and good luck.” He ran off to Darla Wu while Larren boarded the shuttle. Generators could be heard engaging, and then, within moments, both vessels were away.
On the bridge of Conqueror, Captain Pagett sounded battle stations; his voice could be heard throughout the rooms and corridors of the great vessel: “The prisoners are escaping. What for World’s sake is wrong with the hold doors? Don’t let them get away!”
Once outside the warship, the tiny interstellar shuttle engines whirred, well into their boost sequence. There was nothing for Captain Forseth to do; everything was pre-programmed. He was a spectator as he stared out at Conqueror suspended above him like a planet. Darla Wu had pulled away, making itself a target. The police cruiser was clearly on an attack vector.
Larren imagined Malcolm Drake aboard Darla. Drake would be mentally ordering a number of assault programs via Icom, preparing to attack Conqueror, a Fleet warship, with the diminutive Darla Wu. The vision of his friend, smiling and no doubt whistling tunelessly as he worked, brought a burning sting to his eyes. Malcolm wanted to do this. He had been glad to sacrifice himself — had been willing to die for him. Larren watched breathlessly as a series of Darla’s missiles hit the navigation center of Conqueror before she could get her shields up.
As Larren began his jump into Omni he looked back toward Conqueror. He wanted one last glimpse of his friend, as well as his beloved ship. As he turned his head, he witnessed Darla Wu exploding, being blown to kingdom come. Malcolm Drake had known that he could not last long against Conqueror. He had intentionally directed his cruiser toward the navigation and weapons sections of the battleship, attempting to at least knock out short-range armament. It was a hopeless gesture, but with fantastic fortune, he had scored a few hits.
Larren jumped to Omni with the exploding cruiser vivid in his mind. Malcolm Drake, the best friend a man could ever have, gone. His men tortured and murdered in front of him. His ship, everything destroyed. There was nothing left.
This terrible pain. It was unproductive. Larren shut his eyes and put his hands on his head; he struggled for self control. He worried that he might actually go mad.
Think how lucky you are.
Yes. He was lucky. He was alive. Leave it to Drake to have thought of such a brilliant plan. Larren shook his head and silent tears rolled down his face. Knew what he was about, Drake did. Not one in a thousand would have found a way out of Conqueror’s clutches.
A heavy ache pressed against Larren’s chest, and he wiped his eyes.
Oh Goddess, the pain.
He had lost everything, everything. He couldn’t think any more. It was too much.
This must be shock.
Yes, that’s it. He was in shock. This, whatever this was, would wear off in time. He would just have to take it. Relax and take it. He would get through this. He got through the probe. He had wanted to die then. He didn’t think he could get through it, he would have done anything to stop it, but he had survived, hadn’t he? If he survived the probe, he could survive this.
I’m losing my mind.
No. No, you are not losing your mind. You just need to be still. Just be still and relax. Sleep. You need to sleep. You’re okay now. You’ll be okay.
Stone still, eyes blankly staring, Larren sat with his jaws and hands tightly clenched. Face set with firm resolve, he somehow controlled the deluge of grief and despair that threatened to overwhelm him.
Minutes passed as the small courier sped through Omni. Larren remained still, heart and body set in stone. He hardly breathed. There was one visible sign of life. Larren had a twitch in his cheek that jumped steadily with no volition of his own.
And sleep didn’t come.
Aboard Conqueror, after interrogation of the technician, the Admiral once more had his temper under control. The technician had followed his instructions exactly, disabling all accessible ships on the flight deck. Darla Wu, the courier vessel, in fact any of the ships in docking could have been flown for a short time, but would have become dead in space within minutes. They would also have been unable to fire weapons. What Neopol hadn’t taken into account was the expertise of that pilot, Drake. Who would have thought the man would not only suspect such a subtle trap but would have the knowledge and ability to avoid it? He was only the pilot of a police cruiser. There was nothing special about him. How was Neopol to have predicted such intelligence and aptitude in a menial pilot?
Neopol hadn’t considered that Drake would have created the diversion, sacrificing himself, either. He assumed the men would both attempt an escape in one vessel. What was the man thinking? Why had he chosen to die for his Captain? Such loyalty. It was completely illogical. Drake had been a wildcard, he reassured himself. It wasn’t his fault. Neopol understood the human animal both inside and out, but no one could have predicted such an anomaly as Drake.
Neopol sighed with disappointment. A surprisingly capable man, the pilot of Darla Wu. It would have been a pleasure to interrogate him. Neopol had looked forward to the recapture of Forseth when his ship’s power suddenly cut off. Forseth would have gained a few minutes of freedom; golden moments where he would feel safe, would not fear pain or death. Recapture might well have created complete breakdown, causing total despair, perhaps even madness.
Never mind, he consoled himself. Forseth was only one man. The fool would be caught. He was undoubtedly on his way to Kalar in a futile attempt to warn the Queen of Delian and her son. They both had to die. Neopol smiled, recalling the intimate details he had discovered through mindtap. Touching, really, how the heroic Captain had formed such an attachment to the beautiful Lady Sartha. He had already planned to put their affair in a United Worlds media release, as a twisted motive for the destruction of the Delian people. But he had not known that Forseth was actually attached to the Delian Queen. Perfect. It seemed that life really does follow art, and vice versa.
Satisfied that everything would still work out Neopol sat down to compose a press release. Lord Andros would forgive his misadventures once the last Delians were dead and he recovered the Testimonials and the King’s Mirror. Andros needed him. Neopol smiled. And he would be rewarded with a long life.
Let’s see. How does this sound? “Freeworlds Policeman discovered to be working for years undercover for the Alliance. He and the Queen of Delian successfully murdered her spouse by annihilating an entire race. They also stole the Delian Testimonials of Truth and the King’s Mirror, both worth a fortune, in order to live together with the stolen credits of their vile crime.”
Neopol grinned. Not a bad basic outline. A bit excessive on her part, of course, but he would show that the woman was actually quite mad. With a bit of embellishment, it should be believable. He would send the media release via tubeport to every world. It would cost a fortune, but the UWG could afford it. Forseth had a head start on that shuttle.
He communicated fresh orders to Pagett via Icom. They had better make all haste to Kalar to apprehend the fugitives. When this media release got out, the good citizens of Kalar may well have Forseth and the Queen of Delian torn limb from limb. He didn’t want them dead. Not yet. He had a comprehensive set of experiments for them in mind.
Quite comprehensive.
14. Wolf Cub
People feel more comfortable and secure if they have a known enemy. Having a common foe unites families, countries, nations and worlds. I have provided “off-worlders” as natural enemies to every world. These are the scapegoats that I allow them to vilify, hate and destroy.
— High Command, private records, Lord John Andros
It was quiet in the wolves’ lair and Ash slept undisturbed.
Where am I? Ash wondered. He was a child, a baby at his mother’s breast. Mother soothed him.
His vision shifted. Suddenly Ash was fully grown, a man with adult male needs — needs that were about to be met. He lurched at the thought, flushed and excited. There was a moment of confusion as Ash, with feverish haste, began to take off his police uniform.
His police uniform? Even his sleeping self was well aware that he wasn’t a policeman and had never worn a police uniform. It didn’t matter. Aroused, he knew what he wanted: a woman as hot as he was. Burning. Fevered. Yes, that woman …
Ash’s mind was assailed by visions, his body with sensations. Skin to skin, soft and feminine, the woman smelled wonderful, thrilling and familiar. Ash caressed her, and suckled her breasts, making love. Everything was perfect, but then something terrible happened.
Pleasure turned to abhorrence.
An animal had her, sharp teeth drove into her neck. It was a wolf!
The woman he was making love to was his own Mother … and she was dead!
Ash jerked and woke up. He opened his eyes and recoiled with surprise. He was lying next to Seeta and he had been nursing, suckling the mother wolf’s teats, drinking her milk!
Ash almost threw up.
Seeta gazed anxiously at him as he reoriented himself to the present.
He moaned, putting his uninjured hand on his head. Looking around the den, he listened to the storm blowing forcefully outside. His arm ached, and his head felt like it would split. The dream of Forseth was disturbing, but the remembered loss of his mother produced a deeper pain. Ash shut his eyes, recalling the terrible fight they had had before she died.
How long had he journeyed through that snowstorm? It was a miracle he had survived. He tipped his head up, and said, “Thank you, Jana.”
Ash had been taught from an early age that he should always be grateful. His parents had impressed him with that, and consequently thankfulness had become a habit. He remembered his mother saying, “Offer thanks, my son, regularly and often. We are only truly alive in those moments when we are conscious of our riches.”
His eyes welled as he thought of his mother. He was grateful to have had her for as long as he had. Somehow being thankful made him more able to accept her death.
He took stock. He still had a temperature but it was well down from what it had been. Good. At least that terrible fever had broken. Ash, a veteran of serious illness, knew that although he felt weak and lightheaded, he was through the worst. His fingers searched his thigh for the King’s Mirror, the talisman of his world. Had he lost it on his journey to the den? No, it was there. It was safe.
“Nightmare or not,” he said out loud, “the real world is still pretty daunting. Except for you, Seeta. If it wasn’t for you I’d be dead.” He stroked her fur, noticing with relief that Long Fang was absent. The enormous male wolf scared him. Checking Icom he found he had been insensible for over thirty hours, not uncommon for him when he had a fever.
Seeta licked him with her raspy tongue. The bad weather had not yet blown itself out. It was the worst storm of the winter, with every wolf seeking the safety of its den. It was lucky they had had a good feed before it hit.
Ash untied his pack and took out a hypo. He and gave himself another generous amount of antibiotic, this time including pain relief. The web sling had remained in place, with his wrist above his heart, so he left it alone. His arm throbbed and it was swollen, but the tips of his fingers were pink and warm. Hopefully it would mend correctly. It sure hurt.
Seeta watched his activities with attentive interest, only once leaning over to lick him.
The painkiller gave immediate relief. Despite everything, Ash felt surprisingly well. He thought that with all that had happened to him the Dark Sankomin would be intruding. So strange. He looked down at Seeta’s thick red coat, her absorbing yellow eyes and felt a strange sensation. Warmth. Safety. A sense of rightness. It was like he had found something that had been missing.
Such an odd feeling, like coming home.
He put a hand to his cheek, suddenly remembering where Mother Latnok had touched him with one gnarled knuckle. What had she said? “Now, young wolf, remember who you are.”
This new thought stunned him. Was he somehow part wolf?
Again he felt something stir.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
Ash held still, not even breathing as he absorbed the import of the Seer’s words. The old woman had known this future. Couldn’t she have told him more? He shook his head. Mother Latnok’s gift was incomprehensible. She might have known but had been unable to alter a thing.
Ash relaxed in a languid sort of lassitude. He smiled. Pain killers. Wonderful. The mysterious questions caused by the Seer no longer seemed important. He found he wasn’t hungry but took a flask of water out of his pack and drank deeply.
“Well, girl?” he said to the wolf that lay before him.
Seeta looked at him, expectant.
He lay down beside her, his good arm across her back. Seeta’s soft, thick fur gave way to the weight of his arm. The position felt natural and sweetly familiar. He felt a little pang as he remembered his wolfhound, Tynan. Ash had spent many happy hours in just such a position, lying next to the soft warmth of his childhood friend. Breathing deeply he shut his eyes and relaxed. As easily as stepping through a door, he made contact.
“Hello, Seeta. We can talk to each other like this.”
She greeted him, radiating pleasure. Then: “Sorry about the woman.”
Ash’s thoughts darkened. “Thank you for saving her. I’m sorry about your cub.”
Seeta’s tail began to beat the dirt on the floor of the cave, thumping with pleasure. “You are my cub. I will nurse you and you will grow safe and strong and well.”
“I don’t need to nurse,” Ash thought, rejecting the idea. “I have food and water.”
Seeta’s distress was obvious. “The other cub did not nurse and died. You must nurse. You need me.”
Ash remained silent. He projected gentle, loving concepts, nothing specific; meanwhile he continued his touch deeper and deeper into Seeta’s mind. He was surprised by what he discovered: not really the facts of the discovery, because those he had guessed, but by the implications of what he found. Seeta was ill, suffering from the deep psychic distress of the Dark Sankomin. Using mind-touch, Ash tried to share her burden. He let her know that he understood her loss and despair, but somehow it wasn’t enough. For an animal, apparently, seeing was believing. She needed him to nurse, and grow strong with the milk from her body. To not nurse him would cause her psychic pain.
Ash sighed, resigned.
He could heal her. He was sure of it.
Seeta had saved his life. It occurred to him that as the Prince of Delian he had done many disagreeable things in his short existence and with much less of a good reason.
He thought, “Yes, Seeta. Of course I need to nurse. I am a cub after all. Don’t worry. I’ll grow healthy and strong.” To himself he decided that he would only need to nurse for two or three days, no more.
Ash opened his eyes and projected, “Happy now?”
Seeta was unable to answer. Instead she put a paw on his leg. When his reverie was broken, he could still project, but she hadn’t yet learned how to reply. Never mind. He could tell by looking at her what her answer was.
She whined and nuzzled him, wanting him to lie down.
Ash swallowed, feeling queasy. I can do this, he assured himself. Hiding his disgust, he lay down beside Seeta to nurse, to let her help him, so that the loss from the death of her cub could be healed.
To Ash’s dismay, it was twelve weeks before Seeta allowed him to stop nursing. During that time the red winter sky gave way to the darker pine forest hues of spring, and then to the light greens of summer.
Ash lay in the dark of the cave, waiting for sleep to come. The soft sound of Seeta breathing was soothing as she lay next to him. He wasn’t close enough to touch her, but he could feel her warmth radiating in the dark. The heavy musk smell of the wolves had been disturbing at first, but he had learned to enjoy it. Even the biting, bitter scent of Long Fang’s urine, marking his territory, now only made Ash smile. All these things were associated with safety and Seeta. While he still felt uneasy and often uncomfortable around his adopted wolf father, he had no such reservations with his wolf mother. Seeta loved him.
Ash’s arm had healed miraculously. He was amazed by his swift recovery and his ongoing vitality. All that chill winter air and he hadn’t even gotten a cough. In the weeks he had been nursed by Seeta, he had grown over an inch and put on weight. For the first time in his life he didn’t feel ill or weak. He was stronger than ever before, his body an intense, burning flame, more like a bonfire than the flickering candle it had been previously. Was it because of the regenerative properties of wolf milk? Or due to some peculiar healing powers inherent in the atmosphere of Opan?
The planet of Opan had a strange twist to it. Ash felt it must be something to do with the sun’s rays, or how light was filtered. All the flora and fauna seemed to be an unusual color. For example, the twill bird was a vivid orange, and the wolves were bright red. Trees and plants, instead of green, were violet, purple or blue. Those colors just couldn’t be, Ash reasoned. He was sure that the plants survived through photosynthesis and chlorophyll.
Researching Icom he found why. In the atmosphere of Opan was a proliferation of a totally unique aerobic microorganism called hardicoribi. Harmless to plants and animals, its chemical properties had an unusual all-pervading effect. While the sun’s rays came from a normal yellow star, upon passing through hardicoribi each wavelength of light was diffused and altered. It was this that caused the unusual colors. Hardicoribi was inert during low temperatures, its inactive composition creating the red sky and red snow in the cold winter months. In warmer weather the sky became green, reflecting active chlorophyll, again unique to hardicoribi. The result was quite beautiful, but also disturbing. It would take some getting used to, he decided, observing the light green sky.
He was never bored, not with all the animals on Opan to mind-touch. Sometimes he’d spend the entire day in contact with one animal, living and learning everything about it.
There was the simple twill, the orange flightless bird, which had such a huge, ungainly shape. Male twills could weigh up to a hundred and fifty kilograms. The female could lay up to sixty eggs at a time. Ash licked his lips. Twill eggs. Yum. They were quite filling, with a high protein content and a sweet mustard flavor.
Like all birds, the twill had excellent vision. Icom informed him that the native twill had proportionally far more light receptors in the retina than mammals, and many more visual nerve connections. These birds had the ability to perceive beyond normal human range, and were able to detect both ultraviolet light and infrared. Ash found it quite disorienting initially to look through their eyes, to fully view such vibrant colors. Vision from within a twill covered a full spectrum, including the ability to perceive incremental changes of temperature. Heat, surprisingly showed as brilliant white, while colder temperatures registered in light grays, graduating darker and darker until the freezing cold of black .
Ash smiled, remembering. After overcoming the initial vision problems present when mind-touching a twill bird, he was eventually able to make sense of what he was seeing. The twill was always good for a giggle, with its odd body and its even more peculiar thoughts. Thinking for the twill was profoundly slow. Any thought it finally had was almost always based on an entirely incorrect assumption, and usually resulted in an equally ridiculous conclusion.
He had laughed on and off for days the time he had been in contact with a twill and it had come upon the red bush berries. Bush berries were good eating for all animals; even the wolves consumed them if they could find nothing else. The red berries not only tasted good, but they were nutritionally satisfying. This particular day the twill had found some berries that had been warmed by the sun. Usually they grew in the underside of the bush, but in this case some other animal had eaten the normal covering away.
Looking down through the twill bird’s eyes, Ash and the twill had both noticed the berries simultaneously. The bird thought with its unbearably slow mental processes, “Berries … berries are for eating.” It radiated pleasure. Ash felt the bird’s gullet move in anticipation. But then it became aware of the warmth in the berries; they radiated a grey-white heat. This was unexpected. Instinctively, the twill became alarmed by anything out of the ordinary.
The creature paused, wondering if it should be afraid.
After a moment’s hesitation, with the certainty of experience, it thought once more: “Berries … berries are for eating.” But then it was once again aware of the unnatural gray-white heat from the berries. Red … red … is … the … color … of … the wolves!” Fear. Then it thought: “Red means wolves, wolves mean death. Terror. Red berries! Quick! Run! They are going to eat me!” And with that the Twill had sped off as fast as its two legs could carry it.
Ash gave a low chuckle, and shook his head. Those poor twills. Hopelessly moronic and not even able to fly. It was lucky that they were able to multiply so rapidly, because they were forever being eaten.
Then there were the whitehawks, with wingspans twice as long as he was tall. Wonderful, cunning birds, whitehawks lived only on freshly killed meat. Flying or hunting with them was the most incredible experience. Their vision, again far superior to human, was sharp from unbelievable distances and from their point of view everything they saw belonged to them. He sighed. After mind-touch with a whitehawk it was always difficult to come back to his heavy, wingless form.
When not engaged in mind-touch, hunting, or finding a meal, Ash spent time learning Opan Basic on Icom. It was spoken with a unique accent, and he was trying to duplicate it so that he would fit in.
The wolves of Opan were living in a World Park area, in theory safe from humankind. There was a small settlement, a town nearby across Deep River. From what he could tell, commerce was flourishing. There were fringe dwellers near the town, commonly called Ferals. These people were “off the grid.” Few if any had had Icom and for various reasons they did not subscribe to the more normal lifestyle. Ash had seen them from afar and had touched some briefly.
Ash was entirely dependent on his adopted wolf family for survival. With the mountain temperature warmer, hunting had not been difficult for the wolves. He planned to visit the fringe and see if he could trade animal pelts for clothes, solar light and heating, and numerous other items he needed.
He was making a mental Icom list of things he might be able to trade, when he finally fell asleep.
It was warm in the den as the wolf family woke to another day. Seeta waged her tail with pleasure, thumping the earth, while Long Fang sat on his haunches, complacently waiting. Ash dressed and gathered his stave.
“Hello, girl,” Ash said to Seeta. “And hello to you, Long Fang,” he added with a polite bow. Long Fang remained motionless, his cool reserve apparent.
Ash’s adopted parents did not reply. Ash knew that they had little patience for his incessant chatter. Wolves were far more aware of subtle changes in physical stance and expression. To a wolf an entire tapestry of information could be transmitted with one tiny shift of an eye: “There, did you notice that bush rat? It is high to the left. You circle, and together we shall flush it out and eat it.” A wolf didn’t need to say these things. Wolves just knew what was meant from a thousand different minute bodily shifts.
To the wolves, Ash’s constant communication was tactless, childish and gauche. It was as if he was of a lower, uneducated social class but they tolerated him anyway. Ash giggled. He was probably the only one in the entire Freeworlds who knew and appreciated how funny the wolves’ attitude toward humanity was.
Silently, the three left the den, moving out into the crisp, still morning air. It was early, yet the sky was clear and green, showing the promise of warmth for a summer day on Opan.
Long Fang studied the cub as they moved off into the forest to hunt. The man-cub was thriving, but was proving useless in the hunt. It had qualities that were at once unfamiliar and yet still had the stamp of Pack. He understood why Seeta wanted the pup. There was a “rightness” there. But what was it? Long Fang sensed the strange blue stones that the cub had on his thigh. They gave off blue light and they were alive yet at the same time dead. Long Fang felt no ill will toward the Delian talisman. There was a “rightness” to those stones, too — but this was not the rightness he felt when he considered the cub.
Long Fang loped far ahead, and sat down on a rocky outcrop. The man-cub followed, lumbering after him, careless and loud. It was stupid. Could it even be trained? He continued his scrutiny, seeking an answer to the unknown. His senses twitched and the hair of his ruff rose. Yes, there was something there, something not human: something animal. Still, Long Fang could not free himself of the thought that this cub was a threat. The man-cub seemed to know what he was thinking. Was the cub aware of his secrets? The idea unsettled him.
Long Fang recalled his first cub. The cub had been born weak and ill. It would not have lived and its drawn out death had caused Seeta pain. There was only one thing to do. While Seeta was out, Long Fang had gone into the den and had lain on it, until it could breathe no more. The sick cub had been too weak to put up an extended fight.
Long Fang had never told Seeta. He had acted correctly. Was it not causing his mate distress? Would it not die anyway? Yes and yes. The cub was better dead sooner than later. But now this man-cub had come. What was it about him? The way the pup looked at him … as if he knew.
Long Fang rose to all fours, his mind made up. The man-cub was dangerous. Seeta had recovered. She would get over the cub’s death without the distress she suffered before. They would have another cub.
He moved ahead, nose to the ground, searching for scent. The cub followed, clumsy and slow on his pathetic two legs. Nearby, Seeta called to him.
“All right, I’m coming,” Ash replied. “I’ll catch up.”
Long Fang had difficulty concealing his irritation from his sharp-eyed mate. The cub held them back and always would. He was slow and weak, even with the scent of animal upon him.
Long Fang knew that the life a wolf leads would kill the man-cub. This interloper would perish through his own weakness, his inability to survive. The time would come and he, Long Fang, would be ready when it did. Soon. Soon now the cub would die. Resolved, Long Fang trotted off to begin the hunt.
They traveled for some hours, stopping at a stream to drink, resting often and moving slowly, at a pace that Ash could manage. Long Fang’s nostrils quivered. Ah, a snout. Perhaps now was the time. The snout was a dangerous foe. This one was hidden down in a nearby thicket. Long Fang stopped. “Seeta,” he said, touching noses. “There’s a snout in that gully.” He nodded in the opposite direction to the thicket. “You and I will kill it. We will leave the cub here.”
“I thought I scented the snout over near the thicket. Could there be two?”
“No,” Long Fang snapped, displaying his teeth. “Come.” He trotted off.
Seeta gave Ash a long look communicating, “Stay.” Then she obediently trailed behind her mate.
Ash stood near some blue-leafed trees and bushes. A soft breeze tickled his long black hair across his face, so he pushed it back behind his ear. He would have to cut it soon. A few white clouds billowed across the light green Opan skies. Blue, green and white. Opan was not unlike Delian, except on Delian the sky was blue and the trees were green. He didn’t even want to think about the reds of winter. The air was crisp and fresh, but he felt warm in the last of the clothes he had taken with him in a pack from Assurance. That was another thing he would need to get, more clothes. Particularly as he was rapidly outgrowing these.
The wolves had evidently scented something, and they wanted him to stay here. Their physical communications were tremendously subtle, but he was catching on. Ash had been jogging steadily for some time and he was happy to rest. Hunting had built up his muscles, but no matter how strong he became, he was never able to keep up. With winter over, the pack had disbanded, returning to their family groups. Today it was just Ash, Seeta, and Long Fang on the search for fresh meat.
With nothing to occupy himself, Ash did what he often did with his free time. He moved to the purple trunk of a tree and, rested against it. Then he shut his eyes and began to search for some animal to mind-touch.
Ash smiled, fleetingly contacting Seeta. She was excited and looking forward to a meal of snout. From the pictures in her mind it looked like boar. Good. It would be a change from an old stringy twill bird, yellow rat or pig-dog. Would it taste like Delian swine?
Ash recoiled in surprise — he had touched something different, but what was it? With reaching mental fingers, he took hold.
Contact.
His hands gripped the tree convulsively. Ash felt huge, strong and powerful, the master of his territory. Had he mind-touched the snout? It was certainly an animal, and it was mad. Disoriented, Ash focused, attempting to see though the eyes of the animal he inhabited.
The animal thought: “Something is in my territory. Small and weak, it may make good eating. It stands there unmoving. Why?” A burning fury consumed him, starting within his chest and spreading throughout his flesh, down to each of his four limbs. Ash swelled and tingled with anger. “It stands still: it is taunting me. I’ll show it who the Master of the forest is.”
Ash swayed with the effort to maintain contact. The boar’s rage was so fierce! Fighting for control, he finally saw through the animal’s eyes. The animal was staring … at him. It was going to charge!
Ash broke contact with the boar instantly.
“Seeta!” he projected, “Save me!”
Ash swung around and saw the snout bearing down on him. The Opan swine was enormous, over twice the size of Long Fang. It was a light blue color with muscles that bunched under its smooth coat. Four gigantic pinkish tusks pointed straight toward him, long enough to run him through. Powerfully built, it was moving with incredible speed for its size, like a full-grav freightship during re-entry.
Shocked into stillness, Ash knew there was nothing he could do.
Seeta appeared in his peripheral vision. Far ahead of her mate, she was going to attack the snout on her own. It would kill her.
“No!” Ash thought, screamed, projected: “Stop.”
Trueborn! Inhuman!
The snout obeyed. Bewildered, it slid to a halt as if felled with an axe.
Reacting instinctively, Ash raised his knife high above him and plunged it into the creature with all his strength. It went into the snout’s head, between its long pink tusks, directly between its small, maddened eyes.
The animal collapsed.
Seeta arrived then, her powerful jaws ripping into its jugular. Long Fang charged in to help his mate, but he was too late. The boar was dead.
Ash fell to his knees, still holding the knife. What had he done? His hands shook from that commanding spike of adrenaline. They trembled but couldn’t release the dagger, that small bit of metal that had made the difference between life and death. He had caused the snout to stop. Residual waves of heat filled him. Somehow he had used his power. Could he project commands to animals? He was too disturbed to dwell on it now.
Finally able to relinquish his knife, Ash hugged Seeta. “Thank you, girl, for coming to my rescue. You would have saved me, even at the expense of your own life.” Seeta licked him, completely in the present. Any concern for his certain death had already vanished. She wagged her tail furiously. Her mind was full of pleasure: they would have enough to eat for days.
Ash carved the meat, cutting out what he felt able to carry to the den. He’d make a fire and roast it there.
Long Fang sat near the dead boar and Ash wondered why he made no attempt to assert his superiority by having first choice of meat at the kill. Perhaps because Ash had killed it? Or maybe it was because he had saved Seeta’s life. Ash smiled. Maybe Long Fang would have a bit more respect for him now.
Seeta and Long Fang ate, as usual, exactly where the animal had fallen.
Ash took an hour carrying his meat back to the den. He started a fire and whittled a stick, roasting thin strips. He savored the smell. It was like Delian swine and he took his time and cooked it all. After eating his fill, he wrapped the remaining portion in yellow vine leaves, and set it aside for later. Then he lay back contentedly, with his jacket for a pillow, and enjoyed the warmth of the fire. He had no explanation for how he had stopped the boar, and he supposed he could figure that out later.
What he must decide was what was he to do now? He was well and Seeta was also healed. Should he return to civilization? He was the Prince of Delian after all. He frowned. Ash was not yet even fourteen years old. It was against the law for him to be unsupervised at his age, and he was illegally on Opan. Besides, he didn’t trust the authorities. His mother had been running from something. Perhaps someone could adopt him until he was older? Rather unlikely. He could also be forced to sign an Indentureship. He shifted, uncomfortable at the idea.
The UW Government had made it impossible to falsify one’s age. Everyone was registered, even fringe dwellers. Hand and eye prints were taken as well as blood and cell samples, all recorded from birth. Otherwise criminals could change names and start again on another world.
He checked Opan news daily, but there was never anything about his world. How could he get passage to Delian? Off-world travel was almost impossible. But why should he return to civilization at all? The idea hit like an electric jolt, filling him with delight. He hated being a prince. It would be even worse to be king, he was sure. The thought of living without people for a number of years didn’t disturb him. He had the wolves for company and he could continue his education using Icom. Little would change in some respects.
Meanwhile he would continue to search for Assurance, which had to be somewhere nearby. It was a needle-class warship, not as big as standard but certainly big enough. Why couldn’t he find it? Of course he didn’t even have any sense of which direction it was in. Due to injury and illness, not to mention being unconscious most of the way here, he had a dim memory of his journey to the den. Ash frowned with exasperation. The wolves would not tell him. Pleading ignorance, they had successfully thrust any thought of Assurance from their minds.
He grinned. Seeta probably thought that when he found Assurance he would lift off, leaving her behind. The thought struck him as funny. Never mind. When he did find it he’d somehow break into the security console. It would be wonderful to finally read the Interpretations.
Ash accessed Icom. His father the King had given him a love of knowledge, and had impressed upon him the importance of being a learned man as such would lead to wisdom. Ash had promised him he would study daily, and he didn’t intend to break that promise. First he checked Opan news, which was already keyed in to replay anything with the word Delian in it. He lay back and watched the holovid.
A commentator said, “The entire population of the Freeworld of Delian was recently killed by poisonous gases, intentionally released. No person, no animal, was left alive.” Ash gasped and he felt the blood drain from his face. If he hadn’t been lying down he may have actually fainted. His mind reeled.
“It has been found that a man, Larren Forseth, pretending to be a Freeworld Policeman, committed the crime. His motive was to destroy the King of Delian, for love of the Queen.” Various pictures flashed, of his mother, his father, and of Delian. Ash found it hard to breathe as memories flooded him. More pictures showed Delian gassed, people dead.
“Forseth was a member of the Alliance. He and his crew were captured. His crew served the death sentence, while Forseth escaped.” A picture of Forseth flashed on the screen and a flood of weakness washed through Ash. He had worn his flesh, his skin. He knew that murderer so well, so intimately. “The Lady Sartha and Prince Ashton Chayton have not been found. They escaped on a Delian warship, the RDS Assurance. They are wanted for questioning.” On the screen flashed more pictures of his mother and himself.
“The people of Opan are once again reminded that off-worlders are not allowed on Opan, except in special compounds and only for purposes of trade. If an off-worlder is discovered, reported and captured, the Opan Government will grant thirty credits. It is possible that the Lady Sartha, Forseth or even the Prince may be on Opan. People are advised that off-worlders can be dangerous.”
Ash flicked Icom off, automatically logging threads to access later.
Delian had been gassed. His father was dead. His mother had said he was the last and Ash had thought she had meant he was last of his family. That he could accept, but not this. Everyone was dead.
That was his mother’s secret: she had known.
Ash stayed still, his mind blocked. He just couldn’t seem to reason. He felt cold, so cold and numb inside, and was vaguely aware that he must be in shock.
Time passed.
As Ash felt himself come back to himself he was aware that he was grieving. His crying was contained, as he himself had always been, even as a child. Nevertheless tears rolled down his face.
It all made sense now. Ash remembered the incident of unconsciousness on Assurance. Tynan’s paw upon his chest — it had been so real. His faithful wolfhound had sought him out to say goodbye. Ash had been aware of the death of the people of Delian. He had felt it. That burning sensation in his throat and lungs, the overwhelming fear and despair combined with an inability to breathe. That was why his mother had begun his Trueborn training three years early.
Ash felt queasy. He thought he may throw up.
He was the last of his people.
No father, no mother, no friends, no home.
No healing touch for him. He was alone.
Ash felt a creeping pain begin in the center of his chest. His head felt an unpleasant pressure, combined with heavy darkness. He knew this pain. It was the Dark Sankomin. He had experienced it before.
He was also being hunted. But what did the authorities want him for? What questions did they want to ask? Now more than ever he had to be careful. The people of Opan would be watching out for him. They would want the reward. He would have to be strong. He would have to fight to survive.
An ember of feeling began to smolder and then burn.
Ash felt the soothing flare of anger, and then the flame of rage.
The man Forseth was responsible. Now here was something he could hold on to, a distraction from the Dark Sankomin. Ash clenched his teeth. Forseth had destroyed his world and shattered his innocence, leaving him tainted, unsettled and disturbed. Even now he sometimes woke dreaming of coupling with his mother.
When I am old enough I will find that man and kill him, he thought.
Something stirred. Yes, kill him. The words of the Testimonials came into his thoughts: “Hate crushes the power. In blindness thou shalt see worlds of enemies, sight cast toward revenge, not tranquil Truth.”
Somehow the reference didn’t apply. Ash sat, fists clenched.
A strange sensation came to him from somewhere inside. It clawed at him, wanting to get out.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
In his rage Ash was quite unaware of this duality. His mind was firmly set in the future. He stood up, as if to punctuate his decision. He was the last of his people. This task was his duty and his right. Thirteen-year-old Prince Ashton Rynan Chayton then and there made a vow. By his blood and the history of all that had come before — he would have his revenge.
He intended to kill Larren Forseth … with his bare hands if necessary.
15. Larren arrives on Kalar
Justice is a social construct. It’s well known that the physical universe isn’t fair. Nevertheless, it’s difficult to decide which is more provoking: good people suffering or evil people prospering.
— Dr. Brent Jenkins, discoverer of Omni
While Prince Ashton Chayton dreamed of Larren’s death, Larren thought of Ash not at all. For at that moment, ex-Police Captain Larren Forseth was already experiencing life-threatening problems. He was being pursued by powerful, well-trained professionals, fleet personnel with an armada of technology behind them. Captain Forseth was on a world he had never been on before, alone, exhausted, and friendless. So far he had evaded capture by the thinnest of threads. Thus it was that Larren had absolutely no idea that the son of the woman he loved was planning to kill him. He was too busy already.
He was running for his life.
Larren had spent every moment distancing himself from the small interstellar shuttle after entry to Kalar, but here in this thicket he at last came to a stop. Conqueror’s crew would find his vessel. He had ditched the ship, letting it crash into an unpopulated area and had used a powered chute to get away. He had moved in one direction as far as the tiny power source would let him, landing near farmland areas when his power expired. Then he had buried the chute with great difficulty. He had no shovel and had been forced to scrape out a hole using rocks and his bare hands.
Anxiously aware that Conqueror would soon achieve orbit around Kalar, Larren had been running on heavy spikes of adrenaline all day, continually watching his back, jumping at every noise.
Icom alerted him and then he knew: Conqueror had arrived. It didn’t matter now. He had done all he could. He felt fairly certain that he had covered his tracks and was safe for the moment. The process had taken the entire day and he was tired and hungry. In his desperate need to escape he had pretty well used the last of his resources. Mentally he was in a fugue; physically his fatigue was so intense that he didn’t think he could take another step. He was considering lying down and sleeping right where he was, when he heard a noise.
“Hey … you. What are you doing here?” A man moved out from behind the brush, looking at him suspiciously.
Larren swung around full of swift, uncontrollable fear. He had nothing to defend himself with; all he really had were the clothes he had on, the same ones he had worn for days. “Ah … I’m lost,” he said, his mind a blank. The police officer within him registered a number of facts automatically: the man was carrying a disrupter; he was on foot and alone, wearing civilian clothes. Larren noticed with relief that the weapon wasn’t pointed at him — not yet, anyway. Larren knew he was at the fellow’s mercy, but he just didn’t seem to have the energy or the mental faculty to even begin considering a solution to this new predicament. Larren’s left hand started to move automatically to his pocket, to touch his lucky marble and then stopped. Everything had been taken from him aboard Conqueror. His little blue good luck charm was gone and so it seemed was his good luck.
The stranger, a short man with bright eyes and a deep chest, stepped toward him. “Is that right? Well, I should be able to point you in the right direction. I’m pretty familiar with these here parts. Where exactly are you headed?”
Larren opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He had witnessed the genocide of a Freeworld, and the black echoing shadows of that evil act were still too great to comprehend. Recently he had been tortured, after watching his crew endure their own painful deaths. His beloved ship, Darla Wu, as well as his best friend had disintegrated in front of his eyes. Running for his life, he had spent days in space, escaping on a cramped and inadequately supplied vessel. Most of today had been spent moving as fast as possible in one direction across Kalar. Larren couldn’t seem to find an answer to the question. He was being pursued by the full force of the UWG. Where was he going? The thought echoed stupidly, unanswered within his mind.
A long moment passed.
Larren blinked and stared at the stranger, confused and despairing. “I … I don’t know,” he finally said. An utterly lost soul, he was holding on by a thin thread indeed.
The stranger took pity on him. “Well, bless me; you sure as in the Deceiver’s hells are lost, then.” He walked over to Larren with a cheery grin and patted his arm like he might pat a faithful hound. “My name’s Clinton. Clinton D. Williams. I’m thinking you’re not from around here. You know, folks here on Kalar, we ain’t the nosy type. You don’t need to explain yourself. You best come home with me.” He began a brisk pace down a well-concealed trail of dry, packed dirt, through a dense overgrowth of thorny bushes. He didn’t even look back to see if Larren was following. It was a given that he was.
“Now I don’t want to sound like I’m being boastful or nothing,” the man continued, his voice echoing back toward Larren as Larren obediently trailed after him, “but my partner, she makes the best darn fried potato and whilhare stew you ever will set your teeth into and that’s a fact. Why, when Em cooks, there’s folks miles away find reason for stopping in — you know what I mean?”
Throughout the long walk to Clinton’s speeder, Larren followed docilely, content to relinquish control. Clinton’s hospitable manners and soothing presence filled him with the first sense of actual peace that he had felt for days.
Larren became deeply conscious of the stranger, this barrel-chested man who was exactly as he was; with slightly crooked teeth and balding head, he obviously had no biosculpting or genetic enhancements. Clinton kept up his incessant, apparently aimless chatter, not expecting Larren to contribute to the conversation or even to reply.
The man was gentle and kind and full of soft sympathy. During that walk Larren came out of his blank, empty despair, aware of an unexpected and overwhelming rush of emotion.
His eyes stung and he blinked. Clinton’s intention was unmistakable. Larren was a lost soul. Clinton knew this and he was trying to place him at ease, to restore him, regardless of the fact that he didn’t even know his name.
Clinton produced a well-kept speeder and Larren, exhausted, unintentionally dozed off. He woke with a jerk of fright at the sudden silence when the speeder’s power switched off.
Clinton’s farmhouse had a long wide veranda that circled the entire building. The home was well fashioned and painted light blue with white trim. It was comfortable and cozy and wholesome and normal and it reminded Larren of a happy childhood. When he first saw it he experienced a startling impulse to burst into tears. He bit his lip, and took a few deep breaths, thereby controlling his overwhelming emotions. He reminded himself that he had been through a lot. Such reactions although unnerving, might well be expected.
Larren was briefly introduced to Clinton’s partner, Em. Clinton had notified her of his coming and she had prepared a meal. As Larren sat at the family table to wait, Clinton’s wide-eyed children came in to peer curiously at him. They were all breathless, excited by the unannounced arrival of a stranger.
“What’s your name?” one freckle-faced girl asked.
“I’m John,” a somewhat grubby young boy proudly announced at almost the same moment.
“I’ve never seen you before,” another child said. “Are you a policeman?” he added, observantly noticing the discoloration of his tattered uniform, where Larren had removed his Captain’s insignia.
Conscious of discovery, Larren put his hand over the darker blue strip of material where his Police Captain’s stripes had been.
Before Larren had a chance to comment or reply to this barrage of interrogation, Clinton came to his rescue. “You rascals get your backsides out of here now, hear? I’ll not be having you pester our guest,” he yelled, feigning a furious anger. With large, impudent grins on their faces, and significant gestures to one another, they scattered.
Everyone was kept away and in the ensuing peace and quiet, Larren’s stomach growled loudly. Em bustled in, admonishing Clinton for not bringing Larren to her sooner, laying the table, fiddling with the crockery, and ultimately bringing in an immense home-cooked meal of whilhare, some sort of grains, creamed carrots, fresh baked cornbread lashed with thick yellow butter, and … broccoli? Larren’s mouth watered. The roast smelled divine.
Em was a thickset woman, square jawed and plain faced with hair that had begun to prematurely gray. Her nose had been broken at some time and was set crookedly, and there seemed to be a palsy of some sort, causing one eye to droop slightly. The woman was unattractive, really. But there was courage and kindness in her eyes and her comfortable voice and manner made one unaware of her looks. Larren smiled, liking her instantly.
There was little conversation, the married couple discussed crops and weather and ignored Larren. He was able to finish his meal in its entirety, helping himself to seconds and then Em handed him a large steaming mug of coffee. She had some sort of fruit pie on offer, but he couldn’t eat another thing.
“That meal was wonderful, Madam,” Larren said with real gratitude. He had been starving, but had gone past that stage the day before. He hadn’t realized how hungry he actually was until he sat in front of that wonderful home-cooked meal. Now he felt full, content and, for the moment, out of harm’s way. He had almost forgotten what it was like to feel safe. “I can’t pay you, but if I could I’d like to help with the washing up, or any other chores you might have,” Larren said.
Em’s square, coarse face fell. “Help me with the washing up?” she said. “Pay me? Well, I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
Larren sat back, alarmed. What did he say? That was the trouble with landing on an unknown world. One could never be sure of the planetary customs and mores. He stood up in apology, having finished the coffee and the meal anyway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any insult …”
“Well you have, sir, indeed you have. Imagine that, after all we’ve done.” She shook her head. “You get to your room now. You’re for a bath and bed, and your apology will be accepted, sir. I’ll excuse you this time as you must be so tired you must have forgotten your manners. Yes indeed. Pay for your supper? Well, I never.”
The woman pushed Larren toward a bedroom before he was able to object to her overriding hospitality.”Go on,” she shooed him up the stairs. “The washroom is there, right off the bedroom.” She put her hands on her hips, raising a determined eyebrow at Larren. “I won’t take no for an answer,” she said decisively. “You get clean and then to off to sleep before you fall down.”
There was nothing for it. Larren meekly yielded to her demands, walking straight into the bedroom as he was told. He shut the well-crafted, white wooden bedroom door, ran a bath, sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots. Still bemused, he heard an odd noise. What was it? It sounded like laughter. He stood up and silently listened, opening the door just a fraction. Looking through the crack he was afforded a narrow view down the hall and into the sitting room. It was Clinton and his wife. They sat on a well-used sofa, whispering and chuckling, heads together. Clearly attempting to be noiseless, they didn’t want to disturb him, and certainly were not intending to be overheard.
“Oh, Em,” Clinton said, in a whisper, “that was too good. You had that poor man so worried he had offended you that he raced up to that bed before he knew where he was going or he even had time to spit.”
Em giggled, enjoying the joke. For some time they chatted between themselves, comparing observations. They were speaking so softly, Larren was unable to overhear everything they said. He shouldn’t be listening, he admonished himself, but he felt compelled. They were, after all, talking about him.
Finally Larren heard Em remark in a somber tone, “That man looks like he hasn’t eaten or slept for a week. Think he’ll tell us what he’s running from?”
“He’ll tell us if he wants, in his own good time, mother. Bad manners to be asking, I’m a-thinking,” Clinton said shortly and Em nodded her agreement.
After a few moments of quiet thought, Clinton continued, “Yep. I don’t know the details of which side of hell he came from but I’ll tell you this: I don’t really need to know. Wherever it was, you only have to look at the man to know that it was bad. Real bad.”
They both nodded their heads wisely, in complete understanding, agreement and accord.
Larren softly shut the door. He finished taking off his clothes and with a sigh of relief he lay down in the tub, letting the heat soothe days of tension. The compassion and kindness of his newfound allies blurred his vision, causing him to swallow with suppressed emotion. He gave a scornful snort. After all he had been through, now he was going to cry?
A sudden thought startled him. In their concern, their careful desire to make him feel welcome and at home, the Williams family had asked no personal questions. They still didn’t even know his name.
It was two weeks or more before Larren had been able to speak about his ordeal and his need to find Sartha and Ash. During that time he and the Williams family had become firm friends. Larren’s conscience pricked. The fact was that he could be endangering them by staying. He had to move on.
He and Clinton were working in the big, double-story barn, bailing hay and storing it for winter, using primitive but surprisingly effective tools. It was warm in the late afternoon. Shafts of lazy sunlight shone through the open upper loading doors of the barn and motes of dust twirled in a languid dance. The sky was cloudless, and a gentle wind blew through the building from time to time. Larren, shirtless, enjoyed the cool breeze upon his perspiring flesh.
“Clinton,” Larren began, bending back into an upright position. He had been using a pitchfork and his chest was bare, the sweat from his efforts glistening. “I’d like to tell you a bit about myself, if you’re interested … and if you don’t mind.”
Clinton stopped working. “If you want, sure I’ll listen, but I don’t want you to think that you owe it to us, no sir. Here on Kalar, we don’t care about your past. It’s what you do now that matters. I know by all you’ve done the last few weeks, you’re a good man to work the soil with. That’s good enough for me. You’ve no need to explain anything.”
Larren smiled contentedly, as he put his pitchfork down. In his entire life he had met so many people, and so few of them were bad. Some were misguided, some stupid, but in truth, it was probably less than one out of a hundred that were incurably cruel or evil. Clinton was one of the best. His simple truths and ways of looking at life reminded him of his old friend, Drake.
The thought of Malcolm Drake felt like a punch to the chest. A vivid picture of Darla Wu and Drake exploding into vapor came to mind. He sighed and cleared his throat. Larren knew he was not yet himself. Odd things reminded him suddenly of Delian, Neopol or the death of his crew. His overreactions to these memories were so out of character they astonished him. Often something brought a sting of tears to his eyes; other times he raged with murderous intent; and behind it all was ongoing anxiety. In his dreams he replayed events, often waking in terror. Larren had yet to sleep through the night. It knew would take more time to recover from all he had been through. But how long would it take to be himself again? Where the simple trigger of a memory could not cause him such terrible pain?
He said in a gruff voice, “Look, Clinton. I have to leave as soon as possible. I wanted to talk to you first, so that you wouldn’t take it the wrong way. I want you to know the truth before I go. You and your family have been so good to me.” He shut his eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply. Once more he felt in danger of falling into tears — this time due to Clinton’s kindness. By the love of Jana, he needed to get some self control.
Clinton frowned at Larren. “Well, I’ll be,” Clinton said in an angry tone, placing his hands on his hips. “First you come in and eat our meals, and then you take our bed …”
“How was I to know that was your bed?” Larren protested. The first night here, Em had given him their bed. Now he was sleeping in the loft, which was quite comfortable, but he would never have slept in their bed if he had known.
“Ha. Just can’t trust these off-worlders, Lawd no.” Clinton pointed at him. “Why I told my partner, I said, Em, this here stranger, why he’s a scheming sly one, but no, no, she had to take you in like some little lost hound … and tuck you into our own bed …” Clinton focused on Larren, pretending accusation, but mischief and mirth twinkled in his eyes.
“That Em,” Larren said mournfully, shaking his head. “The way she chased me into your room.” Like the powerful, unchanging force of gravity, when that woman had her mind set, nothing and no one could stop her.
Larren and Clinton’s eyes met. Both men recalled how Em had bullied Larren that first night. Remembering, they began to snicker, quietly at first, but then they both broke out, convulsing with full and hearty relief.
Eventually they sat down quietly on some bales of hay, their laughter spent, comfortably sitting in companionable silence.
“Clinton … thanks for everything,” Larren said, aware that Clinton had intentionally reminded him of Em in order to cheer him out of his sudden black grief. Before Clinton could make comment, he raised a hand and continued, “No, no jokes this time. I’m serious. If you don’t mind, I’ll tell you that story now.”
“Sure,” Clinton said.
Larren told the entire account of what had happened, how he met Sartha through a routine check of Assurance, how they both felt connected and wanted to see each other again. He also spoke of Delian and Conqueror.
Clinton interrupted only once, to ask Larren what happened to his men. Larren shook his head and looked away, unable to speak. He took a minute to gather his composure. He neglected the details of how his crewmen died, simply stating that they were dead, and he had been able to escape.
He also related how Neopol used mindtap and Neopol’s plans to use memory implants so that he would believe he was guilty of destroying the people of Delian. He finished by explaining that he was a wanted man, a criminal, whose presence was a danger to the Williams family.
Clinton sat calmly throughout and didn’t seem to be surprised by anything he was told. When Larren finished talking, he simply nodded and said. “Yep, I figured as much.”
“You did?” Larren was taken aback.
“Sure. I recognized you the first time I laid eyes on you. I’d seen your face on the UWG broadcasts.”
“You recognized me but took me in anyway?” Larren’s was incredulous. Restless, he got up and began to pace.
“That’s right.” Clinton nodded complacently. “According to the broadcasts, you gassed Delian. You had the people of the planet wiped out, stole the Delian Testimonials of Truth, and the King’s Mirror — both are apparently worth a fortune — and then ran away with the Queen of Delian. You did all that because you loved the woman.”
Larren stopped pacing and his fists clenched white with rage. His Icom had relayed those broadcasts to him as well. They still were able to cause a storm of fury to rise up from within him like lava from a volcano.
Clinton nodded again, fully understanding Larren’s wrath. “C’mon. Let’s walk outside.” They left the barn and moved together out toward the pasture. “One never realizes what a pack of lies those broadcasts are — until they see something the broadcasts have said about themselves, or at least someone that they know. Then the actual truth of the matter becomes painfully clear: The media communicates only what the UWG wants us folks to believe. Those broadcasts consist almost entirely of lies, the more sensational the lies the better.”
He furrowed his brows, keeping pace with Larren. He glanced at him. “You in love with the Queen of Delian, well, that’s true, but they have twisted it and put it out of context. Made it dishonorable — but what a great story. Sex sells, and sex with royalty, well … Encompasses scandal within a world government, too. Stolen irreplaceable assets, you committing genocide …” Clinton looked knowingly at Larren. “Guess the only thing they got right was the love of the Delian woman, eh?”
“Yes,” Larren said, his voice low. “Neopol found that through mindtap.” The mindtap ordeal sprang unbidden into his mind. With avid interest, Neopol had fired questions at him, demanding to know exactly what had occurred on Assurance. Thanks to mindtap, he had been quite unable to withhold anything. Every thought, every caress, every intimate detail, had been given to Neopol for his own distorted use. He recalled Neopol’s malicious grin, his laughter over each detail, his dishonorable interpretation of events, and his nasty comments.
Larren’s stomach rolled in protest and his jaw clenched. His pace increased. He couldn’t escape that disgusting, soiled sensation. Neopol. God. It made him want to throw up.
Clinton left Larren alone with his thoughts and trailed behind him, saying nothing. The minutes passed. Clinton jogging, caught up to him and said, “Here, let’s us set a bit,” Clinton suggested.
They did, leaning back against one of many haystacks. The smell of fresh hay was soothing and comfortable in the afternoon sun. Larren calmed.
Clinton said, “Yep, they sure have it in for you all right. You see, an out-and-out lie a person can usually stand up to. Simply speaking the truth can most times clear one’s name. But a lie mixed in with the truth …” Clinton shook his head. “Well, those are the worst kind. Someone only has to see you with the Delian woman, and then they know that the rest of the story is true.”
Larren nodded grimly. Clinton was right. He would never have the chance to prove his innocence.
“Now fair is fair,” Clinton said. “You told me a secret, now I’ll tell you something; and you better button your coat because you being an old-time galaxy policeman and all, this might not set so good with you.”
Larren looked toward Clinton, puzzled. For a start he wasn’t even wearing a shirt, much less a coat. And secondly, what could comfortable, conservative Clinton be involved in that would disturb him?
Clinton’s lips curved in an odd smile. He reached over for a long stalk of hay, and put it between his teeth. “I’m the head of the Alliance for Kalar. Truth is I didn’t hesitate in taking you in, Larren. I figured that if the UWG thought you were that bad, well, you just had to be good.”
“No,” Larren spoke unthinkingly, shocked by Clinton’s disclosure. He was one of them. Head of the Alliance. He wouldn’t have been more surprised if Clinton had just admitted belonging to a pirate’s guild. The people in the Alliance were crazy. Completely insane.
“Fact,” Clinton said. “Now you know what the League has against the broadcasts, and why we keep trying to disable those ships. We of the League don’t ever aim to kill anyone, not the police anyway. Most of the galaxy police are simply trying to do their jobs, though some of them are corrupt. It’s like most any profession, I guess.”
“How long have you been in the Alliance?”
“Oh, some twenty years or so I suppose.” Clinton snorted, clearly amused by the expression on Larren’s face. “I’m not some misguided newcomer if that’s what you were a thinking.”
Larren shook his head, amazed.
“I suppose you believe that we’re all crazy people, deluded into strange beliefs … quite mad, eh?”
Larren opened his mouth, and shut it again. What could he say? That was exactly what he thought. Or at least he had believed that when he was a policeman. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Course you would,” Clinton chuckled. “That’s what the broadcasts say, see? They make people think we are crazy, that’s the line they use to discredit us. It works pretty well, don’t it? Oh, they are clever; I got to give ‘em that. But we’re pretty clever, too. Don’t you wonder how come Conqueror didn’t find your ship? Or you for that matter? They arrived in orbit not ten hours after you did.”
“I thought I’d covered my tracks.”
“You did pretty well, but we made sure of things. We had your ship melted down and recycled and confused the trace. They’ll never find evidence of you arriving here. Even destroyed your power chute.” He grinned. “That was a lot harder to find. I notified our tech people via Icom the moment your shuttle entered Kalarian air space.” Clinton nodded happily. “Oh, the UWG is good, but then so are we.” He took the piece of hay that he had been chewing out of his mouth, his expression intent and knowing.
Larren said, “Do you know where the Lady Sartha and her son are then? I’ve been so worried. Neopol is intent on finding them and killing them both and he isn’t the type to give up.”
“I’ve used all my contacts, but have no word of her or her son. She has covered her tracks pretty well too, it seems. I can tell you that Neopol hasn’t found her.”
Larren breathed out with relief. “One thing I don’t understand, Clinton. How did you know I was coming, or that I was here?”
Clinton’s grin broadened. “I have my ways. The truth is I think that there is a chink in their armor.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how, but it revolves around you in some way.”
Larren had lost the thread of the conversation. He was becoming more and more confused. “What are you talking about?”
“It wasn’t chance that your vessel landed here and that you met up with me. I knew you was coming. I saw you would be there, right where I found you. Oh, yes, the Good Lord had a hand in this, you can be sure of that. You see,” he confided, “I had a dream about you.”
“A dream?” Larren asked stupidly. Clinton’s words were coming too fast to understand. He wasn’t sure he was hearing him correctly. The man made no sense.
“God’s truth.” Clinton stared, trance-like, looking at the vision. “You see, first I saw this large snake. It was fat and evil and it was reaching out, destroying, and swallowing all of the United Worlds, one by one. The snake was being controlled, sent to consume and exterminate, by a gigantic, armored giant. Then you came along. I know it was you and there was a wolf with you, too. You tried to slay the snake, but the snake soon had you at his mercy. The snake was going to swallow you.”
“The wolf was watching — not moving. Without warning, the wolf rose up and killed the snake. The armored giant stumbled, but didn’t fall. Instead it stood up again, but this time … it had lost its right arm.”
Clinton came out of the absorbing memory and looked at Larren. “That was the dream. Reckon that to you it don’t carry much weight, but remember it if you can. You mark my words. That dream was sent by the good Lord, yes, indeed. And I know it was you in the vision. You’re the one that’s important now. You must wait for the wolf. Together you’ll seek out and destroy the snake … and the giant will lose its right arm.”
Larren stared at Clinton. What was going on? Was Clinton some sort of psychic clairvoyant? Or was he mad? Larren felt like he had accidentally gotten on the wrong transport and had unexpectedly found himself dropped off on some strange planet — somewhere that he had never intended to go.
Standing up, Larren dusted hay off his trousers. Enough already. He had absolutely no interest or desire in becoming involved in whatever bizarre future Clinton had foreseen. He wanted resolution. He wanted to take action.
Most of all he wanted to find the Lady Sartha and her son.
Larren at that moment would have been devastated to actually know the future. For despite all his efforts it would be five long years before he found out what happened to the Lady Sartha. That is because it would be five years before he came face to face with her son. And when Larren finally met Ash, the young prince of Delian, he would be astonished to learn that the boy intended to kill him.
Admiral Neopol Jones sat still, looking at the empty chairs of the strategy room. An Icom holovid was still up, detailing complex graphic information. Janson sat straight-backed, eyes on his master. An array of leftover food and drinks remained on plates and glasses casually scattered, evidence that the people who had inhabited this room had spent some time here.
Despite all their efforts they had not found Larren Forseth nor had they discovered the remains of the courier vessel he had stolen. There was no evidence that Assurance had ever landed on Kalar either. All leads were dead. Extensive searches had resulted in nothing. Nothing.
The Admiral looked defeated and melancholy. It was at odds with his normally energetic, determined demeanor. Neopol sighed deeply, and stood up. Janson, quick and quiet as usual, stood as well.
Neopol had resorted to comprehensive espionage tactics. Spies had been recruited, current assets were informed and some were placed more favorably. If any of his targets were on Kalar they would be discovered.
Admiral Neopol frowned and clasped his hands behind his back. He was an artist, and like many artists, he wanted to be admired. His skill was in the knowledge of the human mind, and his ability to drive the human animal to its breaking point. Few could appreciate the beauty of his chosen canvas, much less his artistic brilliance. He would never bother to explain what he knew to the common throng. Only Lord Andros truly appreciated his work, so he lived for the moments he spent with his direct superior.
Andros would never say a word to chastise him for his failure, but it would be a long time before he allowed him audience. Andros ruled Neopol effectively with a subtle hand. His discipline was understood. Initially it had been difficult for Neopol to admit, but there was no doubt that Lord Andros was his superior not only in his position, but in his intelligence. Neopol would love to really understand Lord Jon Andros — to have him under the probe. Yet to even think such a thing was dangerous indeed.
Conqueror had been recalled. There was some sort of natural disaster occurring on Enso, and a number of fleet vessels had been reallocated from their current missions to assist. As Admiral of Conqueror he had to go. Neopol hated to leave with his last mission incomplete. His list of things left undone echoed in his mind: Find and kill the Queen of Delian and her son. Find and kill the escaped ex-policeman, Forseth. Find Assurance and acquire the Testimonials and the King’s Mirror.
How had Forseth done it? Assurance had to have been en route to Kalar — the lie detector had shown green. The man had received mindtap confirmation. But where was he? Had Forseth been killed or somehow lost in Omni? The mystery was an irritating unscratchable itch to his logical brain. Had he somehow been tricked by a simpleton like Forseth? Impossible. No matter what he was involved with in the future, he knew that this incomplete assignment would constantly interrupt his thinking processes and intrude on any project he was engaged in.
Neopol knew how it would be. There would be another mission, and another … each requiring a man of his experience and ability, not to mention Conqueror. There would be distractions, yes, and fulfillment. He would still be allowed his own pursuits into the study of the human animal. But this mission’s priority had been lowered. He couldn’t justify searching every world Assurance could possibly have escaped to. With Omni they could be on any United Freeworld by now. No, he would have to continue his search as occasion allowed. He would have to wait for new information or extrapolate other possibilities. He had no idea what had gone wrong, but High Command could not justify using Conqueror as a full-time search vessel when there were no definite leads.
The Admiral was not a patient man and he would be forced to wait. So infuriating. Yet every asset at High Command’s disposal would be looking. There was nothing else to be done.
Admiral Neopol Jones would have been in a rage if he actually knew the future. For despite all his efforts he was in the same position as Captain Larren Forseth. It would be five long years before he found out what happened to the Lady Sartha and her son.
It was a strange little triangle and the fates were laughing out loud.
Ash wanted Forseth: he planned to kill him.
Forseth wanted Ash: he wanted to befriend him.
Neopol wanted Forseth and Ash both. He planned to utterly break them body and mind through his extensive knowledge of torture. Then he would kill them slowly, one at a time.
Fortune, ever capricious, had already decreed when all three would meet.
What was coming was inevitable and the mythical fates were spinning their threads and weaving an amazing tapestry of chance and destiny.
The future was written: the young prince would be a grown man of eighteen when the stars aligned and the single orbits of each individual collided. Neopol, Forseth and Ash: all three would meet in five years time. And the outcome of such a collision would change the course of the universe forever.
PART TWO
Prince Ashton Rynan Chayton
Events of his Seventeenth Year
16. RDS Assurance
I went to the mountains and lived alone, and it was then that the madness came upon me. It began with fevered dreams. These turned to nightmares. I did not sleep. I felt no desire to eat. I felt anxious; I had an impending sense of doom. Within one year, darkness and evil fell upon me. I quite lost my mind: guilt, desperation, rage, and pain. I became empty, my soul black and heavy: it was the Dark Sankomin. No Delian can be in this universe without healing mind-touch. A Delian alone will surely die — or at least they will most certainly want to.
— Cleric Trevor Hinton, The Interpretations
The sky was the light green of spring. A cold breeze lightly fanned through the trees, gently moving leaves and branches, bringing a myriad of scents, the smell of damp earth and animals and the rich scent of growing things. Climbing up to the top of a steep knoll, Ash heard a windchime trill, while another answered from some distance away. The bird was an older male, the vibrating bell of its voice deep and hollow. The female had a higher-pitched ring. Ash held his breath, listening.
Ash had experienced both male and female bird through mind-touch. He knew the sensation of making his throat vibrate fast or slow, moving up and down the harmonics, using distinctive tone and pitch. Each song was unique, each feathered creature a master composer. Closer now, both sounded together, ringing in symphony. He took a moment, savoring each note. Beautiful.
It had been more than four years since Assurance had crash landed on Opan. Deathly ill and injured, Ash had barely survived a snowstorm. He had been saved by the wolves, having been dragged for kilometers to their den. Ash still searched for the resting place of Assurance, yet had never found where the vessel lay. For some inexplicable reason the wolves had resolved to keep its location secret.
The blue-gray and violet trees and bushes thinned and he began to move faster, at a much higher altitude, his breath leaving foggy wisps of mist in the brisk mountain air. He climbed around a gray-yellow boulder, grasping its rough edges, skidding and sliding, while stones rattled underfoot. He paused to look down the rocky summit and found he wasn’t even out of breath.
Somehow, on this world he had achieved that impossible childhood dream. Six months shy of eighteen, Ash now had the physical size and strength of someone much older. His hips were narrow, his long legs hardened through running, while his chest, arms and shoulders were strong from carrying heavy loads. The priceless Delian talisman, the King’s Mirror now fit perfectly as a beautiful blue armguard that circled his muscular biceps. Ash thrived. He had been physically well ever since he had begun drinking wolf milk.
Scanning the woods he sighted Seeta, who now had another cub. Long Fang had never driven Ash from the family group. He was still, in some ways, considered an inexperienced pup.
“This way,” he called cheerfully. With renewed energy, he continued to climb up the steep mountain pass.
Seeta gave a short snuff of affirmation and followed him, while Long Fang and the new cub, Teella, bound ahead. Teella had recently been weaned. This was one of her first adventures in the perpetual quest for fresh meat. Ash stopped for a moment to get his bearings, reaching out for a fleeting touch. Mentally contacting the boar he felt a sharp, piercing pain. He winced and broke contact. Just past this crevice was a well-fleshed boar, enough meat for a number of days. The animal had fallen from a rocky ledge and had suffered a broken leg.
Ash sighed with relief. He would only locate sick or wounded animals through mind-touch. If the wolves wanted healthy fare, they would have to find it without his assistance. It was wrong to give unfair advantage, and he had no desire to taint his power.
“There,” he shouted to his friends, sighting the stricken creature and pointing in its direction. The three wolves sped toward it.
An immense blue-skinned boar stood favoring its injured leg, backed defensively against an ochre red rocky crevice. Facing outward it anticipated attack: its four, long, vicious pink tusks swayed back and forth as if seeking a target. Injured or not, it was still extremely dangerous.
Bodies crouched and eyes narrowed, instinctively searching out the maximum point of vulnerability, the wolves closed in for the kill. Ash forced himself to watch as the wolves brought the boar down. The struggle was short, for the wretched creature was exhausted through dehydration as well as prolonged pain. The wolves dispatched it within moments.
Seeta and Long Fang politely looked up, their yellow eyes rose in silent question.
“No, thanks.” He waved them on. “I’m not hungry.”
Ash sat down on the ledge, resting his hands on his knees, regarding his friends who were nose deep in blood and entrails. A tremor of revulsion went through him. After what happened he still couldn’t watch them feed without a physical reaction.
Over the years Ash had considerable practice contacting the animals on Opan. There was no animal that he couldn’t contact provided he wasn’t distracted, in pain, or afraid. He added that last almost as an afterthought. The wolves were the best animal to touch, he decided loyally. They were playful and caring, strong and sensible. Mind-touch with a wolf made one forget.
Of course, that was the danger.
A pale mauve leaf fell down on him, disturbing his thoughts. Ash frowned and looked up at the offending tree with its soft blue trunk and its violet-purple array of leaves. Curiously, he scanned the emerald green sky. It was well into spring now … almost mating season.
Ash swallowed, remembering the problems that mating season presented.
The wolves mated two times per year and the romance was always fiery with plenty of howling, courting … and love. For the last few seasons Ash had been unable to resist mind-touching the wolves during mating. It had started with natural curiosity. What were they howling for? But with the discovery, it had become an addiction. He simply wasn’t able to stop. Being with them felt good. But it was wrong, a mental and physical intrusion … like that time with his mother.
Flushed with sudden heat, Ash licked his lips. This time, he would sleep through it, he decided. He would control his desire.
He had been studying one of Enso’s renowned philosophers, S.M. Sanderson. Her comments had impressed and amused him: “Religions of the past were often connected to three dangerous dietary routines: solitude, fasting and sexual abstinence.”
Ash agreed. He certainly felt like he had been living like a monk. Unfortunately, as an off-worlder he was forced into solitude — but not complete solitude. He had mental contact with the fringe dwellers and he had experienced it all: prejudice, envy, selfishness, kindness, indifference, intelligence, ignorance, cruelty. Ash had spent many hours in mind-touch with people. The problem was that he was a spectator living outside the real world, when he wanted to participate.
Yep, solitude, fasting and sexual abstinence — that was his life. Not really fasting, just a mostly unvaried diet with lots and lots of meat. He seemed to be having the most difficulty coming to terms with sexual abstinence. He supposed all seventeen-year-old boys had the same problem, except he had such vivid memories combined with carnal knowledge.
His brows drew down as he frowned. He had had sex just once, and that was with his mother, and in another man’s body! No doubt that put him in a whole category of his own. Still, he had to face the truth: he had lost his virginity to his mother, kind of. He couldn’t feel guilty about that forever. Except for some reason he did.
Sex through mind-touch with the wolves was fantastic but afterwards it felt so wrong. As spectacular and fantastically uplifting as it was, mind-touch could also be quite dangerous. In fact, mind-touch could kill him. He had discovered this when he had been on a normal hunt with Seeta and Long Fang, well before Teella was born.
Ash began to stare, finding himself back at that time. He had touched a white deer. The animal was large, healthy and alone. For some unexplainable reason it had not remained with the herd. Like a hundred times before Ash had told his friends where the deer was through mental communication with Seeta. Then, without realizing it, he found he had made a terrible mistake.
Ash’s eyes were round and he could feel his heart pounding as his fear returned. He had been in mind-touch with the deer when Seeta and Long Fang had felled it. Seeta had crippled the deer, her powerful jaws instantly breaking a hind leg. Directly after, Long Fang had sunk his sharp teeth into the deer’s shoulder.
The pain had been acute, and Ash had screamed with agony — only the sound never reached his lips. He and the deer cried out simultaneously, their screams resounding through his mind like an echo. He fought to break contact but to his horror he found he was trapped; unable to escape the stricken mind. He was going to die with the deer.
“No! Don’t kill me!”
First came tearing pain, and then a frenzy of panic and dread when he discovered that he was trapped. The crushing terror of death pushed Ash into an exhausting, agonizing struggle to live, to survive. The deer on its own would have given up sooner, encountering a clean and simple death; but Ash was within the deer, giving the animal life and an even stronger will to fight.
The deer bleated with pain, screaming like a rabbit in a trap. The sight, smell and velvet warmth of her newborn fawn filled Ash’s mind.
The deer’s despair overwhelmed him, cutting as sharply as Long Fang’s teeth, leaving him emotionally torn. Everything become frighteningly clear: the deer had left the herd to give birth, intending to return when her offspring was steadily able to gain its feet. She was a mother, nursing her fawn, and the sweet wholesome smell of deer milk mixed with the copper-iron smell of fresh blood as the wolves tore into her flesh. Ash had unknowingly killed them all. The image of the little gray and yellow striped fawn, hidden among the leaves, penetrated his thoughts like a shaft of ice.
Ash swallowed, his face set. Soon the pain lessened to a dull numbing ache. It was clear that the struggle was hopeless: he and the mother deer were both going to die and the fawn as well. Ash felt grief and failure, then the desire to get it over with, to at least be a source of survival for the wolves. After that there was no awareness. There was nothing.
Somehow he lived through the deer’s terrible death. Ash regained consciousness, to find he had returned to his own body. Hot tears streamed down his face and his hands were bleeding; his fingernails had cut into them, so tightly had his fists been clenched.
He had come out of the shock of death to find that he could no longer mind-touch. He had abused his gift and the power had left him.
Deep in his own misery, the Dark Sankomin blocking the river of his mind, Ash was still aware that there was one horrible action yet to attend to. Unable to mind-touch, he was forced to physically take Seeta and Long Fang to the hidden place that the mother deer had left her newborn fawn. And then, because he didn’t want the animal to starve to death or to die for nothing, he left them to slay and consume it.
To Ash it felt as if Long Fang and Seeta were killing his own child.
It had been three long months before he regained his power.
Almost as penance, in addition to two hours of study he had taken up repeating the Testimonials on a daily basis. Many of the precepts, after that horrific ordeal, seemed to make more sense, especially: “Evil thought and deed shall burn and fester. These poisoned arrows, uncleansed by healing mind-touch, shall cause thy certain grave. Poor wretch. The Dark Sankomin will block thy mind and burden thy soul. Through guilt and self-destruction, you have the power not.”
The experience taught him three important lessons. First, never remain in mind-touch with an animal that was going to die. Second, his power must be used for good or it would cease to exist. Finally, he learned the law of the animals: the strong and healthy should live, the weak will perish. The hope and purpose of all living things was to survive. Even the simple twill bird, incredibly ignorant as it was, could still very well understand death.
Ash stood up, dusted off his soft hide pants and looked toward his wolf family. He shook his head. He still couldn’t watch his friends eat without irrationally feeling that it was his own flesh being torn.
The wolves had had enough. There was little left on the carcass. Let the scavengers have the rest. Ash touched them. “So, are you gluttons finished?” He asked with droll good humor.
Long Fang looked up, his deep yellow eyes flashing. “I eat more than you, two-legs. I am twice your weight and must sustain myself.”
Ash grinned at the insult. In wolf terms, being small and light was synonymous with being weak. Traditionally it was always the biggest and strongest that would lead the pack. “As you say, four-legs. But I challenge you to a race. I wager you cannot beat even my two-legs to the crest of this mountain.”
“You are only half the way there,” Long Fang rejoined, unperturbed by the competition, his attitude vastly superior. “You need more advantage.” Long Fang had little regard for the capabilities of a human man. Men were soft and slow … and they only had two legs.
Seeta yelped, interrupting. “Long Fang will beat you to the top of this hill, my cub, from where you stand. My mate is strong and fast. No one can best him.”
Teella danced back and forth, wagging her tail with excitement and expectation. She was in awe of her parents and looked up to her older “brother,” Ash.
Ash pretended to be calm, in case it might provide some slight advantage over Long Fang. His adrenaline was already flowing, his nerves tingling in preparation for the race. For some time he had been sizing up the best route to take.
Feigning casual indifference, he asked, “And what shall you risk, Mother? Perhaps you and Long Fang wish to wager the kill from the next hunt? I bet that I will get to the crest of this mountain before Long Fang. If I lose, I will fell the next beast. If you lose, you do the same … only I want my meal to be brought to the den.”
“The den.” Long Fang was disgusted and voiced his contempt and protest accordingly. “I take an animal to the den in my stomach. How is it that you still have these strange man ideas, pup?”
“Are you afraid to lose?” Ash swiftly rejoined.
Long Fang snarled. “Lose a race with puny two-legs? Never.” He bunched his muscles.
“Ready, set: go!” yelled Ash.
More than four years with the wolves had made Ash fit of body, sure of foot, with endurance and speed. If he had not flourished physically — as well as becoming a vigorous, persistent fighter — he would never have survived in the wild.
Ash scrambled to the top of the mountain, loosening small stones and occasionally slipping. His heart and head were pounding with the drum of his pulse, his breath rasping in his chest. One hand was cut by a jagged rock as he gripped the surface of the steep incline, and the sharp sudden pain spurred him on. He slipped and a bush slapped him in the face, but he placed his foot on the root of it. It gave better purchase, allowing him to leap up and over a small crag. Ash used all his strength, every limb and muscle — wanting to win.
The wolves were right behind him, gaining. Long Fang was well out front.
The race was going to be close, but it was Ash who reached the top of the rise first. He fell to the ground exhausted. Chest heaving as he recovered his breath, he lay on his back, spent. Long Fang arrived only an instant behind. While still panting, Ash managed to sit up and give a nod of success to his adopted father.
Long Fang topped the rise and casually sat down, his tongue lolling out; his exertion barely showing. He looked at Ash with amused complacence, and to Ash’s surprise there was a gleam of pride in his adopted father’s eyes. If a wolf was able to smile, Long Fang was doing it now, his long straight teeth gleaming in a bold grin.
Seeta and Teella arrived, Teella collapsing, Seeta wagging her tail. Seeta had not raced, choosing to keep time with her young daughter.
“You have become fast and strong, cub,” Long Fang observed. And then, not wanting to sound too pleased, he added, “For a two-legs.”
Ash was flattered. Long Fang rarely gave compliments. “The race was not a fair one, Long Fang.” Ash wanted to lessen his triumph, to help his adoptive father save face. “I only suggested the race because I knew I’d be able to best you. I had the advantage.” He smirked and began to giggle. After a difficult run, laughing was hard on his stomach, the jagged movements already causing a catching pain. Ash doubled over, laughing all the more, holding his middle. “You,” he sputtered, pointing a forefinger toward his adopted father “… you had just eaten half that boar!”
Long Fang snarled, realizing that he had been tricked. His stomach was unpleasantly full. “Treacherous pup. I should have known. You are wolf … yet also man. I will remember this deviousness. You are cunning.”
It was the longest sentence Ash had ever heard his gruff adopted father say, and once again Ash was taken aback by the praise. A pack leader must be shrewd; this was pack lore. Long Fang was paying tribute, suggesting that Ash would make a good leader.
Ash stopped laughing, instantly sobered by the compliment. He said, “You honor me, father.”
Long Fang looked at him but made no movement. His yellow eyes, perfectly motionless, clearly communicated everything he wanted to say.
Filled with unaccountable emotion and strangely embarrassed by it, Ash turned his gaze from his father’s penetrating regard.
Shortly after, the family lay down peacefully, enjoying an indolent repose. The winter’s ice was gone, and the morning sun was warm and agreeable on their backs. The last snow season had been mild, but the new spring’s warmth was still a welcome and refreshing change. Birds sang, the sky was green, and everything in Ash’s world seemed perfect.
Ash looked at his sleepy friends and thought, “This is more like what one should do after a big meal, eh, Long Fang?”
Long Fang raised a somnolent eye lid, but didn’t deign to reply to such an unnecessary question. Instead he rolled over languidly, shut his eyes, and let the sun and his meal send him back to sleep.
Ash lay back with his arms behind his head as a pillow. This is the life, he thought, with profound satisfaction. Surrounded by friends, enjoying a full stomach and the sun — what more could one ask for? It was at times like this that he felt content. He had mind-touched the animals for so long he thought like one.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
Wolf instincts were like shadows in the back of his mind and this disturbed him not at all. When he was wolf he was never bothered by the burdens of the Dark Sankomin.
Ash accessed Icom, checking out the local news. Nothing much new — a football game at the entertainment center tonight. He would watch it on holovid. A slight trade dispute, found to have been caused by off-world influence, now set to rights. Various shows, games and contests available, but again he couldn’t participate.
He had at one point or another mentally contacted many of the local fringe dwellers, like the wrinkled, bearded, toothless old woman, Jani. Stooped and gray haired, with virtually no education, she still had more common sense than most people. She had killed a man, buried him and no one had ever found out. Ash was glad. The man had needed killing. One of the few people he actually spoke to, Ash traded with Jani. She was an honest dealer and ignored his off-world accent.
Ash had touched both women and men who had committed various crimes and had always been interested in the rationalizations they used. For rape: “She deserved it” or “She was asking for it.” For cruelty: “No one was ever nice to me.” But there were acts of generosity and sacrifice as well.
The Ferals had a peculiar system. They were in hiding from Opan police and moved constantly. Off the grid, they could do what they wanted. They sometimes even kept slaves.
It was about eight months after arriving on Opan that Ash had mind-touched eight-year-old Dorian. With a man in close pursuit, Dorian had been running into the woods in fear of his life. Ash had been practicing using a stave, so it had been easy for him to strike the larger man to unconsciousness and then to catch the fleeing Dorian.
Dorian was light-brown skinned, green eyed, with wavy black hair. Dorian had fought Ash valiantly and violently, giving in only when it was clear that Ash was stronger and would not release him. When Dorian had finally stilled he had looked at Ash with a strangely adult combination of fear, distrust and calculation.
Ash had given Dorian a particularly hard shake. “Listen to me,” he commanded. “I can help you, and you can help me.” Ash held tightly to Dorian’s upper right arm.
“Why would you do that?”
“You want your brother back, don’t you?”
Dorian’s expression closed with suspicion. “What do you know about my brother?”
“I know he’s your twin. I know you escaped and he did not. I know how to get him back and how you can both be free. But we need to trust each other.”
They measured each other for some moments — Dorian looking up at the older boy, Ash looking down. Ash saw complete mistrust in Dorian’s expression. That was okay. He didn’t trust Dorian either. In this they were equal.
Ash studied Dorian, recalling the brief mental contact he had with him. The boy had a formidable mind, as well as a longing that Ash could appreciate. With sudden intuition he knew the exact lure that would bring this boy to him, which would capture him body and soul. Although he knew the answer, Ash asked, “Do you have Icom?”
“No,” Dorian replied bitterly.
“You need the neural interface while your brain is still young and adaptable, or you may never be able to operate it. There’s a extremely small window for insertion. You’re close to that time.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Dorian said in a resentful tone.
Ash nodded, understanding Dorian’s anger. Without Icom he would be a lesser citizen, cut off from the rest of the world except by a handheld that was slow and inefficient. Further, a handheld was a device that was difficult to come by, as almost everyone had Icom. Ash understood Dorian. The boy had amazing strength and resilience, but in his soul was an imperative need: he wanted more than bare survival. He thirsted to learn everything, and despite his trials, or perhaps because of them, he was determined to flourish.
Ash said with confidence, “I can guarantee that you’ll get Icom.” He let go of Dorian’s arm and stood back. He was offering him a choice. For a moment Dorian’s face reacted with surprise and yearning, before his expression became guarded once more. Dorian’s eyes assessed him, taking in Ash’s worn clothes, his handmade stave — all the signs that made him appear to be on the run as well.
“My name is Ash. You should trust me, Dorian.” His voice was persuasive. He knew he was offering the ultimate temptation
“How do you know my name?”
“I know many things, Dorian.”
Dorian’s expression displayed no emotion. “You can free my brother and get us both Icom?”
Ash put his hand on his heart. “I swear it.”
Dorian stiffened, clearly steeling himself. He appeared to be preparing for all manner of insult. “What do I have to do?”
Ash gave a low wry chuckle. Given Dorian’s experience he could well understand his apprehension. “Don’t worry; you won’t be doing anything you won’t want to do.”
Ash knew Dorian and Anton were twins. Their parents had died, and with no family they were Indentured. An unscrupulous woman had immediately seen the potential of two attractive young boys. She had sold the boys to an unlicensed pimp.
Ash knew that providing sexual relief — called “Service” — was a heavily regulated and lucrative business in all the United Worlds. The position of licensed courtesan was vigorously sought. Hopeful applicants, men and women who passed the most stringent psychological tests, were allowed to train for Service. After successfully completing four years of study and a three-year apprenticeship, they became accredited by the Courtesan Guild. It was a well-paid and honorable career. A licensed courtesan was rated as the second most trusted profession, right after Sister of the Temple of Jana. They were highly skilled mental and physical health professionals, confidants and personal counselors, with specific and varied abilities well beyond providing sexual release.
Dorian and his brother had not been Indentured as willing and possibly successful courtesans in training. They were too young for such a choice. Instead they had been imprisoned as black market sex slaves to pedophiles. Dorian became aware that the food he and Anton were given was drugged, making them somnolent. He had the intelligence to stop eating, hiding his uneaten portion, in order to have the wits to flee. Ruthlessly overcoming the ethical dilemma, he had put his own interests first and escaped without his brother. Ash was appalled, but he had seen much of both good and evil on the fringes. Nothing shocked him anymore. What could he do about any of it? Except that he could help Dorian.
Ash had outlined his plan. He had pried two Damithst crystals from his armguard. Dorian was to go to the Temple of Jana and seek sanctuary. The jewels were worth a fortune. In exchange the Sisters of Jana would buy the contracts of Anton and Dorian and Indenture them in the Temple until they were of age. They were also to supply a list of items to Ash, meeting at an agreed time, in a specific place: heating, lighting, cooking utensils, food — Ash had a long list. In addition, they needed to provide him credits that he could use in trade. These would support him for the next few years.
Dorian had fulfilled his part of the bargain and so had the Temple Sisters.
The Temple Prefect had carried out Ash’s trade requests although she had included many extras. Ash had been only fourteen years old, but his memory of the Temple Prefect, the Lady Lindha, stood out clearly in his mind. He had mind-touched Lindha, when she and a number of others had left his items at the designated position. In the dark hour specified for the drop, Ash had only been able to make out her silhouette. She was young, and like all Temple Sisters she was no doubt beautiful. Ash had only had a fleeting mental contact, and while unable to fully view her body, he had been within her flesh and in her mind.
It had been fantastic. Being with Lindha was like drinking water from a fresh, clear mountain stream. Her mind and body had been a joy, uplifting … arousing. The Prefect had been curious about Ash; she thought him kind to have saved the twins. Wholesome, humane, and well intentioned, her thoughts were direct, honest, and soothing. Ash had never touched anyone like her. Awake or asleep he often thought of the Temple Prefect, and these visions were frequently erotic. But sometimes, in his dreams, he simply watched her, soothed by the sense of peace she gave him. Ash longed to see her again. When he was of age it was the Lady Lindha that he would apply to for help getting off-world.
Ash had never lost that sense of connection with the Prefect, that link he sometimes got after mind-touch. Such bonds were rare. For example, he felt linked to the wrinkled old Feral, Jani, because of her integrity and courage. But this connection to the Lady Lindha was much stronger than anything he had ever felt before. He was drawn to the woman, to the soulful pull of her body, her calming mind and the purity of her spirit.
Ash had not heard from any of them again. One curious thing happened, however. When he had put the stones into Dorian’s hands, the small gems had burned with light, a sudden unmistakable flash. It was as if they were sentient and had agreed to the transaction, as if they wanted to go with Dorian.
Ash glanced over at his wolf family. They hadn’t moved. No wonder, after that large meal. Shutting his eyes, Ash did what he always did whenever he had some time to himself: he searched for an animal mind to touch.
Reaching out, he made contact.
Ah, Ash thought as a light cool breeze stroked his pure white feathers in a loving, soft caress. Tenderly the gentle currents of air lifted him, pushing him higher. When he soared like this, in the body of a bird, he recalled Delian folklore concerning fairies, knights, monsters, magic, wiccans and warlocks. Childhood stories told to him by his parents came back to him, such as Gilbert the wise and Nacastri the brave. Air, Earth, Fire and Water — while all four were fundamental, Air was always what Ash from his earliest memories had most identified with. Flying seemed so natural. Often as a child, when fighting desperate illness, he envisioned the magical power of air — the soul and breath of life. In times of near death it seemed to him that he had floated ethereal and disembodied; as if he could mind-touch the air itself.
The magic of air was also associated with the color white. Auspiciously Ash was in mind-touch with a whitehawk, a creature as elemental as the air itself. Supremely elated, Ash soared far above his own body in the winged form of the great white bird. He thought it strange that he should so completely identify with air and spirit when his own powers were more closely linked to heat and fire. The whitehawk, like Ash’s wolf family, had also already eaten well, and was serenely catching updrafts for pure enjoyment and, of course, to look over its territory.
“Air keeps trouble and strife at bay, blows positive thoughts to those far away.” At least that was how the saying went as Ash recalled. But who might he send a positive thought to other than Seeta, Teella and Long Fang? The answer sprang into his mind as soon as he considered it. Peace to you Lovely Lady Lindha — I hope to meet you soon, Ash thought.
A sharp turn in the green sky drew his attention back to the whitehawk. They were haughty creatures, considering themselves superior to other animals by virtue of their wings as well as their speed and agility. They often fought among themselves over imagined ills or to protect their territory or their mate. Ash had never known them to feel fear, and all whitehawks enjoyed a skirmish. Fighting gave them an excuse to perform daring stunts in the air. When two whitehawks fought it was not to the death. Usually one whitehawk gave up, conceding defeat to the other by virtue of the other’s flying skills.
This particular whitehawk currently had no desire for combat, which was a blessing. The last thing Ash wanted was to become involved in a dizzying maneuver or dive. Exhilarated, Ash soared high above the mountaintops, catching an occasional thermal updraft. The air was crisp and cold the higher he went. It was empty in the green open sky, quiet except for the soft whisper of the wind through his wings. There! With the whitehawk’s keen sense of sight, he spotted something. It was a shiny reflection that seemed out of place.
To the whitehawk he projected: “What is that, here in my Territory?”
The whitehawk changed direction and glided toward the object. It was Assurance! Ash almost lost contact with the shock of surprise. Assurance. Here.
With the urgency of discovery, Ash lost his subtlety. “Go there.” He commanded the whitehawk like a voice from God and the whitehawk obediently flew down and landed at the foot of the vessel.
Ash stared up at the warship, dumbfounded. Assurance stood, hidden by blue and green ivy. In all these years the proud Lady had remained erect, honor intact.
For the love of Jana! The ship was so far from the den. Seeta and Long Fang had dragged him for kilometers in the deep snow and storm of that fateful night.
“Time to go,” he thought, and the whitehawk flew off. Staring through the whitehawk’s acute vision, Ash carefully studied landmarks, noting the terrain. Certain now that he would be able to find the vessel on foot, he broke contact.
Ash opened his eyes and gazed around to reorient himself, shaking his head in disbelief. All that time in his first years with the wolves he had looked for Assurance, but had never found it. No wonder. The distance! The wolves refused to discuss the subject, pretending non-comprehension if he ever brought it up. They were afraid for him, perhaps because his mother lay inside.
Well, Sartha was well gone now. She was dead and the dead are gone, he thought with animal logic. His excitement began to build. Now he could recover the Testimonials. He never did get to read the Interpretations.
Ash stood up, and Seeta raised her head from where it rested comfortably between her paws in order to gaze at him. She looked at him curiously with her calm regard.
“Mother,” he thought. “I know where the vessel I came in rests. I’m going to go and see what’s in it.”
Seeta rose to her feet instantly. “Don’t go.”
Ash bent down on one knee and stroked her. “You are a silly twill,” he thought in gentle admonition. “I’m not leaving. That old ship can’t fly anyway. I just want to go there and retrieve something that’s mine.” He ruffled her thick red coat and stood up. “I’ll be back.”
Seeta didn’t answer, but her eyes were dark with worry. Long Fang and Teella looked up, sensing a disturbance in the tranquil harmony of their rest.
“Don’t worry.” Ash smiled at her, blithely unconcerned. “What could happen?”
Seeta sat back down.
It was obvious to Ash that she wanted to go with him, but Teella needed her now. Ash waved goodbye.
The wolves looked at him in silent farewell. Seeta dropped to the ground and laid her head on her forelegs, letting out a deep breath. She watched Ash walk away and made no move to follow.
17. Temptation
The best triumph of all is to conquer oneself; to be conquered by base desires is of all things most shameful. This is one certain Truth, as acknowledged by the parables of Jana. Yet there is a little known corollary to this fact that seems to disprove the original theorem. For one sure way to wholly banish temptation is to give in to it.
— Wanisai Senior Courtesan Case Supervisor
The Lady Lindha sighed with pleasure. The heavens this night were cloudless. The universe beckoned, and a galaxy of comets, stars and planets shone brightly in the velvet dark above.
It was late evening. Twenty-two-year-old Lady Lindha, Prefect of the High Temple of Jana on Opan was alone, laying on a recliner, surrounded by the night sky in the Constellation chamber. Situated at the top level, its ceiling was a transparent impermeable field that allowed an uninterrupted view. The clear membrane included an adjustable magnification capability. Lindha had set magnification at 200X, which clarified the heavens in the same way a scanning-transmission microscope made atoms visible to the human eye.
The Prefect had inherited the title and duties from the Lady Jeeha, the Prefect that held the title before her. The prefecture was a sacred post, the most senior position in the Temple. Women were trained from birth to hold the rank, and were required to manage the Temple, and remain celibate until they were thirty years of age. At that time they became the second lady, as the Lady Jeeha was now, to a younger prefect. Lindha would remain Prefect until she, too, was thirty years old, or until the foretelling came to pass.
Like all Temple Sisters, the Prefect was fit and had a trim, well-formed figure. Of average height, she was golden haired and blue-eyed. Possessed of many striking assets, her eyes were probably her best feature. They were large and expressive, a clear sky blue, edged by a dark blue rim. Intelligence and kindness could be seen in those eyes, as well as a commanding presence despite her age.
An enormous shooting star suddenly lit up the chamber, trailing a lengthy fiery tail. It sparked and flew across her vision. It was the largest meteor Lindha had seen this evening, much larger by far, and she was thrilled. It was remarkable.
Star light, star bright … first star I see tonight, she recited to herself. Of course this hadn’t been the first. She had seen three meteors, one after another, each in ever increasing size. The first star had been dazzling, the second even more brilliant, and the third shooting star had outshone them all. It was a sign, especially as three was such a promising number. Lindha wasn’t the least bit superstitious, but … I wish upon this star … What should she wish for this time?
As Temple Prefect she was fulfilled in her work, she had various goals and ambitions, many already fulfilled. But for years now she had been having incredibly realistic, sensual dreams. She had told no one, secretly hoping her dreams were a foretelling, although she had never been gifted with the sight.
As she slept, the same man always came to her. Lindha felt a fluttery feeling inside just at the thought of him. She never saw his face, but knew he had long black hair and a passion that burned. Initially he had been passive, somehow there, drawn to her, observing her as she dreamed. The man had been a comfortable and soothing presence, a silent witness to her sleeping self. As time went on, however, she began to experience him, to know what he felt. With some visions came intense, powerful feelings. Sometimes she would get fleeting, confusing glimpses of a man in a police uniform — there was always rage and hate associated with that vision. And wolves … there were often red wolves, but in her dreams the young man loved them. He always loved them.
Often her dream visitor’s emotions flowed into her: black rage, and even blacker guilt. These were feelings Lindha rarely experienced, and never had she felt them so overpoweringly. At times there was such pain, such despair and grief! She wanted to weep, to pull her hair, to scream. Lindha had sleepless nights during these times, her dreams restless and disturbed.
But the moments she sought most were when the man yearned for her with sexual desire and a hunger so great she found herself moaning and thrashing, wanting to go to him, to ease that need. He was her secret lover in these dreams, his hard male body pressed against her, his lips closed over her skin, while his hands caressed her and his calloused palms and long fingers pulled her to him.
She wanted him desperately.
After these dreams she would wake restless and disturbed in another way, and would have to pleasure herself a number of times simply to help her forget his shadowy presence, as well as her sensual imaginings. Then it was always difficult to concentrate on her day. She prayed to Jana that the man in her dreams was the Trueborn, as spoken of by the Seer in the prophecy all those years ago. And she prayed that he was coming to the Temple. That he was coming for her.
Lindha’s mind returned to the third shooting star, and without further thought she once more wished what she always wished. So silly. So adolescent. Making wishes on shooting stars. For that matter, it was ridiculous to ask for the same thing three times in one night. However, she reminded herself, three was a lucky number …
I wish upon that star: I wish for love.
There. It was done. But behind this wish, always in her thoughts, was the dark-haired man, the unknown visitor that came to her in her dreams.
The Constellation Room chamber remained soundless and still while the stars continued their spiraling dance across the heavens. The Lady Lindha gazed upon the night sky, but her heart and soul were elsewhere. Her day’s duties were done and these stolen moments were hers alone. She could spend this time as she wished and so she thought of him …
Slipping through the darkened entryway to the Constellation room, the Lady Jeeha, second Lady to the Temple, could distinguish the outline of someone in the recliner. Jeeha smiled, knowing it was the Prefect. Got you, she thought, suppressing the impulse to laugh out loud. Lindha was a master at self-defense and was uncannily aware of her environment. Ordinarily it was impossible to sneak up on her, except when she was watching the heavens. As expected, the Prefect hadn’t noticed her arrival.
Jeeha said, “So, you switched Icom off?”
“Oh,” Lindha whirled around in surprise. She sat up and flicked on some low, ambient lighting. “Jeeha, I didn’t hear you. I …” She cleared her throat. “I just wanted some time to myself. Is there something I should know?”
Jeeha’s dark, almond eyes watched her, bemused. Why was Lindha blushing? she wondered. “I sent an alert. When I didn’t hear back I thought I’d come find you. The preliminary findings concerning the Damithst crystals have been submitted, I’ve already read them. Temple Prefects and seconds on every Freeworld have been given the results for comment.”
Lindha toggled Icom and read, “Accounts concerning Delian Damithst: Initial conclusions: 1. The stone is not ‘alive’ per biological definition. 2. The stone grows, depending upon unknown circumstances. No explanation can yet be provided for this microscopic growth. 3. The stone can give off measurable energy in the form of electromagnetic radiation. No explanation can be provided for why or how this energy is created. 4. The stone can stop growing and ‘die’ (blacken). 5. The stone could therefore be possibly considered ‘alive’ by a heretofore unknown alien definition. Research ongoing.”
“Well,” Lindha said, gently stroking the small jewel that rested on her right nostril.
“Perhaps they are living spiritual guides from Jana,” said Jeeha, stroking her own small jewel. It felt warm to her touch. Was it a living being? she wondered. A strand of her dark-brown hair had escaped the comprehensive and uniquely styled braid she had curled atop her head. The loosened tendril of hair shifted, tickling her cheek.
“And perhaps they are an alien race. Conceivably they only appear in crystal form while they study us.”
They both smiled at that.
“If they are Incomprehensible Alien Entities, I’m sure they’re benevolent.”
“I certainly agree with you there.” With the trained graceful stride of a Sister, Jeeha drifted over to another recliner. “This is a calming venue. I think I’ll sit here for awhile, as you seem so fond of doing.”
“Good for you, I recommend it. I find the Constellation chamber more soothing than a chapel.” Lindha grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “Don’t take this personally, Jeeha, but now that you’ve arrived I’m off to bed.”
“Good night then, Prefect.”
“Good night,” Lindha replied as she left.
The older woman nodded as Lindha left and thought, Until tomorrow my friend. She and Lindha, the two Sisters were as close as … well, sisters. They had served alongside one another for years, as comfortable and perfectly paired as a matching set of gloves.
By night the Temple was a dormitory; by day a school for students of all ages and sexes. A select educational institution of some repute, its teachers were honored and well paid. The Temple flourished in every way. The wealthiest people on Opan sent their sons and daughters to board and study any subject. The Temple’s religious beliefs were personal and not in any way mandatory. Graduates from the Temple of Jana were considered to have the best education available. There was at least one Temple on every Freeworld, and on some worlds there were hundreds of such Temples.
Jeeha lay back, Icom’d a reduction of the ceiling membrane magnification to a darker 100X, turned off all lights, and put on a restful orchestral piece, one of her recent favorites. Iris Surette’s 4th concerto featured a host of sweet and poignant violins in G and F major. At peace with the world, Jeeha breathed in deeply and watched the glowing band of stars that arched and spiraled across the black satin curtain of the Opan night sky.
Her mind relaxed as she thought over her day. She had been working in the infirmary. New mothers brought their children in, concerned over the child’s strange behaviors, tantrums, or hysteria. Unless they had a temperature, her advice was always the same: “Something wrong with your child? Feed them and put them to bed.” From her observation, as long as the child was in a loving environment, most problems with children were solved by a good meal and a good night’s sleep.
She smiled to herself. Men were a lot like children. She had coined another expression for the other women that came to her, the wives and the girlfriends: “Something wrong with your man? Feed him and take him to bed.”
It was wonderful how simple men were. After a stressful day, if a man came home distraught all was instantly fixed with a good meal and good sex. A woman, of course, suffering the same sort of day, would have to talk out her troubles, sometimes for hours. A woman needed resolution in order to concentrate on sex.
Ah well. Jeeha crossed her ankles. Jana had to have something to laugh about, she reminded herself. The difference between men and women was a definite example of Goddess humor.
It was dusk when Ash arrived at Assurance. The ship was well hidden, as it had lodged into a crevice of rock and now was covered in creepers. He shook his head, amazed. He had been a puny thirteen-year old, prone to lung infection, undersized and completely lacking life experience. Somehow he had lived through a crash landing, and had been passed over by a pack of hungry wolves. Injured and ill, he’d been dragged for kilometers in sub-zero temperatures. Almost in contempt of the odds, he’d survived.
It was Seeta that had saved him. Ash smiled. He had been given two mothers in his short life. Thank you, Jana, he thought gratefully, realizing how lucky he was. Two mothers and both loved him and nurtured him in their own way.
Peering inside, Ash found the Assurance dirty with the filth of animals. A variety of blue and violet creeper plants even had the audacity to grow inside the once-stately vessel. An odd lime green bit of vegetation stood out, seemingly thriving from within the darkened interior. Ash stared at it for a moment too long and Icom cheerfully began to explain that this was the trumpet vine, so called due to its brown and yellow trumpet shaped flowers that attracted the long-billed dove. Ash ended this dissertation and sighed.
It was difficult to recall Assurance as she once had been. He used Icom to try to locate where the safe may be, then moved an avalanche of junk to uncover the security console. It was intact. Four years or four hundred, it would not be easily breached.
Ash camped under the open sky. Unsettled by the close proximity of Assurance and the memories it recalled, he spent a restless night with disturbing dreams — nightmares, really. He made love to his mother again — blissfully unaware that he was in a dream until he began to take off his police uniform. That one action always brought him to consciousness, but not enough to wake him from his sleep — just enough to make him realize who he was. He had to continue the nightmare to the end, going through the actions as they happened.
There were other dreams too, about a snake and an evil, armored robot. Two of these dreams were hard to dismiss; he’d never had such visions before. Each was a solitary image representing a single moment in time with no beginning, no middle and no end. Were they foretellings of some future event? It was as if both images were a single picture from the future, of something that would happen.
In the first picture he was bound with rope; there was no hope of escape. Ash didn’t recognize where he was — he’d never been there before. All was silent as he saw himself from above. Such a strange sensation. Weightless. Disembodied.
Time stood still.
Was he dead? Passions boiled in this picture. Emotions were the most realistic part of the vision: he felt fear and despair, but rage most of all. He burned with a wolf-like need to kill.
The next picture was of a young woman. Again, it was a single image: no connection to the first picture. Again it had no beginning, no middle and no end. The woman lay crumpled in a fetal position, curled up on the floor like a cast-off rag. Her blonde hair covered her face; he could not see her face, but he knew there was a bruise forming on her cheek. In the vision, Ash panted, completely out of breath, and once again he felt a fevered rage. The woman had been hit heavily, with a closed fist. Who was it? Not the Lady Lindha, surely.
In his heart, Ash knew that in this picture he had struck the woman. He’d been standing above her, and he was glad to have hit her because she deserved it. The emotions connected with the picture were so vivid: dominant, merciless and enraged. In the vision he could feel his hackles rise. He felt like a leader with a disobedient member of the pack. It was insane. Ash knew he would never, ever, hit a woman. But he couldn’t escape the feelings this particular vision gave him. He felt as if he would be justified to have killed that woman. In the image in his mind he was still considering the matter. He wanted to kill her with his bare hands.
Ash fingered his talisman armguard. According to Delian legend the stone could give visions, and discern truth. Before his mother died it glowed. The gems had glowed with Dorian, too. He had no explanation for that. There were two empty spots on the armguard where Ash had removed two stones, one for each twin. If the King’s Mirror was sending these visions, he couldn’t see the point.
It was all so frustrating.
After a breakfast of meat jerky and wild leek, he returned to the ruined vessel. The situation with the security console was the same. He’d research Icom and go straight to the fringes. Someone would have the tools needed to free the Testimonials.
Irritable and sleep deprived, Ash made the mistake of checking Icom news. He had flagged the word Delian, so he immediately received a report concerning the arrival of new colonists. The report rehashed details of the genocide, with pictures of his mother and father and Forseth. An extrapolation of what he himself would look like was projected, and this was the only redeeming part of the broadcast. The image they showed of Ashton Chayton looked nothing like him. He had grown and flourished with the wolves and was much heavier and taller than they’d extrapolated.
In a murderous rage, Ash started home. In the back of his mind, he knew his behavior was not entirely rational. He suspected the Dark Sankomin. In this mood, however, he didn’t care. If he was going mad, so be it. He fingered his knife. What he wanted to do was kill something, because now the Testimonials would have to wait. He didn’t dare be seen — someone might recognize him. While the physical extrapolation was completely wrong, his face was accurate. The authorities were desperate to arrest Forseth but why were they so set on finding him? It made no sense.
Ash could hardly remember his journey home. He returned to the den late evening, in a vicious, irritable mood. His wolf family, sensing his bad temper, left him alone.
Exhausted by emotional turmoil, a sleepless night, and the long walk, he finally slept.
In the morning, Ash was surprised to be brought awake by his wolf father standing over him. Ash sat up, startled. Long Fang must have risen early because he had already been on the hunt and had arrived at the den with fresh meat. Never had his adopted father brought meat to the den. Never.
Still thrown off balance from a lack of sleep and the disturbing news of the day before, Ash’s mind reeled and sought an explanation. Long Fang raised his eyes in greeting. “I dragged this twill here to honor the fastest two-legs in the forest.”
Ash smiled and something tight, a painful knot, loosened in his chest. He imagined Long Fang tracking the twill and laughed out loud. “You were careful not to find one in the valley?”
Displaying his long white teeth, Long Fang grinned. He appeared to be rather pleased with himself. “If one is foolish enough to carry meat to one’s den, it is best to kill something nearby. Something one can drag down the mountain, not up it.”
It was another long sentence from his reticent wolf father, and Ash felt quite privileged to receive such a rare gift. Long Fang had obviously been concerned over his wayward adopted man-cub. He had wanted to cheer him up.
“Oh, Long Fang,” Ash said with feeling. He didn’t know how to thank him. Ash had never stroked Long Fang as the wolf’s dignity would never permit it. Gratitude filled his heart, an overwhelming emotion that could find no form of release.
Long Fang, sharp-eyed and perceptive, came to his rescue. “Never mind, lazy cub. Eat. But next time, be warned. I race with an empty belly.”
Long Fang left then, and Ash got a fire started, blazed it hot, and let it burn down to red embers for cooking. Meanwhile he took his time dressing and preparing his meal. The bird was fresh and young, and he looked forward to eating it. He giggled and thought, “To a wolf, nothing says I love you more than freshly killed twill.”
His wolf family grounded him, but life with the wolves couldn’t continue. Ash’s face set in a grim tight mask. Soon he must return to the world of men. He had never forgotten the vow he made almost five years ago, to find Forseth and kill him.
Over the next few days, Ash attempted to fit in with his friends as usual, but there was a barrier. His hate and rage toward Forseth was overpowering, tainting everything. His stomach was in knots; he had lost his appetite. Nighttime was unbearable, as Ash never seemed to have a normal, restful sleep. It was the dreaming! Terrible dreams that he couldn’t remember. The Dark Sankomin was riding him, and he seriously wondered whether this time he would actually lose his mind.
He wanted to mind-touch a boar, preferably one engaged in a fight to the death with another boar. He wanted to run naked through the woods; he wanted to scream, pull his hair out, or kill something. He wanted to punch a tree until his hands were bloody. With a desperate force of will, Ash did none of these things.
To top it all off, it was mating season.
For the first two nights he held his ears, trying to shut out the sound of howling. Tonight was the third night, and it was worst of all. Ash’s jaw tightened as he reassured himself he was in control. He recalled the parables of Jana: “The best triumph of all is to conquer oneself; to be conquered by ones base desires is of all things most shameful.”
Long Fang and Seeta had left the den, he and Teella were alone. Ash had been repeating the Testimonials, in hopes of finding peace. It had provided little distraction from the howl of lovesick wolves. He thought: “Jana’s gift can be lost in shadow; paled by burning fever: flesh desire. Fall not to thy animal nature or thy power shall fade: a wisp of smoke, an insignificant dream.”
Jana, protect me, Ash prayed, but the Goddess afforded no help.
The howling, as usual, had aroused him, and Ash, as always, imagined the Temple Prefect, Lady Lindha. He often thought of her and while he had no clear idea what she really looked like, he had a vivid imagination. Sometimes he made love to her intentionally, in waking dreams as well as when asleep. Her flesh was soft, and she always responded to his touch, his tongue, and his lips. There would be a catch in her breath and soft little sounds as she folded against his body and moved with him. It would be an act of love, what they would do together. In his mind, Lindha always wanted him, as he wanted her. And he did want her. He yearned for her, hungered for her body, her heart and soul, as well as for that clear, calm mind he had touched just once. That mind that he knew could give him peace.
It seemed so irrational. With pragmatic logic he was sure that when he finally did meet the Lady Lindha he would be disappointed. Surely he had created this woman that would be perfect for him. It was his just his imagination; reality would be much different. And yet …
The sound of a wolf howling penetrated his thoughts.
Teella padded softly to his side and nuzzled her cold nose toward him, touching his bare skin. “What is wrong, brother?”
Ash jumped as if burnt. “Go away,” he thought, reacting to her touch.
Teella tensed and her yellow eyes flared, both startled and uneasy. “I must stay in the den, Mother said.”
“Of course, Teella,” Ash replied, reaching over to stroke her, to soothe her. “It’s me. I must go. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. You wait here, all right?”
“I will stay.”
Thoughts crashing like waves on a rocky shore, in a storm of upheaval and need, Ash left the den. He shouldn’t. But he must. Finding a grassy alcove, he lay down, shut his eyes and said, “Jana, forgive me.” He searched. Catching his breath with surprise and relief, he made contact. He had entered the mind and body of a large male wolf, one that he had seen on occasion on the other side of the mountain. He was howling, telling of his desire. Himself forgotten, Ash was the wolf and the hard urgency in his loins burned like fire. He scented the musty smell of his fertile mate and raced to her side, nipping and biting, demonstrating his affection and his need.
The she-wolf was playing, letting him chase her. Possibly not yet really interested, she was attempting to struggle free.
“No,” he thought with unswerving determination. He caught her with his teeth, his own heated need adding to the male wolf’s desire. He jumped on the she-wolf, holding her down. He stayed with her, pushing her against the ground, growling. The growl was not angry; it helped the male wolf temper his own rising need while warning the she-wolf not to move. He was holding her, whining, licking and biting and holding once more. He wanted to mate. He wanted her to want him. She smelled ready for him. He was waiting until she reacted, until she was burning with the new season’s mating instinct as completely as he was.
The she-wolf was beginning to respond to his nips and caresses. Instinct took over, and she turned, to nuzzle and lick, her interest making his heart leap.
Instantly the male wolf reacted. He gripped the ruff of her neck with his teeth and mounted her. Ash’s own flesh flamed, his blood boiled and his breath became rapid and ragged. The pounding of his heart echoed like a drum in his ears. He felt it might burst from his chest. Something inside him swelled and expanded …
Trueborn! Inhuman!
Pounding! Pounding! Biting! Blood! Ash was the wolf! The sensations were all-consuming, indescribable, and then, the best. He became part of each mating wolf, in full mind-touch with both. The she-wolf thrashed and then stiffened, climaxing first. Ash felt hot pulsing waves of her pleasure roll through him. She made a guttural sound of satisfaction that inflamed her mate further, as she become relaxed and compliant. In the background to him now, was an echo of her sensual joy. Ash once more became only the large male wolf. Within moments the animal reached his own summit.
Ash experienced it all, he became them both and it was ecstasy … ecstasy!
The rolling pleasure blocked all thought. Ash forgot himself entirely.
Moments later, in a languid, dreamy state, Ash returned to his own body. Relaxed and content, his heart beat slowly with deep, comforting thumps. His chest rose and fell, and even the natural action of breathing seemed to add to his sense of peace. Ash rested, utterly released. The Dark Sankomin was a distant dream. I have let go of it all. How can something that good be bad?
He listened attentively. Yes. He heard another wolf howl — this one further away. It was a piercing cry, slicing deeply through the silence of the night.
Ash wore a joyful smile of personal gratification, intentionally planned. How did the saying go? If caught stealing ten credits, it may as well be twenty. Throwing his conscience to the wind, his hand curled down between his legs as he reached out to contact the other lovesick wolf.
The same procedure went on most of the night until finally Ash fell asleep, mentally and physically spent. It was the best night’s rest he’d had for days.
And he didn’t have a single dream.
18. Wolf Slave
Fringe dwellers, more commonly known as Ferals, is a name given to groups of people who camp on the outskirts of towns and cities from which they have become excluded, often through illegal activities or personal choice. Generally Ferals don’t have Icom, are suspicious of the government, are opposed to modern ways and technology, lack education, and are superstitious. There are Ferals living on the fringe of every Freeworld.
— Dr. Katie Toohey, Sociology Nobel Laureate
Three weeks later, tense and edgy, Ash sat outside the den, whittling thick wooden stakes. He had gathered a pile of about ten branches, ready for his attention.
Ash viciously attacked the wood, his mind in turmoil. He had enjoyed mating season, and by the love of the Goddess, he refused to feel bad about it. At least he had gotten much needed relief from the Dark Sankomin. Unfortunately, with the end of mating season, the guilt of participation had set in. And he had no cure.
Damn Assurance. Damn, damn, damn! He frowned. Visiting the ship had caused his worst memories to return. His most recent dreams had all revolved around his mother, Sartha. In his worst nightmare, he himself had killed her. The dream had been so real. It had set him thinking. Just before they crashed he had wished his mother dead. Had he somehow been responsible for her death? Did he have greater powers than he realized? He recited from the Testimonials: “Those with evil thoughts and deeds will travel a cruel road, their very power hastening their end, the way to death and darkness. How, then, to remain pure? One must touch another’s mind …”
He swore then, comprehensively, using every vile curse he had learned from the Ferals. Ash had accidentally touched Long Fang and Seeta during the season, and had joined in their mating. He was consumed by lust, and finding who he had touched, he felt it didn’t matter. What distinction should it make? But it had made a difference. It was too much like that time with his mother.
He was becoming tainted and burdened. The Dark Sankomin loomed before him. With no one to touch his mind he would be plagued to death. He already had enough passionate uncontained emotion for a hundred normal people. He wasn’t just sad when he was upset — he felt distraught. When angry he burned with an enraged urge to kill something. When he felt guilty, unwanted thoughts of suicide, plans and possibilities ran through his mind. It couldn’t go on like this. He needed to get help. How long before he lost his power and went completely mad?
He recalled Cleric Hinton’s warning, “No Delian can be in this universe without healing mind-touch. A Delian alone will surely die — or at least they will most certainly want to.” Except Ash was the last of his race. Well. There was nothing he could do about that.
With unnecessary force, he threw another completed stake down, and picked up another branch. One thing was certain. He would leave before next mating season. When he returned to civilization perhaps he could marry. Even if his bride couldn’t mind-touch, at least she would be a companion, someone to share his troubles … and his bed! Sex with the wolves gave him a better night’s sleep than at any other time. Perhaps sex with a woman would be the ultimate distraction from the Dark Sankomin. He certainly hoped so.
Masturbation as therapy was one area he had extensively examined. For a while, at one point, he must have pleasured himself twenty times a day. Sure it worked, but when it came to pushing back the Dark Sankomin it lasted about as long as the act of self gratification did. He often considered the idea of paying for Service. But how could he get enough credit to visit a courtesan? Yet a courtesan might be able to give him good advice. Licensed courtesans were trustworthy, trained and experienced counselors. Such liaisons were confidential by UWG edict, so it wouldn’t matter that the police wanted to question him. Courtesans never told a client’s secrets. It wasn’t just a matter of law — to them it was a matter of honor.
Ash smiled and for a moment he was completely diverted from his problems. He could purchase an entire year of daily Courtesan Service with just one of his Damithst stones. All courtesans were beautiful, but he wondered if there were any members of the local Courtesan Guild who had a mind and soul as sweet as Lindha’s? A surge of happiness rolled through him as he recalled mental contact with the Temple Prefect. Her mind had been a joy, as pure and uplifting as a clear mountain stream. Ash had never forgotten Lindha. He dreamed of her still.
A trained courtesan would probably be as close as he would ever get to full mind-touch consummation. For that, surely, he could be excused for selling one small Damithst stone from the talisman.
The thought of the King’s Mirror brought back memories of his father and just like that all his happiness fled, like air in space vacuum. It was replaced by a crushing blind rage. None of this would have happened except for Larren Forseth. Ash glowered with hate. It seemed all his troubles always led back to one man. Forseth had destroyed his people. It was his fault his parents were dead. And it was through him that he had lost his innocence.
Ash sprang up, threw his knife — which lodged in a nearby tree — and dropped his last stake. Curse his volatile emotions! He paced back and forth, his mind in turmoil. He wanted to scream, but instead he ran two kilometers, straight uphill. Despite the step and rocky terrain, he did it in less than ten minutes. At the top he turned around and ran back down, going back the long way. A wild pig-dog jumped out of a bush as he passed and tried to bite him with its long yellow incisors. It grazed his shoe, putting him off stride and just missing his leg. Only superior balance and agility prevented a fall.
As he ran from the opportunistic carnivore, Ash threw back his head and laughed out loud.
So stupid. He had brought nothing to defend himself with, not even his knife. It was absurd that a moment of near death or injury could actually cheer him up, yet it had. The last few minutes, Ash walked, having managed to recover his composure. Then he sighed and dislodged his knife from the blue-ringed paperbark tree. He pulled a whetting stone out of his pocket, sat back down, and began to clean and sharpen it.
Seeta padded softly over, and nuzzled him with maternal concern. “My cub,” she thought, “Forget the things of man.”
“I wish I could, Mother, but I can’t. I am a man.”
Seeta gazed at him with her soft yellow eyes. “You are wolf.” Ash could see that, in her mind, he was still a cub, and a cub should stay with its family. Seeta knew he planned to leave. She couldn’t comprehend his distress.
“Mother,” Ash thought patiently. “I am a man. And as a man, I need a woman. I must mate.”
Ash felt understanding come to Seeta like a shaft of light. He sensed her as she gave in, her mind echoing centuries of wolf knowledge. If the need to mate was upon her cub, there was nothing that could hold him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” Ash stroked her fur, and fondled her ears. Seeta wagged her tail and licked his hand.
“When must you go?”
“Soon, Mother. Before next mating season, I’ll be gone.”
The familiar sound of a speeder was heard, buzzing nearby.
Instantly the wolves padded under the cover of trees and Ash joined them. The sound passed, and they came out once more. Lately more people had been seen up in the mountains. Ash had heard shots, and he and the wolves had been wary, keeping well out of sight. If Ash was discovered, he would likely be killed for being an off-worlder. Although they were in a protected area, the wolves could be slaughtered for the bounty their coats would bring. Ferals didn’t respect parkland reserves. If hunters had been coming up this far into the mountains simply to get wolf skins, they must be desperate for credit.
Long Fang stood near Ash. “Tell me, two-legs. Do you know of an animal that needs to be eaten?” His thought was courteous and formal. Long Fang knew from long experience that Ash would never tell him about healthy fare.
Ash tried not to laugh. Long Fang was serious. It was the wording of his request that was so amusing. “I will search, Long Fang.” Reaching Ash located something. It was an old twill, or was it sick? Either way, it definitely fit into the category of an animal that needed to be eaten.
“Yes, Long Fang,” Ash confirmed, with due formality. “I have found a twill that is sick with age. It is up over the mountain.” He hesitated then added, “Did you wish to race?”
“Hah. I thought you would save this challenge until after I had eaten.”
In good spirits, the family set off through the forest on the hunt and Ash found he felt cheerful once more. Bored with Ash’s slower pace the wolves bounded ahead. Silently zigzagging across the terrain, noses to the ground, taking in every scent, they attempted to locate the twill on their own.
The woods felt like home to Ash, not the home of his birth with green leaves and blue skies but his Opan home. The Opan forest was dressed in a variety of blues and violets, some soft and light, some deep and dark. The smell of composting leaves filled his nostrils as he walked. It was the scent of clean earth and growing things. Sunlight filtered through breaks in the leaves, moving shafts of light as a soft silent breeze pushed tree branches in a gentle swaying dance. Ash walked noiselessly, as he had been trained to do from his earliest memories with the wolves. He was so intent on his friends, enjoying his walk and in a light mental rapport with the drowsy old twill, that he was not prepared for danger. Consequently, Ash wasn’t aware of the man until he was right behind him.
The scent of human sweat, urine and cigarette smoke on unwashed clothes warned him. Wolf-like instincts stopped him in time and adrenaline spiked through his veins. Breaking contact with the twill, Ash became motionless. The stranger hadn’t heard him, which was no surprise. Long Fang had taught him well the lesson of maintaining total silence.
The forest was quiet except for the background hum of insects and one solitary windchime hen announcing her territory with a repeating melody in high-pitched tones.
Ash stared. What was the man doing?
The picture became all too clear. A red-haired man held his arms at shoulder height, the cant of his body distinct, his weapon trained. The hunter was hidden in a dense thicket; downwind of his quarry. Ash stood behind him in a small blue grass meadow.
His quarry was Teella! Reaching out with his mind Ash screamed. “Run! Run down the hill! It’s a hunter. He has a gun!”
Ash saw Seeta and Teella bounding away, but they were too close. The hunter’s rifle was sighted. He had seen Teella and was taking careful aim, tracking her moving form. With no consideration for his own safety, Ash sprang, landing on the hunter’s back, spoiling his aim. The gun went off ineffectively, the sound muffled through a thicket of bushes and dense trees.
Ash grabbed the weapon and threw it out of reach. He had a firm hold on the slightly shorter man. Like a predator with his prey, his strong, young body moved with agility and purpose. The captured hunter had his back pressed against the front of Ash’s torso; the man struck out, helpless and confused. He was constrained before he knew what was happening. With wolf-like speed, Ash had the terrified man held in a head lock, both arms wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air and the flow of his rapid pulse. Ash pulled the man into the small clearing. Having never caught a man before, Ash took a moment to consider his next move.
“Stop right where you are,” a voice commanded from the other side of the clearing.
Ash swung toward the sound, holding his captive in front of him as a shield. Ash saw another red-haired man with a dark untrimmed beard, aiming a weapon with professional ease. Ash held perfectly still. The weapon was an older style of projectile.
“Let him go.”
Ash could weep with rage at his stupidity. Why had he thrown the weapon away? He should have known there would be at least two men. If he had been smarter, faster, he wouldn’t be in this position. He calmed his temper with the consolation that at least Teella was safe. Ash continued to hold his captive in a headlock; he was holding the hunter immobile and motionless by the strength of his arms with an even pressure on the man’s neck and the top of his head. If the man moved, Ash simply increased the pressure. If the man held still, the pressure lessened. It was a simple and effective lesson. The captured man had already learned to remain very, very still.
“Let him go,” the other man repeated.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Ash said, “If I let him go you’ll shoot me.”
“If you don’t let him go, I’ll shoot you.”
Ash began to slowly walk backwards with his captive. If he could get into the thick of the woods he could release his prisoner and perhaps make a run for it. He took a few more steps backwards, until he was moving out of the small clearing. The pace was steady and within moments he and his prisoner arrived beneath a tree.
“Stop.” The sound of an explosion came loudly; to an untrained ear it sounded like one blast. Ash, whose hearing was acute, was aware that in fact three separate shots had been fired. In the same instant, three blue-violet branches fell from the tree he was under, one on either side of Ash and one in front.
Ash froze. Keeping a tight hold on his human shield, he glanced down, then up. Either his adversary was an excellent marksman or he had been astonishingly lucky with those three shots. The branches were a few centimeters wide and it appeared that all three tree limbs had been shot purposely to land to either side and in front of him.
Ash swore. Impossible targets, executed flawlessly and at speed. With a sinking feeling he realized that the man’s shooting had nothing at all to do with luck.
The armed man had been watching Ash through the sight of his rifle. He lowered his weapon slightly, and stared at Ash with steady, pale-blue eyes. “I’m a good shot,” the man said with a nod, acknowledging Ash’s startled realization. “You let him go and you get to live. You don’t and I’m going to start by putting a bullet in your foot. You’re going to be in a world of pain if you make me shoot you in the foot because I’ll hit a knee after that. Then maybe a hand, or your elbow.” There was no give in his adversary’s expression. “You’ll beg me to put a shot between your eyes by the time I’m done.” The man’s finger was on the trigger. “I’m gonna count to three …”
There was a moment’s deliberation. Ash could threaten to kill his captive; it wouldn’t take much to break his neck. But this would be an empty threat; Ash wasn’t a murderer.
But he was trapped.
Ruthless animal instinct welled from somewhere inside.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
Ash felt his heart pound. Escape was an overwhelming need that rose up and crashed in upon him, the kind of unconscious driving urge that would cause an animal caught in a snare to chew off his own limb. He could kill this man if killing him would save his life. Animal reasoning made such an action obvious and uncomplicated. There was no confusion of morality. Ash began to tighten his grip.
But it will not save my life.
Human logic brought Ash back to himself. As fast as it had come, the urge to kill the man disappeared, leaving him in a cold sweat. His grip loosened. He was out of options. He couldn’t outrun a sharpshooter.
“One …”
Without a word, Ash released his captive.
The prisoner, once freed, fell to his knees panting with fear, or a lack of breath, or both. He crab-walked toward the safety of his friend.
The other man gestured with his weapon, “Hands up.”
His face set in an expressionless mask, Ash raised his arms, alert for any chance of escape.
“What do you think we got here, Ein? Some sort of wild man?”
The man, whom Ash had released, stood up. He rubbed his neck and shoulder, massaging where Ash had wrenched it. “Taro’s teeth, I’ll say he’s a wild man,” he replied with feeling. He seemed well aware of how close to death he’d come. “The Deceiver knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been here. Kill ‘em, Del. He hurt me.”
“Plenty of time for that. What’s your name, boy?”
“Sinto,” Ash lied, the name of an old school mate coming to mind. Guarded as a child, his natural reserve had served him while hiding on Opan. He doubted these Feral’s had Icom, so they would be unable to check his real name, but it was better to be safe. Months from turning eighteen, he was still underage. Even if they discovered he was the last surviving Delian, he could be forced into an Indentureship.
“Sinto, eh?” Del murmured, rubbing his bearded chin. “Where you from?”
“Tombay.”
“Balls to that. Brother, you ever heard an accent like that?”
“No, sir, I never,” Ein replied, looking at the stranger with new interest.
Brothers, Ash realized. He should have guessed. Del, clearly the smarter and older of the two, had red hair and a dark beard that sat on an enormous jutting jaw. His partner had the same height, coloring and features, but the similarities didn’t end there: they both smelled of old sweat as though they’d never washed. It offended Ash’s keen sense of smell.
“Looks like we got here an off-worlder. There’s a reward for finding one,” Del mused. “Still, if we turn him in, them government boys will just kill ‘em. No point in going all that way, just to end up dead. May as well kill him here and save the trip.” Del’s eyes narrowed as he looked Ash over. “He looks fit.”
Ein kept his distance and rubbed his neck. “He’s strong. I bet he’d be good in the mine.”
Del’s smile was slow, his blue eyes calculating as he looked Ash over. “True. We’ll keep him on a bit and get some work out of him. We can always kill him later.” He nodded to his younger brother, “I’ll guard ‘em, you get the rope.”
“Sure.”
Ein came back and under Del’s supervision wound a rope around Ash’s neck. The twine was then pulled down his back and his arms were tied behind him. The remainder of the rope went back around Ash’s neck and was tied off so the tail end made a lead. It was a strange but effective constriction that highlighted the men’s inexperience with prisoners. This heartened Ash.
As Ein worked, Ash suffered the indignity without reaction. He was used to stoically doing as he was told and waiting to see what he was supposed to do next. He had years of being feted and paraded as the heir apparent to thank for that, not to mention being formally dressed on a regular basis by his old valet, Hen. Good old Hen. Ash felt a momentary nostalgic twinge.
“He don’t say much, do he?” Del said. “That’s good. Maybe he’s an escaped criminal and already knows the lay of the land. All the better for us.”
Del and Ein started to walk, pulling Ash along by the rope around his neck. “C’mon, Sinto. We got work for you and it don’t get done standing here.”
Ein moved into the brush to retrieve his gun. The men walked until they came to a well-hidden, rusty old speeder. With Ash tied securely between them, they got in and took off. Ash looked for some small glimpse of Seeta, Teella or Long Fang, but they were too well hidden. Contact was impossible with his current state of mind. His wolf family may never know what happened to him, he realized wretchedly.
He was flying well out of mental reach.
19. A Higher Purpose
I have been asked many times how I was able to discover Omni. I’ve asked myself the same question. The obvious answer is, I don’t know. In truth, I believe that the time was right for its discovery. In my heart I feel that I was given many hints and in fact led by the hand; like a child through a dark wood by a caring adult. Perhaps there was a higher purpose, laboring for the benefit of all of humanity, working through me.
— Dr. Brent Jenkins, Quantum Physicist, 2075,
Biography, Omni: All of Everywhere
After some time, they landed near a dilapidated shack, thrown together from a collection of felled trees, tar, mud and rock. Near the shack was a working mine. It was surrounded by a combination of primitive equipment, all of it rusty and old. The men got out of the speeder. Ash, with the rope around his neck, arms tied behind him, was tugged out of the speeder like an animal on a lead. Aware of just how dangerous these men were, he complied without resistance. He was made to sit under a tree where his legs were also securely tied.
Ein’s expression was childlike, as if he had just received a shiny new toy. “Never have had me a slave,” he said, bringing out the makings to roll a cigarette.
“Me neither,” Del agreed. “I only ever worked like one.” They both laughed.
Del squatted down near Ash. “This is the deal, Sinto. You’re going to work our mine. Got that?”
Ash nodded.
“If you do a good job and bring out lots of rock, we give you food, water and even free board.” He chuckled, amused by his little joke. “Maybe even a woman once in a while if you do real good.” Del was nodding while speaking, as if explaining it all to himself. “But if you don’t work, you’re going to go hungry. We might even beat you up some.” He paused to let that thought sink in. “You wouldn’t want that.”
Ash shook his head emphatically.
Del’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Or we may just kill you straight out.”
“I’ll work,” Ash replied, not wanting to infuriate his captors. If he seemed submissive, perhaps it’d give him an advantage. He would be given the chance to get away and when he was, he would take it. All the while he was calculating, taking in his surroundings, preparing himself for any opportunity.
Del studied Ash, rubbing his chin through his thick beard. “You thinking on escape? I wouldn’t try it if I was you, Sinto. You got Chinters.” He laughed loudly.
Ash frowned. He had heard the phrase: “Chinters Chance” or “Chinters.” The fringe dwellers often used the expression. The story went that William Chinter was a fourteen-year-old boy that was kidnapped and sold into an Indentureship. Before regulation, private concerns often procured such slave workers. William, being in the wrong place and wrong time, was taken. His parents, Liz and Tim Chinter, never gave up, finding their son three years after he had been kidnapped. He had died of frostbite after his last escape attempt — they were just hours too late to save him.
William had an Icom implant, which had been disabled prior to his kidnapping, but the Icom writing facility had been preserved. His parents had retrieved the diary of their son, post death, and published the autobiography of his experiences. It became a United Worlds bestseller. Those guilty were punished, laws were changed and Indentureships became more regulated.
William Chinter had never given up trying to return to his family. He had escaped twenty-two times, his punishments after each escape becoming more and more severe. Every detail of his experiences, his treatment and his bids for freedom were carefully recorded. The child never once doubted; he was certain he would be reunited with his family once he was free. William had unswerving confidence and faith. This was a recurring theme throughout his Icom record and his parents did find him after he escaped. William Chinter had died with a smile on his face.
Now “Chinters Chance” or “You’ve got Chinters” was a common Freeworlds expression meaning, “In your dreams,” or “There is no chance at all.” Del wanted Ash to know that no matter what, he would remain a slave.
Del, the older brother, went to the scrap pile and started moving bits of metal. “Yep, this’ll do. We can make something out of this later.”
He and Ein were both weary of mining for tadium, the rare metal that was used in matter transport. The mine they were working did have small amounts of tadium but digging was back-breaking labor. They had planned to make a big strike and be able to live on their instant wealth. So far their plans hadn’t worked out. They had taken up selling wolf pelts to other Ferals, as it seemed an effortless way to make quick credit. Unfortunately, finding and killing wolves hadn’t been easy either. But with a slave laboring in the mine, they wouldn’t need to work at all.
Del left in the speeder and returned with a neck shackle and chain. He removed the rope and fastened the fetter around Ash’s neck so the metal ring was securely in place. The handcuffs were next, and Ash had his arms locked together, behind his back.
That same day Ash’s routine was set. He worked with the ring around his neck, but without a chain during the day. Instead, one of the men sat outside the mine, on guard. The two men had, from scrap metal, erected solid bars at the mouth of the mine, securing him inside. It was heavy enough that it took both men to move it. At dusk Ash was again chained, always by both men, one standing at a safe distance with a weapon trained. Ash was never allowed out of the mine or allowed to properly wash. If the sanitary conditions were appalling, the food was even worse. Escape was impossible.
Ash grimaced. His leg manacles had rubbed off his leg hair. He considered notifying the Authorities via Icom, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was still seven months too young. He needed to be eighteen or he could be forced into an Indentureship. Also, he felt uncomfortable after those broadcasts. The authorities wanted him, but why? Until he knew more he wasn’t willing to give himself up to them. He would find a way to escape. If matters became desperate he would send an Icom alert then.
Ash had mind-touched his captors many times, but was unable to find out much of use. They were brothers, both lazy. Del was indifferent to his misery but Ein had an almost childish sadistic streak; he enjoyed punishing him for any infraction. Thankfully Del kept Ein mostly in check. No education and moronic intelligence — it was a continual source of amazement to Ash that the brothers had thought of such a foolproof method of keeping him prisoner.
Winter was coming on and it was cold in the cave. Despite the lack of food, hard work and endless monotony, what Ash found most difficult to endure was loneliness. His power grew weaker during the privation of captivity, and he found he could not psychically reach far from his body. There were not many animals within mental distance to touch; even the birds kept away from the desolate mining area. Ash missed living contact. For the past four and a half years he’d spent every spare minute that he had in contact with the animals of Opan and, if he was close enough, with the fringe dwellers. Contact was second nature to him. When he wasn’t experiencing an animal through mind-touch, he would at least be communicating to one, like he did with Seeta, Long Fang and Teella.
Ash had buried the King’s Mirror at the first opportunity and so far its hiding place was secure. Sometimes, late at night, when Del and Ein were asleep, Ash would dig it up and hold it. It gave him comfort, reminding him of his childhood home. He was drawn to the Talisman as if it was a living thing. Not only that, it seemed to Ash as if the Mirror didn’t like to be alone either.
Ash listened to the silence of the night. The brothers were asleep. He crawled to his hiding place, lifted the rock he had placed as a marker, and dug down. Yes. The King’s Mirror was aglow. He had been accustomed to almost total darkness, so the blue radiance was intense. If he hadn’t been held captive he would never have noticed that glow.
Ash looked at it for some time until something tight inside him loosened. He gazed fondly at the largest stone. That oval Damithst was as big as an eye. Technically, it was this large stone that was the talisman. The other stones had been added later, and as time went on the guard was referred to as “King’s Mirror” or “Chayton’s Right Arm.” The account of Jenkins and the Talisman was a closely held secret. It was a verbal history, passed from father to son. As a direct descendant of Jenkins, Ash knew a little of the Legend. If his father was alive, and he was still on Delian he would have been told the entire historical account once he became Trueborn.
Ash caught his breath in sudden realization. Now he would never know.
He was the last of his race, the only one in the entire universe who knew the history of the King’s Mirror. Ash swallowed, feeling the loss of his heritage anew.
He recalled his father telling him that the first King of Delian had abandoned his birth name and identity, and had chosen the surname of Chayton. The name meant falcon in the Sioux Indian tongue. The first King of Delian had been half Sioux. The Sioux were a warrior nation of spiritual people. Brent Chayton had chosen this name because the falcon was swift, beautiful and regal. It was also aggressive, which marked the falcon as a leader.
His father also told Ash what his own name meant: Ashton came from old English, meaning pleasant and blessed, while Rynan was a Gallic derivative of King. Ash smiled. Ashton Rynan Chayton. He remembered being quite satisfied with the significance of his given names at the time.
The first King had named Delian after the Delian League, founded in 477 BC on Earth. An enthusiastic student of history, he had admired the concept. When Athens began as a Greek city state it was surrounded by undesirable land, which could barely support a few olive trees. It was off the main trading areas; it had no port and its army was weak. Despite all these flaws it became the most prominent of the Greek city states. It was the first democracy of a substantial size and, in many ways, became one of the few true democracies Earth had ever seen. It became a center of thinking and literature, producing philosophers like Socrates and Plato; art and architecture flourished to an unparalleled degree. The King of Delian wanted his new world to follow in its namesake’s footsteps.
But this was all background. The real story was about the first King of Delian, Ash’s great, great, great grandfather; how he had founded Delian; and how his wife, a famous seer, had discovered the King’s Mirror. Ash thought back, recalling his father telling him the tale at his bedside as a child. Ash closed his eyes, holding the Talisman close, and curled up to remember his home, his childhood, and his mother and father. Without a ripple, he slept, dropping into the pool of his past.
King Jarith’s straight, coal-black hair was tucked behind his ears. He was speaking softly to the eight year old. This was because this story was a secret, and like all secrets it needed to be shared in whispers. “Listen, my son, and I will tell you a tale that my father told me, and his father told him, and his father’s father before him. Once upon a time there was a young warrior who was born and lived on a Sioux Indian reservation on Earth. His name was Brent Jenkins. Brent’s mother was a Sioux Princess, but Brent’s father was not an Indian.”
“Life was hard for Brent. This was because he was what is known as a ‘breed.’ This meant that when Brent was with white children, they didn’t want to play with him because he was “red.” When he was with Sioux children, they didn’t want to play with him because he was a “breed.”
“But why?” Ash asked. “Why wouldn’t they play with him?”
“People are often afraid of anyone or anything that is different. It is called prejudice, Ashton, and it is something ignorant people do when they don’t know better.”
Ash frowned as his innocent mind processed the concept. It was a foreign idea, not easy for a child to understand. Ash had never observed or been victimized by such narrow-minded behavior. After a while, Ash said, “It’s stupid.”
Jarith’s laugh was low and soft. “Yes, son, it is stupid. I am afraid that humans individually, and as a whole, are capable of great stupidity.” He took Ash’s hand. “The police, the authorities for the Reservation, were bullies, too, and from a young age, because he was a breed, Brent learned how to fight and look after himself.”
“He was a good fighter?”
“Oh, yes; with hands, knees, elbows and feet. He learned to be merciless when he fought, although I never heard that he killed anyone. He had inherited the warrior side of himself from his mother. Brent avoided fighting when he could, but if he had to fight he was ruthless. It was a hard world he grew up in.”
Ash nodded.
“Brent’s mother, although full Sioux, was outcast to some degree as well. This was because she had married a white man rather than a full Sioux brave. His father was white, living with her on an Indian reservation. So this family of outcasts had each other and, in truth, with the love they had the intolerance they suffered didn’t matter. Brent rarely went to school. He spent much of his time in the woods or at home, learning on his own. Brent’s father was a hobby astronomer, and gave him an abiding interest in the stars.”
Jarith smiled down at his son. “I tell you this story as it was told to me, son. Yes, there were hardships, but there was also much joy. For a time, Ashton, the little family was happy. They could be themselves in each other’s presence.”
Ash’s heart filled with joy as he looked at his father. “They were like we are. Like you, me and mother.”
Jarith’s swallowed and cleared his throat. “You’re right, son. They were close, like our family. When Brent was fifteen, his mother died unexpectedly. He and his father went through a dark time. They had to leave the reservation and the family home, as neither were Sioux. They were not even allowed to attend the funeral.”
“That’s terrible! Why not?” Ash asked.
“His mother was a Sioux princess. The burial ceremony was a secret Sioux Indian tradition; outsiders were not allowed. So in one moment Brent and his father lost everything: mother, wife and home. They were not even allowed to say goodbye. This incident colored Brent’s life in many ways; he hated such irrational injustice, having spent so much time suffering it himself. This is why he was drawn to Delian, to a world where there was freedom from such ignorance.”
“Poor Brent … and his poor father.”
“Yes, life can be cruel. Yet Brent was bright and he was driven to learn. They say a true genius is born maybe once or twice a century and Brent was that genius. From childhood he spent almost all his time studying everything he could about space travel and history. They had no Icom then.”
“No Icom? How did he learn?”
“Through books.”
“Ohhh,” Ash said, remembering. He had been told about books and libraries. “That would have been so hard, to learn without Icom.”
Jarith smiled. “We are lucky to live in these times. By the time he was sixteen, Brent had many offers and accepted a scholarship to University. This meant that he didn’t have to pay for schooling. There he studied quantum physics and mathematics. It was there he met Janice, who as everyone knows became the first and foremost Seer. They fell in love and married. Brent discovered Omni-space and a way to access Omni via the corridors. The richest man on Earth, Brent Jenkins bought himself a Kingship and a planet he named Delian, changed his surname from Jenkins to Chayton, altered his physical features and ‘disappeared.’”
“Who did he take to Delian with him? Did the King …” Ash looked for the word. “Did he choose?
“Jenkins took many of his closest friends and advisors, all willing to conceal the secret of his identity. Are you asking who else came to Delian with him?”
“Yes. Were they all friends of his?”
“Oh, no, son. Millions of people left Earth and came here. Delian was one of the first Freeworld colonized. Other than that, the ship’s departure was publicly announced: anyone was welcome to come. Jenkins had a policy of inclusion, son. He practiced what he preached.”
Ash nodded and quoted from the parables: “Many are called, all are chosen, for the seeds of greatness live in each and every one of us.” A satisfied smile touched his lips. He snuggled down into his large king-sized bed with a sigh. “A happy ending, then. They deserved it.”
“Yes, son. But there is more to the story. It is easy to become confused by cause and effect. Sometimes effect can be the true cause. Things are not always what they seem. You see, while it appears that Brent discovered Omni, came to Delian and found the Talisman, the truth was the opposite: it was the Talisman, years before its discovery, that drew Brent to Delian. Both Brent and Janice had a lifetime of vivid dreams and visions. That was how they found each other and that was what they had in common. Janice knew they had to go to Delian to find the Mirror.”
Ash’s languid sleepiness disappeared. Astonished, he sat up in bed. “The first King of Delian said that the King’s Mirror was communicating with him? That it was the Talisman that brought him here?”
“Yes.” Jarith nodded. “I have worn the Talisman for years. I have never had a vision from it, and yet I have seen it react to truth: it glows. But Ashton, I am going to tell you the biggest secret of all, the one that no one knows except your mother and me, and now you. It was the first King’s belief that the Damithst crystal called to him. It was the stone that helped him discover Omni, drawing Brent and Janice Jenkins to Delian. The King’s Mirror wanted them here.”
His father gave him a direct gaze, and his dark eyes glittered with somber intensity. “You see, son,” he said, “the King’s Mirror has a purpose and a plan.”
20. Feral Entertainment
The Contagion Theory was formulated by Gustave Le Bon. Shielded by anonymity, large numbers of people abandon personal responsibility and surrender to the contagious hypnotic emotions of the crowd. A crowd assumes a life of its own, driving people toward irrational, violent action. The Delian view is that there is such a thing as a group mind. This mind, like any other, is capable of being influenced by common denominators of each individual mind through the Dark Sankomin.
— Prince Paul McAnulteigh, The Interpretations
“Eh Sinto.”
Ash woke, confused and disoriented. His dream was difficult to banish, the memory of it lingered like the scent of a woman’s perfume. Ash could still hear his father’s soft, cultured voice saying to him, “The King’s Mirror has a purpose and a plan.”
“Sinto!”
“I’m awake,” Ash said.
Del unlocked the gate, and then Ash’s chain, while Ein covered him with his rifle. “Well, get up and get started. Once you get your first load out I’ll bring you some food.”
“Yes, all right,” Ash said.
Del stomped off and Ash picked up his light. His tools were in the wheelbarrow. He attached the light to the wheelbarrow, then picked up the wheelbarrow and moved down toward the new vein he had been working on. Tadium was invisible, contained in quartz-like rock. Ash’s job was to get the rock out of the mine, where it could be processed through a machine that would crush it and extract the valuable metal. It took him about an hour to fill his barrow and bring it to the front of the cave, where he was given mashed Opan potato porridge for breakfast.
“I could use a clean rag and some extra water, Del,” Ash told him.
“Huh,” came Del’s noncommittal reply.
Ash hid his smile. At one time, if Ash wanted something, Del demanded Ash beg on his knees like a slave. Ash had refused this behavior so far. The arguments over this matter had escalated, growing to alarming proportions. Ash had gotten a number of beatings, but had remained steadfast. They needed a slave to work the mine, and he would do that. But he wouldn’t beg. He had to draw a line somewhere to keep his self respect.
“You’ll get it.” Del eventually replied.
Ash smiled. Del had probably been remembering the same head butting confrontations that Ash had recalled. Del had accused him of being “stubborn as a pink-tusked boar.”
An echo of his dream returned and Ash wondered about the King’s Mirror. Damithst was a crystal found only on Delian, a stone that was formed through a rigidly structured, three-dimensional matrix of atoms. How could an inanimate object have a purpose and a plan? Did that mean it was sentient? Could it communicate to him? It was such a mystery. He had never been told the rest of the verbal histories. They might have explained the King’s Mirror to him, but now he would never know.
Life in the mine carried on and time passed.
Ash had tried various ploys to escape, but all that had gotten him were more beatings. He now had numerous fine healing scars along his back and buttocks. Ash continued his studies as much as possible, but set himself on anything that interested him in any small way. Whenever he felt like giving up he would remember his parents. It helped.
The two brothers seemed to have no idea that Ash was starving despite his continuous protests for more food.
As time passed, Ash found that he was unable to mind-touch the brothers, he had lost his power to contact people. Then one day, a yellow long-tailed rat came into the mine. Thrilled for the company, Ash had tried to contact it, but failed. In despair Ash realized that he had lost his power to touch both people and animals. He was truly alone. He recalled the Testimonials: “Evil thought and deed shall burn and fester. These poisoned arrows, uncleansed by healing mind-touch, shall cause thy certain grave. Poor wretch. The Dark Sankomin will block thy mind and burden thy soul. Through guilt and self-destruction, one has the power not.”
He preferred rage to this soul-destroying despair. He could no longer think clearly. Why was he here? Did he deserve this fate? Memories tormented him. Guilt from every offense he ever committed overwhelmed him. The Dark Sankomin pressed against him, a heavy mass clouding his mind. He had lost his powers. Without healing mind-touch, he would never get them back. But he was the last Delian; there was no one to help. He thought he would prefer physical pain. It was bad enough to lose his freedom, but to lose his power …
The days became weeks, weeks became months, and still he worked the mine. He never gave up on the thought of escape, but the combination of hunger and physical suffering was telling. His sleep was restless; he was tormented by terrible dreams that he could never remember. Dark thoughts plagued him. He felt that this time he really was going mad. Was he destined to finish up here, dying a pointless death in a hole in the ground, resting on a foreign world?
The sky was red outside as winter came. Time passed and Opan skies became green once more as spring arrived. Over three months had passed since Ash had been brought to the mine.
One day, Ein came in to rouse him for the day’s work. “C’mon, lazy. Get up.”
But Ash remained unconscious.
Ein began to kick him: “Up! Up! Up!” Every word was punctuated with a blow.
Del was standing nearby as usual, with a weapon. “What is it?” He looked down at Ash. “Taro’s balls. You killed him, you fool.”
“Didn’t,” Ein protested.
Del bent over and listened to his heart. “Well, he’s alive, anyway.” He picked up Ash’s legs and began to drag him out of the mine. “Probably just needs some fresh air. When did you last feed him?”
“I don’t know.” Ein struggled to remember. “Yesterday?”
“You idiot, do I have to do everything myself?” He fastened Ash, still unconscious, to a nearby blue-ringed paperbark tree, and went to fetch him some stew and a drink.
“Hey, that’s my breakfast.”
“Too bad. You don’t want to go back to the mine, do you?”
Ein was silent.
“Right. Then we fix the slave. We can get years more work out of him.”
It was still early morning. Ein poured cold water over Ash’s head and he regained consciousness. He blinked and blinked and his eyes watered in the brilliance of the morning sun. The sky was emerald green with a few white clouds moving slowly across it. The breeze came from the west and Ash’s eyes were drawn that direction. There was moisture in the air, perhaps it would rain, or was he near water? Icom obligingly flicked on. Yes. Deep river flowed into Lake Manitoba not far from where he was. Tombay was the nearest city, perhaps a six hour walk away. When he escaped he would go there.
Ash took a deep breath. He was outside, but he had lost consciousness. He could have died! That was it, then. Unless he could escape today he planned to notify the authorities via Icom and take his chances on an Indentureship.
Following his brother’s decree, Ein gave Ash water and a bowl of what tasted like twill stew. His stomach rumbled, but he took his time, slowly savoring every bite. The two brothers were nearby; Ein sat on a rusty old speeder, Del standing by similarly cluttered refuse. Assuming a disinterested air, Ash watched and listened intently to every word.
Ein said, “We going to the animal fights tonight?”
“Sure. Never miss ‘em, do we?” Del said, squatting down and rolling a cigarette.
“Why don’t we take the slave?”
“What for?”
“Maybe all he needs is a bit of a change. You know, we’ve got a lot of work out of ‘im — and we never did get him a woman.” The men gave a knowing look at each other. Ash had been with them for more than three months and during that time they had both been through quite a few women, as well as indulging in many other vices.
“You’re serious,” Del’s eyebrows drew down in surprise. “I ain’t gonna spend the credit and he don’t look like he could use a woman anyway. What if someone reports us having an off-world slave? Did you think of that?”
“No one will report us,” Ein argued. “There’ll be friends and kin there tonight — no one with Icom. We’ll keep the chain on so’s he don’t get away. The change’ll do him good.”
Del looked at Ein with suspicion. Ash found he had an urgent and irrational impulse to laugh out loud. He stiffled it. That comment from Ein about how, “The change will do him good.” Ha. Ein didn’t care in the slightest about Ash’s wellbeing.
Del’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Why d’you want to bring the slave to the fights for, Ein?”
Unexpectedly, Ein flushed.
“Let’s hear it.”
Ein had a sheepish expression. “You know I been courting Jeanie, or at least I been trying to.” He looked away. “She jus’ don’t notice me. I thought if I showed her how I have a slave she’d, you know, she’d look at me. Think I was special.”
Del gave a low chuckle, and shook his head. “I doubt you have a chance with that girl, but it’s a good idea, brother. We’ll take the slave out and impress our kinfolks tonight — in particular, Miss Jeanie.” So it was decided. Ash was going out that evening.
Night came swiftly and by then Ash had recovered much of his strength. Though still weak, a day of rest, food and sunshine had restored him. He had managed to convince his captors to provide more water and let him back in the cave for a soapless wash and change of clothes. While there he had slipped the King’s Mirror on under his long-sleeved leather tunic. The possibilities of the night gave him newfound strength, as well as anticipation. It was an opportunity. Somehow he would escape. There was no way he was going back into that mine.
The brothers came to get him. They had been drinking from an extremely potent local brew called “Opan Lightning” or “Bathtub Gin.” It was a form of illegal alcohol, made from Opan potato, a sour, starchy yellow tuber. Ash could smell the alcohol from meters away — it was probably 190 proof. Better and better, Ash decided happily.
Del fastened the chain onto his own arm, leaving the ring in place around Ash’s neck.
“You won’t need that,” Ash said.
“Oh, yes, we will. I don’t trust you.”
“But …” Ash thought quickly. “What about when I am with the woman? You promised me a woman.”
Both brothers laughed. “You need to pull out more ore before we spend credit on you. Being an off-worlder, no whore in her right mind will have you. It’ll cost twice as much.”
To Ash’s further dismay, he was handcuffed wrist to wrist as well, arms behind his back. He had been fed and he felt well enough, but he was still unable to mind-touch. He searched for that familiar warmth inside and found only a grim and empty void. His power was gone.
They boarded the speeder and flew off to the fights.
After looking forward to getting away from his prison, Ash changed his mind once he was at the festivities. His night of adventure was turning out to include a number of extra crosses to endure. After years of living peacefully with the wolves and spending three months of silence in his prison cave, the loud raucous noises of the fringe dwellers carousing were more than his sensitive ears could take.
Ash had started the evening looking into the faces of the people he passed, hoping to see some sign of sympathy or a desire to help or free him, but there was only mild curiosity, amusement or indifference. It was humiliating to be paraded about in chains as if he were a common criminal or livestock on display.
“So, Del, you old bull, you got you a slave,” one man commented, cheerfully thumping Ash on the back.
“He does the work, but what else is he good at? Ha ha!”
Despite everything he had been through, Ash blushed at the constant physical pawing and interest he attracted. He hated being the center of attention and always had. It was worse than when he had been heir apparent on Delian; everyone had wanted to stare at him there, too, but at least they were never allowed to touch. Del and Ein were happy to have Ash on show and they didn’t care who poked and prodded him; nor did they mind that he was the butt of countless jokes. Feral humor. He was part of the entertainment, it seemed.
“He looks plenty useful to me,” said another.
“An off-worlder, you say? Where did you get him? Mars? Ha ha ha!”
“Is it true what they say about off-worlders? He looks human enough, but what’s he like without his clothes on?”
“How much for him, honey?” one hard-faced woman asked, thoughtfully stroking his shoulders with sensual interest. She thrust her hand down inside his trousers and grabbed. “Oh yeah. Plenty enough there to make a girl happy.”
The comments went on all night. The hill people joked and examined him, making him open his mouth and show his teeth, asking him silly questions and then whooping with laughter at his accent. All the while they continued to ply his owners with drink, the only thing Ash was pleased about. If his captors were drunk then he could try for freedom. Until then Ash was a sensation, something he would prefer not to be. And throughout it all he was frightened, worried that the King’s Mirror would be discovered. He didn’t want to lose his father’s talisman.
If only he could escape these chains.
At one point Ash looked up, straight into the attentive eyes of Jani, the old woman he had often traded with when visiting the Ferals. She had set up a stall and had not changed from what he could see. Still gray haired, toothless and old. Ash looked into her face and found sympathy and recognition there. She remained quite still, but her eyes moved over him, his neck chain and his captors, taking in his circumstances. They returned to his face with a hard, expressionless look.
Ash gave her an imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. Subtle, almost wolf like, Jani was observant and would know by his nod that he understood. And he really did understand. He knew Jani so well. Jani was worn and damaged by the hardship of fighting and of surviving a difficult life. Her physical form completely camouflaged the infinite strength and determination of the person within. With that one expression Jani had told him that she disapproved of his capture and resultant slavery.
Ash imagined what she was thinking, as clearly as if he had heard her thoughts: Off-worlder got his self in trouble. Stupid man-child … more guts and go than sense. Not only was the woman on his side, but she would find a way to free him at the soonest opportunity. Jani would not rest until she did. Ash felt her intention and the warmth of honest human connection, something he had not experienced for far too long.
Ash’s heart lightened, and despite the circumstances he was filled with joy … and hope. He thought, Many would look at Jani and see an ugly old woman. They would never know her force of character, the Titan underneath. He smiled. To him, Jani was beautiful.
Soon the moment arrived. Time for the evening entertainment, the highlight, what everyone had come here to see: the animal fights. A large open area was the site of the event; it was covered by grass that had been eaten right down to the dirt by grazing stock. A pit had been dug down to some depth: this was the arena. Ash carefully observed the surroundings as much as he could. No fresh dirt, only solid clay — the pit must have been a source of entertainment for years. Dug into an enormous circle, the pit was large enough that everyone could look down and watch the show. It also ran deeper than a tall man’s head would be if he stood inside. A wooden platform circled the arena — to prevent people from falling in, perhaps.
A few rusty speeders lay around, scattered about like fallen leaves, but it appeared that of the hundreds of people who had come, almost all had arrived on foot. A number of stalls had been set up far off to one side, where food, drink and other various amusements were being bartered or exchanged for credit. He smelled cooking meat, burning pitch, spices and the sharp bite of alcohol. Torches illuminated the night; they flickered in the light breeze, keeping the darkness at bay. Some of the torches were held, others planted into the ground. Burning brightly, they cast an eerie, indistinct glow that distorted the visages of the inebriated hill people. The Ferals, muddled and weaving, moved like misshapen demons in the distorted light.
The first animal was brought out, dragged out in its cage and carefully dumped into the arena: it was a large and angry boar. A few pig-dogs were brought toward the pit by their owners. Not really dogs, they were an indigenous animal that looked a bit like a badger with quills instead of fur. Carnivorous hunters and scavengers, they loved to fight and could be trained to track boar. They were on leashes, but were snarling and snapping, their spittle flying into the crowd. As one, the multitude moved back, giving the aggressive animals space.
The crowd almost resonated in a wild frenzy. Filled with fanatical enthusiasm they were gambling large amounts, shouting to be heard amidst the din. Bets and coarse comments verbally exploded back and forth from within the confines of the crowd. The verbal barrage was so swift and loud that it reminded Ash of rapid weapon fire. It was difficult to tell who was actually speaking.
“I bet a credit that the boar wins.”
“Two on the pig dog.”
“A dog couldn’t kill a boar.”
“Make it two pig dogs!”
“Yes. It’s a small boar. An even match.”
The contest was set, and two of the vicious-looking dogs were dropped into the arena with the infuriated boar. Ash looked on in disgust. What a waste. The pig-dogs had been bred and trained to flush out, fight and hold wild boar, so their masters could come in for the kill. On their own, however, such dogs wouldn’t have a chance.
To Ein’s dismay, the object of his attentions, Jeanie, hadn’t come to the animal fights. Ein’s disappointment had been momentary. Both Del and Ein were convulsing with laughter and screaming, thoroughly enjoying the proceedings. Every so often, Del would raise his arms in his excitement and wrench Ash’s neck violently. He was becoming quite used to it. He could even predict when to move, in order to lessen the jar.
The boar had tusked one dog, throwing with such force that it flew, mortally wounded and howling with pain and terror, into the roaring crowd. The other soon met a similar fate, except it remained inside the ring with the maddened boar. It was trampled and tusked again and again well after it was dead. The rank smell of fresh blood filled the air like a malevolent perfume.
Credit changed hands, more drinks went around, and the rest of the night continued along the same vein. By the end of the evening there were no more animals left to fight. The remaining living creature, the challenger, who had destroyed all opponents, was the king of all. It was a huge male boar — much, much larger than the first boar that had fought. An intelligent creature, it trotted around the arena restlessly, barrel chest heaving, tusks gleaming with blood in the firelight, snorting and sniffing. The creature was turning its head from side to side as it trotted around the ring. Its small round eyes were searching, looking up at the crowd of people above: it was expectant, watching for another victim.
Someone found a full-grown twill and threw it in the pit, having taken bets on how long the bird would last. Laughter and clapping erupted at this new source of entertainment. With a rush of hoofs, the bird was down within seconds, the boar trampling and tusking the life out of it, its bloody snout covered with fresh gore and feathers.
Lost Souls of Perdition, Ash stared in awe. That animal is mad. Blood crazed, frenzied, the boar continued its bizarre rampage, tusking, tusking over again, stabbing, crushing, and trampling any remaining scraps of animals and occasionally crashing into the walls of the pit in its savage rage.
Ash was repelled and nauseated by the cruel sport. This place offended his sense of smell and sight. A foul odor of fear, blood, brutalized flesh and abhorrent death permeated the entire area. He almost preferred the mine. Every animal had died for nothing. Sickened with disgust, Ash longed to return to the sanity of the wolves. How could people do this for pleasure? And what unnatural satisfaction could one obtain by watching these senseless, savage deaths?
The maddened boar continued careening around the ring in its rage, having destroyed every opponent. There was nothing else to match with the boar in the arena. Almost as one, the crowd seemed to sigh with this knowledge, experiencing an almost palpable wave of dejection. The ongoing din of argument, laughter, and chatter abated and an unhappy, brooding silence followed. The Ferals mood darkened. The night’s entertainment had come to an end.
Someone started booing and this began a chorus of agreement. Others began to make noises of disparagement, hissing and scowling, swearing and making scornful hand gestures. It was as if one instrument had started playing and, as a consequence, an entire orchestra had joined in. The music was the same and everyone was contributing to the common refrain.
“Booooo. Boooo.”
Various profanities were shouted out: colorful, loud, intense and obscene.
The throng was unhappy.
Evidently the crowd’s lust for death wasn’t sated.
Ash scanned the sea of faces surrounding him. There were no longer any individuals in this rabble. They reacted as if they had one common mood, as if they were one single being. The massive crowd was becoming angry and that rage was like a rapidly spreading malignant disease spiraling into something more pronounced.
Anything could happen.
Anything.
Like a spark to dry tender, or the last charged particle that sets off a nuclear reaction, Ash could feel it: the crowd was going to explode. Just as he realized how dangerous the feral mob was becoming, someone whooped. It was a yell of joy, heard by all.
“I got an idea. A good one!” a man yelled. “The slave! I bet five credits that your slave goes down in less than two minutes.”
The mob responded instantly, like the ignition of rocket fuel. The rabble was not sated — it wanted more blood. There was a palpable frenzy of fresh excitement; the crowd moved forward in a rush of fresh energy, a ripple of purpose. The multitude surged toward Ash, roaring with one united voice.
“Yes,” they shouted, voices high pitched with excitement. “The off-worlder. Throw in the off-worlder!”
“Yes! Yes!” The words were shouted in an earsplitting roar.
“Throw him in! Throw him in!”
“I wager he be dead in three minutes,” a gray-bearded man with a surprisingly thunderous voice yelled, raising a gnarled hand.
“Three and a half credits says he runs and don’t even try to fight,” another cried out.
“Ha,” one fellow retorted, “I’ll take that wager. I’m thinking he’ll be too scared to run,” the man chortled gleefully.
“No,” Del protested at full volume. As the crowd surged toward him he raised his hands up high, as if to ward off an avalanche. “He’s worth credit. We got to keep him working in the mine.”
Weak with relief, Ash could hardly remain standing. He looked toward Del with heartfelt gratitude. Thank Jana. Del didn’t want to put him in the pit; he knew that Ash was too valuable. Del was on his side. To enter that arena without the power to mind-touch would be suicide. This triumphant boar was particularly formidable, an experienced predator that enjoyed the kill.
“I’ll buy your slave. Then when he’s gone it’s not your loss,” one man offered. Compared to the other Ferals he was almost well dressed. “Ten Credits.”
Pure terror rushed through Ash, freezing him to stillness; it was as if there was ice water running in his veins.
“Not enough.” Del shouted to be heard above the crowd.
“Twenty.”
“No. No, Del, Listen. You need me,” Ash urged. He could feel his heart in his chest, pounding with dread. What could he say that could compete with Del’s greed? How could he get through to him? Frantic, Ash said, “I know where there is gold, Del. I’ve been there, in the mountains. I can show you.”
Del wasn’t listening. “Twenty isn’t enough. He can work for years, yet.”
“Thirty.”
Ash was shouting, desperate to be heard. “I know where you can get jewels. Delian Damithst. Priceless jewels. Don’t sell me. I can make you rich.”
“Thirty is a good price,” the well-dressed man assured.
Del’s face was expressionless. He looked toward his brother. Ein shrugged and pointed upwards. He obviously thought they could get more than thirty.
“No. No, please. Listen, you need me,” Ash begged. Any consideration of pride disappeared like fog blown away by a strong hot wind or vanishing under a searing sun. He went down on his knees before Del, in an attempt to get his attention. Del had always wanted him begging. When measured up against being put in an arena with a maddened boar, getting on his knees just didn’t seem such a big deal.
“Thirty-five,” the stranger offered.
Wrists still cuffed behind his back, Ash pushed against Del’s legs with his torso, still trying to get his attention. Del frowned, a furrow between his brows. He looked down at Ash as if assessing his worth.
On his knees, Ash pleaded for his life. “I do the work. Think about it. Who will work your mine?” His heart was thumping; he felt breathless. “Please, Del, please. I swear. I’ll work harder. I’ll do anything. Anything! Just don’t put me in the ring.” Ash was desperate. It was an overwhelming, soul-destroying sentiment that he had up until now been unaware he was even capable of.
His mind held one thought: I don’t want to die.
Del looked up at the rich stranger, ignoring Ash. He rubbed his bearded chin, considering for a few moments. Then he hawked and spat, putting his right hand out. “Forty and it’s done,” he said.
The strange shook his head. “Thirty-eight and that’s my last offer.”
Del looked at Ein.
Ein grinned broadly, making no attempt to conceal his delight.
“Done. Sold at thirty-eight.”
The men both spat and shook hands and the rich man carefully counted out the credits. Ein slapped his brother on the back, and the two men hugged and danced a little jig.
“Well, will ya look here at what we just done?” Del said. “Thirty-eight. It’s a fortune.”
“Yup,” Ein agreed. “We sure as Deceiver’s shit will have some fun spending that. I bet even Jeannie will want me now.”
And so it was that Ash was purchased by the highest bidder. But there would be no time to get to know his new master. For Ash had been sold to provide sport, to die in agony under the fascinated gaze of hundreds of spectators.
21. Death and Life
Mother Latnok demanded, “Say this: ‘I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.’” The Seer knew that I was frightened, and this realization made me angry. A strange sensation came to me then from somewhere inside. It clawed at me, wanting to get out: courage, pride and … something else … something inhuman. I thought: This is what I’ve lost. This is what I seek … this truth. It was then that all fear fled, banished by a sudden powerful awareness from within.
— Trueborn private files
Flanked by two tough-looking bodyguards, the buyer paid Del the agreed-upon sum. One grabbed Ash’s neck shackle, and began to pull. Numb with shock and disbelief, and already on his knees, Ash stumbled and fell heavily on his face and shoulder. With his arms bound in handcuffs behind his back he couldn’t break his fall, nor could he right himself. Without a moment’s hesitation the man and his associates simply dragged him in the dirt. The chain bit fiercely into his neck. They were pulling him toward the pit where the maddened boar waited.
“Wait,” Ash choked. Shifting and stumbling awkwardly, working to keep the ring from pulling, Ash staggered, and managed to get to his feet. At length, with a few running steps, he was able to follow behind his new master. They pulled him onward, to the wooden benches that surrounded the arena.
“No,” Ash whispered as he gazed into the pit. The boar, its pink tusks glistening with blood, was still charging, back and forth, its anger unabated. Ash swayed, feeling faint. Terror gripped him and he screamed “No!” at the top of his voice.
No one heard him in the din. The wagers continued with fresh enthusiasm. It was two to one that Ash would be dead within thirty seconds. No one bet that he would live more than a minute.
A pig-dog handler scoffed, “One man against this maddened boar? Five seconds is all I give him — and he’d be lucky to last that long.”
There was ribald laughter and coarse jesting in response. The mob yelled to each other with feral joy. People were smiling now, joking and laughing. Bets were hammered down, one after another, pounding unabated like water in an equatorial downpour. Drinks were sculled, and trays of foodstuffs were sold and consumed; half-clad women were plying their trade. It all added to the demonic revelry. Credits flowed like mountain streams after melting winter snows. A number of others, out of credit and unable to bet, were entertaining themselves by throwing stones and other objects at the infuriated boar, keeping its fury fresh.
“Five credits that the slave dies in less than thirty seconds.”
“That boar, he so mad he gonna tusk and tusk that boy to shreds. Ain’t nobody gonna live more than ten seconds in the ring with that animal.”
“I’ll take that bet,” a skinny, plain-faced woman with brown hair shouted, raising her arm, and holding out her money. Ash observed that she had a black eye and was missing her front teeth. “Boy looks fit to me. He’ll get a chance to run some.”
“Who wants in on the tusking? It’s a big boar … tall, too.”
“First tusk anywhere above the groin,” a dark-haired man with a long, dark beard and thick eyebrows offered. Ash noticed that the man had a toddler sitting on his shoulders. The young boy had his pudgy childish fingers in the man’s hair. Beside him, a pinched-faced woman held a baby on her hip. “That’ll be my wager: three to one. Gonna be stomach or back, you mark my words now. Who’ll bet?”
“I bet the leg. Close to the ground. That off-worlder’ll be jumping around, trying to outrun ‘em.”
“Left or right?” The dark man queried.
“I win no matter which leg gets cut first.”
“I wager the boy fights. He looks strong. He’ll fight.”
“Can’t fight with his arms locked behind his back.”
“Twenty says he is dead in less than a minute.”
“Done.”
The betting slowed to a trickle, then finished. The man who bought Ash stood to win a fortune if he lasted less than thirty seconds. It was time for the sport to begin. Roaring, the crowd surged toward him. Ash was lifted like a leaf on water, as many hands raised him and moved him. They placed him on the wooden ledge, ready to be pushed in when the timer called.
The crowd pulled back like a tide, watching … waiting.
Ash stood for a moment, wavering, getting his balance. He thought: I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian, and I am not afraid. But the mantra didn’t work. He was terrified. For the last four years he had worried about dying from madness caused by the Dark Sankomin. Now it seemed that he wasn’t going to live long enough to face that fear. His heart pounded as he imagined tusks thrusting into him, his body lifeless, trampled into unrecognizable bits of cloth, blood and flesh.
“Wait! Release me. Give me a knife!” he yelled. “I can’t fight without a knife. I can’t fight in these chains!” Ash screamed at the top of his voice, burning with anger over the injustice of it all. His chance of survival was negligible. Unarmed, with chains holding his arms behind his back, he had Chinters, which was to say no chance at all.
He considered sending an Icom alert to the authorities. He could say Forseth was at this location. They would rush here then. He may serve an Indentureship, but at least he would be alive. Except that an Icom alert would make no difference, now. If he had known what the crowd intended … but no, everything was happening too fast. The authorities couldn’t arrive in time to save him.
“Let me fight,” Ash shouted, and the crowd finally heard him.
“Fair game! Fair game! Fair game!” The mob began to chant.
“A knife! Yes. Give him a knife. Not fair without a knife!”
Someone passed Ash a three inch blade — a thoughtful gesture, but useless with his hands bound behind him.
“Release me!” He attempted to display his handcuffs by raising his arms up as high as possible behind his back.
There was a loud roar of agreement as a wave of people put their hands in the air and moved toward Ash. The crowd was wild with excitement. The man was planning to fight. This was new. This would be something to see.
“Take off the shackles, take ‘em off, take ‘em off!” became the chant.
“Four and a quarter credits the slave lasts a minute with his hands free.”
“He can run faster without chains. Be a bit longer before the boar can strike. I want to change my bet. Five credits that the off-worlder lasts longer. Three to one.”
“Done!”
Bets were being taken once more, a storm of offers and counter offers, the odds changing. Ash’s new master seemed happy to comply with the demands of the crowd, removing the handcuffs. Ash’s shoulders were sore, his wrists were raw. The man grabbed Ash roughly by his tunic and pulled him down near him, face to face. His new owner wanted to speak privately, unheard above the yelling the crowd.
“Listen, off-worlder,” the man said his eyes hard and fierce. “I have a kill-pill here. You put it between your teeth. If you want a fast, painless death, bite it. I need you to die in less than thirty seconds. So do me a favor. Make us both happy and bite the pill.” With that advice he jammed a small red capsule firmly into Ash’s mouth.
Ash straightened. The ring remained around his neck, but his owner had removed the long heavy chain. His arms were no longer bound behind his back and he had a knife.
“Push him in! Push him in!” everyone screamed at once.
“Wait …!” a voice called.
“Push him. Push him. Push him in!” The chant continued.
“… I need to check the time.”
Ash squared his shoulders and held his chin high in a haughty, defiant demeanor. He scanned the multitude of ignorant Ferals, clenched his teeth and thought bitterly: May the Deceiver take you all. I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.
With a knife in his hand and unshackled, the mantra worked.
His fear left him and time stood still.
Ash fell into a peculiar sort of hyperawareness. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, as if the last moments of his life were going to proceed leisurely. Perhaps, knowing death was upon him, he was savoring the experience, truly living his life fully in these last few moments. Or perhaps everything had stilled as an apology for his premature demise, leaving him calmer than he had ever been in his life. He looked for Jani, for some empathy, for some human connection, but he couldn’t see her. There was no compassion in this crowd — only cold self-interest.
He experienced a strange sort of out-of-body disconnected feeling. He felt like a spectator to his own death.
The pit was in the middle of a field. It was impossible for him to run toward the beckoning safety of the woods; he’d be cut off by the bloodthirsty mob. The sky was dark and moonless, but the stars shone bright above the burning torches. Even without a breeze, the cool night air was biting. There would be heavy frost in the morning, he knew; it was doubtful that he would be alive to feel it. Off in the distance he could just see the lights of Tombay, a city he had hoped to escape to. He had visited once. That visit now seemed so long ago, like another lifetime.
If he was to die now, the last of his race, then he would at least do it well. Contemptuous of a coward’s way out, he spat out the lethal capsule. Only one expulsion of breath had passed since he had said his mantra. One tiny sigh, yet that moment had stretched eternally, off to infinity.
It had been all the time there was and would ever be … and yet no time at all.
Jana keep me, he thought. With one last look, Ash leaped into the arena.
The crowd roared. Like a rushing wave, storm driven, they surged toward the pit.
The boar, seeing a new foe, gave a maddened snort. With a squeal of anger and a flash of hooves, the boar lunged, thrusting his tusks toward Ash with slashing, deadly precision. Ash moved. Quick and light as a flying bird, Ash leapt. He flew upward, soaring into the air, out of the boar’s way. Gracefully executing a forward roll, he landed securely on both feet.
It was close. He had moved just in time to avoid the boar’s razor sharp tusks.
“OOOOweeee! OOOOOweeee!” The noise erupted as if one loud voice. The mob yelled with rabid frenzy, carried away by the spectacular demonstration of Ash’s athletic evasion.
The off-worlder had escaped the first thrust.
The rank smell of fresh blood assailed Ash’s senses. The pit, in places, was ankle deep in gore. His stomach recoiled, but he continued a wide range of offensive and defensive movements. His katra disciplines were intuitive, and he thanked Jana that despite the ill health of his youth, he had persisted with regular training from early childhood.
Ash went in for the attack while the boar was still recovering, altering its course from that first charge. In two quick strides Ash leaped on the animal. Tensing his muscles, using all of his strength as well as both hands, he plunged his knife up to the handle, into the boar’s solid, sinewy shoulder.
“Ahhhhhhhh.” The crowd roared.
With a strength born of desperation, Ash attempted to maintain his position astride the boar’s back, but it was impossible. Swift and unpredictable, the animal changed directions and dislodged him. Ash’s feet fell to the floor of the arena and he was dragged, still holding the knife.
His wrists and arms were strained and jarred by the struggle, but he refused to relinquish the weapon. With a valiant effort he pulled the knife loose. On hands and knees, Ash found he was covered in gore past his wrists, buried in the blood, flesh and entrails of uncountable unfortunate creatures.
Ash scrambled now on all fours. His heart pounded wildly. Fear and adrenaline coursed through his veins in recognition of the danger he was in now that he was down. If he stayed on hands and knees much longer he would never get back up. He would die right here, right now in this arena. He heard a squeal and a grunt and with wolf-honed instincts, he moved. Jumping up and running sideways, his feet ran along the hard clay wall of the pit, the speed of his momentum defying gravity for an instant.
Ferocious with pain and rage, the animal spun around faster than Ash’s eye could follow. Forsaken Worlds! Ash cursed. It was fast, too fast. It sprinted full tilt and speared Ash in the shoulder before he had time to escape that slashing thrust.
Ash screamed.
“Ohhhhhhh!” yelled the crowd.
“The off-worlder has been tusked!” a woman said, with both revulsion and fascination in her high-pitched voice.
“OOOOweeee! I win! I win!” The dark-haired man yelled gleefully, the toddler on his shoulders almost falling off as he jumped up and down with delight.
“Ill-begotten mother-whore of Perdition,” another man swore.
A mad chorus of foul-mouthed cursing, resounding boos, hissing and profanity echoed from above the pit. It seemed that a number of people had lost money.
“First tusk is above the groin. What did I tell ya all?”
Ash wasn’t listening — he was concentrating on staying alive. Lucky for him, he had been able to turn slightly sideways, so that the boar’s long pink tusks only penetrated the outer portion of his flesh, lodging into the muscle of his shoulder and not skewering him from back to front as was intended. With an uncanny wolf-like agility, combined with a gut-level need for survival, Ash managed to spring away. He had jumped to momentary safety, attaining a small space apart from the boar once more.
Quick as a cat, the boar pulled back for another run.
Groaning, Ash held himself in a crouch, shoulders hunched, head hung low. He clenched his teeth, attempting to control a pulsing wave of nausea and pain. His vision tunneled and turned yellow then gray. He felt his consciousness slipping away. There was a roaring in his ears. A moment passed as, with a heroic effort, he forced himself to focus, pushing his attention away from the fire in his burning shoulder.
His vision and hearing returned.
Ash was exhausted beyond measure. As an infant, child, and adolescent he had fought ill health and the promise of death again and again. Continuous threat to his life was a part of his earliest memories, and as a consequence he had discovered an inborn tenaciousness. It was not in his nature to give up.
He thought: I want to live. The certainty of this steady resolve rolled through him as a kind of revelation. Jaw clenched, Ash steeled himself for his next efforts. He was spent. With a silent prayer to Jana, he dug down; he reached deep into the eternal strength one can only find in heart and soul.
A plan was forming in his mind. Ash was thinking and acting like a wolf now. The animal within him welled up. He was running on instinct. It was a familiar sensation. There was something he knew, some knowledge deep inside him, but it was just out of reach.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
“Time?” came a call.
“He’s been in the arena ninety seconds exactly,” yelled a reply.
“He ain’t dead, yet,” someone protested. “Gotta be dead before we call time.”
The animal eyed Ash and began to charge. As the boar neared, Ash took a deep breath and leaped. With a blur of inhuman speed, using the last of his reserves, he moved as if uninjured. Springing to the animal’s side, he plunged the knife into its hide, this time successfully slashing the softer covering of the animal’s underbelly.
The boar gave a heart-stopping bellow, a piercing inhuman scream.
It sped away from the knife, a string of purple entrails and blood dripping and dragging beneath it. Sides heaving, its breath sending clouds of steam from its nose in the chill night air, the boar stopped and faced Ash. Head down, the boar’s beady eyes were fixed on its adversary.
“Ahhh!” the hill people roared, energized and astonished. They never expected to watch Ash inflict a fatal wound. A cacophony of sound erupted as the crowd went berserk.
“Two to one on the off-worlder lasting two minutes,” came an excited shout.
“That animal is all-fire mad. He’s thinking things over now, but he gonna come back and land on that boy like a mountain. I give him another fifty seconds.”
“Three to one.”
There was an urgent rush, the odds changing. Echoing in each individual mind, their thoughts were almost visible: The off-worlder might live!
Ash felt relieved … elated. That last slash, a lucky gut wound, had been propitious. The boar, although hard to kill, had received a mortal injury. Blood dripped from its belly. Its entrails were hanging low, dragging through the refuse of the pit floor. The heat from them sent tendrils of steam into the chill night air.
The enormous beast swung its huge head. It focused on its opponent through a blinding haze of pain. Its eyes were red with fury. They seemed to hold Ash as if with pointed spears, pinning him to the side of the arena.
For a moment both stood glaring at each other, transfixed.
But no — the boar stepped toward him, more enraged than ever. Breathing hard, Ash realized that the boar was still incredibly strong. It could yet kill him. That last lucky strike against the animal had caused him such elation. For a wonderful moment, Ash thought he was safe. Such short-lived relief didn’t help. His imagined safety had been taken away, and this painful truth crushed his flagging spirit. Now he felt empty, and disheartened. Ash trembled and panted, still trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t get enough air.
The boar shook its head and took a step toward him. Had the onslaught of pain prodded the animal to attack? Ash knew then that it was going to charge.
With his horrified gaze on the enraged animal, Ash moved, slipping on the blood and flesh of some unfortunate creature. Startled, he slid, stumbled and fell backwards in surprise. He hurried, attempting to shift away, to escape. He held his right arm, his knife arm up, but he was down now; his other hand was on the floor of the pit, balancing precariously. Completely exhausted, he had used his last reserves.
He simply couldn’t make his body move.
Warm red fluid dripped from his shoulder down his left arm. The sight of his own blood startled him, sparking his adrenaline. Was his wound, like his doomed combatant, also mortal? Had he and his adversary killed each other? Ash had no time to consider the matter. The boar was coming toward him fast, as if it had been shot from cannon.
It was charging in for the kill.
There was nothing Ash could do. Nothing.
Ash stared. Death was coming toward him, fast and final. There was nowhere to run. He thought: I don’t want to die!
Desperate, Ash shut his eyes. An enormous wave of heat poured over him, flowing outwards. This was his power! It was so hot, so searing, that it actually hurt, but it also strengthened him. Ash reached toward the charging boar like a Prefect toward an altar. As if in soulful prayer he screamed, he mentally commanded:
“Stop!”
As if running into a wall, the boar obeyed, sliding to a halt. Ash moved without thought, he jumped to his feet, instinctively plunging the knife deep into the boar’s skull between its small beady eyes.
The animal stared at Ash in astonishment, and then collapsed.
It was dead.
22. Close Call
The parables state that “What you seek is also seeking you.” This is so true. Like a magnetic force I was drawn to him. I heard no audible sound, yet I was called to his side. Paralyzed, I hardly recognized my own senses. In the space of a heartbeat I saw, smelled, heard, touched, and tasted only him. I did none of these things and all of these things, and from that moment on I was both lost and found.
— Lady Lindha, private files
Silence penetrated Ash’s awareness in a sullen, unnatural hush. The absence of sound seemed to him as quiet and empty as the void of deep space.
Stunned, Ash looked searchingly at the mass of people that encircled the pit. Not one person moved. Facial expressions were fixed. No one even blinked. The truth struck Ash like a completely unexpected slap in the face. It wasn’t only the boar that had been stopped by his compelling mental command. The entire crowd had been stilled.
I can still mind-touch. A wash of euphoria flowed through him and he swayed unsteadily on his feet. The heat of his power burned within. Reaching for his gift had been unconscious. How had he done it? Could he do it again? But he had no time to think of that. Here was his chance to escape. He jumped onto the huge boar. Its added height, combined with desperate necessity, allowed Ash to manage the long leap out of the arena despite his fatigue. He pushed between the closely packed, motionless Ferals and, knocking many out of his way, ran through the crowd and into the open.
The frozen tableau shattered. As if in an unbroken wave, both sound and movement returned.
“Stop him!” someone called.
“Get him!” came a roar.
“Kill him!” screamed another.
“He is an off-worlder. Don’t let him get away!” The mob was furious, deprived of death, of tattered flesh and blood: blood that they had paid to see. The off-worlder had cost them a lot of credit. No one had bet that he would live — no one. He was supposed to die.
Ash ran towards Tombay. The safety of the woods, dark and inviting, was out of reach, cut off by a swelling mass of angry Ferals. One stocky, formidable man charged toward Ash with his hands outstretched. As the Feral grabbed for Ash’s tunic, the fellow suddenly stumbled, falling to the ground with a bellow.
It was then that Ash saw Jani. The old woman had tripped his attacker with her walking stick. Their eyes met for a moment and Ash saw Jani’s lips curl. An odd smile played about her mouth, more like a tiny twitch of satisfaction. Ash never slowed his panicked run, yet a part of him registered a strange fact. In all the times he had seen her, he had never once seen Jani smile … until now.
The maddened Ferals lost his trail for the time being, but the choking whir of badly maintained speeders, buzzing like angry insects, could be heard overhead. He threw himself to the ground when any flew dangerously close, giving thanks that at least he was under the cover of night. There was little scrub in which to hide, the forests having been felled for grazing beasts.
As if pursued by a pack of wolves, Ash ran and time passed.
Stumbling through the night, Ash doggedly pushed on. He had lost a lot of blood and hadn’t eaten well for months. Despite being hunted, wounded, and fatigued, he found himself grinning. He was outside. He was free. Now if he could only get to the Temple of Jana he would be safe.
After hours of desperate running, hiding behind any cover while hyper-alert for danger, Ash arrived in the outskirts of Tombay. It was completely dark, a moonless night, but that was okay. He felt safer in the darkness. He continued, following Icom mapping. It directed him through a residential area with nicely trimmed grass and well-kept gardens. He caught the scent of lavender, and it smelled so sweet he paused for a few minutes just to breathe it in. A dog barked in the distance and he frowned. Dogs were another threat he hadn’t considered. He came to a more suburban area, and it became more difficult to keep in the shadows as light glowed from windows or street lights. As much as possible he moved through darkened back alleys or lanes.
Ash’s focus remained on one objective — he had to get to the Temple of Jana. They were honor bound to provide sanctuary if he requested it. Icom indicated the Temple was right here. So where was it?
“Who’s there?” a voice said from further down the alley.
Ash swallowed and remained silent. Fear spiked fresh adrenaline right to his chest. His heart gave one big thump and for a moment it seemed as if it had stopped. Quietly, he slipped into the darkest shadow he could find.
A young man with a weapon was walking down the passageway, talking to a companion. His brown khaki uniform, Icom informed Ash, indicated that he belonged to the Tombay militia. “I thought I heard something,” he said.
“I didn’t hear anything.” His companion, an older, stocky fellow, was also dressed in militia uniform.
“I hope it’s that off-worlder. A reward was posted for him, dead or alive — thirty credits.”
“Thirty!”
“True. If we get him, we’ll split it. He’s supposed to be dangerous, so we better just kill him on sight.”
The older man laughed. “You idiot. We have to make sure it is him. You can’t run around shooting people, you young firebrand. Put your gun away. We can use my stunner.”
Ash was shaken. Everyone knew about him, he realized with a sinking feeling. Someone must have posted details of his escape on Icom. He was being hunted, and not just by Ferals. He inactivated his Icom completely — he couldn’t risk the possibility that it could be traced. Now there would be a full-scale search. His pulse sped. Wounded, with everyone looking for him, he didn’t have a chance.
“This way,” the younger man said, pointing toward where Ash was hidden.
Terrified, Ash pressed himself against the wall. He was trapped. These men could find him at any moment. There were two of them, both alert and ready.
Ash’s jaw tightened as a primal need washed through him. He wanted to live.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
He clenched his fists and thought: If I have to, I can take them. Exhausted, wounded and armed with a knife, Ash knew he would win a fight with these civilians, but only if he was willing to seriously injure or possibly kill them. And even if he was comfortable with that — which he wasn’t — one of them would surely get an Icom alert off. Reinforcements would arrive and then he really would be dead.
Ash swallowed, turning over his options.
No, he thought in silent protest, unwilling to believe that there was no way out. I don’t want to die. But there was nowhere to run without being discovered. It was totally dark where he was. Like a cornered animal, Ash began to desperately search the bare walls, running his hands over the rough stone, looking for an exit.
Ah. A thrill of chance ran through him. Here was the edge of a small trapdoor, a narrow opening intended for small goods passage, not people. Would it open?
He pushed his knife into the gap where the door was locked, and worked it into the wood. Goddess bless them for using traditional building materials. The hinges must have been well maintained, because it opened in complete silence. Ash pulled himself inside, closing and locking the trapdoor after him. Waiting for a shout of alarm and sound of weapons fire, he sat tensely, holding his breath.
The minutes passed but he heard nothing. Relieved, Ash slid to the floor, his body trembling uncontrollably. The shaking unnerved him. Was it from fear or adrenaline? Perhaps he was simply cold, as he wasn’t used to the chill night air.
The room had no light. He felt no airflow, but the temperature here was warmer than outside. The floor was hard, like a sidewalk. When the shaking stopped, Ash surveyed his surroundings, using hands and feet, bumping and feeling his way around the entire chamber, making a mental map. There was no carpet. A number of sealed boxes were stacked against the walls, and a few rough, empty burlap bags. There were two doors; the odd delivery trapdoor he came through, and another door, a standard door directly across from it. He smelled dust, only dust, no other scent, not even that of a rodent. He heard nothing, even when he put his ear to both doors. He was in a storage area of some kind and, judging by the amount of dust, it was a room that was little used. There was no evidence of food, unless it was vacuum packed.
What luck. I’m safe … for now.
Ash grinned. He had just had the audacity to consider himself lucky. And what was more, despite everything, he truly felt grateful, fortunate for this chance. He tipped his head back and thought, “Thank you, Jana.” If Taro the Deceiver and Jana the Goddess of Truth were indeed fighting over his future, so far Jana appeared to be winning — if only by a fraction.
Ash sat behind the standard door. Using the burlap bags to lie on, he lay down, utterly worn out. He carefully felt his wound. The bleeding had stopped, but it sure throbbed. He was accustomed to pain, but what he would give for something to drink. His mouth was dry as the thin bark of the blue-ringed parchment tree. Not much to do about it right now, he decided, practical as ever. He would get some rest and figure out a plan when he woke up. Once more he gave silent thanks to Jana, and asked her to continue to aid him.
He closed his eyes. Exhaustion pulled him under like a lead weight in water, and he instantly fell asleep.
With natural grace, Lady Lindha, the Prefect of the Temple of Jana, walked down the spiral staircase. She smiled as she passed one of the Temple Novices.
“Good night, Prefect.” The woman nodded respectfully.
“And a good night to you, Miraj,” Lindha replied.
Miraj was training to become a Temple Sister. Every Sister was skilled in many subjects including social graces, self-defense, healing and the arts. Art itself was considered by the Temple to be an expression of the soul in its highest form, including the art of satisfying one’s partner as well as oneself — physically, mentally, socially and spiritually. A Delian Damithst jewel adorned Miraj’s right nostril — a tiny facet. The adornment stood out bright against her dark skin. The jewel was an honor, recognizing obligation and dedication. Soon Miraj would pass her final tests and be ordained. Then she would be allowed the distinctive “ha” at the end of her name — becoming the Lady Mirajha.
The sound of Lindha’s solitary steps echoed in an empty hall. Her brows furrowed.
What was that?
It was the strangest sensation. It was as if someone had been softly calling her. She tilted her head and listened. She heard nothing, yet she felt inexplicably drawn toward a little used storeroom at the foot of the stairs.
This is ridiculous, she silently admonished, while she stood in the hall. But she couldn’t help herself. She felt compelled to move forward and look inside.
The Lady Lindha opened the door and walked in.
Ash woke and sat up, instantly alert. Someone had just walked into the storeroom. He came silently to his feet but the effort it took made him dizzy. His head spun as he drew out his knife and thought, Don’t turn on a light. Just go away.
He saw the shadow of a person hesitate for a moment, breathing in … sniffing …
Oh no, Ash thought. I stink of blood and death.
Using Icom, Ash’s unwanted visitor flicked on a light.
The moment the light came on Ash sprang, pulling the intruder against him. A thrill raced through him like an electric shock. No, Wait. He was holding a woman! His chest pressed hard against her back. There was a muffled scream cut off by his hand as it covered her mouth. The woman was young with smooth, soft skin and the fabric of her gown was cool and sleek against him. Her silky golden hair brushed his face. She smelled clean, feminine … wonderful, and she was trembling with fright.
Ash registered all these details in less than an instant; but nothing could alter his purpose: He wanted to live.
This new arrival was delicate and insubstantial compared to his strong male body, so it was easy for him to restrain her. He knew she would not fight him in any case, because he held his knife against her neck. With the light on, the woman could see the blade. Ash knew she felt the thin cool edge pressed against her throat. The knife remained a threatening presence, signifying a roll of dice or the flip of a coin: life or death.
He softly kicked the door shut. She didn’t move. Satisfied that he had cowed her, Ash said, “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth so you can speak. Do you understand?”
The woman slowly nodded.
“If you cry out, I’ll be forced to kill you.” Ash made his voice deep and menacing. “If you send an Icom alert I will kill you.” He paused, letting his warning sink in. “Don’t make me kill you.”
She carefully shook her head, a purposeful and definite “no.”
Ash could never murder anyone, much less a woman. Nothing could persuade him to do that, not even to save his own life. He smiled grimly. But she doesn’t know that. “I’m taking my hand away.” He removed his hand from her mouth and placed his arm around her waist. The movement secured her, pulling her closer against him. She was slim and yielding and her smell tightened something deep and low within him. Her scent seemed familiar. But not even a woman could distract him from the trouble he was in.
“Turn out the light,” he instructed with the aggressive voice of command. Ash felt safer in the dark, where he could think and not look at her, not be distracted by her. With a mental flick of Icom, she did as she was told.
It didn’t work. In the darkness, Ash’s other senses came alive. He became acutely aware of the feel of her skin against him, her curving back and buttocks against his chest, hips and thighs. His flesh heated in each place where their bodies touched. Her scent filled his nostrils. He shut his eyes, bit a lower lip, and breathed in deeply. Ash held her firmly against him and she struggled slightly for a moment in response.
“Don’t move,” he admonished in a rough whisper. His grip tightened further. “Listen to me. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The woman whispered with a trembling voice, “Please, will you take the knife from my neck?”
“No.”
He felt her swallow. “Why are you here? Just take what you want and go.”
“I’ll leave … soon.” What to do with this woman? He could tear strips from the burlap bags and use them as rope. Would anyone miss her if he tied her up? Could he trust her and let her go? No, he decided, he couldn’t.
“Who knows you’re here?” Ash growled, his desperate fear of discovery making him sound exceedingly dangerous. The woman said nothing.
Ash’s arm tightened around her like a vise. It was a grip caused more by a culmination of the terrors of the day than by a desire to hurt. “There are people who want to kill me,” he said with brutal force, “and I don’t want to die.” These harsh honest words were torn out from somewhere inside him. He had come so far. He had survived so much.
The woman remained silent and still.
Ash felt warm trickling drops of water, the feel of tears falling on to his hand — the hand that held a knife against her innocent throat. Like ice cold water splashed on his face, her tears stunned him into sensibility. The young woman was so frightened that she was crying. He felt like a monster.
“By the Goddess, what am I doing?” Ash spoke out loud, but he was talking to himself. His voice lowered, becoming a mumbled whisper. “I was trying to get to the Temple of Jana — I seek sanctuary. Instead here I am, threatening an innocent woman with a knife. You probably already sent an Icom alarm, anyway. I’m sorry. Forgive me.” He dropped the knife. It fell silently in the dark, probably onto the burlap. Defeated by the woman’s tears, Ash relaxed his grip and let the woman go.
She sprang away from him.
A warm tickle of blood trailed down his back. His exertions had reopened his wound. His mouth was as dry as desert sand.
The door opened.
The lights flicked on once more. Ash stood motionless, as if switched to holovid pause. He blinked, blinded. It took a moment to make out the form. It was another woman, a slightly older one with a fierce, murderous expression on her face. She expertly held a deadly weapon — and it was pointed straight at him.
Ash’s mind whirled. Last night he slept imprisoned in a cave. This morning he woke with water thrown over him by his captors because he had lost consciousness, probably from starvation. He had been on display as a slave, mauled and examined by ignorant Ferals, sold to the highest bidder, then thrown into a pit to fight an enormous maddened boar. He had been gored but survived, and then somehow he had managed to kill the boar and escape. After that he ran for hours, playing hide and seek while being chased by pretty well everyone on Opan, as far as he could tell. He had spent the last fifteen hours completely wired, adrenaline burning through his veins, terrified for his life. Now here he was, staring at death … again.
It really had been a very big day and this final shock was one too much.
His vision shrank to a tunnel, the walls closed in.
Ash had no strength to resist. A welcome blanket of oblivion embraced him. He fell into the upsurging darkness, and dropped to the floor like a stone.
23. Legend
Temples of Jana (the Goddess of Truth): Large, influential spiritual organization with teaching traditions concerning the cause, nature and purpose of life. Temple graduates are sought after throughout the Freeworlds. A broadminded education is pursued with all philosophies respected as academic differences in pursuit of the same truth. Fundamental beliefs include: 1. Humans are inherently good. 2. Within each human body is a spiritual being (soul) that cannot die. 3. The soul of each person inhabits the body they are within in order to make choices and learn from such choices. 4. People are tempted by the Deceiver and encouraged by the Goddess. 5. The Parables of both Taro and Jana should be studied in order to assist an individual to make choices concerning their own conduct. The Temple embraces individual beliefs, with few devotional and ritual observances. They have a liberal moral code governing the conduct of human affairs. There are Temples of Jana on every Freeworld.
— Icompedia
For a late evening in the Temple of Jana on Opan, there was an abnormal amount of confusion and noise.
“Prefect,” the Lady Jeeha said, rushing to Lindha’s aid. Her dark brown hair fell down her back, past her waist, in two thick plaits that she had braided in preparation for bed. She had thrown a blue robe over white silken pajamas, adorned with small red roses. “I came as soon as I received your Icom alarm. Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you,” Lady Lindha replied breathlessly. She looked up at Jeeha, who was a few centimeters taller. The older woman had been her mentor, and she often deferred to her opinions. Lindha shook her head. “I don’t know how I was caught off guard. Suddenly this man had a knife at my throat or I would have laid him out, I can tell you. But he seemed to change his mind because he let me go before you arrived.”
“That disciple of Taro! Attempting to defile you. You of all people. I shall have him disintegrated.” Her face gleamed with revenge, her dark almond eyes flashing. “No. I’ll have him bound and buried.”
Lady Lindha listened to this tirade with composure. She knew Jeeha would threaten and rant, but she didn’t really mean what she was saying.
Lindha had been on her way to bed and had, for some strange reason, decided to enter this storeroom. There was no explanation for acting so impulsively. Why had she done it? Had she somehow sensed that this man was here? Upon entering the room she had immediately been taken captive by the now-unconscious, foul-smelling brute.
Jeeha said, “Did he … touch you? Did he …”
“He,” Lindha paused uncertainly, “he seemed to want …”
“Say no more child,” Jeeha anxiously cut her off in a rush.
“Lady Jeeha,” Lindha said, becoming exasperated. “It’s not what you think. The man was afraid. He said someone was searching for him — to kill him.”
By this time a number of other Temple Sisters had trailed in to gasp and gape, in and around the little-used storeroom. They spoke in shocked whispers. Many were gathered at the foot of the carved stairs, horrified by the presence of an intruder. Lindha ordered one Sister to wait in the hall and another to shut the door, ensuring none of the paying students were witness to these events.
Bending toward their extraordinary visitor, Lindha scrutinized him. “Jana, he stinks,” she said. “Has the man never washed? And what is that that on his clothes? It looks like blood, and it smells like urine. Or is that some sort of animal offal?” This surprised her. When the man held her against him she had not really noticed how bad he smelled. In fact, despite the circumstances, she had felt drawn to him. She frowned and bit her lower lip. What was worse, she felt drawn to him still.
Lindha moved close and studied the man intently. The intruder was young and thin and his features were strained, as if in pain. Unusually pale, she wondered if the man only ventured forth at night, for surely his skin hadn’t known the touch of sun for months. Why had he collapsed? The possibilities ran through her mind. Exhaustion? Hunger? Fright? He had scared her, but hadn’t wanted to hurt her. Still, he was filthy and had threatened to kill her.
“An odd necklace this is,” Lindha remarked, touching the cold metal ring that was fastened around his neck. “It appears to have bound him. Yes. See his wrists?” A thought struck her. “Perhaps he’s an escaped prisoner. A criminal. Sweet Jana alone knew what evil he may have wrought.”
“I’d better call the guards,” Lady Jeeha said, standing up and brushing her robe.
Lindha spoke without thought. “Wait. Is this not a Temple? The man requested sanctuary. It must be allowed.”
Lady Jeeha stared at her ward and said under her breath, “What are you thinking? Risk the Temple’s good name? For this criminal?”
Lindha shook her head. “He requested sanctuary. As Sisters of Jana we are honor bound.” She bent and whispered softly, so the others wouldn’t hear, “I can tell you more. He’s an off-worlder.”
“No,” Jeeha said.
No one was allowed to visit an off-worlder in the highly guarded compounds that traders visited from time to time. Travelling off-world was rarely allowed, except for those in the services. These were government standing orders since the end of the Hundred Year War. To be caught with an off-worlder would evoke severe punishment. Any off-worlder so caught would be probably killed. The pervading attitude was that those who were not born on Opan were untrustworthy. Most people believed the information broadcasts, and naturally feared strangers. The UWG had an undisclosed, ongoing policy of separation. It was easier to manage the “United Worlds” when they were not actually united.
“He’s most certainly not from Opan,” Lindha said. “His speech and accent betray him.”
“All the more reason to call the guards,” Jeeha replied. “If men are searching for him, and they find him here, there will be a price to pay.”
As Prefect, the final decision fell to her. Lady Lindha gazed down at Ash. What had possessed her to try and protect him? He was so young, this desperate intruder. What had he said? “I don’t want to die.” His plea caused pain in her chest, like an ache in her heart. He had been terrified, more like a frightened child than a man. What to do with him? A reply came into her mind instantly: I think I’ll keep him. Insane as this unbidden irrational thought was, she smiled.
One of the other Sisters said, “Look, he’s bleeding.”
The intruder lay on his back, his face white. A small pool of blood had gathered just beneath him. It was fresh and red, contrasting with the pale white of the man’s skin.
“Let’s turn him over. Perhaps he’ll die anyway.”
The thought caused Lindha to go cold. Slowly and carefully, Lindha turned Ash over. As she did so a tear in the worn-out animal skin shirt he wore exposed a huge blue Damithst armband. It clicked ominously against the stone floor of the Temple. Lindha stared, aghast.
“Jana bless us,” one of the Sisters whispered.
The women stared as Lindha reached down, pulled the shirt aside and exposed the armguard. The center stone must be the largest Delian Damithst ever found. It took extraordinary wealth to procure such a jewel, but Lindha knew that stone, as did every Temple Sister on every Freeworld. It was the fabled “King’s Mirror,” found over three hundred years ago, by Brent Chayton himself. And it was priceless.
The Talisman bearer was more valuable still.
Almost as one, the Sisters touched their hearts, then foreheads — a sacred sign to Jana. Silently, each recalled the Temple prophecy …
“He is the Trueborn,” Lindha said softly, “the off-worlder with the talisman.” The Prefect had waited all her life for this moment, a time that may never have come, except that now it was here. She would think of the consequences later. For the present, there was work to be done.
“You four,” Lindha ordered. “Get the stretcher. Carry him gently, take him to my room. Get an infirmary table set up there — we’ll want to wash and examine him. Be careful not to jar that wound.”
“To your room, Prefect?” one of the Sisters shyly queried.
“Yes, my room — you heard me correctly.” Her voice was caustic.
“Yes, Prefect,” they replied.
“Tjeeha,” Lindha was as brisk and efficient as any drill sergeant. “Search the information networks. Find out if there is a hunt for this man, but don’t let tell them he is here, for Jana’s sake. Get whatever information you can, and then report back to me.” The woman obediently rushed from the room.
Lindha scanned the faces of the remaining women. “Those of you left — sterilize this room. Be sure to leave no sign. If any were to search the Temple they should find no evidence of an injured stranger. This duty is vital. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Prefect,” they chorused.
“Lady Jeeha.” Lindha turned to the Second Lady of the Temple, speaking quietly with respect for her position. Lindha was prepared for this trial. Born to hold the Prefecture, she came from an honored lineage and had always taken her duties seriously. Once Lindha had seen the jewel, she had not hesitated.
“Yes, Prefect?” Jeeha smiled with pride in her eyes. Lindha was Jeeha’s protégé.
“Lady Jeeha, will you please come with your potions and remedies? We must cure that man, as you well know, and we cannot use a public clinic or even risk our own infirmary. Of all the Sisters you are renowned for your gift of healing. I …” She faltered, “I may also need you.” Her cheeks heated with sudden nervous embarrassment. There was no telling what the Trueborn would require.
“Of course, my dear Prefect. As you wish.” Jeeha nodded, and strode off.
Steeling herself for what lay ahead, Lindha left at a steady pace toward where the stranger waited in her bedroom. He smelled like blood and death and looked no better than an ill-kept wild animal. She sighed. Well, duty could be a loathsome thing, but it was still a duty, for the love of Jana and for the future of all.
The Trueborn remained unconscious.
An intravenous drip flowed. Lady Jeeha and Lady Lindha stood on either side of the off-worlder as he lay face down on the infirmary table. The three were gathered together in the Prefect’s private rooms. With pursed lips, Jeeha sponged Ash’s ugly shoulder wound.
Even though Lindha had seen many naked men in the Temple clinic, she couldn’t seem to take her eyes from the man. She assisted Jeeha, often moving to change the water. Unconscious and stripped of his disgusting clothes, the Trueborn seemed so vulnerable. Not dangerous at all, he seemed more like an overgrown boy than a man.
His back, thighs and shoulders were covered by lesions, tissue damage that had formed thin, puckered healing scars. It was clear that he had been whipped uncountable times, on more than one occasion. She would have that skin repaired to its natural state as soon as could be.
The Trueborn had frightened her, had held a knife to her throat, and had threatened to kill her. She could still recall the feel of the blade against her skin. But for all that, the man still held a profound allure. He is beautiful, she thought in wonder. And dark haired. Could he possibly be the one that came to her in her dreams? No. Never. But she had been drawn to that storeroom. Had he somehow called her?
Lindha doubted that he’d been sculpted, but his body was physically perfect. Broad shoulders and well-developed muscles knotted under his skin. They were not big and bulky; instead he looked as if he would be swift and agile. His hips were narrow, his legs long, buttocks hard and powerful, thighs thick and muscular. He could run like the wind, she was sure. Strange as it seemed, he distinctly reminded her of her favorite stallion, Bethan.
Lindha held a bowl of warm antiseptic while Jeeha worked at the wound, cleaning the Trueborn’s shoulder as completely as possible. She had already changed the water five times. The dirt on his skin was ingrained. He smelled slightly better now that his clothes were gone; they had really been disgusting, covered in blood and, well, excrement. Maybe he had some function in an abattoir? This possibility made no sense at all. There were standards of cleanliness and care for the beasts in such places, much less for any workers.
She hoped their guest remained insensible while they attended his wound.
Ash stirred, slowly regaining consciousness. He raised his head slightly while his eyes attempted to focus. Once awake and aware, he tensed, preparing to defend itself or flee.
Lindha placed a restraining hand on his good shoulder. “Lie still now,” she said in a low, calm voice. “You’re safe, among friends. I am Lady Lindha, Temple Prefect of the Sisters of Jana. And this is the Lady Jeeha.”
Jeeha added, “We are both here to help you, sir.”
Safe. I am safe with the Sister’s of Jana, Ash thought. He was soothed by these words and by the woman’s warm, gentle touch. He relaxed and shut his eyes. Somehow he had come to the Temple, as planned. If they had wished him harm, the harm would have been done while he was insensible. He had been told to lie still and was glad of it because he felt utterly drained. Then he smelled something he hadn’t smelled for as long as he could remember, something wonderful.
It was a clean, fresh scent. A scent he knew.
He looked up into the Temple Sister’s face, finally registering her introduction. Lady Lindha! It’s her! he thought, with a thrill of awe. The Prefect I traded with, the woman I have been dreaming of for years.
Her features had been hidden by darkness when she had dropped his goods into the forest, but he had contacted her cool, restful mind, her calm peaceful soul. She had said she was the Lady Lindha. It was incredible that he had managed to come here, to her. He smiled. He always wanted to find her. Now he had and it was just as he thought; she was beautiful.
“Please, drink this.” Lindha offered a warm draught through a straw.
“Thank you, Lady,” he replied hoarsely.
The women’s eyes widened. They were, not surprisingly, stunned.
Ash had spoken calmly, his voice cultured, rich and deep. He had said three simple words that displayed both education and good manners. Anyone who heard Ash speak would think him a gentleman, despite his unusual accent. But it would always be considered peculiar to hear such words from someone who was as filthy and ill kept as he was.
Ash didn’t hesitate to quench his burning thirst. The drink was warm, sweet and spicy, and tasted better than anything he had ever tasted before. It was exactly what he needed. He finished the mug of liquid. Lindha offered him another, which he also finished with grateful thanks.
“I’m Ashton, but you can call me Ash,” he said, completely forgetting his fictitious name of Sinto. He didn’t offer his full name, and hoped they wouldn’t press him for it.
“It is our pleasure to serve you, Ash,” the Lady Jeeha said. “You have been given sanctuary as requested.”
“I am most sincerely grateful.”
Jeeha nodded. “Now, young man, this wound you have will need deep cleaning.” She examined it with forceps, lifting a flap of skin. Ash clenched his teeth, but remained quiet and still. She looked at him with curiosity in her expression. She probed once more and asked, “Tell me, sir, what was the mechanism of this injury?”
“Kind Lady,” he replied, carefully polite despite Jeeha’s painful investigation of his wound. He did not wish to accidentally offend his newfound allies. “The wound was caused by a boar. It would be impossible to guess what filth was on the tusk that speared me.”
Both Ladies caught their breath.
“Well,” Lady Jeeha exclaimed. Her thick, dark braid rocked as she shook her head in wonder. “I don’t know how you were tusked by a boar and managed to escape. For now we can let that pass. Your wound needs syringing and sewing; cosmetic repair can be arranged at a later date. I have nothing to stop the pain, I’m afraid, and if I ask for something at the dispensary at this hour, there will be unwanted questions.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
“Oh, ho,” Lady Jeeha replied, amused. “I think not. Lady Lindha, we have some strong spirits, I believe?”
“Yes, Lady,” Lindha replied. “I’ll bring them.” She left and returned swiftly with a large flagon and offered it to Ash.
He hesitated, and looked toward Lindha. “I don’t wish to offend you, but I’ve never had alcohol before and I’m unsure of what my reaction will be, especially as I haven’t eaten for some time. Please. I’d rather just remain silent while you treat my injury. Pain has been a frequent guest at my table.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And I’d die before I’d endanger you by repaying your kindness with unseemly screams.”
Lindha raised an eyebrow at Jeeha in query, but Jeeha shook her head.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lindha said, “but we prefer it. In your current state, I rather suspect these spirits will send you into a painless sleep.”
Ash sighed, resigned. He was in their hands. “As you wish.” He drank from the flagon. A blazing glow burned down his throat and past his chest. It left a fire in the pit of his stomach. Ash had been chilled by the night air and this heat surprised him. It was soothing and not at all unpleasant. Shortly thereafter warmth ran through his veins, as well as a dizzy wave of lassitude. The heady sensation had already lessened his pain, or at least had distracted him from it.
“For the love of Jana, that stuff is amazing,” he said.
“Just so,” Jeeha said.
Lindha smiled with approval. Her long golden hair was twisted into a bun, Ash noted, probably to keep it out of the way while she worked. “While we wait for some numbing effect, can you tell us about yourself?”
“I hardly know where to begin.” Ash decided not to tell them that he was the missing Prince of Delian, even though he was certain that they would not seek the reward. While he trusted them he also knew, the safest way to keep a secret was to keep it to oneself. He took a deep breath and began, “I arrived on Opan when our ship crash landed north east of here. I was thirteen. I have spent the last five years living in the high mountain forests.”
Lindha’s brows lifted in amazement. “Why didn’t you return to civilization?”
“I did … once.” He gave her a sardonic grin. “I found that your world does not look kindly upon off-worlders.”
“Of course. You could have been killed.” Lindha said with sudden understanding. “It must have been difficult to live so roughly and alone for so long. Why, you would have only been a child when you came to Opan.”
“True.” His eyes met hers. “But I’m not a child anymore.”
Lindha cleared her throat. Her face colored slightly, but her expression remained composed. “How did you live?”
“I had help. You helped me.”
“Me?”
“How are Dorian and Anton? They must be about thirteen by now.”
“Oh. You are the off-worlder who found Dorian in the woods. Of course. Both boys are wonderful assets to our order. I thank you.” She looked toward the talisman guard that adorned his muscular arm, noticing the empty place where two of the facets had been removed. “Oh, I see. We must return those two Damithst, I think.”
“No!”
Lindha went still at Ash’s swift, adamant refusal. His reaction had evidently surprised her but it had surprised him as well. He glanced toward the King’s Mirror that circled his bicep. He could have sworn it had heated his arm in response to her words. Ash had had a curious thought. He felt as if the two stones that had been removed from the talisman had wanted to be removed, that they had preferred to be on an adventure of their own. Bizarre. He supposed that he must be getting drunk.
Ash shrugged, in an attempt to lighten the violence of his response. “I don’t want them back. The trade was fair, I assure you. My life became much more comfortable with the goods and credit you supplied.” Curiously uncomfortable discussing the Damithst jewels, Ash changed the subject. “Do the boys live here?”
“Oh, yes. They are indentured as gardeners for the estate.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“Of course and so you shall. They’ll be pleased to see you; at least I know Dorian will be. For some while when he first came to us he expected a catch to all his good fortune. I believe you went a long way toward restoring his faith in humanity. He was so grateful to receive Icom.”
Ash smiled, recalling how powerfully driven the intense young boy had been. “I can well imagine.”
“But this ring on your neck, Ash?” She touched the cold metal. “How did you acquire this?
Ash frowned. “That …” His throat tightened and he found he was quite unable to answer. The room darkened as he fell into the memory. For more than three months he had been alone and in despair. Unable to mind-touch, he had been tormented by his fears, doubts and guilt. The pain of that solitude was still as raw and unhealed as his open wound. The indignities suffered with the curious hill people, the terror of a brutal death in the pit — these recollections closed in on him and made him silent.
The Ladies waited for his reply, and thankfully didn’t press him. Did they have any idea of the raw nerve they had touched? Ash sighed and said in a low voice, “I can tell you that there are some ignorant people who live in the hills of your world. They imprisoned me with neck and leg chains to do their work in a mine. I was lucky to escape.”
“Well. It is a good thing you did,” Lady Lindha said firmly. She flashed him a kind smile. “We welcome you here.”
Ash’s heart seemed to stop when Lindha smiled. He felt like he had been punched. He actually forgot to breathe for an instant, and for the life of him he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. After a few moments his mind cleared and he said, “Thank you, Sister, for sanctuary. You do know there are people searching for me? I don’t wish to endanger you.”
“All is safe. We are honored to serve you.” Lindha gave him a small bow.
“Drink more, please, Ash,” the Lady Jeeha said. “Then we must get started.”
Ash complied, although it made his blood rush. Pleased to serve you … honored to serve you, he thought. He felt like the King that he had been meant to be, and for the first time it was comfortable and right. Soon the spirits began to take full effect. Everything seemed so amusing. Thank you, Jana. He gave a little giggle. Truly Taro the Deceiver had had his way with him. He was about to die: desperate, hopeless, no chance of escape. And now he was surrounded and cared for by kind and caring women who wanted to “serve” him?
Ash pushed himself up suddenly. Chinters. Am I dreaming?
“What is it, Ash?” Lindha gently pressed him back to the infirmary table. “You’re all right. Everything is going well.”
His quiet chuckle turned into a laugh. “It’s nothing,” he said. “For a moment I was worried I was dreaming and about to wake up. Being here is just too good to be true.”
“Well, you are here, Ash.” Lindha assured him. “And you’re safe.”
When Lady Jeeha began to syringe the wound, Ash didn’t even flinch. He saw her nod of satisfaction as it was obvious that the potent alcohol had numbed his system.
“You’re so lovely,” Ash said, focusing on Lindha. Without the strong drink he would never have said such a thing.
“You … you’re too kind,” she stammered, as color once more rushed to her face. “I dare say you are feeling those spirits now. Though why you remain conscious I’m sure I don’t know.”
Ash continued to study her. It was as if she hadn’t spoken. “You have beautiful blue eyes, like my mother.”
“Thank you,” she said and changed the subject. “Does that hurt?”
Jeeha hummed a soft, tuneless little melody while she worked. She bent over, intent, as she moved deeper and deeper into Ash’s wound. There was still a lot of debris being rinsed out, draining into the bowl as she continued syringing clean warm water and antiseptic.
Ash was barely aware of Jeeha or what she was doing. His attention was fixed on Lindha. He ignored her question and said, “Blue, like … Delian Damithst.” Ash stared at her in a hazy, happy state. Ash felt he knew Lindha. He had dreamed of her so many times, whimsically, erotically and sometimes just because. Her presence had always been there in the back of his mind. There was something about her, something comfortable and right. He wanted to stay with her, be near her. With her golden hair pulled severely back it accentuated the fine-boned features of her face. It could be the effect of the spirits or it could be the influence she was having on him, but for whatever reason Ash was having two extremely different reactions to her presence.
One was calming. The other … wasn’t.
Jeeha continued to irrigate his wound, but the syringe kept tapping into something solid. Ash winced each time she touched it. Clearly there was a foreign body up there, embedded at the upper reaches of the injury. She located the long-handled forceps in order to remove it. Sliding the instrument up into the wound and delicately probing, she inadvertently caused fresh blood to flow.
“Ahh,” Ash voiced through clenched teeth. When Jeeha continued probing, he groaned but remained perfectly still. Lindha sponged the beads of perspiration that he felt forming on his forehead.
“What do we have here?” Jeeha said with surprised triumph, scrutinizing the object she had removed. “It’s a piece of bone … but not yours. It was well up into the wound. Most unusual.”
“Probably from the pig-dogs,” Ash slurred. The combination of fresh pain and additional spirits made him light headed and confused.
“The pig-dogs?” Lindha queried.
“Never mind, Lady,” Jeeha said. “He’s speaking nonsense.”
“No.” Ash knew he sounded like he was rambling, but he wanted to make them understand. “Was probably from the dogs. They went first, and then the boar, and then the other boar, twill … it was cruel. I was the last … but nothing else to throw in. Just an off-world slave.”
Lindha’s brow furrowed, her expression puzzled.
“I was so scared,” he confided, “but it was a good thing to go into the pit after all. I was able to escape. It seems it is true, that old saying from the parables: ‘Oftentimes bad circumstance result in greatest good.’” He sighed and all the sadness of the world seemed to be held within that one expulsion of breath. “Else I’d be dead … rather die than go back in the mine. I don’t want to be alone.” In his mind he was there, trapped again, in the dark, lonely cave, the place where he lost his power.
“Shhhhh, hush now, Ash,” Lindha said, comfortingly patting his arm. “We won’t leave you alone.”
Ash looked up, astonishing her with momentary sensibility. “Thank you. You are as kind-hearted as you are beautiful.” Without warning he asked, “Are you promised?”
Lindha shook her head.
“Good,” Ash said and all his sadness instantly disappeared. He smiled.
“But I am Prefect here,” Lady Lindha said, with alarm in her voice. “I have taken an oath of chastity.”
The smile left Ash’s face. “Oh. I … see.”
Ash didn’t flinch while Jeeha finished stitching his wound. The sharp, stabbing needle pains to his skin were nothing compared to the pain in his heart. The Lady Lindha had taken spiritual vows. She wouldn’t have him. But he knew her. He had never forgotten the soothing contact of her mental touch, the purity of her soul. As utterly irrational as it seemed, he had already given his heart to her. The Opan wolves chose once and mated for life. Unknown to Ash, that pattern had subtly imprinted itself on his psyche. With wolf-like logic, quite unconsciously, Ash knew he wanted only Lindha and no other.
Lindha gave him more alcohol, which Ash took with gratitude. Befuddled, head already spinning, Ash drained the cup. The misery of thinking he would never be able to court Lindha made him want to drink himself into a stupor.
There was a tap on the door. “Come,” Lindha said.
It was Tjeeha. “Lady,” she said as she burst in. Observing that Ash was awake, she held her tongue.
“Another pretty Lady!” Ash exclaimed in disbelief. “Oh, Chinters. Are you sure I’m not dead?”
Lindha held his head and met him eye to eye, forcing him to pay attention. When she spoke there was the steel of command in her voice. “You are not dead. You are not dreaming. But you do need to be quiet. I need to speak to this Temple Sister.”
Lindha’s face swam outlandishly, but Ash understood. Contrite, he nodded.
The Lady Tjeeha stared uncertainly at Ash. “It’s all right, Tjeeha.” Lindha said firmly. “We have no secrets from the Trueborn,”
Trueborn? Ash thought in confusion. How did she know that he was Trueborn? As far as he knew that was solely a Delian term. What would an off-worlder know of being Trueborn? He frowned, realizing that he must have said something earlier, but he couldn’t recall. He was Trueborn, but his love was stillborn. Ash caught himself. He was also lovesick and thinking in stupid rhymes. What’s more, it was becoming clear to him that he was very, very drunk.
“Lady,” Tjeeha began. “There is a worldwide search occurring at this moment for the, ah, Trueborn.” She looked down fearfully at Ash. “It is said that the off-worlder killed many tame herd beasts in the mountains. He is considered to be out of his mind, as well as dangerous and cruel.”
Ash began to giggle. “Oh, that’s funny. A faultless illustration of Jana’s parable, isn’t it? ‘One always accuses others of what they themselves are guilty of.’” Ash didn’t stop his silly giggling until the Lady Lindha silenced him with a hand on his shoulder and a stern look.
“I see,” Lindha said to Tjeeha. Her expression hardened. “I was afraid of this. Quickly. Go and give a message to the Lady Carrah. Tell her that I request an audience immediately.”
“But, Prefect, she’s in the chapel.”
Lindha’s lips pressed together in disapproval, visibly displeased with having her orders questioned. “Thank you, Tjeeha. I am well aware of that fact. However, I need her here. Now.”
“Yes, Prefect.” Red faced, fully cognizant of the rebuke, she left to carry out her orders.
Ash was now hopelessly drunk and his attentions were all toward the Prefect. “Lindha, Lindha, Lindha,” he slurred in a little tuneless melody. “Lovely, lovely Lindha, with the lovely golden hair.”
“Ash,” Lindha said testily, stopping his distracting song. “Drink,” she commanded. She offered him more spirits, which effectively prevented him from continuing to sing. Ash finished another cup. Then he shut his eyes and relaxed into a deep, deep sleep.
24. New Life
The choosing of a Temple Novice is simple. Deportment, countenance, and manner: these can be taught. Courage, dedication, integrity, and honor: these develop naturally through living with other Sisters of Jana. Beauty is easily fashioned and must never be ignored. Facial features, hair, teeth, skin: few Novices escape cosmetic adjustment. Physical perfection is paramount but unproblematic. So, from the thousands of candidates, how to discriminate? Take a female child, preferably six years or younger, and let them hold the Damithst. If the gem reacts the child will succeed as a Temple Sister.
— Sister Fayha Cattell, Notes on the Novice
Jeeha nodded toward Ash and said, “He’s out.”
‘Are you sure?” Lindha said hopefully, but she remained unconvinced. “By the Goddess, he’s been such a trial.”
Jeeha nodded her agreement. “Very difficult,” she laughed, “for you.” She gave Linda a wry, teasing smile as she pulled a long stitch through Ash’s skin. “I don’t think the Trueborn was as taken with me as he was with you, Prefect.”
Lindha rolled her eyes. “I noticed that, too.” She gave Ash’s arm a pinch, just to make sure, but it didn’t wake him. The Trueborn was asleep. Lindha grinned, pleased that he had fallen into unconsciousness. She looked up at Jeeha. When their eyes met they both laughed out loud.
“Prefect,” Jeeha said, “May I ask why you told the Trueborn that you had taken vows of chastity?”
Lindha shrugged. “Just to give myself time, I guess. He was so relentless and truthfully he made me uncomfortable with all that attention.” Her comment concerning chastity, while not a lie, had been intentionally misleading. The Seer’s prophecy was explicit. The Prefect was chaste by Temple order; but only until the Trueborn came or until the age of thirty. It was the duty of the Prefect to serve the Trueborn in whatever way required, including sexually if that was his desire. She met Jeeha’s eyes and snickered. “I doubt he will remember anything, we got him so drunk.”
“Indeed.” Jeeha gave a soft chuckle. “I’m just glad he wasn’t sick.”
Lindha hadn’t known how to deal with Ash or how to make him silent. As Prefect, no one had dared attempt to charm her before, or even called her beautiful. She was not naive, she had been trained in the sexual arts extensively, but the post of Prefect was inviolate, and she had always been treated with the utmost respect. The way Ash made constant romantic advances, well. She had no experience of such a thing. Awake he was a handful; asleep he looked peaceful and kind of sweet. As if he would be no trouble at all. She knew his sleeping appearance was deceiving. The man was going to be nothing but trouble.
There was another tap at the door, and Lady Carrah entered. “Prefect?” Carrah queried, her face pale and drawn. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, thank you, Carrah,” Lindha said. “Please, sit down.” Lindha studied the Lady Carrah for a moment. She was a slim woman. Her face was elvan, her hair tinged with flecks of orange and red, her skin transparent. Her eyes were light brown, and there was a sprinkling of freckles on her face. Carrah was on a list to have her freckles removed. Twice she had “forgotten” to attend the facial appointments. She had never voiced that she did not look approvingly upon the ordered physical alteration: she just had not turned up. Her manner of achieving goals was at one with her personality, subtle and unassuming
Lindha hesitated, unsure of how to begin. It was cruel to make this request, but the timing had been provident. Dwanne and Carrah were orphaned young and forced to sign an Indentureship with a private enterprise, hand harvesting fennel. Fennel was valuable for its properties, which yielded a unique form of absinthe. It was difficult to harvest without damaging the next crop. Lightweight children with small nimble fingers increased production and future yield. A Temple sister had seen Carrah and bought out her Indentureship. The child had sobbed, pleading that she would die without her brother. Thus Dwanne’s Indentureship had been purchased as well.
Lindha said, “Tell me, Carrah, was your brother a believer?”
“Yes, Prefect, surely.”
“Carrah, this man is the Trueborn and, as in the Legend, he is an off-worlder.”
Carrah drew in a sharp breath but said nothing.
“However, he is in danger. Even now men are searching for him. I need your help.”
“Of course, Prefect, anything. But how? What can I do?”
“I need your brother’s body.”
“No,” she said in a shocked sort of whisper.
“Yes. I know he lies in state. Tell me, do you actually believe that empty shell holds your brother?”
Carrah remained silent.
“He is dead, and unless reborn, he is with Jana. Dwanne would be pleased to find that his cast-off shell was used to good purpose and we need it. The medical superintendent will attest to DNA and fingerprints. If his remains are found at the bottom of a cliff … if one of our sisters confirms that he had an off-world accent, then the Trueborn will be safe.” Lindha paused, ensuring Carrah understood. “If no corpse is found then the guards will continue their search, and our Temple, all of us, will be in danger.”
“But will Dwanne not even have a grave?”
“I cannot tell you where his earthly form will finally rest, Carrah. I am sorry, but it will not be here at the Temple, and it will not be under his own name. You will not be able to visit the place.”
Carrah’s large eyes were wide. Her pale face showed her shock.
Lindha waited for a moment, for the impact of what she had said to fully sink in. Her expression was solemn. “What would Dwanne say if you could ask him now?”
Carrah looked up, eyes bright with welling tears. “Yes, of course, Prefect,” her voice wavered. “You may take his body. Dwanne would wish to help in any way possible. Please excuse me.” She jumped up and was quickly gone, almost running from the room.
Good, thought Lindha.
Jeeha nodded, regarding her with approval. She finished dressing Ash’s wound and gathered her healing tools together; ready to move on to the next chore.
Determination glinted from Lindha’s eyes as she said to the Lady Jeeha, “I need the arrangements with Dwanne’s remains finalized. As few as possible must know, of course. We have plenty of blood and cell samples from the Trueborn,” she said, gazing at the soiled dressings. “We only need fingerprints. It will be relatively simple to speak with the medical superintendant to get him to falsify the records.”
Lindha took Ash’s right hand and put it in the bowl of water, soaking his skin and broken nails. Then she took the cloth and began to scrub and sponge his arm. She was surprised to find how white his skin was under all that grime. She said, “I’ve personally counseled the superintendent’s wife on many occasions. He has good reason to support the Temple. He’ll accept our fingerprints and samples and use them in the scan. Unfortunately, the UWG will also want a retina scan. Dwanne’s eyes will betray us.” She cleared her throat. “It’s best if they be made unavailable. We cannot rely on the birds to attend this task before his corpse is discovered,” she said, forcing herself to sound brisk as she rinsed the cloth, squeezed the water out and began wiping Ash’s skin once more.
“Yes. Certainly. I’ll take care of it,” Jeeha agreed.
Lindha sighed, continuing to work on Ash’s unconscious body. Putting out a dead man’s eyes would not be pleasant, but Dwanne’s sister need never know. The matter of obtaining help from the medical superintendant would be the easier task. Before the end of the day the UWG would have registered the Trueborn as legally dead.
“Thank you, Jeeha. It’s my duty to finish up here,” Lindha said, relieved. “There is still the matter of thoroughly washing the filth off our guest, and getting him settled in bed.”
Jeeha nodded and smiled. “You are an excellent Prefect, Lady. Jana has chosen well.” She gestured toward Ash. “I’ve got his clothes — he will need to be dressed as the Trueborn was.” Jeeha left to attend to Dwanne and to fake the off-worlder’s death.
The door shut. Lindha took the bowl to the sink, and ran fresh water. Bringing the steaming bowl from the washroom to her bed, she put it down on the table. With the right hand and arm quite clean, she started on his left, repeating the process, carefully washing and drying Ash’s motionless form. Jana be praised he was no longer awake, she thought gratefully. That would have been a trial difficult to endure.
The teachings concerning the Prophecy of the Coming of the Trueborn were clear. The function of the Temple was to provide assistance and support, but no Temple sister would be allowed to lead or direct him in any manner. When the time came the Trueborn would tell the Prefect of the Temple what was needed and what his purpose was. The Seer all those years ago had ordered it so.
Lindha had washed and dressed ill and injured men before and could not recall discomfort. This man was different, because it was for her, as Prefect, to provide whatever he wished. Only he knew what his purpose may be. The foretelling said that the Trueborn’s arrival would herald the end of the Temple as they knew it. “With the Trueborn comes a two-edged sword, one side for light, one side for darkness and shadow,” and, “Beware the Trueborn, the animal that can kill the snake.” Lindha shook her head in dismay. The man had been foreseen and named animal. The Trueborn could be our salvation. But, she thought with cold fear, he could also be our undoing.
Well, she would do her duty and give him anything he asked for. Anything. Her heart sped up and her skin tingled. She wasn’t sure if she was excited or filled with dread at the prospect. Both emotions seemed to be warring for supremacy.
Lindha washed Ash’s muscular back and buttocks, trying to be impersonal and not succeeding. There was no fat on him at all; he really was too thin. Just today she had overheard two of the female boarders discussing their sexual exploits and favorite positions. That was as expected, proper. They must learn the art of pleasure for their partners and themselves. Indeed, Lindha herself had learned the rites of love in case the Trueborn arrived and needed her that way.
Today, before he came, she had been jealous of the two girls and their experiences, wishing she was a normal woman like any other. Now she was frightened. Taro the Deceiver had made her jealous and Jana had shown her how irrational that jealousy could be. Many times she had imagined her dream lover. Could this man actually be him? He seemed so rough, so dangerous. It couldn’t be him, he was not comfortable at all. How different imagination was when compared to the harshness of reality.
Was the Goddess testing her faith? Lindha swallowed uneasily. The Trueborn already seemed to want her. But she didn’t feel ready; that was why she had told him she was celibate. Besides, he was drunk. It had not been a break in her vows, she thought, justifying her actions to herself. It was an impulsive attempt to slow things down, to ensure that she, as Prefect, was in control. And it had worked, giving the Trueborn pause in his attentions.
Lindha bit her lip. Ultimately, she would submit to her duties as Prefect. It was out of her hands. The future was up to the Trueborn.
Ash woke in the sun-brightened room, unaware that he had slept overnight in the Temple Prefect’s quarters. It was quiet but he could hear the sound of young people outside. They seemed to be chatting and laughing, but the tones were soft. The room was a cool blue, the furniture of light wood. Ash was drawn to a large painting that hung in the center of the room. It was a landscape, and it gave an incredible impression of life and light. With large brushstrokes it showed the pastoral scene of an Opan spring sky. It was the astonishing light that attracted Ash. Whoever painted this work of art was a master.
Ash was lying on his back. His shoulder throbbed under a bandage and, with every muscle aching, he felt as though he had been thoroughly beaten. He looked at his fingers: his nails were trimmed and his hands were clean. Surprisingly, he had no hangover. But what a wonderful bed.
Rolling to his side, careful of his back and shoulder, Ash scanned the room. It was so comfortable. He hadn’t slept in a proper bed for years, and the sensation of a mattress and clean fresh sheets caused intense pleasure. He stretched luxuriously, finding it difficult to get past the simple satisfaction of a real bed. And to be so clean! Even his hair had been washed; it fell against his face and neck, soft and light. Everything smelled good. He felt himself to be naked, so where were his clothes?
“Good morning, Ash. Are you feeling better?”
Ash turned in surprise. It was the Lady Lindha. Here! Glancing up he received a further shock. She had been sleeping in a cot behind him.
“Yes … thank you, Lady.” He winced as he sat up and awkwardly stumbled through a reply. “If there is anything I can do to repay you …”
“In good time,” she said, cutting him off, smiling and propping pillows behind his back. “For now, you must rest. You have been through quite enough.” She opened the door and spoke to someone who was waiting in the hall. “We’re ready for the morning meal, please.”
“Yes, Lady,” he heard a voice reply.
Ash’s mind was whirling. Why had they saved him and taken such good care? Obviously it was because of their faith. Lady Lindha must have washed him. Ash felt both embarrassed and aroused at the thought. He admonished himself. She was celibate, a Sister of Jana with an pledge of chastity. She probably did this sort of thing all the time. Still, he thought with a wry slow smile, he wished he had been awake to enjoy her efforts.
An idea intruded and his cheerful mood evaporated. “Was it you that found me in that storeroom?” he asked tentatively. In his heart he knew it was, but he hoped he was mistaken.
“I am afraid that was me,” she smiled to lessen the blow.
“Lady, please forgive me.”
“Of course,” she nodded, casually dismissing the offence.
Ash reflected back. What had happened last night? He struggled to recall. He remembered drinking and the stitching … and … oh. He had been singing her name! He groaned, realizing that he had made a fool of himself.
Lindha leaned toward him, anxiously solicitous. “Does your wound hurt?”
“No, I simply remembered last night,” Ash confessed, feeling that he couldn’t really hide the truth from a Temple Sister. He said uneasily, “Those spirits. I hope I didn’t do or say anything to offend you.”
Lindha gave a soft giggle, the sound as musical as a windchime’s song to Ash’s ears. “You did nothing to offend me, Ash. It was the drink talking. We paid no attention to your rambling, I can assure you.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.”
A mischievous glint came into her expression. She raised one eyebrow and said, “But do tell me, Ash, are my eyes truly as beautiful as your mother’s?”
Ash, blithely unaware that Lindha was attempting to tease him, studied her and gave the matter serious thought. He was not disconcerted or embarrassed by her query. He took the question seriously, looking into Lindha’s eyes with burning curiosity and intent.
Lindha didn’t look away from his steady regard. Her expression remained composed, but a faint flush of color came into her cheeks.
“Yes, Lady,” Ash answered. “Your eyes are exactly as my mother’s; perhaps even more beautiful than hers were.”
There was a long moment of silence as they looked at each other.
Lindha looked away first. She said, “Your mother …” She paused and then added quietly, “She was on the ship with you?”
“Yes.” Ash’s lips pressed together as grief rose up, constricting his throat. It was silly, he reproached himself, to feel sorrow for such an old loss. But something about this woman did remind him of his mother and it was more than just her eyes.
A tap on the door broke the spell and was a welcome relief. Breakfast had arrived.
Ash was mortified by Lindha’s continued attentions, but could hardly refuse. It seemed a thickened, enriched broth had been made for him, something light because of his injury. While he settled down to enjoy the soup, Lindha appeared with a towel and some clean clothes, consisting of a belt and tunic with matching trousers.
“There’s a bath next door if you’re up to it and a razor for your use when you’ve finished your meal. Have a care when washing; I don’t recommend that you allow those bandages to become wet. Shall I trim your hair?”
“Surely, Lady, you have many more important things that demand your attention,” Ash said, feeling guilty for monopolizing her. “I’d rather you didn’t waste your time personally attending to me.”
She said, “As a visitor to the Temple you are in my charge,” Lindha replied firmly. “I will not quarrel with you, sir. I must insist. It is my privilege and honor to ensure that your needs are met.”
His looked at her, incredulous in disbelief.
“Honestly, Ash,” she scolded. “It would be an insult to me to have you ill dressed or ill cared for. Believe me, it is my duty and I will not be happy unless you allow me to attend to it.”
He shrugged. “Well, then. It would be most welcome to have my hair, for once, properly trimmed. Thank you.” His face broadened into a grin. For some years now he had been cutting it with his knife.
With that, Ash’s new life at the Temple began.
25. A Temple Education
There are only a few enlightened people with logical minds and superior intelligence within a century. These people challenge accepted culture and with superior vision they advance humankind. What has been preserved of their work belongs among the most precious possessions of humanity. Without Plato, Aristotle, Franklin, Einstein, Jenkins, Sanderson, ShanTu and others, humanity would still be mired in superstition and ignorance.
— Seer Narda Chayton
The Second Prefect, Sister Jeeha, smiled in satisfaction as she looked out across the Temple of Jana’s Deliberation Hall. It was a large room, designed with acoustics in mind. Choirs practiced here, as well as the Tombay Symphony. With fine, rich rugs, wood fixtures, lighting that soothed, and open transparent doors out to the gardens, the Sisterhood used it as a place for teaching, discussion and debate.
Jeeha’s face and deportment hadn’t changed, but new vitality coursed through her. The Trueborn had come over three weeks ago and this changed everything. Who Ash was remained secret, known only to Temple Sisters. Yet such excitement was contagious and the students had picked up the subtle wave of energy and purpose. Jeeha allowed herself a broad smile. Today’s discussion would reflect that vigor.
She looked out upon the senior class, students ranging from eighteen to eighty. They lounged on couches, the floor or at tables chatting amongst themselves happily. She saw Ash sitting cross legged on a fine red Vitian carpet, well at the back He was attending this class, as he had others. Jeeha doubted he would contribute to the discussion. Quiet and guarded, the Trueborn, she felt, was still finding his way.
“Okay, everyone, if you’re ready, we can get started,” Jeeha said. “We’ve brought to the forum a vast topic today, which of course will soon be brought to manageable levels. The question is: What is good, what is evil? What is right, what is wrong? And, of course, ShanTu’s favorite: What is virtue? Who wants to start?”
The arguments raged back and forth. Recent history was examined, the evil of the Hundred Year War, the character flaws in all humanity that could cause such destruction. While certain acts were considered inherently evil, most agreed that what was considered evil was generally determined by social or cultural morals and constructs. Many agreed that those often transgressing moral boundaries generally did so as they stood to profit from those transgressions. Historical justifications for evil were also examined: genocide as a reason to purify the race, slavery as a form of benevolence to “lesser” humans.
Greed, pride, jealousy, self righteousness and revenge were all discussed as inherent human character flaws. It was a given that human imperfections during certain circumstances were innocuous, yet those same failings in positions of power could be extremely destructive and thus evil. Power inequities were seen to create both perpetrators and victims and the resultant counterproductive responses that went against what was considered “natural good.” It was observed that often an individual’s greatest gift was also their most dangerous failing. For example, a cheerful positive person, believing in absolute good, may be unable to clearly view evil and thus in ignorance allow it to take root. Whereas a cynical and negative person may be able to easily spot and weed out ill doing, but also be unable to find and enjoy goodness.
The Temple view was argued that no person is basically evil, that only acts should be considered evil; otherwise it was too easy to hate an individual and strive to punish them rather than to understand them. The Temple’s stated intent was to free people from whatever demons caused them to resort to destructive evil behavior in the first place. Yet evil should not be allowed to continue. If harming an individual became necessary to prevent them from performing evil acts, this was acceptable despite being detrimental to the individual.
Interestingly, it was generally allowed that there were many, many cases where a little evil is a positive thing and, indeed, without evil, “good” cannot be appreciated. An individual who takes a friend for granted may be better able to appreciate how lucky they were to have had such a friendship if the friend leaves. One may appreciate health only after illness, be grateful for wealth only after poverty, and so on. Another clear example in point was that the UWG was strong and a powerful source of good for all of humanity as a direct result of the Hundred Year War and the resultant evil of destruction.
Nisha, a long-ordained Sister, eventually stood up and said, “It can be seen from our discussion that traditionally the question of good or evil stems from cultural moral codes and is therefore based on the mores of a group. There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” She sat down.
“I agree,” a young man offered, standing. “For example,” he smiled sheepishly, “not that long ago it was considered a sin to have sex. Even masturbation was considered wrong and same sex partners or anything unconventional was out of the question. Women had to remain celibate before marriage or they were considered immoral. Men had to be experienced — it was such a double standard. Even the concept of paying for Service was considered wicked before the Age of Exodus. They called it prostitution, which had a hugely negative connotation. We all know that sex is as natural a part of life as is eating or sleeping; to neglect it for any reason is just stupid. No one ever questioned paying for a meal or a place to sleep. Humans need touch, skin-to-skin contact; it is part of what makes us human. Not having sex can cause physical, mental and spiritual harm. So the wrong, I believe, is in denying one’s own nature.”
Jeeha said, “Caleb, I’m impressed. Your impassioned speech had many good points. I thank you.”
“I agree with Caleb, of course,” an older woman said. “These concepts have been proven time and time again through valid research. While not taking away from the points Caleb makes, ShanTu advised that moral qualities are so constituted as to be destroyed by either excess or by deficiency. Perhaps his was too simple an answer, but one cannot but agree that such a course is straightforward in application. He of course recommended following a mean, that is to say, moderation in all things.”
Caleb, the young man previously speaking, had not yet sat down. He replied, “When one is young, one’s needs are different. One person’s excess is another’s deficiency.” He sat.
Everyone laughed loudly. Caleb, at age twenty-three, was known to be a young man with a surplus of passion. Jeeha knew that sex was not everything, by any means. But to consistently repress one’s sexuality would inhibit creative impulse and deny self-expression, joy and life. It would be an insult to the soul. Temple teachings held that love and sexuality were crucial to physical, mental, emotional, professional and spiritual fulfillment. Students over eighteen spent much course time engaging in this study, and Caleb was a particularly devoted student.
A stocky, muscular young woman stood. “Yes, Renee?” Jeeha asked.
Renee smiled. “I am a pragmatic sort of person, and common sense has been one of my better attributes. I want to excel at the things that are important to me. I study cooking as an art. This gives me pleasure and also gives pleasure to others. I feel my profession in Icom program management is also an art form, a creative way to achieve my goals. I tend to think of sex in the same creative artistic manner. Why not be good at it? Why not study it as a natural matter of course, like any other subject, again to give myself pleasure and pleasure to another?” She sat back down.
The man next to her gave her a considering look and said in a way that was not entirely joking: “I’d be honored to help you in your studies.”
Everyone laughed again. Renee said, “I have a partner that I study with already, thank you. Further, it is more than sexual practice. It is love. In short: I am taken. Find someone else.”
Snorts, giggles and laughter from the happy students started up once more.
Jeeha smiled. “Ah, love. Too vast a topic for us today, I am afraid. Let us continue on the subject of sex. Do you think that moral codes are formed on whim? Or do you imagine that there may be reasons for them that become distorted over time? Please discuss this amongst yourselves and then we will return to open forum.” The room broke into little conversational groups and eventually quieted.
A young woman rose to her feet. “Our general consensus is that in most cases such moral codes often begin validly and become distorted from the original concept. For example, in the past it would have been important to prevent pregnancy, or prevent the acquisition of a sexually transmitted disease. Abstinence would be a logical way to avert such problems and the moral codes of the time reflect this. In our time one only becomes pregnant when one desires to have a child. Sexually transmitted diseases are nonexistent. Historically, to equate unmarried sex with sin would have been a good idea. That is to say, it would increase the long-term survival of humankind.” She gracefully returned to the carpet, crossing her legs.
Jeeha nodded.
“What do you think? Again, please discuss the subject amongst yourself.” The group did so, and once more quieted.
A young woman stood, and looked expectantly at Jeeha.
“Yes, Mari?”
Mari had only been studying the Temple for two months, having arrived from a country area. The Damithst stone had reacted brightly to her, but she had declined becoming a Sister. She was of Asian heritage, one hundred and forty centimeters — well under five-foot, of delicate form and features, with smooth dark skin, and long, dark hair.
“Sister,” she asked in a clear soft voice, “I have been wondering. It is agreed that the art of sex is important in Temple beliefs, is in fact vital to human growth, yes?”
“Assuredly.”
“And such growth is good, and to deny one’s nature is wrong, yes?”
“That is as we believe. You are welcome to choose your own path, of course.”
“Can you tell me, then, why is the Temple Prefect chaste?”
Jeeha reacted instantly, laughing and clapping with pleasure. The rest of the students were surprised into silence. “Oh, well done, Mari! Please sit down. I will come back to you. Who here has had this same thought? Anyone?”
The silence was complete. After a long moment, one girl stood and offered, “I had a fleeting thought, about how it was odd; but honestly, I just didn’t think to question it. It was Temple business.”
Jeeha nodded. “Thank you. If I understand you correctly, you noticed but then quickly forgot about the anomaly because you trust the Temple and the Temple Sisters and you feel that we know what we are doing, perhaps?”
“Just so, Second Prefect.”
“Excellent. Anyone else?”
A light-brown-haired man of about thirty stood self-consciously. He said, “I wondered about it. My thought was more than, ah … fleeting.”
Jeeha said, “Very good, Dean. Now, this is important. Please close your eyes and tell me, try to recall. When did you have this thought?”
Eyes shut, he took a moment to consider, and said, “About a year ago.”
“Can you recall what you were doing then and why this thought came to you?”
“I was taking a watercolor lesson with the Prefect, the Lady Lindha. I was distracted, watching her, noticing how vital and alive she was, and I wondered … well, I imagined what it would be like to bed her. Then I remembered that she was chaste, and I thought that was such a shame. But then I felt guilty about thinking about it, because she was a maiden for spiritual reasons and above such things. I forgot about it then. I completely forgot about it until you mentioned it just now.”
Jeeha smiled broadly. “Perfect. Dean, I thank you for your exceptional recall and faultless honesty. Now everyone, do you see what is happening here? We at the Temple do not practice what we teach! Our Temple leader remains untouched. How can this be? But even more importantly, why does no one question this aberrant behavior? Dean has given one answer. He was acute enough to observe the oddity, yet can you see how feelings of guilt made him stop all inquiry?”
She hooted and clapped her hands again. “Oh, Dean. Such a perfect example. I thank you again. The emotion of guilt has been used since the beginning of time by people in positions of power. If one is focused on one’s own failings, one does not look and one cannot see. The individual can feel at fault for simply having a negative observation and asking a question. Can you appreciate what this means?”
She considered the interested expressions in her audience and added, “Questioning those in authority can be the most difficult of all. It is taxing for a person to look and even more challenging to actually see. This problem becomes virtually impossible when one likes the people or institution in question and wants to believe in their perfection. But your blindness has been stripped away for the present. Can you all now see what has been right there in front of you all this time?”
She nodded to Mari, who stood. “Young woman, I will answer your question. It is a ruling of our order that the Prefect remains chaste for the twelve years of her tenure. I am afraid that I, too, believe it to be unhealthy and quite wrong. It happens because of a sacred vow. A seer from the past has laid this burden upon us, and faithful to it we must remain until a certain prophecy is fulfilled. No more can I say. It was a genuine pleasure for me to be questioned on this matter, thank you.”
Jeeha scanned the group. Every face was turned toward her, interested, wanting more — except for the Trueborn. Was he thoughtful? Or brooding? Either way, it was time to finish. “We shall continue this most fruitful forum tomorrow. I am here for another half hour if anyone needs to see me. Please, all of you, know this: In this world there is nothing that should not or cannot be viewed, looked at, questioned and discussed. Nothing.”
The students clapped and rose, then trailed out for midday meal. Jeeha was alone when Dorian, who had been well hidden behind a plant and a thick curtain, suddenly appeared behind her.
“By the Goddess Dorian! What are you doing?” Jeeha said, jumping in surprise. She took a calming breath, marveling at her reaction. What was it about this strange boy? Why did Dorian at times frighten her?
“Sorry,” he said.
“You know you’re not supposed to be here,” Jeeha admonished, annoyed at finding him listening in to a class out of bounds to those under eighteen. Dorian, at thirteen, was an exceptionally devious child. He seemed to be aware of everything that went on at the Temple.
“I was searching Icom about male circumcision,” he said, and unaccountably blushed. “Anyway, it appears to me that the reason that people practiced it was because they lived in a desert back then. Perhaps sand, combined with a lack of water for cleansing, caused problems. They might have figured out that if men were circumcised it would prevent infections. I thought maybe that was how the cultural acceptance started, so it once was a normal thing to do.”
Jeeha smiled. The Temple maintained that there was no monopoly on understanding. Genius struck unexpectedly and took many forms. Dorian, an intelligent child, was an example of that. She said, “An astute observation, Dorian. I think you’ll find a definitive answer if you research under cultural strings. Shall I forward you a list of suggestions?” If he could ask the question, he also had the ability to answer it.
“Yes, thank you.”
She nodded. “Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s all.”
“Good. You should be somewhere, I suspect. At work, perhaps?”
Dorian gave her a charming boyish grin and his green eyes flashed. “I’m going,” he said and left.
Jeeha wondered what had caused Dorian’s question. She knew of no one who had actually been circumcised. It wasn’t practiced anymore on any world that she was aware of. He had been interfered with as a child and no doubt that is where he had seen a circumcised man. He would have been a backward, ignorant man, brought up by backward, ignorant people. A momentary flare of anguish rose up within her, on Dorian’s behalf, for such subjection and destruction of his will.
Jeeha bit her lower lip and wondered what was behind Dorian’s practiced charm, for there was definitely something dark about the boy. Childhood abuse had damaged him in some unseen, unknown way. Never mind. With time, Jeeha felt certain that Dorian would fully recover.
26. Encoding
Software Theory can be summed up thus: Humans act according to their programming — responses and interactions are automatic and culturally conditioned. There are few self-aware, conscious people as most humans are not there at all. Infrequently in this universe does one actual person interact with another actual person.
— Icompedia, Prof. A.R.C. Real People
“Catch!”
Ash turned just in time to catch a cabbage thrown his way.
Dorian gave him an irreverent laugh. “You’re like a cat, always landing on your feet. If I had thrown that at Anton it would have landed dead center on the back of his head.” He moved out from behind the trellis-work, where he had been hiding.
Ash gave him a wicked grin that intentionally projected subtle menace. “You’re going to have to pay for that, Dorian. I’m going to count to three, then I’m coming for you.”
The two friends had been for a walk in the Temple gardens. Dorian, to all appearances a boisterous, irreverent prankster, was actually a dark and secretive soul. No one really knew him at all as he was quick to respond to all personal queries with deflection or humor. Dorian had serious trust issues.
At Ash’s threat, thirteen-year-old Dorian gave a high-pitched adolescent scream and started running. Ash counted and then began to chase him down. Dorian wove in and out through hedges, flowering plants and gravel paths, leaping through a pergola and past a number of statues and fountains.
Ash let him run for a while, but caught him easily, taking him to the ground and pinning his arms with his knees. He then set about tickling him. Dorian couldn’t stop laughing, but his laughter had a brittle edge.
Ash noticed the change in tone and immediately let him up. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Ash didn’t need mind-touch to sense what Dorian was feeling.
“What?”
“You were afraid of me, Dorian.”
“Well, duh. You’re bigger and stronger than me.”
Ash walked to a nearby bench that was placed under a deep blue Bay tree. He tilted his head, studying Dorian for a moment. Then he sat down, hands relaxed on his thighs, and waited. The air was warm and made fragrant by a nearby trellis covered in blooming pink and brown toffee vines. A number of tiny red-beaked, yellow wrens darted in and out of the vines and bushes, calling softly to each other. A stream flowed along a white stone path beside him. Ash contemplated the clear, jade green waters, lost in thought.
The change in Dorian’s demeanor was striking. Dorian was anxious, preoccupied, distracted and afraid. His features had a dark countenance: It was the Dark Sankomin. Dorian could not be present here and now, not around men, and certainly not with men touching him. While Dorian was alone with Ash, consciously or unconsciously Dorian had one or more of the men he had previously known with him right now, solidly dammed in the river of his mind. Ash knew he would someday go mad from the Dark Sankomin, but at least Dorian wasn’t Delian and no such fate awaited him. Still, Ash wanted to help the boy. But how?
After a while Dorian sat beside Ash, not close enough to touch. They both lounged quietly for a few minutes while Ash waited for Dorian to regain his composure.
Ash took his time. Talking might help, but it would be difficult to get Dorian to be here and honestly communicate. Dorian’s defensive programming had already kicked in. He would brush Ash off. He had brushed him off already with the “you’re bigger than me” comment. Ash agreed with “Software Theory.” It was exceptional for an actual person to interact with another actual person.
He would have to shock the truth out of Dorian. Surprise him into reacting to the moment: into being here now, with him.
After measuring and sifting his words, Ash said calmly, “I was thirteen when I had unwanted sex, Dorian, five years older than you were.”
“You’re kidding!”
“True story, Dorian. Messed me up for a long, long time. I felt like a bad person, soiled and guilty. I suspect you may be going through some of that yourself. Have you ever talked about it with anyone?”
“No.”
“How about with Anton?”
“No.”
Ash looked at him doubtfully.
“What for? We were both there. We know what happened.”
They sat together in silence. Ash thought that when it came to relationships with men or sexual situations, the twins would eternally be in danger of the Dark Sankomin. Talking would help, but it wasn’t the same. Both boys would find their experiences difficult to talk about. They would hide and deny the most painful events from others, and even from themselves as Ash had. They needed the healing power of mind-touch, except Ash didn’t feel capable of giving it to him. Dorian was too young, Ash too inexperienced. Further, Ash was male. How could either of the boys be willing to trust men while stuck in those past betrayals by men? No. Ash didn’t want to make things worse.
“If you ever want to talk about it you can talk to me.”
Dorian swallowed. He gave a jerky nod with a nervous chin.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Both young men sat perfectly still, a thick tension surrounding them.
More silence; this time it was a sullen, uncomfortable silence.
Finally Dorian asked, “Who did you have sex with?”
“My mother.”
“Ewww!”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“That is so wrong.”
“You know what was worst of all?” Ash asked.
“What?”
“I didn’t want to, honestly. But I kind of got into it, and in the end I enjoyed it. That was the worst. I felt pretty bad about enjoying such an unnatural act.”
Dorian nodded and was quiet for a moment. He looked at Ash, and then looked away. Shifted his body, shifted his feet and cleared his throat. Then he looked up and looked away again. This tense uncomfortable behavior went on for some minutes.
Ash remained silent and still, watching him without expression. Dorian’s mouth opened, shut … then opened and shut again. He could see that Dorian wanted to tell him something and Ash wanted to hear it. Long Fang had taught him well: Ash was a patient hunter. Many times he had waited perfectly still all day for game to come out of hiding. Dorian would talk. It was obvious to Ash that the boy had a number of burdens, dark secrets that were weighing him down. Ash was content to share the load.
Eventually Dorian drew a shaky breath and said, “I was kind of curious at first. I didn’t like it either, but sometimes it felt good for me, too.” He paused for a bit, gazing down at his hands. After some long minutes, with an uncomfortable and timid expression, he looked up at Ash, his eyes searching for Ash’s reaction.
Ash’s face remained politely interested. He was not shocked. His face was quite impassive. Ash had been careful to have no visible response one way or another to Dorian’s disclosure.
Dorian shook his head. “So disgusting. I hated myself for that.”
Ash remained quiet. Dorian looked up once more. Ash smiled sardonically at him and said, “Welcome to the wonders of the male body.”
“Tell me about it,” Dorian agreed.
Ash nodded sympathetically. He understood.
Dorian’s tense posture relaxed slightly. Now that the subject was broached, he seemed to be able to keep speaking. It was as if a dam had broken. His face colored and Dorian said, all at once in a rush, “The men … well, a lot of times it really hurt and then when it hurt, I was glad when Anton was getting it rather than me. I didn’t like it, especially when it hurt. I felt bad about that, too.”
Ash drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “Wow. Real mental and moral dilemma there: protect your twin brother from pain or protect yourself. Talk about lose-lose. Was it always with men, Dorian?” Ash asked.
“Always.”
“Do you prefer men?”
“No way!”
“Just asking. Doesn’t matter either way to me.” He was quiet for a bit. “I was thinking that you and Anton should train in self defense.”
“Neat.”
They sat some more. This time the silence was companionable, the tension had gone. Dorian’s had unburdened himself in some small degree, and Ash had acknowledged and understood him. Dorian’s face was brighter. The Dark Sankomin had receded.
“Thank you for telling me, Dorian.” Ash stood up, resisting the urge to comfort the boy by ruffling his hair or patting his back. It would be a long time before Dorian would be at ease with a man’s touch. “I’m glad we had this talk.”
The room was warmer than normal, set to a temperature an older, thin-skinned person would enjoy. It was full of antiques, decorated in warm colors, reds, yellows, creams and browns. There were expensive crystal chandeliers, sculptures and golden ornaments, silverware. The woman’s space was an amazing cave of hidden valuables, each holding more than monetary value to the old Seer who inhabited these rooms. The spiritual was what was important, not the material, she reminded herself. But still, there was nothing wrong with enjoying the pleasures of the flesh, to ease one’s mind and spirit with these few comforts she had collected over the years. Her treasures had always delighted her soul.
Here, on the other side of Opan, in her desert isolation, the old crone had received the message via Icom from the Prefect. It said simply, “He has come.”
Narda, once “Nardha,” Temple Prefect herself, had retired from the Sisterhood. Like all retired Sisters, she was allowed to keep her stone. She had produced ten children, five through body births, and five through artificial wombs. All of her children were Temple Sisters themselves. The current Prefect, the Lady Lindha, was her granddaughter.
Narda had lived a full life and looked all of her one-hundred and fifty years. Her shoulders were rounded and her face was wrinkled — utterly wrinkled, each line a virtual crag, deeply etched into her features. Her skin hung in pouches, her body wasted with age. Her rheumy eyes watered constantly. It was quite irritating.
The suspensor chair she sat in reclined as she directed with an Icom command. She still walked, yes, but it was good to keep her legs elevated. She was old and soon she would travel to the Golden Lands: she had seen this. She had only been waiting for the Trueborn to arrive, for she knew he would come to this world. This she had seen as well.
She sighed, tired and exhausted by the burden of her visions. She would rest, soon, and stop having to drag this old carcass around with her. She would be free of it, finally. She had waited so long.
So many lives, so many journeys: each with a beginning, middle and an end. There was no speeding up the process. A person lived and learned at the pace that they were able. Humankind was evolving, mentally, physically, and most of all spiritually. She had played a part in that evolution. After her death she would no doubt play another part. A beginning, middle and end. Like all souls, she would go back to the beginning and struggle and learn again. She sighed. It seemed that nothing had really changed since the time of Pythagoras, almost 3,000 years ago. Pythagoras, an intelligent man, was well aware of the wheel: he also wanted to escape the cycle of birth and death.
Narda looked at the Icom holovid Lindha sent of Ash and smiled with real pleasure. That hair. Those cheekbones and jaw. The boy had the look of Jenkins in him. She wondered how the Trueborn would react to her. She imagined that he would probably like her. He would certainly be surprised to find that she had been waiting for him.
She frowned. Soon. Just a little longer; then the circle would close. Things must take their natural course; they could not be hurried. She had messaged back to the Prefect: “Not yet.”
Sitting up and moving her chair, Narda brought herself to the two books that lay in a transparent case upon her fine oak table. Both volumes were used by the Temple of Jana; both were in fact the foundations of their spiritual beliefs. The first was the Book of Jana; it was bound in dark blue genuine leather, with golden lettering and printed (printed: if one could imagine!) on treated paper. It was well over two-hundred years old. It contained basic truths, only a few of them. The main part of the work consisted of “The Parables”: simple, memorable stories that were created to convey a spiritual message.
The second was the Book of Taro; it was black-leather bound, again with gold lettering, and it also was printed on treated paper. It was the same age as Jana’s book and it contained many, many lies and its own parables: the Parables of evil, of self deceit.
The Temple taught that all thoughts should be viewed. An educated mind was able to entertain an idea without accepting it. Thus the book of the Deceiver was as important as the book of truth. An individual must know evil, to look it in the face in order to defeat it. The seeds of goodness and wickedness were present in all. Unless one could view such evil and recognize it, the mind could be attracted by it. In ignorance one could then inadvertently feed and water such malevolence, and allow it to grow.
She recalled the saying, “Goodness was simple, where evil was manifold.” Now who had said that? she wondered. Mangan? She didn’t bother to check Icom. Her own mind and memory were no longer what they were, but that hardly mattered at this point. However, it was also true that goodness arrived in infinite form and variety, while evil, although diverse, was similar to itself.
Narda had witnessed this many times. Siblings growing up in a loving, wholesome environment, facilitated in their interests and each given the opportunity to pursue his or her personal goals, became astonishingly unique. She had seen within the same families scientists, artists, musicians — oh, many, many unique interests and groundbreaking ideas. From one tree grew an enormous variety of fruit. A quality upbringing created difference, allowed unique individual attributes to flourish, and gave each family member the ability to find their own minds, their own purpose.
She had also seen the opposite: a toxic environment seemed to her to be all the same, with similar themes running through the common taint of evil: drugs, alcohol, domestic violence, criminal activities, gambling, physical, mental and sexual abuse, and abandonment. No uniqueness at all. Same, same, same. The children of these families, unless fighters with the fortitude to escape, were one and all damaged. They often perpetuated the cycle of evil themselves.
Narda knew who had written these two books; the Book of Jana and the Book of Taro. Jana meant “God’s grace” in Hebrew; Taro was of aboriginal tongue and meant “God’s destruction.” The gentleman hadn’t actually written these volumes; he had in fact arranged for them to be written and printed well before he had left Earth. He had employed many people, professionals in every religious and philosophic field. He had them put the main concepts of their knowledge into simple parables. It was this man who, after commissioning this enterprise, had taken only the parables that he felt were the finest from a plethora of world religions and philosophies.
That man had foreseen what the UWG planned, how all religion, through careful government machination, was becoming unpopular, and how they all would eventually be lost. There would be a vacuum, a need to fill, when all knowledge of divinity was gone. From his endeavors would come a new religion, a revised belief that took all the best and the worst of every religion and philosophy and combined them into two volumes.
The Trueborn would be surprised when he found that both books had been commissioned, fashioned and created by his ancestor, the man who discovered Omni and the first King of Delian: Brent Jenkins. Jenkins had changed his last name to Chayton, the name Ashton bore. The Trueborn had never heard the full story of the first King of Delian and the Damithst talisman, the King’s Mirror. It was up to her to tell him, as she alone knew the entire story. It had been passed on to her through word of mouth.
Narda sighed. The circle was closing, and completion was near. For she was a direct descendant of Brent Jenkins and the Trueborn, Ashton Chayton, was blood kin to her. Together they would help bring the final prophecy to pass.
27. Trueborn Requirements
ShanTu said that we must set the soul free from the body and its lusts. Having thus gotten rid of the foolishness of the flesh, we shall be pure. While an admirable goal, the Sisterhood has not found this practical. For whatever purpose, body and soul are joined. Denying one’s bodily lusts is about as effective as prohibition, which is to say not effective at all.
— Sister Nisha Sutha
The Prefect of the Temple of Jana, the Lady Lindha, finished instructing her morning class late, had a quick lunch, and then went to her room to change into something less formal. The sun shone brightly outside, and rays of sunlight spilled through her bedroom curtains. The room was close and warm. After spending the morning inside she was looking forward to getting outside. Lindha looked through her wardrobe, deciding on a flattering, light nano-fiber red dress. She knew she looked good in it and wanted Ash to notice.
Lindha shook her head, irritated with herself. She was dressing her best in order to attract him.
Since the Trueborn’s arrival all she could think of was Ash. Her whole life seemed to center on him. Ash’s presence was overwhelming, charismatic. Like magic or mystery, he drew her to him. He is so beautiful, she thought. Was he her dream lover? Would he even know if he was? Or was it all her imagination? Forsaken worlds. She felt like a crazy woman. She was definitely losing her mind. Was this love?
She remembered the trip they made a few days after his arrival. They had taken a speeder to where he lived with the wolves. He had lived in a den! Solar energy, bedding, foodstuffs — he had made himself comfortable; but for a child to live without human companionship for five years? It was astonishing, and disturbing.
The den was empty and had been so for some time. Troubled by the wolves’ disappearance, Ash had searched but was unable to find his “family.” Lindha tensed, still shocked. His family. Ash considered those wild predators kin.
She left off all rings and necklaces, firmly telling herself enough was enough, but she conceded to a small amount of perfume. Lindha could believe Ash felt kin to wolves. He had a savage sort of fury stored up inside, and had shown his volatile temper more than once. The position of Prefect was inviolate. No one would dare to lay hands on her, speak to her in anger, or show disrespect in any way. Ash had done all three already. At times he seemed unable to suppress his rage. It had been a new experience for her.
Once while attending a philosophy class, Ash had said that for everything there was a season: “A time to live, a time to die.” Everyone knew the parables — that was nothing new. But Ash had then argued that there was also a time to kill.
A jolt of fear ran through her. It was the duty of the Prefect and the Temple to help the Trueborn to achieve his goals. But did he really want to kill someone? With his temper she could well believe that Ash was capable of killing during an angry passion. But his comments led her to believe that the Trueborn was capable of planning to kill. She wanted to ask, but couldn’t find the words. Did Ash already have someone in mind? Someone he wanted dead?
It was against every principle. To kill — for hate, for revenge — one would have to pay for an act such as that, if not in this life then certainly in another. Lindha sighed as she looked into the mirror, checking to ensure that she looked her best. Yes, the Trueborn had implied that he may want to kill another, and he had the temper to prove it. It made no difference. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything.
Lindha added a small amount of lip gloss. Everything about the Trueborn unsettled her. Her moods changed so rapidly, it was like being astride a shying horse, a mad gallop of emotions that she could barely rein in: desire, anxiety, euphoria, excitement and fear. Excitement was foremost. It was always there. She was too wound up to sleep or eat. It was all she could do to give an appearance of composure. Was this love? This madness? She honestly felt as if she were being beaten and caressed at the same time.
Brushing her hair she began to braid it, pulling it up high on her head. Yes. She had a long, graceful neck. Maybe Ash would like her hair up? Lindha giggled. Here she was, trying to attract him, while pretending she was ambivalent. It was hilarious! Too bad she was too conflicted to fully enjoy the absurdity.
Lindha had a mischievous sense of humor and a keen sense of the ridiculous. She loved pointing out flawed or inconsistent behavior. She took it in good part when others teased her, because she considered herself far from perfect. For if one could not laugh at one’s faults, what was there to laugh at?
The morning after his arrival, Lindha had attempted to tease the Trueborn. He had embarrassed her the night before, telling her that she had beautiful eyes like his mother’s. Oh, he had been such a trial that first night. Calling her beautiful, asking if she was promised. She was sure it was the drink talking. It was no wonder she had been unable to resist tormenting him. Maybe it was a perverse desire to make him squirm. Perhaps she had done it simply to repay the embarrassment she had suffered at his hands. Either way, teasing him hadn’t worked. He had stared at her with such measured intensity that she had to look away. In the end all that happened was she had made herself uncomfortable.
Drunk or sober, Ash was entirely out of her experience and she still had no idea how to manage him. He seemed so much better able to manage her — her and everyone else. Not to mention the animals. She sighed. Yes, the Trueborn definitely had a way with the animals. It was as if they talked to him. Did they talk to him? Perhaps it was some sort of psychic connection. She would like to ask him about that.
Ash spent a lot of time with the Temple horses. Her mind went back in recall. It was two days after the Trueborn had come to live at the Temple. Ash had been admiring the Temple beasts, stopping last at the horses, her favorite animals. Tarplan, a fierce, untamed stallion, newly added to the herd, had become loose. Lindha held her breath as her memory returned.
“Look out!” someone cried, and she turned to see Tarplan madly racing straight for her. There was no time to move. She could have been killed, crushed by the stallion’s sharp and angry hoofs. Unexpectedly, Ash stood in front of the powerful animal, hands outstretched, calm and assured … with his eyes shut!
Tarplan skidded to a stop and stood quivering, his sides heaving. Ash had reached over, gently taking the riding blanket off the trembling animal, placing it at his feet.
For one awful moment, the great beast had reared up with new fury. Lindha was certain that the Trueborn was going to be trampled underfoot, but the maddened horse had simply thoroughly stomped the rug and then sniffed it. When Tarplan was finished, Ash calmly led him back to his stable.
Ash had returned, moments later. “Your stallion is fine now.” He shrugged and smiled a wry crooked grin at the shocked faces that stared at him, amazed by the performance. “He was simply afraid of that blanket, you know,” he explained, moving his hands in excuse, as if it was nothing.
Lindha exhaled, returning to the present. No one doubted that Ash was the Trueborn — not after that. He was the only one to this day that Tarplan let mount him.
Lindha looked back into the mirror and didn’t like what she saw. Suddenly she burst out laughing and pulled her hair down. She couldn’t decide how to wear it so she may as well leave it au naturel. Oh, Jana, she was in such a state. All because of a man not quite eighteen years old. She was Temple Prefect and four years older. With so much knowledge, training and experience she should be better than this. Only she wasn’t. She had never felt so befuddled and uncertain in her life. Except for that time in the storeroom, Ash had touched her, just once, grabbing her arm in anger. The warmth of his touch had sent a thrill of heat through her. The pleasure it caused had been difficult to conceal. How could that have attracted her? But it did. Such madness. It must be love. She wanted him. But did he want her?
Lindha left her quarters, striding toward the stables. She knew exactly where she would find the Trueborn. Her stomach fluttered, she couldn’t wait to see him. Lindha took a deep breath and firmly suppressed her longing. As Prefect she would supply his every need, but first she must be sure of what he wanted. Everything must be his decision, his alone. The future was up to the Trueborn.
The sky was cloudless and light green. The crisp morning air had become warm in the afternoon sun and a light breeze was blowing. Ash stood with his arms resting on the railing of the horse’s enclosure. Enjoying the warmth of the sun, he was feeling pleasantly full after a large midday meal of salads, fruit, and fish. He had finished it all off with a cinnamon palm sweet roll; he could still taste the honey on his tongue. Ash had put on weight from eating so well. He planned to put on more weight still. While he enjoyed meat, he loved the variety available at the Temple. For years while living with his wolf family it seemed that meat was all he ate.
It had been four weeks since he had come to the Temple and his life was so completely different that he could only wonder at it. Occasionally he still woke, expecting to find himself in the cold darkness of the mine.
Temple routine was comfortable and predictable. There were so many subjects to join in, including every form of martial art, physics, science, mathematics, sport, drama, sculpture, painting, design and dance. He checked Icom and found he had received a personal message to the “Trueborn” from a “friend.” Personal Icom messages! Something he hadn’t had since he was a child on Delian.
Ash opened the note and laughed out loud. Sideso the children’s pony had written, professing undying love. It appeared that the aging mare had a crush on him. Very funny. No doubt it had been sent by that mischievous Dorian. He was always up to something. Ash smiled, remembering the cynical, untrusting youth. When they had first met, Dorian had been willing to do anything for a chance to have Icom.
Sideso came up to the railing, ears pricked. Ash reached into his pocket and gave the pony an apple. He loved animals but human contact was a blessing. Ash had forgotten the satisfaction of having human company, although he did worry about his wolf family. He had taken a speeder to the den, to reassure them that he was alive and well, but they had moved on. He wondered if they were looking for him. Soon he would return for a proper search. Ash felt they were alive. If something happened to them he would know.
He was glad to have gotten Jani some company, too. The proud old woman would never have allowed his help. He was grateful to have found that Sister Tabatha had been pursuing a doctorate involving those living on the fringe. After an introduction, Jani became a source of fascination for Sister Tabatha. After a few anxious days of persuasion filled with surly grunts, few words and much uncertainty, the two women had hit it off. Jani decided to help Tabatha by allowing her to live with her while gathering information.
He smiled, recalling when Lindha and he had taken their leave. Jani had nodded and said, “This Tabatha will do. This old shell don’t look much, but Jana knows what’s inside. Shame to let all I know go to ground with these old bones.” She had looked at Lindha then with eyes narrowed and said, “Best you look after this stupid man-child, girl. It’s a wonder he’s got this far on his own.” Straight-faced, she had nodded and turned away. Ash had noticed the similarity then, between Jani and the Prefect. They both hid emotion behind composed and controlled exteriors.
Sideso’s mouth frothed. The elderly mare crunched contentedly and the tangy smell of sour apple saturated the warm summer air. He leaned over and stroked the little mare. She was happy to let him pat her, as long as he gave her apples. Ash was more or less content caring for the Temple horses. Things were far from perfect, however. He was no longer able to mind-touch people and would probably never recover that ability. The river of his mind was blocked. Nightmares made him irritable, and he alternated between absurd fits of guilt, despair and rage. Ash worked hard to overcome his passions. He was well aware that he could be dangerously irrational at times.
According to the Testimonials, “The Dark Sankomin, unresolved, will cause madness and despair.” Ash needed healing mind-touch, and as he was the last Delian alive he was clearly out of luck. How much time did he have before he went mad? Would he be aware of his insanity or would it happen gradually like it had for Prime Minister Batalov the thrice damned? Ash didn’t delude himself. Without mind-touch, it would eventually come to that. He had been close to losing all reason a number of times already. If he hadn’t been able to mind-touch the animals over the last five years he suspected he would have gone utterly insane already.
Thankfully, his mental block was only on humans. Mind-touch with animals — honest, uncluttered minds, with pure and simple spirits — soothed him. Mind-touch with people had mostly brought him guilt and despair. Ash shrugged. Perhaps losing the ability to mind-touch people was for the best
Despite the tranquil atmosphere of the Temple, Ash knew that it was only a momentary break in the storm of his uncertain life. Forseth was still alive. It was up to him to track him down and put an end to him.
There was another problem and that was the mystery of how to repay the Sisters of Jana. The Lady Lindha had never relinquished the duty of caring for him. She was the most important person in the Temple, but she still personally ensured his wellbeing and slept in an adjoining room. She slept in an adjoining room. Ash sighed, reflecting on this new brand of suffering and pain. Such a trial to sleep every night, knowing she was close. It caused indecision and hours of restless sleep not to open that door, to go to her. Yet it also caused him stomach-tightening happiness to know she was near.
He had observed as Lindha shouldered the responsibility of Temple Prefect with a practiced ease, appearing tranquil no matter the circumstance. She was respected by all and spoke with natural command. There were so many unexpected facets to her personality. Kind and feminine, Ash found her surprisingly formidable in the defensive arts, attacking with swift ruthlessness. Always, after resoundingly defeating her opponent, she would then teach her victim the techniques employed in her triumph.
Sideso had finished her apple, and was reaching her head through the fence to discover if Ash had anything else in his pockets. Chuckling at her greed, he patted her and moved back from the railing. He was the “Trueborn,” but what that meant to the Sisters and their beliefs, he had no idea. As far as he knew there was some reason that he was being honored, but everyone was close-mouthed about it. Many were afraid of him and others watched him as if they expected something; but what?
He had been offered sexual liaison by lighthearted students and grave-faced Sisters alike; sometimes through subtle hints and sometimes through more direct suggestion. Some were his age, many quite a bit older. For some reason, perhaps because he was a stranger, everyone was incredibly friendly. They wanted to talk to him and to be with him, and initially he had reveled in the company. There was no impediment to accepting their advances, none at all. He had been polite, he had spent time with students and Sisters alike, but had refused sexual liaison. Word must have gotten around because the offers had stopped coming. He could kick himself, but there was only one person he wanted to bed: he had become obsessed with the Lady Lindha.
Ash had made no direct approach nor had he professed his regard in any way, but by his manner she had to be aware of how he felt. He was working up the courage to ask her. He shook his head and grinned to himself in wry bemusement. He had never thought himself a coward, but he would rather face animal combat in the pit than to suffer the pain of her rejection. He recalled Lady Jeeha’s words in class, “It is a ruling of our order that the Prefect remains chaste for her tenure. This happens because of a sacred vow. A seer from the past has laid this burden upon us, and faithful to it we must remain.”
Ash had to know, could Lindha break her pledge of chastity? Perhaps step down as Prefect? Was it possible that she might come to love him as he loved her?
Ash breathed in deeply, trying to slow his heart rate, which started speeding up whenever he thought of confronting Lindha. He would leave that question for now. But next time he saw her he would at least get some answers. He needed to understand what the Sisters of Jana wanted and what the foretelling about the “Trueborn” was. She could at least tell him that.
Ash heard soft, light steps and smelled a womanly, floral fragrance. He knew who had come.
“Greetings, Trueborn,” a soft voice said from behind.
He turned and smiled at the gentle, enchanting Lady Carrah. She had fine-boned features, a scattering of freckles, and a tentative smile that could not hide her grief. There was a tragic, compelling beauty about her that brought some masculine instinct of his to the fore. He wanted to protect her and somehow make her happy. Ash had no idea how to do that. Carrah had lost her brother, and seemed so sad. Ash had asked about the man who had been his substitute in death. Lady Lindha, unwillingly, had told him everything about Carrah’s brother Dwanne.
“Hello, Lady Carrah,” he replied, and then hesitated, searching for the right words. “Lady, I’ve been hoping to speak with you. I wanted to thank you for what you …” He hesitated. “… what you and your brother did for me.”
Carrah’s face whitened.
Ash touched her arm. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I thought it would bring fresh pain.”
“No, it’s nothing.” She smiled bravely. “Please, call me Carrah.”
“Only if you call me Ash,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. “Dwanne was fond of the animals, as you are. He would have been pleased to have been able to help you.” Her mouth curved, but her smile, as usual, seemed forced.
Ash said, “I have heard nothing but good of your brother, Carrah. In my heart I feel I have known him. Many speak of Dwanne and there are numerous signs of his work throughout the stables, with a number of personally carved or created fittings and innovations. He was an organized man, your brother, and took honest care with the horses. I’m sure we would have been friends.”
Carrah looked down at her hands, which she had tightly clasped in front of her.
Ash took her hands in his own, holding them. They were cold. “Do you want to talk about it, Carrah?” he asked softly.
Carrah looked up at him, and then pulled her hands away. “Please excuse me, Trueborn … ah, Ash. Your kind words about my brother give me such pleasure, and yet to know that he is gone …” her voice broke. She tried again. “I am so glad … ” She paused and cleared her throat, and gave a faint smile. “Dwanne loved animals. I would like to talk to you about him, but perhaps not just yet. Um … it is too soon, you see.”
Ash gave her arm a little squeeze, physically communicating that he understood how. “When you are ready, Lady, we shall walk all through the stables, you and I, and I will show you the countless efforts of your brother.” His voice took on a mischievous tone. He looked at her with a knowing smile and a playful twinkle in his eyes. “Then together we will admire his creations and laugh at his many and varied obsessive compulsions — because Dwanne was an exacting young man and he has left his stamp. I see signs of him wherever I go.”
This dialog made Carrah giggle, easing the tension. “Yes, my loveable but irritating brother. You do sound as though you knew him, Ash. Dwanne’s heart was always in the details. He was precise. Every feature, every aspect, had to be perfect. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’ was a favorite maxim. Another was, ‘A tool for every purpose and a purpose for every tool.’ Yes, Trueborn, when I am ready. I should like that.”
Ash smiled back. He gave her arm another squeeze, pleased that her turmoil had settled for the time being.
There was a movement from the Temple. Lindha walked toward them, dressed for warm weather in a short red summer dress and sandals. Her hair was down and the dress clung. A subtle scent drifted toward him, and Ash’s belly tightened. Lindha was wearing perfume. She didn’t wear it often, but she didn’t need it, either. She always smelled fantastic to him. He took in a deep breath and studied her in her dress. She looked fantastic, too.
“Lady Lindha,” Ash nodded.
“Hello, Prefect,” Carrah said.
She nodded. “Good afternoon, Carrah, Ash.”
Ash felt his stomach muscles tighten further. The sensation was not at all unpleasant. His pulse elevated as he surreptitiously studied Lindha’s face. He loved to hear the sound of his name on her tongue. What was it that attracted him so to her? Her face? Her figure? That smile? She was beautiful, that much was true — but there were plenty of stunning women to be found at Jana’s Temple. She had come here now. Was it to be near him? Or was he just imagining that Lindha sought him out more than others, that she honestly enjoyed his company? She always seemed so impartial and yet …
All three turned and leaned, arms against the railing. Sideso, aware that there were no more treats, had left in disgust. Bethan was in the distance, happily rolling in the dust. Ash remembered hearing the phrase “achingly beautiful” to describe someone. He had never understood it until now. Lindha made him ache with actual physical pain. He burned with desire. Except this pain was not just physical; he felt it too deeply. He needed her like he needed to drink cool clear water; like he needed to breathe. He wanted Lindha more than he had ever wanted anything before.
Was it just that she was out of reach as Prefect, due to her pledge of chastity? No, he decided. It was more than that. And unless he was imagining it, she was attracted to him, too. Like now. He could swear that she was actually jealous of the Lady Carrah’s attentions. Ash fervently hoped that his observations were correct. He wondered again, for the thousandth time, could she break her vows for him? And if she could, would she?
“Tell me, Ash,” Lindha said, “has anyone else been able to mount Tarplan?”
Ash shook his head regretfully. “No, I’m sorry, Lady. He asserts he’s a one-man horse.”
She snorted and turned an accusing eye toward him. “You sound as though you have talked with Tarplan.”
He turned toward her, one hand resting on the railing. “Of course. We all talk to animals. I’ve overheard you talking to Bethan myself.”
“Yes, but they do not talk back to me.” She stressed the last word and then said, “Do they talk to you?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps, Lady,” he replied evasively. Ash’s eyes narrowed as they caught hers. “Would you be surprised if I told you that they do?”
Lindha looked away from his gaze. “No, not really.”
The conversation stalled. Carrah excused herself and then the two of them were alone.
“Lady Lindha,” Ash began, “I feel that it’s time I had some answers. Would you be willing to provide them?”
“Of course.”
He pointed toward a sloping trail that wound its way along the hills and up toward the mountain heights. “Perhaps we could walk?
“As you wish.” She smiled and they moved off together, walking along the uphill path, spending some time in companionable silence. Without the wind the warm summer’s day was almost hot. A cloud covered the sun for a moment, putting them in shade, and Ash felt an instant temperature drop. The sky was a light emerald green, the trees soft violet and variegated blue, their foliage becoming darker, rich with the smell of healthy growing things as they passed under the cool canopies of shade.
Lindha tripped on a protruding branch. Ash stepped toward her in his graceful, unhurried way; his hand flashed out and caught her. He held her arm, steadying her for a moment, enjoying the heat that flowed through him from the feel of her skin. Just as quickly he let her go.
The trail narrowed and Lindha went first, Ash following closely behind. He enjoyed watching her easy, poised walk. He had been surprised when she tripped. Lindha was never clumsy. She had her attention on something. On him, perhaps? He certainly hoped so. Ash could still feel where her skin had touched his hand; it was as if he had been branded. That warmth seemed to flow, moving throughout his whole body.
When they topped the local hills and could barely view the Temple buildings below, Ash said, “Lady Lindha.”
“Please, when we’re alone, just call me Lindha.”
“Thank you. Lindha,” he began again, “I need to understand. Suppose I confided in you. Would you confide in me?”
“Certainly, as long as it didn’t break any of the vows I hold and honor as Prefect.”
They sat together in the sun in a warm grassy area. Ash told her then his true identity, how he came to Opan, how he was capable of mind-touch with animals, and how he had lost his ability to touch people. He also spoke of his fear of the Dark Sankomin and the rivers of his mind, his mental block and recurring nightmares. Lindha was sympathetic, asking questions, grieving at the loss of his people and family. They spoke for some time and, as they discussed his past, Lindha didn’t seem shocked at any point in his story, taking everything in stride.
“So you see,” he explained, “I don’t know what I am to your people. I want to help them but I must know what you need from me as Trueborn.”
Lindha said tranquilly, “Ash, whatever happens, it will be as Jana wills.”
“But what am I supposed to do?” he demanded, feeling his anger build. “And how can I do it if I don’t know what it is? Everyone here expects something from me — including you. I’m part of your beliefs, somehow.”
“Ash, I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you more.”
“But what do you want?” His voice radiated a familiar growing frustration and fury.
“I don’t know what your purpose is, Ash. No one does. It’s against my vows to tell you more.”
It was then that Ash lost the fragile control he had over his temper. He stood up, grabbed Lindha by both upper arms and pulled her to her feet. Face to face, irritated beyond his limits, he gave her a little shake. “Damn, your vows,” he said with hard, angry eyes. “I need to know more. I must know. Tell me,” he commanded.
She colored slightly. It took a moment before she spoke but she calmly replied, “Trueborn, I can tell you that as Prefect, I am to supply your every requirement. The Temple has credit, off-world ships, information — anything you could ask for. You only need ask. We expect nothing of you, Trueborn, I assure you. Nothing.” She was adamant. “Your purpose, what you want to do, Ash, this is for you to decide.”
The angry fire inside died down. Ash dropped his arms, and let Lindha go. It’s up to me, he thought. It felt as if a great weight that had been holding him down had suddenly lifted. Lindha’s words echoed in his mind. The Temple Sisters expected nothing. They had wealth and connection and would make all they had freely available to him. What he chose to do was his decision. He could leave now, return to Delian or he could find and kill Forseth. What did he want?
He looked at Lindha and his whole body reminded him. He knew what he wanted right now. Having released her arms, he unexpectedly reached over and took her by the hands. “Forgive me,” he said. Ash found his courage. He would leap off that precipice and get an answer. And just as when he jumped into the pit with a maddened boar, now that he was finally going to ask, his fear left him. He fixed his eyes on her with burning attention. “Lindha, I want you. Could you break your pledge of chastity for me?”
Lindha looked away from his intent gaze. “If that is your wish, yes,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “It is my duty to fill your every need.”
Yes. She said yes. As powerful as his fury had been, it vanished like a puff of smoke in a gale force wind. An even more powerful feeling of elation replaced his anger completely. Ash gently touched her cheek. Then he held her face and neck with both hands, tilting her head up toward him. He wanted to kiss her.
Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes heavy lidded.
“Lindha,” Ash breathed. Their mouths came together. Lindha’s lips softened against his, her arms moved over his shoulders, her hands rose up to touch the nape of his neck. Ash pulled her close, her youthful form soft, pliant and feminine against him. Her silky hair caressed his skin.
It felt divine.
Ash’s lips, mouth and tongue moved against her. He knew her taste and her womanly scent. Lindha explored too, melting into his arms until they seemed to be one person. They absorbed one another through that kiss. With rising intensity, both knew the aching hollowness of longing and want. They fit together seamlessly, their skin warm, their bodies long and supple and smooth. The kiss was timeless; it seemed to go on forever yet it took no time at all. There was a world of possibilities in that kiss. Ash’s arms tightened, pulling her against him fiercely.
Finally they broke apart, hearts pounding, faces flushed. Ash’s hands reveled in the slim, curvy softness of her waist. He stayed there for a moment and then, with sudden resolution, he dropped his arms and stepped back. He stood apart from her.
Ash kept his distance, not yet satisfied with her reply. “Lindha. Tell me truly. Would you break your vow because it is your duty as Prefect to supply a requirement of the Trueborn? Or because you want to be with me?” He regarded her with a possessive, fierce glare. Then he turned away. His voice was thick with desire as he said, “Please understand, Lindha. If it is not your wish to give yourself freely, because you want me, then it is definitely not my request.”
Lindha gazed boldly back at him. “It would be my duty and honor to serve you, Trueborn,” she said, formally. “But I would also wish it. Very much so. Oh, yes,” she breathed.
A rush of joy transformed him. Ash took her by the hands. Looking down the valley on the trail by which they had come, Ash saw no one. They were alone. It would be better to return to his room, but they would be undisturbed here and he wanted her now.
Quickly.
Before she could change her mind.
28. Healing Mind-Touch
I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy — ecstasy so great that I would have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness — that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what, at last, I have found.
— Bertrand Russell
It was an idyllic summer afternoon on Opan. The weather was balmy; the sky a light emerald green and virtually cloudless. The few clouds to be seen were more luminous pink than white and added an appealing contrast. From up on the low hills where Ash and Lindha stood they could, if they looked, behold a magnificent vista into the valley where the Temple of Jana was elegantly situated. The Temple, a white centerpiece, was proudly surrounded by cobalt blue orchards, a spectrum of purple gardens and violet pastures. All this combined with an artistically meandering jade green river. Against the blue and violet background stood a riotous display of flowers in yellow, black, green, red, white and orange. Some of these flowers had been planted in rows of one color, others were mixed and still others were scattered throughout, like stars in a dark night sky. It was a magnificent sight.
Neither Ash nor Lindha looked down.
The moment Ash heard Lindha’s words — ”It would be my duty and honor to serve you, Trueborn. But I would also wish it. Very much so” — he knew no hesitation.
In one graceful movement, with the speed and agility gained from years of hunting with wolves, Ash swept Lindha up into his arms. His eyes never left her face as he easily lifted her, cradling her against him. Ash knew a thrill of satisfaction when Lindha folded weakly against him as if melting from his touch. She was soft and warm against his arms and chest. And she made no protest.
Good, he thought with intense satisfaction.
Ash strode briskly off the trail, moving through the trees, looking for the right place. He watched as he walked, alert in his unconscious wolf-like manner, missing nothing as Long Fang and Seeta had taught him. He could smell only the earthy mulch of leaves, and the rank scent of small game, but no predators. Pig-dogs, boars and wolves lived far from human habitation, yet there was animal sign throughout these woods. He heard a windchime singing from afar and an echoing call nearby: the birds sang in chorus so he knew they were a mated pair. Ash was aware of the sound of their young. With his eyes barely moving he sought and found the nest. There were at least three offspring less than a week old. The chicks were loud to his acutely trained ears. If they had been a few days older they would have learned to remain silent when their mother was absent.
He strode purposefully, senses alert. All the while Ash was vitally aware of Lindha and hard as stone. He held her tightly against him, reveling in her firm, young warmth, and the smell of her skin. Her face lay against his shoulder, her arms around his neck, and he felt a sense of rightness. Lindha belonged there, right there, a part of him. He moved until he found the perfect spot. It was a dry grassy place, a little blue and violet meadow with tiny yellow wild flowers screened by trees and bushes. Black-tailed dwarf mule deer, genetically altered and imported from Earth had hidden here. Ash saw clear sign, but that had been many weeks ago.
Ash put Lindha down on her feet and steadied her a moment, his hands warm against her cool bare shoulders. Then he stepped back from her, moved away from her and this felt so wrong; it was as if something vital had been torn from him. Swiftly, Ash unclipped his belt, and threw off his tunic and undershirt, exposing his chest. Unashamed, Ash similarly disposed of his boots and trousers. His naked body gleamed, his muscles hard and ridged, bunched under his smooth white skin. He knew he looked like a wild animal, but that was okay. He felt like one too.
With his first and only sexual experience having occurred at the age of thirteen — in another man’s body, no less — Ash was tentative about how to move forward. A vast wealth of information assailed him. He had scanned Icom, studying everything possible concerning sex, including detailed holovids. When he discovered that Lindha was chaste he researched everything concerning virgins and the difficulties attendant upon ending that state.
He wanted Lindha: only Lindha. He had dreamed of this, had fantasized a thousand times.
Ash knew everything, but had no personal experience of anything.
His heart pounded hard now and his mouth was dry. He stepped toward Lindha, close to her once more. His hand was shaking as he reached for the back of her dress.
Lindha smiled like a conspirator. Her bright blue eyes were large and dark with desire. Lindha trembled, but she took his hand and steadied it, guiding it around her neck. Ash found the tab. The joining separated; her red gown came apart from behind, slipping apart softly. Ash helped the gown slide.
Ash stood back and gazed in awe. Lindha was breathtaking — literally. He found it difficult to breathe. Her figure was trim, her waist curved in hourglass proportion. Her stomach was flat, hips rounded, and her breasts were round and full. He stared with blinding desire at the soft pink of her nipples. Red panties seemed bright against her creamy skin. Ash wanted to ask her if it was okay to take them off, but his throat felt thick and he couldn’t find his voice. He moved forward, put his hands on her hips, and came to his knees before her.
Neither spoke. Lindha put her hands upon his shoulders, bestowing her consent.
Ash pulled the material down and off. His breath caught as he got a hint of Lindha’s uniquely feminine scent. He groaned as something primal in his flesh reacted, burning and tearing within him.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
The raging beast inside clawed at him, needing to get out, to fiercely take her and make her his. He wanted Lindha, he needed her. He had to possess her completely.
Ash had once watched a documentary on Icom. Through intensive studies investigators asserted that people chose their partners according to scent. He could believe it now. Or was that was simply science attempting to explain what he was experiencing? For nothing could account for this overwhelming attraction between Lindha and himself. What he felt was more than an animal need; it was powerful … it was magical. Something imperceptible pulled them toward each other. It was all encompassing and it was divine.
Ash could hardly think. He stood abruptly with swift animal grace, and picked her up, holding her in his arms, skin to skin. Pure heaven. Moving carefully, Ash carefully lay her down in the sweet violet grasses. Ash lay down beside her. He was able to master himself by thinking of Lindha. This was her first time, too. He needed to be gentle and slow. It would take all his control and it would most likely kill him, but he could do it. He could do it for her.
His rough, calloused fingers softly traced a pattern across her shoulders, her lips, her neck and her face. “Lovely, lovely, Lindha.” His voice sounded thick, hoarse to his ears. “I do love you.”
“Oh,” Lindha said, as Ash leaned in for another kiss. His hard chest came up against her softness. He barely stifled a groan. His mouth whispered over hers — soft, so soft and warm. Her breath rushed and mingled with his, fast and shallow. It was a sensual, physical assault as they kissed, tasting each other again and again and again. He could not leave her mouth.
Ash began a sweet caress, his hands exploring her neck, shoulders, stomach, hip and finally the soft curve of her breasts. His warm callused hands discovered her nipples and this time he did groan. “Lindha,” he murmured, and she responded with soft sounds of her own. She wanted his touch. Ash knew he was setting her alight through tender exploration and the feather touch of his lips as he continued to kiss her, her neck, and her mouth.
It was then that Ash merged with Lindha. Like a thirsty man he fell into her, and surrounded himself with the cool clear water of her soul.
Mind-touch with Lindha was fantastic.
Ash had lost the ability to mind-touch humans, but touching Lindha was instinctive. He hadn’t stopped to think about it, to realize that what he was doing was extraordinary. He had lost the ability to mind-touch people, but contact with Lindha came to him as naturally as breathing. Lindha’s soul was clear, fresh, and sweet as a pure mountain stream. Without thought he drew upon his power, that warm ocean of limitless power.
In an instant he was bombarded with sensory input: Ash was her, within her flesh, a part of her mind and soul. She felt lightheaded, pliant, and weak with desire. He felt her breasts rise as she breathed, in and out, in and out, with short, rapid breaths. He felt smaller, lighter, softer, his long hair around his neck, a delightful female scent. He felt her feel him, her softness savoring the hard strength of his body. She was aroused; she wanted him. The pull of her desire kindled a burning need that he felt from both bodies, from both minds, from both souls.
Ash had not the smallest consideration of the severe Delian taboo against mind-touch without express agreement. If one had been able to ask Ash, at that exact moment, why he thought joining body and soul with Lindha and reading her mind without her permission was acceptable, he would have been surprised by the question. Ownership and possession were both already in place. Wasn’t it obvious to anyone that had the heart and soul to see, that he belonged to her? And could they not also see that Lindha already belonged to him? What did consent have to do with it?
Lindha’s life scrolled out before him as he sought to know her. Everything she was, each momentous event painted in bold strokes with a large, all-encompassing brush. He left the details; they could come later. It was her soul he was drawn to. Like a bright star in a dark night it entranced him. She was wholesome, well-intentioned: she was good. Ash bathed in her purity. Less than a moment had passed since their minds touched. Ash remained still, fully absorbed, timeless within her power.
Every question, every answer.
All time, no time.
All that was or could be, Ash found in this everlasting moment with Lindha. Ash knew her thoughts; he thought her thoughts as she did, as if they were his own.
This sensual expression was an entirely new experience for Lindha and she savored each moment. So, she thought to herself tingling with sweet arousal and need. Oh Jana! She wanted, she needed, to be closer. Her entire body ached and burned; her mind was full of wonder. So this is love, she thought.
Lindha knew about love but it was only now that she was really experiencing it that she fully understood why it was so important: it was the essence of life. Love wasn’t just sex. It was what the poets wrote of, what dreamers dreamed of, the joy and spark that lifted the spirit far above the physical to the eternal and beyond.
Any first time nervousness left her, as if blown away by a forceful gentle wind. Her heart melted. She remembered the large fiery comets crossing the sky of the Constellation chamber: three shooting stars. It came to her then that she had gotten her wish. She had wished for love.
Lindha concentrated. In that moment she reached out toward Ash with her mind and was able to make contact. She was capable of mind-touch during coupling. Certainty filled Lindha: Ash had been the man in her dreams. He had dreamed of her often — as she had dreamed of him. They were fated for each other, had sought each other soul to soul.
Ash had no idea that Lindha was able to mind-touch, so their mental union came as a complete surprise to him.
Perfectly united, they formed a full two-way contact.
Ash was incredulous. “Lindha?”
“Yes.” A flood of harmony and joy passed between them. “You have made contact, Ash!”
“And you have touched me. You didn’t tell me you were able to mind-touch.” This thought jarred their union, a dissonance fuelled by accusation. Ash hadn’t seen this ability in her mind. Had Lindha been hiding this? How could she do that? And what else was she hiding?
Lindha thought, “The Temple Sisters only are able to contact another mind through physical intimacy. I have never heard of any male with the power.”
“But you didn’t tell me,” Ash replied, unaccountably betrayed and hurt.
“This is a closely guarded secret of our order, Ash, and I have taken a vow. Our gift is used only toward enhancing partnership and cannot be disclosed. You would have found out when we became intimate.” She paused, and then added with intuitive acuity. “I have not intentionally hidden anything from you, Ash. Are you hiding something from me?”
Ashamed, Ash flinched, consumed by guilt. He pulled away and their mental contact was almost broken.
“No. Ash, wait,” she cried out, refusing to let him go. He hesitated, and Lindha reached closer. Black mental turmoil beat against her like dark, heavy wings: shame, a fear of discovery, a desire to hide. Ash’s emotions were transparent, but his mind was a wall, a barrier erected for protection.
“There are some things I can’t … I can’t show you.”
“Ash, do you imagine that there could be something in your past that would make me think less of you?
“I know there is. Lindha, no. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t lose me. Trust me, my love. Please.”
“I can’t.” Grief and sadness engulfed them both. Naturally guarded as a child, his time on Opan had only enhanced that state. While he knew about healing mind-touch and the baring of one’s soul, he had never actually exposed himself to another. No one really knew him. The truth of such complete exposure was frightening.
Lindha, although kind and understanding, was also determined and persistent. She said, “Ash, there is nothing you could have done that could make me love you less. Nothing. I swear it. Let me know all of you.”
Moments passed, but at length Ash gave in. Crumbling with shame and humiliation, he loosened all barriers, opening his mind. The first thought that she encountered was an overwhelming surge of loss. Ash knew that Lindha would shun and despise him, feeling only abhorrence after she knew the truth.
Passing on, Lindha boldly looked further. She briefly experienced his life on Delian as a boy: a gray-bearded teacher instructing him; attending royal events, holovids and press conferences, which he hated. The innocent joy he had in walking with Tynan, his best friend and the love of his childhood. The smell of the woods. The soft touch of his mother’s hands. His father’s pride and worry. Time after time he suffered physical illness and pain that almost ended his life. He had battled through and did not dwell. Being sick and weak was unremarkable for him; it was just something to survive. She was awed by Ash’s determination and courage.
She knew the secret of his meeting with the Seer and felt burning agony in her lungs as she understood the fate of the people of Delian. The Dark Sankomin was a heavy pressure inside. Riding a tide of grief and regret, Lindha found that Ash felt guilt for the death of his father and mother and the genocide of his race.
These were hidden thoughts, certainties all too terrible to view. They had been entombed without a trace; buried even from himself. Somehow it was his fault. Ash felt he should never have left his father and the people of Delian. Hidden from view was the pervasive thought: “I should have died with them.”
The realization was a surprise to both.
Knowing this irrational unconscious consideration made Ash feel lighter somehow. The heavy mass began to break. A small portion of the Dark Sankomin lifted and the river of Ash’s mind began to trickle through the breach.
Lindha searched on. Soon she came to the time in Assurance where he had inadvertently made love to his mother. Solid murky disgrace pervaded, hidden to the end. Mentally she uncovered details, as if peeling thick layers of skin from some multilayered fruit. It was then that Lindha found what Ash had most wished to hide, considering worst of all. While trapped in Forseth’s body he had found that he enjoyed it, that he wanted sex with his own mother as much as Forseth did. In a strange, illogical computation of his own, Ash had begun to lose his power to mind-touch humankind at that point. It was then that he had decided that touching people, experiencing their thoughts and emotions, was wrong, perverse and shameful.
Lindha thought, “This is nothing to be ashamed of, Ash. What happened, happened. It was not planned. You were trapped in an aroused, adult male. Ash could feel Lindha’s knowing mental smile of total understanding. It means nothing more than that you are physically a man. And your mother was a beautiful woman.”
It was comforting for Ash to realize Lindha held not the slightest hint of judgment of his actions. Lindha’s pervading mental thought was that if she had been in Larren Forseth’s body at the time, even she would have done and felt exactly the same as he had. Her tranquil mental absolution soothed, calmed, and relieved him like water on a burn.
It was wonderful.
Lindha unburdened his soul. It was as if Ash had been buried and Lindha was shoveling away the dirt that covered him, bringing him into the light one spade at a time.
Ash’s memory of mind-touch with Lindha was seen then, all those years ago when she had brought him supplies. There had been many dreams for both of them after that time: erotic dreams, waking dreams, sleeping dreams and comforting dreams. Ash had touched Lindha’s mind, and had somehow stayed connected. He had focused on her as a foundation to build on; she was the one true thing in his world. And Lindha had to some degree been aware of that focus.
We were together even then, they both realized with awe.
Continuing her view, Lindha next came to Ash’s time as a captive. This was out of sequence in his mind and there was an odd echo: it was somehow reminiscent of experiencing the death of his people. This blackness seemed to be right here with him in the present. Lindha recalled what Ash had told her about the Dark Sankomin:
All souls suffer the Dark Sankomin. If one is in the present, if the mind remains in attendance, the Sankomin cannot seize or bind. The Sankomin is a combination of all that has been and all that can be. It is not evil in itself: it merely is. Time is like a river and the mind is the water. When the water flows, all is well and sequential, in chronological order. However, these past events, encompassing all the conscious feelings within them — thought, pain and emotion — can fall on one en masse. They attach to one’s soul like metal filings drawn to a magnet. At times presenting as burdened river eddies, they dam the river and the mind becomes bound. It will not flow. The Dark Sankomin is solid, a heavy mass in the mind, a dark burden to the soul. Unresolved, it will cause madness and despair.
So many dark events Ash could not share and view completely. Thoughts and anguish he couldn’t acknowledge to himself. These terrible burdens damming the river of his mind. Such despair. Lindha felt real pain with this memory: a dark cave, damp, cold — a timeless void, the emptiness of the mine. His terrible loneliness, the shivering consciousness he had been forced to face: the unfathomable purpose of a joyless, isolated existence.
The truth was there: He had wanted to die.
This was another surprising realization for Ash, another lightening of his soul, when he faced this self-destructive truth. He had wanted to die because he couldn’t face the world alone. He couldn’t.
“I am with you,” Lindha sent the restful thought.
Something that was wound tightly inside Ash, suddenly released.
Lindha re-experienced the shock of his broken arm; she felt Seeta’s thick red fur and knew the astonishingly sweet, musky taste of wolf milk; she trembled through the death of the white deer and the pain of killing her fawn. Fire coursed through her veins as she experienced the wild, unrestrained passion of wolves when mating.
These were events that Ash had, with the full force of his power, attempted to conceal from Lindha. But she had pierced his barriers, overcoming that anxious, inflexible shield with her love.
Ash felt feather light bubbles bursting in her mind.
It was laughter. Lindha was laughing!
“Oh my. Those wolves. Indescribable. Those incredible sensations. I can understand why you found contact during mating an impossible habit to break.”
Lindha hadn’t been disgusted. She understood.
For some unaccountable reason, Ash also started to giggle, then chuckle, then laugh. He couldn’t stop laughing. He understood what had happened now. His guilt had started with the mind-touch with Forseth and his mother. After that, mind-touch with the wolves had, in a logical rationalization, compounded the wrong.
His laughter tapered off, but his smile was irrepressible: he felt ridiculously happy. Time passed while everything fell into place. The dam in his mind freed itself, the river flowed, clearing away the debris.
This explained everything.
Sudden understanding and awareness was a blinding light in his mind.
He stopped smiling then: all he could feel was awe.
It was then, right then, that he fully realized what he had always known but had hidden from himself for some years. It was the common denominator for everything that had happened, the events that had caused him such constant guilt and pain.
Ash had decided that he was a bad person — undeserving of his powers.
Lindha marveled as she witnessed Ash’s spiral of life-shifting realizations. So many things that he had not wanted to view, to hide away from himself and others. Enthralled with the knowledge of his mind, she knew now what had been blocking his ability to mind-touch people. It was Ash. He had been stopping himself.
She thought, “You’re so good, Ash. You sought to lose your power because you considered yourself evil. You were going to protect others from yourself. Jana has chosen well, Trueborn.”
Ash knew what she felt: Lindha loved him.
He thought in silent wonder, “You know everything? And you still love me?” He was incredulous. Ash felt transformed. He had been healed, cured from the degrading taint and the dark shadows that had been weighing him down for so long. Together they both experienced a tremendous mental relief. The heavy, murky mass of dim thoughts and burdens lifted and flew away. The river of his soul flowed freely. Only a soothing mental breeze of mutual affection and understanding remained. In concert, both Lindha and Ash experienced a lightness of being and an overpowering sensation of freedom. They knew what it was.
It was spiritual wellbeing and release: euphoria caused by exultation of the soul.
“Wonderful,” Lindha thought.
“Yes,” Ash agreed, while they spiraled higher. His mind caressed her with immeasurable, unleashed power. He thought:
“Soul-to-soul release, mind-to-mind release, flesh-to-flesh release. Mind-touch with one’s partner is the ultimate consummation.”
Ash reached for Lindha, feeling her smooth skin brushing against his chest, reacting to his touch.
“Oh,” Lindha breathed.
As if their mental and spiritual contact had only been a momentary interlude, Lindha and Ash once more were filled with flesh desire. Their focus narrowed, concentrating on the physical. Thought, not required now; melted away with the fire of need. It was being replaced by an entirely physical plane: a tidal wave of sensation that molded Ash and Lindha together.
Ash’s strong warm hands ran up upon her ankles, knees, hips and inside her thighs, touching her where no one had touched her before. He caressed and stroked softly with clever fingers. With her mental and physical response as his guide, Ash knew exactly how to touch her to cause the most pleasure. Ash felt her ecstasy, her bliss and it melded and combined with his own.
They kissed and the kiss was a spike of desire that sent heat and languorous lust throbbing and burning through their veins like a drug. Ash had one hand just there, that exquisite place that she knew so well. It seemed that he knew it, too. His fingers stroking, stroking while one hand held her breast, held it so that he could worship it with his mouth. Lindha’s nipples were hard and she tasted divine. She was moaned and her arms pulled him to her.
Enough. It had to be enough. Ash couldn’t wait any longer. He knelt between her knees and positioned himself, preparing to join his body with hers, as fully as he had his soul. “Lindha. I want to …” Lindha knew exactly what he wanted. She wanted it too. “Oh, yes, Ash. Please!”
With a longing cry, Lindha clung to Ash. He lifted her and she arched to join him. She smelled the musk of his desire and spicy male sweat, the unique scent that was Ash. She felt him, rock hard against her softness.
Both were taking great lungfuls of air now, the sound of their breath wild and abandoned, like running in a gale. The pleasure, the uncontrolled storm of sensation, was too much. As if clinging to a life raft in a tempest, she held on and attempted to absorb one sensation at a time: his heat, his weight, his need. She clutched Ash’s shoulders tenaciously as he pushed inside a little at a time, with a slow deliberate pace. Lindha gasped and arched, accommodating him.
“Lindha,” Ash groaned.
She opened her eyes, head back, breathless. Ash was raised above her on trembling arms. Teeth clenched as if in pain, he was experiencing the exquisite agony of extreme pleasure, of ecstasy withheld.
“Are you okay?” he panted out loud, searching her expression.
Mentally he felt only her intense pleasure but he had to be sure. He was concerned because she was a maiden, afraid that he might be causing her pain. Once inside as far as he could go he had not moved from that position. It had taken a Herculean strength of will.
“Very much so, yes,” Lindha thought. She let him see what he had obviously missed during their mental contact. While she had never been with a man, when she had come of age she had had her maidenhead intentionally breached during a formal Temple ceremony. She was feeling only pleasure.
“You’re kidding,” Ash was delighted. “Not a virgin.” That meant no pain, no bleeding.
Lindha mentally assured him, “You won’t hurt me, Ash. Don’t stop. It feels wonderful.”
Her skin was hot. There was fire between them now, the heat of his power and the heat of their lust; both were sweating in the warm summer breeze.
“Thank you, Jana.” Like a wild dog let off its chain, Ash was released to pursue his goal. He bounded forward, all his health, all his youth and vigor, all his strength and purpose going toward the one objective. He would kill to come inside her.
He would die if he didn’t.
There was a kind of mindlessness now, a thin thread of control as instinct took over. Such pleasure, such joy, it was glorious. Ash moved, building toward something overwhelming and inevitable. Lindha contributed, she had found his rhythm, joined in it, arching and rising to meet him. A kaleidoscope of sensations assailed them both, a maelstrom of pleasure coming in waves. Overflowing, uncontainable, Ash and Lindha were reaching toward a crest.
They were so close.
Lightning struck them.
Together they bucked and screamed out their release. They held on to each other, clutching and straining together as if in a storm far out at sea. Holding on for dear life, their bodies joined, as wave after wave of sensation rode them. With ragged breath they clung to each other. They left the world together, floating away upon the heated ocean of his power, lost in a sparkling universe of pleasure.
The minutes passed while Ash and Lindha returned from the heavens, back to the world. Utterly spent, they lay together, limbs entwined. More time passed. Ash reached up to touch her face, brushing back the soft, dark gold of her sweat dampened hair. Lindha smiled in response.
“Lindha,” he whispered. Even her name sounded like a song from his heart.
With mutual physical release, their mental connection had been broken.
Ash reached out with his mind: a tentative caress. Softly, easily he made contact. “Lindha?”
“I am here, Ash.” Her mental touch was like a lover’s caress.
“Lindha. I’ve regained my powers!” Soul free and unburdened, Ash wanted to shout for joy. For five years he had dreaded the Dark Sankomin. “At last,” he thought with deep satisfaction. He communicated mentally. Using a rapid shorthand of pictures and thought, he showed Lindha his volatile passions; guilt, rage, grief and despair. As the last Delian, the fear of madness and death had always been with him. “Lindha, you have healed me. You have saved me from myself.”
“Yes. You are good, Ash. You deserve saving. You are so good.”
“Thank you, my love.”
They each knew almost everything about each other, and about themselves. There could be no more perfect communication. All those years that he thought he would never know the consummate joy of two-way mind-touch, and now he had Lindha. He repeated the Testimonials for her: “How then to remain pure? To defeat the Dark Sankomin one must touch another’s mind, hiding nothing, showing all.” Out loud he said, “I love you, Lindha.”
Lindha smiled. Her mind responded, “I know.”
“You are my mate.” As Ash thought this, much more than words surged through him: permanence, eternity, a union of souls forever and ever and ever. These were unspoken concepts. It was an attraction, a binding that could not be articulated. In wolf-mate terms, Ash simply felt what he knew to be true: he belonged to Lindha: she belonged to him.
“We are not married yet, Ash.”
“We will be,” he thought, jubilant. “Now. Today.”
“Not yet. It violates my vows.”
Ash sat up, contact broken. “What? You’re not allowed to marry? But I require it. It … it is a Trueborn need. You want me, don’t you? I know you do.”
“Yes, of course,” Lindha said calmly, sitting up. “I don’t know why, but it is a stipulation of the Prefect vows. If the Trueborn wishes to marry the Prefect it is not allowed until six months have passed from the time of his arrival. It isn’t long to wait, Ash.” Because he looked so upset, she added, “Of course, if you feel you don’t want me if it involves a six months wait, I am sure that there may be another Lady …”
“Another Lady? I’ll always love only you.” He glared at Lindha and found her eyes laughing. He swore when he realized she was teasing him. Apparently he still had a temper that he had not yet learned to manage. “All right. What’s six months? Besides, our marriage won’t be legal until I’m eighteen. We can still pledge ourselves to each other however, can’t we?”
“Yes, of course. We’ll make a formal announcement today. The moment we return in fact, if the Trueborn requires it.” She gave him a soft musical giggle.
“Well,” Ash said, appeased. He grasped her by the shoulder. “I do require it. And there’s something else I want,” he murmured, his voice deep and low with desire. His gaze travelled languidly over her. “Only, I don’t want to wait until we return to the Temple.” He gently pushed her back down on to the soft violet grasses and began, once more, to stroke and caress her.
“Certainly Trueborn,” Lindha breathed, instantly aroused. “As Prefect, it is my duty, and my privilege to provide for you whatever you need. Isn’t the Goddess most gracious, to have our desires so well aligned?”
It was well after dusk before they returned to the Temple.
29. Life is Good
“Son, the battle within is between two wolves. One is unhappy. It is fear, anger, jealousy, selfishness, resentment, and lies. The other is happy. It is joy, love, kindness, generosity, truth, and compassion.” The boy thought about it for awhile and then asked, “Which wolf wins?” His father replied, “The one you feed.”
The idea of two human minds interacting on a psychic level — intermingling — was something that both Ash and Lindha had felt intimations of in their early lives. For Ash, it had been the touch of his mother’s hand on his brow the many times he’d been sick. Dear son, be well. Be well. For Lindha, it had been the raw crimson of an Opan winter sunset, holding her father’s huge hand as a child. She is so perfect. Thus when Ash and Lindha had mind-touched each other it had been natural, and yet extraordinary. But never in their intimations of psychic connection had the two ever suspected that something would happen as would happen this day …
“I’ll race you to the river,” Ash shouted, grinning like a madman. His favorite companion, mischievous best friend and lover, Lindha was a whole new world of unexplored fun for Ash. He had never been happier than he was right now. The sky was light green, the warm wind from the east. He and Lindha were riding their stallions through the upper meadows, an activity they had often enjoyed since they pledged themselves to each other.
“No cheating,” Lindha admonished, “and no fair telling Bethan not to win as I’m sure you’ve done before.”
“Insults. You cast aspersions on my honor as Trueborn. That is pure jealousy talking. Ha! I don’t need to cheat to beat you. Why, I could beat you riding any mount, even Sideso,” he taunted.
Lindha’s eyebrows creased. “You’ll be sorry you said that,” she said. Her stallion, Bethan, jumped to the lead.
It was a fast race, both horses in a mad gallop, their necks and heads stretching, nostrils flared.
“A tie,” Ash said.
“What?” Lindha’s instant rejoinder rang with indignation. “I won!”
“Is that so? I’ll show you what I do with the disciples of Taro who try to deceive me.” Outwardly he put on a furious face, but inside he was laughing. He leapt from his horse, pulling Lindha to the ground. Holding her down, Ash firmly sat down on her hips. Then he held her arms outstretched high above her head.
“Let me go. You just can’t admit defeat,” she giggled, struggling to escape.
Ash didn’t relinquish his hold. Instead he started to tickle her with his chin under her neck.
“Stop!” She laughed.
“I’ll stop if you say, ‘Ash is the best rider in the entire Temple.’”
“Never!”
“Say it,” he laughed, tickling her even more. “I won’t stop until you do.”
“Ash is the best rider in the entire Temple,” she choked. He let her go, one hand fell to Lindha’s stomach as he lay down on his side beside her, smiling broadly.
“Except for me,” Lindha added under her breath.
“I heard that,” he said, reaching for her.
“No, Ash, no. I have had enough. Please,” she begged, still laughing, and then added, with due seriousness. “I just didn’t want you to think that you could force me to do something against my will. Besides, you are the best rider in the Temple. There. I said it because it was true, not because you made me.”
“All right,” he said. He reached over, and pulled her near to rest against him. He wanted to hold her. “No more tickles.” They lay together, Lindha nestled with her head against Ash’s chest. They sighed, each contented with the other’s nearness.
Ash felt that he was a different person since that remarkable day of mind-touch healing with Lindha. No, not different. It was as if something he wasn’t had simply floated away. What was left was only him. Now he knew himself to be the person he really was.
Freed from the burden of Dark Sankomin, he had discovered a sense of humor, had left guilt behind, and in his eyes the entire universe seemed brighter. It was as if he had taken off thick, dark, protective glasses, after having worn them all his life. Everything was bright, fresh, and wonderful. Not only that, he no longer feared the end he had imagined for so long. It had been always there, that malevolent future. Like a demon of malicious intent, it lay at the back of his mind, poking him, prodding him, reminding him of his assured doom. As the last Delian, he could not have escaped the Dark Sankomin. He had been destined for a death from madness and despair.
Ash ran his finger up and down Lindha’s arm, drawing little circles, aware of the incredible fascination and attraction she held for him. Everything about her was so new, yet he already felt so comfortable with her, as if he had known her forever. “I’m certainly glad to hear what you said about your will,” he said with a bold grin.
“You don’t ever need to force me, Ash, not for anything you want.” As if to settle the matter, she rolled on top of him and kissed him soundly. After a few moments, she raised her head with an inquisitive look.
“Ash, what’s it like, mind-touching the animals?”
Ash’s brow drew down in a frown and for a moment he was lost in contemplation. What was it like to mind-touch the animals? Ash sighed. There was nothing like it in the whole universe. The experience was impossible to describe. He said, “Lindha, it is a bit like mind-touch with a person. There is another living being that I connect to.” He concentrated. “But Lindha, the animals …”
“What about the animals?”
He smiled and got to his feet, restlessly punctuating his words with his hands. He breathed in deeply. “It seems to me sometimes that I can spend the entire day with any of them. They want to survive, as people do, and that is about the only similarity. They are so self-contained.” Ash was pacing now with animation as he tried to express himself. “They are not disturbed by guilt, nor do they cry with regret or complain about life. They just go about their business. It often seems to me that they are not dissatisfied by anything.”
Lindha raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“It’s true. They don’t suffer the Dark Sankomin as people do. Their minds are different. They never think about possessions, other than perhaps a mate, as in the case of the wolves. But when mated it isn’t ownership, it is unity, and protective care of each other.” For a moment he seemed lost in thought, and then he said absently, “I think I would have died long ago from the Dark Sankomin if I was unable to mind-touch the animals.” His expression lightened. “You see, animals live in the now. So unlike a human, forever plotting and planning and regretting. Before you, the greatest peace I was capable of experiencing was by living in an animal mind.”
His attention fixed on something unseen as his voice trailed to a stop. A strange feeling came over him then, moving from deep inside of him. He thought: I can be myself with them. Sometimes I feel more wolf than man.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
It was that feeling he had before. Something the Seer had told him. He thought: This is what I’ve lost. This is what I seek … this truth.
“Could you show me?”
“What?” Ash said coming out of the memory, momentarily disoriented. The feeling disappeared. It was gone so completely he could hardly remember what he had been thinking of.
“Ash,” Lindha said. “Are you okay? You left me for a minute there. You were talking about the animals. I was asking you if you could show me. I want to mind-touch them.”
“That’s right.” He smiled. “I don’t think so, love,” he said, shaking his head with regret.
“Oh,” Lindha said, looking away. Ash immediately felt sorry; she looked so disappointed. “Lindha, I don’t even think my people knew how to do it.” He frowned and deliberated for a moment. “I wonder. You know, if we were in full contact, perhaps you could be with me while I found an animal to touch. It would be difficult, to have our minds joined while I project. I would direct it, but it just might work.”
She jumped up. “Oh! Please. Let’s try.”
“Fine. But first, comfort.” Ash got a thick blanket out from his saddlebag. They were in a secluded meadow, safe and private on Temple property. They both lay down, easily making contact.
“Lindha?” Ash feel her presence, a light, healing green, but wanted to make sure.
“I’m here.” She radiated affection.
“Good. Hold on. I am going to contact Tarplan. Remember, if we make contact with him or any animal, don’t say or think anything, all right? It’s intrusive and could frighten them. Just be there and experience them, with your mind as blank as possible. Otherwise you may upset them.”
“As you wish, of course.” Her excitement bubbled through to him.
Ash reached for Tarplan, slipping into his large animal body like a fish sliding into a stream. Then they were both there; they were the stallion.
Tarplan was unaware of their presence. Tarplan’s eyes, located on either side of his head, gave him wide, panoramic vision — but he was quite unable to view what was directly in front of him. His large pupils seemed to be able to detect the slightest movement however, far more than human sight. It was astonishing, to see what a horse saw. Lindha understood then why horses seemed to shy unexpectedly: they could view motion peripherally that human eyes were unable to see. Colors were different, too. While not precisely color blind, Tarplan seemed to perceive a lot of gray, and little red. It was quite curious.
The animal was heavy, all four feet solidly placed. It was odd to have four legs and hooves, yet it felt natural and right, too. All Tarplan seemed interested in was the soft violet grasses. The three of them together sought out the tender blades, occasionally finding juicy pink clover, tearing and grinding the delicious fare with his large molars. The meadow smelled sweet, with delicate nuances of fragrances that neither Ash nor Lindha were ordinarily able to differentiate, much less identify. Apparently grazing animals were able to discern with precision a vast number of plants through smell.
The meadow was wholly different from the viewpoint of a horse. The sensation of Tarplan’s large and powerful form combined with his thought. The animal was intent on and absorbed by the simple act of eating. It was exhilarating. She knew the smell of warm grass, earth and flowers. The sun was warm and restful on his back. Lindha enjoyed the soothing impression of contentedly swishing a tail. Tarplan was intelligent but arrogant, considering himself superior to other horses and animals.
The minutes passed. Ash tired of Tarplan’s touch. He broke contact.
“That was wonderful!” Lindha said sitting up with excitement. “A bit disorienting and disconcerting at first, but soon eating grass seemed quite the natural thing to do — didn’t it taste delicious? So many different flavors and smells — oh, I could do that all day! I see what you mean. Why did we stop?”
Ash smiled, and listened patiently as she detailed her experience with tireless fervor. He had been bored by Tarplan, but his heart swelled as he watched her joy. When there was a pause in her verbal tirade, Ash quickly jumped in. “Want to try it again with another animal?”
“Oh, yes.”
He pointed to the blanket and she lay down next to him once more. She contacted Ash and he thought, “Hold on.”
Reaching out for some time, Ash became aware of a fleeting touch and made contact. Perfect! It was a whitehawk. Ash and Lindha had taken flight. Soaring with the great white bird, they climbed high into the sky as if ascending to the gates of the Golden Lands.
Upon contact Lindha experienced an elemental assault on her senses. A whitehawk’s eyesight was far advanced when compared with homo sapiens. The bird’s vision had a degree of complexity that isn’t present in human vision, and for which human sensory experience provides little intuitive understanding. Lindha was astonished at the vivid colors, the spectrum of colors in a visual band she had never perceived in her human form.
Ash was used to the bird’s extraordinary sight and knew exactly what he was seeing. He waited patiently while Lindha assessed, interpreted and analyzed, making sense of the whitehawk’s complex vision.
Ash projected calm awareness as Lindha struggled with sensory overload. There was so much to understand. It took some time to experience some degree of comfort in the foreign bird form. The whitehawk was aware of every tiny shift of wind, of each thermal updraft or downdraft, the quality of the air, the speed and direction of the airflow, the temperature and amount of moisture it was composed of. She knew all these details, but had no idea how she knew them. Somehow she could distinguish the quality of the air, any dust particles, discern every detail. The bird was enjoying the updrafts, and soaring complacently over its territory. Lindha felt the rapid beat of its heart speeding, her strong, wide wings; she could feel its blood flowing. She could feel every feather, the large ones at any rate. She could move them singly or as a group. The whitehawk had total control.
This is the most incredible thing, Lindha thought. She was flying. Hers was a careful isolated thought that she didn’t project, recalling Ash’s admonition to not confuse the animal. Mind-touch with animals showed her a freedom such as she had never known. As she began to make sense of the bird’s fantastic vision she realized just how much she could see. It was as if she had had impaired sight all her life and never knew it until her vision was corrected. The quality of light, dark, heat, cold — she could see everything! A little mouse under a cool, moldy log; a fish in the river leaping for a bug; Ash and her, laying on a blanket, hand in hand kilometers away; a tiny red wren-finch sitting on Bethan’s back. Any movement was immediately perceived by her acute bird sight. Lindha felt she would never tire of it. She could fly away forever.
The great bird made a fast turn — it had seen something, but what? Its heart rate, already astonishingly rapid, sped up. The wind poured over its wings like fresh, cool running water and Lindha felt she had never known such pleasure, such joy. The bird called out and its raucous call thrilled her; the song it gave was heady, like music to her distinctive bird hearing. The whitehawk was sweeping and diving, its winged form primed with adrenaline. Something had happened; the bird was responding to some commotion. Its dizzy maneuvers assailed her senses with a kaleidoscope of colors. The sensation of wind was lifting them, propelling them; it was slipping over feathers, brisk and bracing. It was a unique sensual impression that thrilled her.
“Oh, what is it excited about?” Lindha wondered with breathless curiosity. It was an unshielded thought, and the whitehawk faltered. It diverted from its precision flight. Misjudging the wind, it began to fall.
“Silence,” Ash ordered. Then, projecting to the whitehawk he thought, “It was the wind. The wind made an unexpected shift then. It was nothing.”
The whitehawk recovered and flew on, no longer disoriented.
Ash strained to keep contact with the whitehawk, to soothe the bird, to hold on to Lindha’s mind. It had been difficult at first, but just now, after Lindha’s projected thought, it was much harder. It wasn’t just Lindha’s thought. What else had changed?
There was a flash of white — it was another whitehawk, flying near them. A thrill of excitement flowed through the body of the whitehawk Ash was within. A challenge! The biological ritual began, as it had no doubt for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. The birds needed to discover who was the more skilled in flight. Before Ash could react, they were in a steep dive and had fallen into a downdraft, losing height, spinning and twirling … but no! Entering an elevating thermal updraft he was up again.
Oh! Ash thought, when he realized what was happening. With the awareness, his physical body lying on the blanket with Lindha jerked, as if receiving an electrical shock. The whitehawk was involved in a mating flight. He was proving to his prospective mate how clever, how cunning and adept he was in the air. He was displaying his love through the risks he was taking with his dangerous and inventive maneuvers in flight.
But the contest was over. The female whitehawk had accepted him as the most skilled of the opponents that were battling for her favors. Ash had observed two other birds nearby, but hadn’t understood the connection until now. The whitehawk that they were in mind-touch with knew that he had won.
He was worthy.
Such sensations. Such emotions: arrogance, pride, joy, lust. An overpowering instinct to mate almost overwhelmed Ash. With a frenzy of excitement the hawk flew near the female, catching a wing in hers, reaching toward her possessively and then …
Ash broke their contact and sat up. Mindful of Lindha, he had blocked her mental rapport from the full effect of the animal’s touch. His heart pounded and he was breathing fast. For a moment he found it difficult to reorient himself, to gain control of his fevered flesh.
Lindha was also breathless, her face flushed pink against her skin. “Oh, why? Why did you stop? That was wonderful!”
Ash knew that he had been affected; he was violently aroused. As the focal point, he was more aware of the contact, having a deeper more complete physical union. Sitting up, he wiped the perspiration that had formed on his brow and then smiled down at Lindha. She was enthralled, her face alight with the joy of mind-touch with a whitehawk.
“I stopped because I wanted to, Lindha,” he explained, lying back down beside her. “The whitehawks were going to mate. Leave it to me to find one engaged in that capacity.” He shook his head ruefully. “I didn’t want to be involved in their love.” He stroked her face and neck. “We have love enough on our own, don’t you think? We don’t need to intrude on someone or something else.”
“No,” Lindha breathed. Ash bent over to give her a gentle kiss, but she moaned and fell upon him, reacting with a heated passion that dumbfounded him.
Sweet Jana. Ash was surprised by the intensity of her arousal. He had been unable to block her after all. The urgency of the whitehawk’s mating must have caused this instant need. Ash smiled at her with approval. There was only one cure for the fever that she had, this burning illness that he knew so well. He mind-touched Lindha and felt her urgency.
With a casual strength Ash flipped Lindha over, so she was lying face down. He had pinned her arms beneath her. He covered her, his chest against her back. Lindha was unable to move. He pulled her hair away from her neck, and kissed and lightly bit her, his warm breath, lips and tongue trailing a silky line of pleasure down her throat, against her skin. He was hard against her.
Moving along her neck, he whispered into her ear, “I think you got excited by being with the animals, love.” He continued kissing and nibbling up and down her neckline, behind her ear, the side of her face, his warm breath hot against her skin. He said in a low voice, dark with erotic promise, “Maybe you want to do it like the animals do?”
Lindha moaned, “Oh, Ash, please.”
“Don’t move,” Ash ordered, quickly stripping off his clothes. A whirlwind was coming. It was up to him to direct this storm. He had made love to Lindha uncountable times, with gentleness, love, and urgency; but always with some tempering and control. This would be different.
Ash’s breath came fast now, his blood speeding, his heart thumping like a jackhammer in his chest. It was as if all their combined arousal had coalesced into this one moment. He covered her feminine form again, this time straddling her on his knees so his hands were free. He pulled up her shirt, releasing her bra, reaching his hands around to hold her breasts.
Lindha moaned and whimpered, but didn’t move. He had ordered her not to.
Ash knew she was his to command. He was glad for mind-touch. He wanted to feel her desire, and her pleasure. He inhaled deeply and held his breath, striving for the last of his control. He cupped her breasts, squeezing the fullness and running his fingers along the curve of them. He was in full mental rapport, so he knew what she felt, what he was doing to her.
Lindha was ready, consumed by raw, mindless passion. She was making little mewing sounds of need, and of pleasure.
Ash felt like a wolf with Lindha as his she-wolf. She wanted to be conquered, she wanted to be dominated. She wanted him.
Ash was more than happy to give her what she wanted. With untamed menace he ordered: “Up, on your hands and knees.” His command was harsh, coarse and erotic.
Breath ragged, she obeyed.
“Lindha,” he whispered her name, both out loud and in her mind. His voice was thick and aroused. It was a sensual caress.
“Ash,” she said, an agitated hungry whisper in his mind. She trembled beneath him, and the tiny sounds of passion she was making were getting louder. Teeth clenched, Ash smiled with tight-lipped pleasure. It was an extraordinary sort of music Lindha was making. They were pitiful, soft and endearing sounds — whimpers, really. The whitehawks mating had almost pushed her over the edge. He heard her thoughts — they were a mantra: “Please! Please! Please!” He knew his Lindha was at the limits of her control.
He decided to make her wait, to torment her just a bit, to discover how much control she had. He thought, “Do you know what the animals do when they are wild in heat?”
“They screw, Ash. They screw and screw and screw!”
Ash growled playfully and showed her, in his mind, his wolf-self.
She turned her head to look at him and said out loud, her voice unsteady, “Really, my love?” It was then that she shocked him. In fact, she surprised him completely.
Lindha thought, “That’s nothing to what I’ve got to show you.” She showed him then, in her mind what she was imagining. Her thoughts crashed through him with a tidal wave of heat. Her blue, blue eyes were dark, wild and wanton.
And in the end it was Ash that lost all control.
30. Trueborn Purpose
It’s fascinating to watch a person experience fear. People are more alive when they are threatened than at any other time. Genuine fear gifts an individual with moments of honest life. Hope enhances fear. With heightened senses an individual will cling to unattainable expectation. Despair is when the subject knows all hope is forever extinguished. It is this that creates irretrievable breakdown.
— Admiral Neopol Jones, personal records
It was dark, completely dark, and the three wolves were hunting. Senses fully alert, Long Fang, Seeta and Teella remained silent and well hidden while they waited and watched.
This was not unexpected. When seeking a kill, stealth, patience and concealment were principal aspects of the hunt. What was different was that they were stalking men this night. When stalking men it was even more important to wait and watch.
The clouds were low lying, hiding the stars. It was well before dawn. There was no hurry. The wolves looked down from the thin timberland above the basin below. The darkness was complete, but the wolves saw almost as well in the black of night as in full daylight. Systematically searching, Ash’s wolf family had looked for him for months.
“The cub was here.”
“His scent is old.”
It was time. In instinctive accord the wolves moved out of the trees and down into the camp.
Long Fang stopped at the rusty speeder and lifted his leg, urinating on it. It was a display of contempt.
“The men are here.”
“Yes.” A thick ferocious hate swelled with that one word.
The strong, unpleasant acrid smell of Ein and Del irritated the nose of each wolf: cigarette smoke, alcohol, urine and unwashed body stench. The wolves knew the scent of each man. They had learned these scents as only a wolf can learn them. This knowledge had been seared into their senses the day Ash had been taken. After Ash disappeared, they sought those unique scents and tonight they had found them.
The men were here.
The men were asleep in the makeshift hut. The wolves skirted the building and, picking up the scent of their lost family member, they went to the cave. The cave was open, its metal bars pulled back. Long Fang stayed on watch while Seeta and Teella explored inside, traversing back and forth, noses to the ground.
Seeta snarled and her ears lay back with rage as she recognized the smell of her cub’s blood. She knew he had been wounded many times in this dark, unpleasant den. Long Fang and Teella echoed her fury with low growls of their own. In silent agreement they left the cave, traversing the rest of the mine area.
The cub had not walked from this place. There was no trail to follow.
They stopped outside the open window of the hut.
“I will kill these men,” Seeta said with cold fury as the snarling, raging demon within her swelled. She was a mother who had lost her cub. Her cub had been taken by these men! She would jump through the open window and tear open the jugular of each man. It was her right. Then she would eat them: She would eat those that would dare to harm her cub. Her muscles bunched.
Stiff-legged, his ruff in a slight bristle, Long Fang pushed in front of his mate. He stood with the dominant stance of pack leader, yet his lip did not curl, nor did he show his teeth. He said, “It is dangerous to kill men. Other men will hunt us.”
The force of Seeta’s rage was terrible, but with Long Fang’s assertion she stilled.
“The cub lives,” he said.
She considered this and knew it to be true. “Yes. He lives.”
“The cub will return. We will wait at the den,” Long Fang said.
Seeta hesitated; the need to kill was strong in her. It was a fiery rage inside of her. She was torn by conflicting impulses. She wanted to tear, to rend, to kill. Yet Long Fang was pack leader and mate. She wanted to submit to his dominance, to obey. Teeth bared, she glared at the hut, her yellow eyes glowing with malignant menace. Long moments passed while she struggled for mastery of the hate and impotent rage that burned inside.
The three wolves stood close to each other, their combined warmth radiating unseen steamy tendrils of warmth into the cold, dark night. Inside the hut, someone coughed, shifted and mumbled a swear word. The wolves tensed, instantly prepared to move.
The man settled and became silent. Muted heartbeats and breathing were all that could be heard. The wolves’ muscles loosened, tension eased.
Seeta relented. “Yes. The cub will return to the den.”
In agreement, the wolves slipped away, like dark shadows into the night, on their journey homeward.
Lindha lay spent, languid and asleep in his arms, mental contact broken. Ash smiled, satisfied. He had exhausted her. He grinned. She had exhausted him, too. He glanced at Lindha, still surprised at the hard, impulsive bite he had given her between neck and shoulder. Well. While he had left distinctive teeth marks, at least he hadn’t drawn blood. Relaxed and replete, he gave in to his fatigue. That had been a wild ride. Who would have thought that they could contact the animals together like that? The connection was so natural. Mind-touch with the animals was one of his greatest pleasures. He was glad to have shared it with Lindha. Cuddled up against her, he slept.
Time passed unhurriedly in the afternoon sun. It wasn’t long, however, before Ash was wide awake, his mind busy, his passions cooled. No longer did he need to resist the temptation for love as Lindha was there whenever he needed her. As a result sex, while still an insistent driving need, no longer seemed so essential. He was happy just to be with her. When Ash was with her he was at peace.
When she started to wake he said, “Lindha?”
“Humm?”
“Did you like mind-touch with the animals?”
“Are you kidding? It was the best! I want to mind-touch every kind of animal on Opan. Could we?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” she said. “Oh, and I particularly want us to mind-touch them when they are mating.”
Ash laughed and hugged her. Then he looked at her suspiciously, and frowned. “You’re not serious, are you?”
She smiled, and there was mischief in her eyes. “Maybe.”
They both laughed.
He said, “Did you know that the Damithst jewel reacted when Dorian touched it?”
Lindha stretched and sat up. “What?” She slipped out of her shirt and bra as they were half off anyway. It was warm out and they were both comfortably naked.
“The Damithst. It lit up when Dorian touched it.”
“I didn’t know.”
“If he was a girl, he would have become a Sister of Jana.”
“Yes.”
They both thought about that for a while.
“Maybe my people had the ability to mind-touch due to the proximity of Damithst on Delian. Maybe mind-touch is obtainable for everyone.”
Lindha frowned, turning it over in her mind. “That could be.”
“I’ve been thinking. I want Dorian and his brother to be trained as Brothers of Jana — if they are willing, of course. I want a separate order to be established. Dorian and Anton will be the first members. The stone must react to Anton too, of course.
Lindha said, “That is a good plan, Trueborn. What other skills should they have?”
Ash shrugged. “Let Dorian decide for now. I trust his judgment. He is a natural survivor.” Dorian was innovative, determined, ruthless, resourceful and courageous. Ash remembered the force of his mind and the strength of his personality when he had touched him all those years ago.
“And another thing; over the next few months have two Temple Sisters genuinely befriend those twins. Find ones that are as young as possible, but kind and experienced, skilled in sexual mind-touch. This is a sensitive duty, Lindha. It is important to find the right women. Let them have traits and interests comparable to each boy; they must be told of the twins’ history and must want to help them. They should seduce Dorian and Anton as soon as possible.”
“But Ash, they are thirteen! You realize of course that what you propose would be quite illegal, such underage sex.”
“Yes, the boys are too young, but they already have carnal knowledge. Their mental and emotional growth will be stunted without this interference. Besides, they are almost fourteen.”
“Fourteen!”
“Lindha, they need people that they can trust and mind-touch to heal. When I say let them have sex I don’t mean right now. There will be a time that is right. They should be so lucky! I would have loved it if you had mind-touched me when I was fourteen and you were eighteen. Think of how different my life would have been.”
Lindha tilted her head, studying him. “Everything that has happened to you has made you who you are, Ash. I fell in love with the person you are now. I wouldn’t have loved you when you were a child of fourteen.”
Ash looked at her and asserted with complete confidence, “You would have loved me. I would have made you love me.” He smiled a crooked smile.
Lindha reacted instantly with a loud snort of laughter. It was an inelegant sort of snort, not at all ladylike.
Ash looked at her, momentarily startled, his eyes wide with surprise. He had never heard such a noise from her. She attacked quickly, an obvious attempt to get him to ignore the graceless sound, “You are so arrogant.”
He pointed at her and said, “You snorted. The Prefect snorted!” he shouted, as if informing the world of such an event. He laughed out loud.
“Prefects never snort,” Lindha said, her chin high with hauteur, but she began to giggle. She and Ash soon were rolling together and holding their stomachs like a couple of silly children. The entire incident was so ridiculous that when one of them started to settle from laughing, they would look at the other and something in their expression would start laughing again. This went on for some time until both had tears rolling down their faces and sore stomachs.
When they finally settled, Ash said, “Anyway, perhaps the twins will be fifteen before the time is right, perhaps older. Some people do have sex at fifteen, you know.”
“Yes,” Lindha agreed. “Young people do experiment with people of the same age. For a young man to be seduced by an older woman, especially for the first time, creates too great a power inequity. Trust me, Ash, there is something inherently wrong with the concept.”
Diverted, Ash’s mouth lifted in another crooked smile. “You’re an older woman.”
“I am four years older, and you should listen to me, as I am four years wiser.”
Ash pulled her down and kissed her, running his hands through her hair, stroking her face, the column of her neck, her collarbone. He loved her collarbone. He said, “I want to be seduced by an older woman.”
They both became distracted then. He began to kiss and caress her with keen interest, his movements slow.
Lindha rolled on top of Ash, taking control. She gave him a haughty look. “Watch and learn, youngster. As an older woman I’m going to teach you everything you need to know. Now pay attention.” She began to move down his body, enjoying his reaction as he responded to her touch.
They returned to the subject much later, but the argument continued. They sat beside each other in the blue and violet meadow. The horses had wandered some distance, but they would come when called.
“Ash, about Dorian and Anton, I can ensure that at least one Sister will befriend each of those boys. Why does it have to be sex?”
“They need mind-touch. Who knows what irrational decisions they have hidden? They both suffer the Dark Sankomin. I was a mess and you know it, and that all began from one event. I became self-destructive, inhibiting my powers. The boys were sexual toys for months. I can’t even imagine what they did to survive, how they learned to live with themselves. This will spiral, Lindha as you well know. They are thirteen. Sexual need comes with adolescence and with that comes guilt and additional awareness of what was done to them. And, more importantly, what choices they made and what they did because of it. They will feel bad, unclean and immoral, just as I did.”
Her brows furrowed. “The boys are not Delian — they won’t be victimized by the same uncontrollable passions that your people were subjected to. It follows that they won’t suffer with the Dark Sankomin to the degree that a Delian would. Perhaps they will be able to manage it.”
“Lindha,” he said persuasively, “I know what it is like to have that sexual burden at such a young age. It will tarnish their whole world.”
“So why don’t you mind-touch them?”
Ash lay back and placed both hands behind his head, looking up into a light green sky. A few pink clouds were moving, some darker. It might rain later. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. I’d have to seek their permission. They have trust issues with men. I don’t want to make things worse.” He sighed. “Let the Sisters see what can be done. If necessary I’ll try.” He reached out, took one of her hands, kissed her palm and then released it.
She pulled her hand back and clasped both in front of her. Composed and formal, she said, “So, just to be sure of your command, Trueborn: You want me to tell the sisters to become friends and then seduce them as soon as possible, mind-touching them to heal them?”
Ash’s eyebrows drew down in a frown. “You make it sound so bad.” He studied her curiously, weighing her words. Other than the rare hint of a blush, Lindha always had her countenance under control. Tranquil and self possessed, Ash had never seen her lose her temper or show unseemly reactions as Prefect. She could be herself with him, when she was simply Lindha. But her position as Prefect required a different persona. Possibly no one, except perhaps Jeeha could tell when the Temple Prefect was tense and upset. Ash could always see the difference between the person she projected and the person she was.
Ash knew that he had upset her.
He breathed in deeply, and then sighed. “I guess that’s because it is bad. All right, you win. Give the boys companions, genuine companions, and leave it at that. We will also leave mind-touch through sex out of the equation while they are young. Perhaps the Dark Sankomin can be managed through counseling and communication with people they trust. I’ll be happy if they just connect with someone. If things get out of hand I’ll get their permission and try to mind-touch them myself. Are you happy now?”
Lindha gave him a wide grin and a little bounce of joy. “Yes. I’ll find just the right Sisters, I swear it. They will care of those boys and befriend them. This is an easy task, Trueborn.”
“Good. You worry too much.”
She snuggled back down beside him, and smiled at his embrace.
Ash stroked Lindha’s back, his face smiled against her as he smelled her hair. Dorian would not be fooled. No matter how sensitive and careful the Sisters were, Dorian would know that Ash was behind the befriending.
He was too quick, that boy.
The warm weight of the King’s Mirror pressed against his arm and Ash frowned, remembering. There was one area in which he was still deeply troubled. That disturbing dream he had had last night. Perhaps it was a sign. He was happy and at peace here with Lindha and perhaps he shouldn’t be. His father and his people had been killed. He needed to avenge them. He had withheld the vision from Lindha, waiting until he had worked out the meaning for himself. Ash clenched his teeth and mentally swore. How he hated the man.
He stiffened and shifted, disturbing Lindha from her languorous reverie.
“What is it, Ash?”
“Nothing. I’ve just been thinking.”
“And what is it that gives such dark thoughts?”
“Lindha,” he said. “I know now what I must do. I made a vow almost five years ago and the Goddess has not let me forget it. Last night I had a dream. I was traveling in search and there I saw a man.” He hesitated, recalling the dream. “I killed that man — with my bare hands.”
“Was it Forseth?”
“Yes. I know now the purpose of the Trueborn. I must kill that man.”
Lindha looked away. “I can’t advise against your purpose; as you are well aware, it would break my vows. If it is your wish to seek this man, to end his life, then it is the duty of the Prefect and our Temple to help you achieve this goal.”
Ash turned to her, aware that he had upset her again. He gripped her hands tightly. “Think of the parables, Lindha. ‘For everything, there is a season; a time to live, a time to die.’ You know this. Sometimes killing is the right thing to do.”
“But, Ash,” Lindha pleaded, coming dangerously close to breaking her vows. “How do you know that the vision was from Jana? Perhaps it was Taro in your dreams. Remember the Testimonials: ‘Hate crushes the power. In blindness thou shall see a world of enemies, eyes cast toward revenge, not gentle truth.’”
“No,” Ash said. “That doesn’t apply. He himself has wrought the evil, yet he still lives. It is for the Trueborn, the last of my people, to kill him.”
She looked unconvinced.
“Lindha. Trust me,” his voice was low with determined menace. “I intend to find and kill that son of Taro and return to you.”
“Certainly, Trueborn,” she affirmed, the Prefect once more. “When did you want to leave?”
“The sooner I’m gone, the sooner I will return.”
She bit her lower lip, something Ash had never seen her do. “Don’t worry, Lindha. That Taro spawn has Chinter’s Chance against me. You know that, don’t you?”
“He was a Freeworlds policeman, a dangerous man. They have extensive combat training, Ash.”
“So what! I’ve fought an enormous maddened boar with a little knife.”
She gave him a smile at that.
“When I come back we can retrieve the Testimonials from Assurance. I’ll also find my wolf family once this task is done. Wherever they are, they will be worried about me. There is much to do, my love.” He stood up, pulling her to her feet. “Do you know,” he said, “that I’ll be eighteen in four months time? I’ll be back by then and old enough to legally wed.” He drew Lindha to him and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “There is just enough time. Everything will work out perfectly.”
All uncertainty was over.
They dressed and mounted their horses, riding back to the Temple. Ash was astounded with the amount of credit, gold and jewels he was provided, just in case they were needed. He was further amazed to discover that there were Sisters of Jana on every Freeworld, all pledged to serve him. He must have hundreds and thousands of people, all at his command. The thought made him feel invulnerable.
In each Temple was a Prefect, waiting for the Trueborn, forced to remain a maiden by her vows. He intended to change all that. No one need remain chaste. He had found his one true love. When Lindha had asked where he wished to go, he hadn’t hesitated. In his heart he knew where he would find ex-police Captain Larren Forseth.
“Kalar,” Ash spat with complete certainty. The chill of death was in his voice.
Epilogue
You would live forever, Lord, if not for the Delian child.
— Personal Seer of High Lord Andros
The party was in the ballroom. This opulent space was furnished and fitted, gilt edged and magnificent. It took up an entire floor of the skyscraper, the foundation of which was as large as a city block. An Earth Antiquarian of some note, High Lord Andros had spared no expense to make it into an exact replica of a North American ballroom from the late 1900s. The waiting staff was dressed in realistically reproduced black tuxedos with crisp white shirts. The orchestra, dressed appropriately, played Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey and Glen Miller, suitable for the “Big Band” era. While invitations had requested “black tie,” a number of guests, excited by such a prestigious event, had gotten into the spirit of the occasion and had also come in imitation costume. The event was being copied for Icom viewing for select friends, staff and significant political partners or interests that were unable to attend.
“Thank you, my friends. Thank you.” High Lord John Andros stood smiling after the birthday toast. He was uniquely dressed in a double-breasted white tuxedo with silk lapels and black shirt. He alone, as Guest of Honor, was wearing a white tie.
“Speech! Speech!” came the cries from the party guests.
“Yes! Speech!”
Andros nodded benignly and raised his hand in submission, his other hand still holding a glass of authentic Crystal Brut, 2210. It may have been the last drop of genuine Earth champagne.
“On this, the year 2400 and my fifty-fifth year, I give my heartfelt thanks to you all,” he said, nodding at the crowd. “A toast: To my fellow government servants in High Command; to those who have followed and assisted in my career; to my family, my good friends,” he paused, “and to the rest of you.” The audience laughed.
“This has been an excellent year for us all. A fulfilling year. The UWG is flourishing, expanding and running in surplus. We have many, many plans that are coming to fruition. I don’t need to tell you: Our cup runneth over.” He raised his glass and drank once more, to a chorus of laughter.
The birthday celebration was held in his home and went on until early morning. Andros left as soon as courtesy and discretion would allow. Walking down an enormous hallway, he passed a gallery of priceless sculptures and historic portraits and entered the tube that took him to the upper levels. His journey upward took a few minutes, though that was not due to a hesitant speed. The fact was that there were hundreds of floors in the gigantic, modern mansion. He owned the top hundred levels of the skyscraper; his servants lived below. His penthouse was over two-thousand-meters high.
With real satisfaction and pleasure, Andros stepped out into his Intelligence Room. Here was where he loved to spend his time. He activated the display. Like in a large entertainment complex, a bright and colorful array of information came alive. Each world had its own clear panel, projecting detailed graphic information. Above him the entire Milky Way was displayed, each Freeworld represented in the vastness of galactic space.
He unclipped his white tie, tossing it on an alcove desk. Cirani, the prison planet, was what he set eyes on first. It was a small, compact world, one-and-a-fifth times normal gravity. The percentage of oxygen to air on Cirani was sustainable, with a normal ratio of oxygen to nitrogen. However, the air was thin. While a lucky few had no symptoms, most living on Cirani at first experienced serious, often fatal, altitude sickness. With little to recommend it, and capital punishment unpopular throughout the Freeworlds, it had been set aside as a prison planet for murderers, traitors, misfits, Ferals and psychopaths. When Andros was younger and had less guard on his actions, he had occasionally sent someone there on a whim. An unexpected stab of memory tightened something inside his chest and he frowned, all pleasure momentarily disturbed. Such inexperienced, impulsive behavior was beyond him now that he had matured.
Andros’s eyes fixed as he gazed momentarily into the past. Reaching up, he unbuttoned two small buttons on the black collar of his dress shirt. It was over one-hundred-and-ninety years ago now, but it seemed like yesterday. The Lady Iritha, Temple Prefect, dark haired with silky dark brown skin and dark intelligent eyes, a resourceful and courageous woman — he had wanted her more than anything. Andros had been certain that she wanted him, too. Despite his position, she had rebuffed his every attempt at seduction. Would his life have been different had she given in to him? Married him? He had fancied he had found genuine love at the time. He no longer believed in the concept.
On her last rejection he had lost his temper. Oh, it hadn’t been obvious. Well trained, he had hidden his emotions; he hadn’t lost control. A few days later, when he would not be implicated, he had had an operative stun her, kidnap her and place her on Cirani. Just for ten days. Ten days would be enough to make her understand his power. He had no apprehensions that she could have died there: the woman was astonishingly capable, a master at self defense. Further, she hadn’t been sent without resources.
When the time was up, the same operative was sent in. With codes to pass the planet’s force field barriers, he went to extract her. A locator had been added to Iritha’s Icom — finding her hadn’t been a problem. What he hadn’t counted on was her reaction to altitude sickness. The Lady Iritha had died on Cirani. The operative, with no direct orders, hadn’t even thought to retrieve her valuable Damithst, the stupid fellow. But, there it was. She was gone and all his adolescent ideas of love and a genuine life partner had died with her.
Andros shook his head, returning to the present. He had matured and was well past such idealistic and youthful dreams. His current wife was an implanted puppet. It was safer that way.
Internment policy for Cirani was that each prisoner was sterilized before being transported. Andros smiled. He had stopped all sterilization over a hundred years ago. Through natural selection, only the strongest and most cunning would survive. The offspring on Cirani might become useful, training as his loyal soldiers in the unnaturally harsh environment. By nature, Lord John Andros was not a wasteful man. He was also curious. He had the time to observe this social and physical experiment; he would be there, at the outcome.
Andros touched the clear plasti-panel of Cirani reverently. He was two-hundred-and-fifty-five years old today. So many alterations over the years: names, hair and skin color, facial features. He had almost forgotten what he originally looked like. He alone, in all the United Worlds, had the power of virtually eternal life. And he could bestow long life to others, with or without their knowledge. So far he had kept this information completely to himself, although Admiral Neopol Jones, typically astute, suspected the truth.
A screen flashed, and Andros moved toward it with interest. Ah, he thought. An info ship from Opan must have come in, transferring data. Hmm. This was interesting. It was a report. “Accounts concerning Delian Damithst: Initial results.” Another item flashed and Andros was instantly diverted. He had marked incoming information of this kind with an alert. The Delian Prince, Ashton Chayton, was confirmed dead on Opan. Opan, of all places.
Andros laughed. Out loud, he said, “Seek and ye shall find; knock and the door shall be opened to you.”
He had taken care of the Delians, except for those surviving two. Could it be that the Queen and the traitor Forseth were also on Opan? If so, the Testimonials and the Talisman would be with them. He was close to his goal: complete eradication of the Delian people. Then he would be safe. He needed to be safe. For he alone was vital to the expansion and survival of the human race.
A tadium message would need to be sent to the Conqueror, notifying Neopol immediately. Neopol would know exactly what to do.
Aboard Conqueror, Admiral Neopol stood on the bridge. They travelled in normal space, toward the nearest Omni corridor. Over time, while working on other missions, he had searched a dozen Freeworlds, and had not yet located Assurance, the Lady Sartha or her son, Ashton.
The Admiral’s eyes narrowed as he seethed with an old fury.
Opan. There was no other habitable planet remotely en route from Delian to Kalar. Even Opan was well off all plausible charted possibilities. According to Captain Forseth’s mindtap they had been bound for Kalar. Had he somehow lied? Even during mindtap? The Lady Sartha must have lied to Forseth, but that was out of character. A woman like her would tell the truth to her lover. He frowned. That old mystery still irritated him.
Thinking of Larren Forseth made his blood temperature rise. Forseth had escaped and they had been searching for him off and on for almost five years. He would have found them if not for the other tasks that HC had given him. Meanwhile, the Delian affair was the only blemish on his record. His only failure.
Never mind, Neopol thought, willing himself to calm. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t found many interesting things to achieve over the few years. He had been kept busy and was closer to his goal: complete control of the human race.
Neopol had not given up. The game was still in play. He would have the last laugh. All things come to the man with persistence and proper motivation. Completing that mission would ensure his promotion and he still desperately wanted the power that it would afford. He was High Lord Andros’s right-hand man. As such, his long life was assured.
He patted his vest pocket, reassuring himself that the legal document that he had been given was still there. The Vice Regal of Opan would welcome him with open arms, for Neopol was a formal emissary from the UWG. If Assurance was here, he would soon find it, along with the woman, her son and Forseth.
“I’ll be in my quarters,” Neopol said, turning toward Gene Pagett, Captain of Conqueror.
Neopol took the tube and entered his quarters with his aide, Sub-Lieutenant Janson, trailing behind. As usual, Janson was an enigma. Neopol had been so concerned and distracted by his recent pursuits that he hadn’t much considered the mystery of how to break Janson. Nothing ever affected Janson. The man was part of the scenery. Like the walls of the ship, he was nondescript and emotionless. Leaning back in his chair, Neopol studied his lieutenant for some time, drawn to the puzzle that was Janson. Jason stood motionless, his eyes rarely blinking. The man was undisturbed by Neopol’s scrutiny.
A knock sounded.
“Come.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Pagett said. “We were just about to enter Omni, and this message caught up with us. I have a sealed tube from HC marked, “Urgent and Important — Neopol’s eyes only.”
The Admiral took the tube. “Fine. You may go,” he ordered. Taking precautions that he could not be overseen, he opened the message. It read: “Delian Prince confirmed dead on Opan. Find Queen and Forseth. Secure Talisman and Testimonials. JA.”
Neopol laughed out loud. Here he was, already moving toward Opan. His reasoning was correct. No surprise there. After sending Pagett an Icom message, confirming orders to continue to Opan, Neopol threw the message into a disintegrator and nodded toward his Aide. Janson began to unbutton the Admiral’s tunic, helping him remove his dress uniform.
Neopol lay down on his bed and snapped his fingers. Janson immediately removed his boots and gently, albeit robotically, began to massage the Admiral’s feet. Neopol had always loved having his feet rubbed, even when he had been a woman.
He shut his eyes. His tension eased with the good news and the foot massage. All his plans would come to fruition in due course. So. It seemed the Delian woman’s son was dead, but the woman herself may yet live. If so, she and Forseth would be together. Assurance, the Testimonials and the Talisman would all be found on Opan. He would go there. He would search every meter of that world. He would confirm every report and view Ashton Chayton’s corpse for himself.
Neopol smiled. Such a lot of work for a man with his skills. On Opan he would be able to engage himself in his favorite activity. Anyone connected in any way to the Prince’s death would need to be thoroughly interrogated.
The Admiral mused about Janson for a bit, his attention on the excellent massage he was receiving and the mystery of the sub-lieutenant. But soon he was aware that Janson’s ministrations had sent him into an almost meditative state. Neopol’s thoughts were drawn back to Opan. Was there anyone on Opan who would be a challenge to break? He hadn’t had an interesting subject for some time. What he needed was an intelligent individual, someone he could really pit his will against. His skill level was too extensive now, and most people were boringly normal. The vast majority were completely transparent to him, with moderate intelligence and utterly predictable actions and motivations. None could really command his interest. Perhaps someone on Opan would be unique and clever, and most valued of all, difficult to break.
Neopol breathed in deeply and tingled with excitement. He often had moments of almost prophetic insight. Usually it happened when his attention was fixed — for example, when engaged in breaking a subject and tracing the source of the subject’s fear. It occurred to him then that he was beginning to feel that familiar sensation right now. It was a strong sensation, a combination of déjà-vu and premonition. He held perfectly still and examined the feeling.
Yes. In the depths of his being he felt certain. The idea electrified him.
Suddenly Neopol sat up on his bed, putting his feet on the floor. Janson, who should have been surprised … wasn’t. Janson remained at the end of Neopol’s bed on his knees. He simply stopped massaging the Admiral’s feet, straightened and waited.
Neopol’s brows drew down in a frown, his mind deep in thought as he focused. There was someone on Opan, someone different from the others. He knew it. An individual who was capable, intelligent and unique. Was it a woman, perhaps? Women, the weaker sex, had a genetic need to be sly in order to compete with the strength of men. They could be quite cunning. A woman might be a proficient adversary.
Neopol stood up and went to the bathroom. As he washed his hands he looked into the mirror and smiled at himself. It was a broad grin that he thought would be considered quite charming, except perhaps for the expression in his eyes. His brown eyes held a cold glint of predatory malice. This was a part of him he could not show anyone, the real him. Neopol liked his eyes, as he was a predator. It was a choice, really, and he had made his choice early in life: He chose not to be prey.
As he wiped his hands, he realized that he liked everything about himself. For he was a genius and he had work to do, and a whole new world to do it in.
Whoever it is that waits on Opan, woman or man, Neopol thought, I will treasure and value them as only I can. Then I will take my time … He smiled with cruel satisfaction. … and I will destroy them completely.
THE END
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Wolf Dawn. The sequel is Wolf Revenge, Book Two of the Forsaken Worlds series. Here is a short synopsis:
PASSION AND VENGEANCE BEYOND THE STARS!
The man killed his family and was responsible for the genocide of his people. Ashton Chayton wants revenge, and he has unique, superhuman powers to help him get it. Not to mention more wealth and power than governments or kings.
But is his target the real villain? Or a hero mistakenly accused?
Will Ash kill the wrong man? Will Lindha, the love of Ash’s young life, become a victim of the sadistic genius Admiral Neopol while Ash is away on his mission of vengeance? Can Ash save a world fallen victim to a vicious plague? Ultimately, can he even save himself?
The answer to those questions lies somewhere in the vast spaces between planets. And the Red Wolves of Opan may deliver the final verdict.
Wolf Revenge is the sequel to Wolf Dawn. Enjoy the continuing nail biting adventure of love, spaceship chases, plagues, alien planets, mind-control and the wonderful Red Wolves of Opan.
You are welcome to write me via my website: http://www.susancartwright.com
List of Characters
In Order by First Name
Anton and Dorian: Identical twins of Greek descent. Light-brown skin, green eyes, with wavy black hair. Both damaged by working as sexual slaves during early childhood.
Ashton Rynan Chayton: Prince of Delian, heir apparent to the throne. Known as Ash. Small for his age, prone to illness, barely survived birth and failed to thrive during infancy. Weak in body he has a powerful psychic ability. Surrounded by people, isolated by circumstances, he is shy, awkward and intelligent.
Batalov the Thrice Damned: Murdered Prime Minister of Delian. Referred to traditionally as the “thrice damned,” having been damned first through the loss of his wife; secondly, through the madness that came to him when he avoided healing mind-touch; and thirdly, by violating strict moral convention in unlawfully reading minds and keeping a comprehensive diary of the knowledge he acquired. He and his family were torn apart by a mob.
Brent Jenkins: PhD in quantum physics who discovered Omni-space and Omni-drive in 2050. Half Sioux Indian. Changed his name to Brent Chayton and settled on Delian as King in 2080. Husband of Janice Chayton, the renowned Seer.
Carrah: Sister of the Opan High Temple of Jana. Elvan features, slim, hair tinged with flecks of red. Light brown eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles. Her manner of achieving goals is at one with her personality, subtle and unassuming. Close to her brother, Dwanne.
Ching: Admiral Neopol’s personal physician. Calm and meticulous. Mannequin-like, his Asian features never seem to move — only his eyes seem alive. Specialist concerning anything physical to do with the human body. Can tell to the minute when a bone will break or a subject will reach unconsciousness.
Clinton D. Williams: Head of the Alliance on Kalar, gifted seer. Barrel-chested, balding, with slightly crooked teeth. Kind and cunning. Husband to Em, father of four.
Del and Ein: Self-serving Feral brothers on Opan. Orange red hair, dark beards, enormous jutting jaws and pale blue eyes.
Dorian and Anton: See Anton and Dorian, above.
Emily Williams: Wife to Clinton, known as Em. Lives on Kalar with her husband and four children. Thickset, square jawed, plain faced with prematurely gray hair. Crooked nose, palsy causing one eye to droop slightly. Courageous and kind.
Gene Pagett: Lieutenant Commander, second-in-command of Conqueror, and best friend of Captain Barlow. Tall, slim, always clean shaven, having eradicated his beard as a teenager. Brown hair. Pagett genetically altered his hazel eyes to deep green, the better to attract women.
Janson: Sub-lieutenant, adjutant and aide to Admiral Neopol. Neopol usually destroys his aides, driving them to suicide or homicide. Janson is a mystery because Neopol has been unable to break him. Medium sized, brown hair and eyes, white-faced, taciturn. Follows orders to the letter; never questions anything or offers an opinion.
Jarith Chayton: King of Delian and Ashton’s father. Light brown skin, dark eyes, prominent cheek bones and straight black hair, characteristics that reflect his Native American and Asian ancestry.
Jani: Honest trader and Feral woman living on the fringe. Wrinkled, bearded, stooped, grey haired, toothless. Friend to Ash. With virtually no education, she still has more common sense than most people.
Jeeha: Temple Second at Temple of Jana on Opan. Dark almond eyes and long dark brown hair. Best friend to Temple Prefect, Lady Lindha.
John Andros: High Lord Minister and most powerful person in the United Worlds Government. In charge of Enforcement, including Freeworld Police, Army, Navy and Cirani (Prison planet). Neopol is his subordinate. Considers himself the gardener of humanity, and the end always justifies the means. Blond haired, but changes his identity and appearance every hundred years or so. Has the secret to eternal life and is two-hundred and fifty-five years old. Practiced, boyish charm, hundreds of years of political experience.
Jon Barlow: Captain of Conqueror, a man of honor and intelligence. Has thick brown hair, honey brown eyes.
Larren Forseth: Captain of Police Freeworld Cruiser 171, Darla Wu. Strong sense of justice, honest cop, intent on helping others. Would never abuse his position. Six-four, lean, broad shouldered, brown eyes, with gray in his brown hair. Ill-set broken nose and unsightly pink burn scar from left ear to chin. Neglects physical modification even though “body beautiful” is the norm in the United Worlds.
Latnok: Delian Imperial Seer. The white-haired crone, thin, wrinkled and blind. Mother Latnok has cast a foretelling about Ashton, the Prince of Delian: “He will be alone. No father, no mother, no people, no home.” The only hope she gives is “The Wolf is coming.”
Lindha: Prefect of High Temple of Jana on Opan. Fit, trim and well-formed figure. Of average height, blonde with sky-blue eyes edged by a deeper blue rim. Intelligent, kind and a commanding presence. Wears Delian Damithest on her right nostril as all Temple Sisters do.
Long Fang: Red wolf of Opan. Pack leader. Adopted father to Ash.
Malcolm Drake: Pilot of police cruiser, Darla Wu and best friend of Larren Forseth. Older man with brown-grey hair and eyes.
Narda Chayton: One-hundred-and-fifty-year-old woman living on Opan. Retired Temple Sister, grandmother to Lady Lindha. Seer with secrets Ash needs to know.
Neopol Jones: Admiral of the battleship Conqueror. Fascinated with the study of humankind and obsessed with what will “break” an individual. Tall, heavyset, yet also quick and agile. God-like capabilities in observation and intellect. Always impeccably dressed, well-manicured, with thick, soft hands and heavy golden rings on his fingers. Between forty and sixty year old, black hair in a precise military cut. He was once a tall, muscular woman who has undergone a sex change.
Sartha Chayton: Queen of Delian, mother to Ashton. Genetically reprogrammed wavy gold hair and striking blue eyes.
Seeta: Red wolf of Opan. Mate to Long Fang. Adopted mother to Ash.
Smith: Admiral Neopol’s personal physician. Forty years old, thin, excitable and balding. Has an irritating twitch in his eye that, despite all his science, he is quite unable to cure. Specialist in the mental side of medical pursuits.
Teella: Female Opan wolf pup of Long Fang and Seeta. “Sister” to Ash.
Tynan: Prince Ashton Chayton’s devoted childhood pet, a hunting wolfhound. Thick black coat with downy gray fur beneath. Ash has a paranormal bond with the dog.
Glossary
Absum: Name of the planet that all genetic creations (impure humans) were banished to after gene splicing between species was outlawed.
Age of Expansion: The Age of Expansion, also called the Age of Exodus, is generally considered to have begun immediately after the discovery of Omni-space in 2060 and to have reached its peak in 2200 when 59 habitable worlds had been discovered and colonized. The exodus is considered to be a result of a number of factors, including: the availability of inexpensive, easily accessible food and energy; an increase in viable human lifespan to the age of 150; the use of artificial intelligence, robotics and neural Icom; and the fact that Earth population had reached 13 billion. The Earth Government gave colonists free travel, housing, financial and tax incentives to colonize these worlds. Vast wealth was created by those early settlers. Settlement and travel between other planets became effortless and common.
Age of Perdition: The Age of Perdition, also called the 100 year war, lasted from 2220 to 2320. The population of humankind was estimated to be 15 billion in 2260; by the war’s end, human population was less than 8 billion. During that time 9 habitable worlds were rendered virtually uninhabitable through atomics, including Earth.
Alliance: Individuals who disagree with the UWG and are attempting to bring the Galactic Government down or at least produce major change.
Chinter’s Chance: Name of the biography of William Chinter, a United Worlds bestseller. William Chinter, a fourteen-year-old boy, was kidnapped and sold into an Indentureship. A manuscript filled with unflagging conviction and optimism, it revealed that William Chinter had never given up hope of returning to his family. He had escaped twenty-two times, his punishments becoming more and more severe. The child detailed a recurring dream, a certainty that he would be with his parents again, that they would find him if he only got away. They did find his body hours after his last escape. “Chinters” is a common galactic expression meaning “You’re dreaming.” Also, “Chinter’s Chance” is a common expression meaning “there is no chance at all.”
Cirani: United Worlds Government prison planet. A compact world, with one-and-a-fifth times normal gravity. Normal ratio of oxygen to nitrogen, but thin air. Most exiled to Cirani initially experience serious, often fatal, altitude sickness. By law prisoners are sterilized before internment.
Dark Sankomin: The Dark Sankomin is solid, a heavy mass in the mind, a dark burden to the soul. Unresolved, it will cause madness and despair.
Delian: One of the first worlds colonized during the Age of Expansion. A closely guarded secret, the people of Delian have the unique ability to mind-touch. Mind-touch has always been a healing tool, one that can relieve the Dark Sankomin.
Delian League: Founded in 477 BC, the Delian League was an association of 173 Greek city states under the leadership of Athens, the purpose of which was to continue fighting the Persian Empire.
Delian Damithst: A rare crystalline mineral found only on Delian. A major off-world export; unique, rare, and priceless. Only Royal lines or the extraordinarily wealthy could enjoy the privilege of owning such a jewel, and few sold are ever larger than the nail on a newborn’s little finger.
Device: The UWG made an example of the civil war on Cadell, using “The Device.” The device targeted and atomized living tissue, leaving structures untouched. Footage of the instant disintegration of over 20,000 people over a 50 kilometer radius during the Cadell civil war is still a useful deterrent. The UWG had sent in mediators to no avail. They had warned and threatened. The UWG did not take sides. They killed people who were fighting — both sides, instantly — and the war was over. If the war had been resurrected, the UWG would have used the device again. War was not profitable; it did not contribute to the expansion or future of the human race.
Forsaken Worlds: Profane term referring to the Age of Perdition, when many worlds were abandoned or lost through atomics.
Ferals or Fringe dwellers: a name given to groups of people who camp on the outskirts of towns and cities from which they have become excluded, often through illegal activities or even personal choice. Generally Ferals do not have Icom, are suspicious of the government, are opposed to modern ways and technology, lack education and are superstitious. There are Ferals on every Freeworld.
Fullsuit: Body-enclosing garment that protects against the heat and cold of space. Also recycles oxygen.
Freeworld: Any of the united worlds colonized by the UWG
Freeworlds Police: The Freeworlds Police are empowered to enforce UWG law, protect property and reduce civil disorder in both domestic and intergalactic arenas. They are a multi-mission service; preventing piracy, ensuring regulated, authorized travel between worlds, protecting trade and at times operating in assistance with planetary governments for civil control. Their powers include the legitimized use of force.
High Command: The ruling body of the United Worlds Government. Each member of High Command is referred to as “High Lord” and has a single area of responsibility, one for each of 12 different arms:
1. Finance and taxes
2. Enforcement: Galactic police, army and navy. Includes Cirani prison management.
3. Scientific discovery and expansion
4. Constitution and Law
5. Icom facilitation
6. Space exploration and expansion
7. Communications
8. Civil liberties
9. Education
10. Medical Research and discovery
11. Government information issue and promotion
12. Colonization
Icom: Acronym for ‘Interface Communications Online Management.’ Thanks to the remarkable cortical plasticity of the brain, signals from the implanted Icom interface can be handled by the brain through natural sensor or effector channels. Full access is managed by brain waves, resulting in the ability to mentally read and create electronic text, watch 3D, listen to music, and communicate to others who have implanted Icom systems. The Icom network is hosted uniquely to each world. The distance between worlds is too great for direct access. Thus the UWG regularly provides information updates to each planetary Icom through info ships. Research on brain computer interface (BCI) began in the 1970s on Earth at the University of California. By 2070, the BCI had culminated with the creation of Icom.
Indentureship: essentially another word for slavery. Those who had no home or position and are unable to maintain themselves are forced into Indentureship for a period of years preferably with a Freeworld government or, in the worst case, a commercial enterprise. After Indentureship, they may have learned some trade and can be free citizens. Indentureships are policed, but one can never look into all of them, and certainly many indentured individuals, a large portion of them children, will never survive to obtain freedom.
Interpretations: Simple styled text, written to explain the original works of the Delian Testimonials of Truth.
Jana: Goddess representing all the best characteristics found in humanity: truth, goodness, kindness, intelligence, courage, tolerance, endurance, persistence, compassion, forgiving heart, humor and thoughtfulness. The Parables of Jana are given as a way to behave in the truth and light of Jana.
King’s Mirror: Also called the “King’s Guard” or “Chayton’s Right Arm.” Almost two centuries old, a flat oval stone, the Delian Damithst is a little larger than an adult eye. Placed into a silver self-fitting arm guard, with smaller crystals set around it, it gives the appearance of a continuous blue ring. Believed to be able to see into a person’s heart, reflecting only truth.
Light Sankomin: The Light Sankomin creates a God-like feeling of invulnerable certainty and awareness. If one can remain in the present, if the mind remains in attendance, in the now, the Sankomin, cannot seize or bind.
Mindtap: Truth drug. Banned by the UWG except in extraordinary cases of Treason.
Mind-touch: An ability that the Trueborn of Delian possess, giving them the power to contact a mind, to be inside another individual, to in fact be them. Traditionally, mind-touch is only attempted with one’s partner. There is good reason for one to be careful: accidental two-way contact can result in consummation.
Off-worlders: Common galactic name for anyone who is not native to a planet.
Omni corridor: There are specific corridors, or entryways, to Omni. It takes time to set up the calculations for locating them while moving in normal space. In some parts of the universe, Omni corridors are few and far between; in others, hundreds of corridors are bunched close together. Corridors, once located, are marked by the UWG. There is ongoing exploration to find corridors further and further away from known space.
Omni-drive: Invented in 2070 after the discovery of Omni-space by Brent Jenkins. Creates the necessary harmonic for entry into an Omni-space corridor.
Omni-space: Omni comes from Latin, meaning “in all ways and in all places.” Omni-space is how people are able to travel to other worlds in virtually no time at all. There are specific corridors or entryways to Omni. It takes time to set up the calculations for locating them while moving in normal space and entry can be effected via omni corridors. In some part of the universe omni corridors are few and far between; in others, hundreds of corridors are bunched close together. Nothing can be seen or sensed in Omni-space, no ship can be tracked.
Probe: Nerve oscillation probe. Outlawed device that, as long as it is used for an hour or less, leaves no lasting injury. It is used for torture.
Red Wolf of Opan: The Red Wolf of Opan is a social animal who mates for life. In winter they live in packs of 2 to 15. The strongest male is pack leader. Only one pup is born biannually, usually in summer. Opan wolves feed primarily on large mammals by chasing down their victims, either slashing tendons or driving them back to waiting pack members. The Opan wolf kills only to survive. The wolf’s only important predator is man.
Shuttle: Versatile space transportation craft capable of moving between planetary atmosphere and planetary orbit, as well as rapid and safe on-world movement.
Sisters of Jana: The Temple of Jana is an order that looks to Jana for guidance. The order uses the parables of Jana and the parables of Taro as a way to live their life.
Software Theory: can be summed up thus: Humans act according to their programming — responses and interactions are automatic and culturally conditioned. There are few self-aware, conscious people as most humans are not there at all. Infrequently in this universe does one actual person interact with another actual person.
Speeder: Also known as land speeder, capable of flight, and higher speeds when close to land. Powered by anti-gravity drive.
Taro the Deceiver: Fallen God representing all the worst of human characteristics, pride, abuse of power, abuse of control, manipulation, greed, selfishness, dishonesty, cruelty. The Parables of Taro are given as a way to live in the way of deceit and the shadow of Taro.
Testimonials of Truth: The document is over three hundred years old, written in an older style and rhythm. Its companion document is the Interpretations which are full of modern history and legends. The Testimonials is a small work that provides the knowledge needed to control and master the power of mind-touch. Every Delian, once of age, began to study the Testimonials, through encoded Icom use. It is only after study and training that one can become Trueborn.
Temples of Jana: Temples of Jana (the Goddess of Truth) are large, influential spiritual organizations with teaching traditions concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of life. Temple graduates are sought after throughout the Freeworlds. A broadminded education is pursued with all philosophies respected as academic differences in pursuit of the same truth. Fundamental beliefs include: 1. Humans are inherently good. 2. Within each human body is a spiritual being (soul) that cannot die. 3. The soul of each person inhabits the body they are within in order to make choices and learn from such choices. 4. Humankind is tempted by the Deceiver and encouraged by the Goddess. 5. The Parables of both Taro and Jana should be studied in order to assist an individual to make a choice concerning their own conduct. The Temple embraces individual beliefs with few devotional and ritual observances. They have a liberal moral code governing the conduct of human affairs. There are Temples of Jana on every Freeworld.
Trueborn: Delian term signifying the coming of age, which usually occurs around the 16th year. When one is Trueborn, they have the ability to learn how to mind-touch.
Twill: The native Twill is a large, dim-witted, prolific, flightless bird of Opan. Common Opan sayings include, “You silly twill,” or “She breeds like a twill.”
UWG: An acronym for United Freeworld Government. The Galactic body that oversees each United Freeworld. Does not have a single ruling individual, but is run by a legislative body of 12 members, referred to as High Lords.
UWG Council: This is a group consisting of five individuals from each section of H.C., for a total of 60 individuals. These council members meet concerning their sections, make suggestions, review petitions, etc. For example, if there is a disagreement from one world, say Delian, concerning taxes, a submission would be sent to the council members under the Finance area of HC.
UWG Fleet: Each UWG Fleet is assigned to particular sections of space. A fleet is normally commanded by an Admiral, who is often also a commander in chief. Each Fleet is divided into several squadrons, each under a subordinate admiral. The squadrons are typically composed of the same class of warship, such as battleships or cruisers. The mission of the Fleet is to maintain, train and equip combat ready forces capable of winning wars, stopping aggression and maintaining the freedom of the United Worlds.