Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2) (18 page)

“You cannot speak about hidden things,” the seeker said. “This is blasphemy.”

Grinder cried out, and he pointed at Cyrus. “The outlander mocks us at every turn. You saw what he just did. The warrior leaped up in a challenge. Yang should have accepted and slain him, breaking his back. The outlander steals Jana’s knife, and Yang agrees he can keep it. The outlander slays our warriors, and we do nothing about it.”

“No, no,” the seeker said, with her hands in the air.

“Do not interrupt me while I am in the Warrior Circle,” Grinder said in an ugly voice. “You have no say here, seeker.”

The seeker turned from Grinder and pointed at Cyrus. “You mustn’t reveal the deep truths.”

Grinder drew his knife and stabbed it into the dirt.

Silence fell, and no one moved. Finally, the seeker hung her head, and she took several steps back.

“Okay,” Cyrus said. “This is crazy. We have a war to the death going on with the Kresh and—”

“Demons!” Grinder shouted. “They are demons, and you are a filthy outlander!”

“I am in the Warrior Circle,” Cyrus said. “I demand my say.”

“Yes,” Yang said. “Speak.”

“He interrupted me,” Grinder said.

“Let the outlander—let Cyrus of Berserker Clan speak,” Yang said. “Afterward, you can challenge him to a wrestling match if you desire.”

Cyrus tried to steady his nerves. He’d been doing some deep thinking on these issues. The Berserker Clan would never accept him, not really. He was too odd, and there wasn’t any way he was going to let them burn out his psi-powers. Could he stand by while they burned out the seeker’s powers? What would happen to the many transfers’ worth of knowledge in the woman’s memories? Could the seeker teach him how to transfer someday? Would he someday give a primitive man the knowledge of Milan, Teleships, space war—?

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. He blinked several times, and he glanced at the seeker. The woman stood back, with her shoulders hunched, but she was listening. With a glance, Cyrus saw the warriors were watching and listening. Grinder breathed heavily, with his nostrils flaring.

The answer came to Cyrus. He knew what he had to do. The question was whether he could get any of these primitives to agree. It seemed doubtful—

Then you’d better persuade better than you ever have in your entire life
.

He switched his gaze to the fire. A drop of fat fell from the bosk carcass, sizzling with a delightful aroma. He needed to think this through.

No, you need to go for it. This is a verbal knife fight. You win those by acting fast
.

“I know how to defeat the demons,” Cyrus said.

Grinder snorted rudely. “Boastful words, outlander.”

“Maybe Grinder is right,” Cyrus said. “Or at least he would be right if we did this the old way. I know how to do this the new way that will give us certain victory. We can throw off the demons and take our rightful place as men.”

“If you could do this, you would have already done so,” Yang said. “I think Grinder is right. These are boastful words.”

“No. I couldn’t have done this on my own,” Cyrus said. “That’s just it. The seeker has the knowledge I need and you have the warriors.”

The seeker’s head whipped up, and she looked at Cyrus with curiosity.

“The demons are too powerful to defeat,” Yang said. “That has always been so and will always be so.”

“He’s killed one before,” Cyrus said, pointing at Skar.

“Yes,” Yang said. “Jana told us. He also wielded a magic weapon.”

“No,” Cyrus said. “It’s not magic, it’s a gun. It’s as simple in its own way as your spears.”

“You spout nonsense,” Yang said, as he banged a fist against his right knee.

“I don’t,” Cyrus said. “You, Jana, Grinder, everyone here but for the seeker—is too ignorant to understand high technology. But that doesn’t make anything magic.”

Some of the warriors grumbled angrily.

“Do we have to sit and listen to these insults?” Grinder demanded of Yang.

“I’m not insulting you,” Cyrus said.

“I just heard you with my two ears,” Grinder said. “You called me ignorant.”

“Is a child wise like a warrior?” Cyrus asked.

Grinder scowled, clearly refusing to answer.

Cyrus turned to Yang. “Does a child know the same things as a warrior?”

“You are calling us children?” Yang asked.

“Do you know about guns?” Cyrus asked.

“Magic—”

“No,” Cyrus said. “We came down from space. We know how to use basic weapons. You don’t. In that way, you are like children. The demons—the Kresh aliens—stole the knowledge from you long ago. Your parents’ parents’ parents knew about guns and spaceships. The demons must have scrubbed that knowledge out of you, or it died out.”

“You said the seeker understands high technology,” Jana said. “How can that be?”

“Jana is listening to me,” Cyrus said. “She’s used to using her wits.”

“We are Berserkers,” Yang said in a low rumble. “We may have lost ancient knowledge, high knowledge. But that doesn’t make us children.”

“You’re right about that,” Cyrus said. “I didn’t call you children. I said in terms of knowledge you’re
like
children. If you think about it, there’s a difference, a big one.”

“How does any of that help us against the demons—against the Kresh?” Yang asked.

“Very simply,” Cyrus said. “Your seeker remembers the old knowledge.”

“No!” the seeker said. “You mustn’t speak about that.”

Cyrus looked up at the woman. “You and your fellow seekers have held onto the old knowledge for a long time. There was a reason for that. It was to keep it intact or alive until the Anointed One was born and made his move. Klane has made his move. We must, or I must, free the Anointed One. I can’t do that on my own. Skar and I together probably can’t do that. I need your help.”

“You want us to go into the Valley of the Demons?” Grinder asked in a mocking tone.

“I want you to grow up and remember how to use high technology,” Cyrus said. “You can fight. If you knew about the old ways, why, you’d be as good or maybe even better than space marines. I need them about now, and with the seeker’s help at transfer, I can get it.”

“You speak blasphemy,” the seeker whispered.

“With my help, with my psi-power aiding the seeker,” Cyrus said, “I think we can focus the old knowledge. I think there’s a way to do it without the transferring one dying. Imagine it for a moment. If all the Berserkers remember about spacecraft, guns—”

“You don’t have enough guns,” the seeker said. “Yang has the pistol and a nearly empty heat gun.”

“Yeah, I’ve thought about that,” Cyrus said. “We have spears, slings, and stone knives. If I had a bunch of marines helping me, though, we could sneak down into the valley and help ourselves to some of the Kresh weapons. Even better, we’d get hold of Kresh rockets or sky vehicles, and find ourselves a way to capture a spaceship. Best of all, with armed marines, I’d be able to free the Anointed One and give him a platform to defeat the Kresh.”

The seeker stood blinking at Cyrus. “What you suggest has never been done before,” she finally said.

“Yeah, I bet,” Cyrus said. “This is a new age, though, right? This is the era of the Anointed One.”

“Who or what is the Anointed One?” Yang said. “As the Berserker hetman, I have a right to know.”

“It is magical knowledge,” the seeker said.

Cyrus grinned fiercely. “The seeker and I are offering you the magical knowledge needed to defeat the demons. Humanity’s greatest wizard went down to the Valley of the Demons. If we can free him, we can destroy the Kresh forever. But it’s going to take more courage than most clan warriors possess. I want only the bravest and best warriors. Jana, will you go with me, if I promise to give you this magical knowledge?”

She became pale, but at last, in a quiet voice, she said, “Yes. I will go. I hate the demons. I want to kill them, all of them.”

Cyrus scanned the throng. “What about the rest of you? Is Jana the bravest here? Isn’t there another warrior who wants to boast and perform great feats?”

“Madness isn’t courage,” Grinder said.

“Then sit home in your tent,” Cyrus said. “Let the mad warriors destroy the demons. Cower from them the rest of your lives. I’ve seen them killed before. He did it.” Cyrus pointed at Skar. “He can do it again. If you gain the magic knowledge, you can do it, too.”

“You give us much to ponder,” Yang said slowly.

Cyrus laughed. “Why do you think there are two here with seeker powers? Have there ever been two seekers before?”

“Never,” Yang said.

“That’s because there’s never been an Anointed One before. Today is the day, and there are two here to wield the great spell. If you dare, you can slay demons. If you’re afraid, then live like mice the rest of your days.”

“I will go,” Skar said.

“And I,” a young warrior said. “I hate the demons. I want to destroy them.”

Silence fell over the circle. Warriors stared at each other. Cyrus wondered what else he could say to persuade them. He couldn’t think of anything more.

Then Yang rumbled, “I believe the demonslayer. I believe the man who floated down from the heavens. The demons have hunted us for too long. If there is a chance we can slay them, then we must take it.”

Another pause fell over the group. Then, one by one, all the warriors raised their spear arms, agreeing with Yang and with the man who had floated down from space.

21

Mentalist Niens sat on an iron bench in his isolation cell. He was naked, with skinny shanks, and wrapped in despair. Despite that, he retained a modicum of cunning and curiosity.

For an unknown span, he had endured in the chilly cell. As a mentalist, he was aware that subjects isolated without time references turned minutes into hours, and hours into days. He did not know how long he had spent here. He consoled himself with the hope that it had in fact only been a few days, not the weeks that it seemed to be.

I love the Kresh. I hope to work my way out of disfavor. I completely deserve this punishment
.

He wouldn’t allow himself any other thoughts. Upon lying down and immediately upon waking, he continued the endless litany. Niens had forced himself into a draconian regimen, without letup, silently reciting his loyalty mantra again, and again, and again.

Anytime he felt his mind slipping or an anti-Kresh thought stirring, he allowed himself the hideous mental picture of a Vomag throttling him with a cord. Twice, Niens had lain on the cold floor, imagining a Vomag had thrown him down and pressed a steel-armored knee into his back, the better to leverage the throttling cord.

That end could become reality all too easily. With his vivid imagination, Niens could feel the cord digging into his throat. Breathing became difficult and ugly. The last time, he had even fingered his throat.

I love the Kresh. I deserve this punishment. I should have worked harder for the masters’ betterment
.

Likely, he embraced futility—

I love the Kresh. I love the Kresh with all my being. If I have failed the masters in any way, let them boil me in machine oil and eviscerate every organ
.

Niens paced back and forth. Tears dribbled from his eyes. He would love the Kresh supremely if he could only see a master one more time. He was aware that he practiced a form a self-hypnosis, but that did nothing to stop him. His dread of death gave him relentless zeal.

After a seeming eternity, the moment arrived when the cell door swished up. By that time, Niens had become like a drugged zombie, sluggish and indifferent.

Two Vomags in uniform regarded him from under the short bills of their military caps. Niens towered over them, although they had the greater mass and physically were many times more dangerous.

Niens’s mouth opened, and he attempted to speak, managing a croak instead. He expected them to lunge and encircle his wrists with their unbreakable grips.

Instead, the senior soldier beckoned him to follow them outside the cell.

“Where . . . ?” Niens managed to whisper.

“You must maintain correct decorum,” the senior soldier said in a low voice, the sound seeming to go right through Niens’s torso.

At the moment, the idea of decorum didn’t mean anything to Niens.

I love the Kresh. They are masters of life. They guide our brutish natures into pure serenity and bliss
.

“Come,” said the senior soldier.

The junior Vomag reached into the cell. He grasped Niens’s upper left arm and tugged him into the corridor, propelling him into motion down the hall.

Walking seemed to numb Niens’s senses. He glanced back. The two soldiers marched behind. “Where . . . ?” he tried to ask again.

The senior soldier shook his head and put a blunt index finger before his lips, indicating silence.

Finally, Niens understood. He must remain quiet, as he was likely under sanction. His step faltered and fear boiled in his stomach.

I love the Kresh. I love the Kresh. I love, love, love them
.

Niens’s breathing became raspy and his eyesight wavered. Soon enough he reached scrubbers and entered a stall. With a hiss, warm water gushed over his head and cascaded down his torso.

The soldiers picked up stiff brushes and went to work as if they washed a vehicle or a large animal. Niens had to raise his hands and brace himself against the tiled walls so the two didn’t knock him down with the bristles scratching across his skin. The soldiers squirted disinfectant on him and later scrubbed him with soap, once more applying the brushes. A glance down showed him that his skin shone red from overstimulation.

They dried him, propelled him into another room, and pointed out mentalist garments on a chair.

“Why are they here?” Niens asked in bewilderment. Wasn’t he under sanction?

“Put them on,” the senior soldier said.

“But . . . I’m under arrest.”

“Do you question orders?” the senior soldier asked.

In a daze, Niens put on underwear, pants, shirt, socks, shoes, and the white mentalist jacket that reached down to his knees. It transformed his self-image, causing him to lift his chin. Confidence and hope flooded him, and he quit humming the mental litany.

I did it!

His sense of well-being grew at a phenomenal rate. He breathed deeper, and readied himself to face the two soldiers and quiz them anew.

What if this is a trap?

A frightening moment of clarity struck. Perhaps the litany of love had shielded him from Bo Taw mind spies. He had donned a few clothes. Did that change anything fundamental about his dangerous position?

I love the Kresh. I love the Kresh
.

The litany wasn’t as strong or thorough as before. The clothes gave him hope. The hope made him feel better. He had lost the feeling of despair, and that seemed to lessen the intensity of the litany.

Don’t be a fool, Niens. You’re in for the fight of your life.

I love the Kresh. I hope I can repay for my mistakes. I want to work my way out of trouble
.

Niens nodded once, to himself. Then he faced the soldiers. He did not do so as he once would have, with mentalist haughtiness. Instead, he gave them a measured glance, knowing these two could be the ones to throttle him to death, with their knees on his back.

“Follow me,” the senior soldier said.

As Niens did, the second Vomag fell in step behind him. Emptiness made Niens’s stomach cold. They guarded him, clearly. What could it mean? He didn’t know. At least this was better than sitting naked in his cell.

No! Life is better. If they’re taking me to my death
. . .

The faintest of sneers touched the left corner of his mouth. If the Vomags took him to his death, then he most assuredly deserved death.

I am at the master’s service. Whatever she decides for me is good and just. I know that, and I approve of it 100 percent
.

The three of them exited the detention center and walked outside in the city. It was brisk today, with a breeze. A hover floated toward the great canyon wall. The vehicle began to lift, and would likely slide onto the plateau uplands where the primitives dwelled.

Before Niens could think about the old seeker and Klane, the senior soldier turned sharply. He headed toward a plaza. To Niens’s astonishment, he saw an atmospheric vessel waiting there with an open port.

Curiosity turned to fear. What did it mean? This was a Kresh vessel, an antigrav vehicle to transport personnel to an orbital Attack Talon or other spaceship. Niens wanted to ask the soldiers but knew better. Likely, higher-ranked personnel and maybe even masters watched him.

He entered the vessel, listening to the Vomags’ boots ring against the metallic flooring. Humans scurried about carrying equipment and baggage, stowing it or hurrying with it elsewhere.

The senior soldier headed unerringly for the Kresh-only compartments. That amazed Niens. It made no sense.

The three of them soon strode down a wide, empty hall. The Vomags stopped and whirled around. Niens stopped, and a door appeared to his left. He turned, feeling the dry, hot air and smelling the musky Kresh odor before facing Zama Dee the 73rd.

To most humans, Kresh looked alike, but Niens was a mentalist, trained to notice details, thus he recognized her easily.

Zama Dee wore metallic streamers, and she possessed more authority than any Kresh he’d ever met. Behind her stood computer consoles, screens, and ancient folios behind glass barriers.

“Enter, Mentalist Niens,” Zama Dee hissed.

His knees almost unhinged, and he would have collapsed in shame. Woodenly, Niens entered the chamber, and the door solidified behind him. It felt as if he had been transported elsewhere, with a towering monster—

Kresh! I love the Kresh. They are humanity’s life and reason for existence
.

“You intrigue me, Niens,” Zama Dee said. “It is the reason you are here instead of expiring in a painful manner before the gathered mentalists.”

Niens’s throat went dry. Yet he managed to croak, “You honor me, Revered One.”

“No. That is imprecise, Niens. I use you because I wonder if you can succeed where another would flounder.”

“Your wisdom precedes—”

“Silence, mentalist. Your bombast and animal scraping and mewling does not impress me in the slightest. I understand your native cunning. You are sly and nefarious, without a shred of honor or proper piety toward me or any of the Kresh.”

“Master,” Niens protested. “I assure you—”

Zama Dee turned her carnivorous head and spoke a harsh, Kresh syllable.

A high-pitched sound directed at Niens dropped him with uncanny speed. He writhed on the sandy floor, stiffening, with his mouth open and his eyes bulging. The horrible, pulsating pitch—

The Kresh uttered another harsh syllable.

The torment stopped, leaving Niens panting on the floor with his ears ringing.

“Stand, Niens. Dust off your garments and remain silent until I give such an order otherwise.”

Sluggishly, Niens climbed to his feet. He brushed his coat and he found himself trembling. With an effort, he forced himself into loving thoughts.

If she meant to kill me, she would have said so. Something else occurs, and I believe it is in my favor. I must relax—relax in the presence of such noble greatness
.

“I will rephrase,” Zama Dee told him. “You have useful qualities, particularly during this odd sequence of events. I do not waste materials or animals. It is true that you lack the proper deference toward us. Perhaps you can imagine my astonishment to realize I had a nascent Humanity Ultimate among my mentalists. It is clear you do not yet understand that you possess such features within your thinking. You quiver with negatives, to assure me I am wrong in my assessment. In other words, you are insulting me in your thoughts even after I have spoken the truth to you.”

Was that the truth? Ah . . . he knew what must have happened. The Bo Taw must have sensed or read his deepest belief. With his curiosity, he thought of himself as Kresh-like. To the Revered Ones that would be a gross insult. In fact, they thought of it as Humanity Ultimate. The Kresh were mistaken, though. Somehow, he must convince Zama Dee of that.

Niens hung his head and tried to ooze contriteness.

“Some Humanity Ultimates are filled with noble sentiments concerning their race,” Zama Dee said. “I am one of the few Kresh to realize this. You lack these noble thought qualities, however. Yours is a self-absorbed personality, filled with impulses toward sexual gratification, ease, and fullness of food. Despite these black marks, you have a clever mind, nimble in many ways and full of curiosity. This is what I seek.”

I love the Kresh. You are totally correct, Revered One, even though I would rather have you believe I am good and upright, fully brave
.

“I now realize that Chengal Ras must have sensed or discovered these qualities in you,” Zama Dee said. “It was no doubt why he chose to work in your company. The 109th met a strange end, and you were there.”

“I tried to defend him, Revered One,” Niens whispered.

Zama Dee froze.

Niens fell on his face before the Kresh. He had spoken after she had warned him about that.

“I can use you, mentalist, but not if you disregard my commands. I give you this one lapse, but no others. Disobey me again and I will destroy you. Now stand at attention where I can see you.”

Niens scrambled to his feet, wondering at this stay of execution. Normally, when a Kresh said he or she would do this or that given a circumstance, they did it without a thought.

How badly does the 73rd need me? This is interesting. No! This is unprecedented. I must have more value than I realize
.

Niens forced his thoughts blank, and he held himself in readiness.

Zama Dee’s heavy tail lashed. That almost made Niens quail. He knew some of the signs. The tail lashing usually meant a Kresh readied herself to kill in the primitive way.

“I have a task for you, mentalist,” Zama Dee hissed.

Niens waited. What had happened while he’d been in the cell? The Kresh hunted for something and she needed him.

Incredibly, Zama Dee moved leftward, stalking in the Kresh manner, with her tail lashing. She went to the edge of the bulkhead, turned around, and stalked the other way, passing before Niens.

She’s agitated. I’ve never seen a Kresh like this. What can it mean?

The nine-foot Kresh halted before him. One tilt of her bulk would bring her massive teeth into play. She could bite off his head with ease.

“Chengal Ras discovered a hidden truth,” Zama Dee said. “He is dead, and I realize that is unfortunate. I could use his insights. Yes. I will journey to High Station 3 and retrace his mental journey. I will discover what brought him here in such haste for the cattle. No doubt you wonder why I would tell someone like you any of this. I have my reasons. I understand your love of comfort and love of ease. Mentalist Niens, I will install you in your own pleasure palace with as many sex objects as you desire. I will reward you for the rest of your natural life. For this, you must do one thing for me.”

Niens waited. Could he have heard correctly?

“I must have the subject’s consciousness. The body is under a reality field. You will study the subject and devise a method to entice the consciousness to return. If the consciousness returns, you must put him under the reality field. That is assuming you release the field to permit the consciousness to slip back.”