Slave Empire III - The Shrike (26 page)

Tarke drained
half his drink. “We can’t stay here too long.”

“Why don’t you
have a weapon?” she asked. It had been bothering her since she had
noticed his lack earlier.

“You really
think I need one here?”

“You were
almost assassinated on Ironia.”

“That’s where
assassins expect to find me.” He leant closer. “If anyone tried to
draw a weapon in here now, they’d be dead before they got it out.
Same on Ironia, which is why they always try to poison me. No one
here will even come close to me, as you may have noticed.”

She nodded. “I
did.”

“It’s not
because they fear me. It’s the others they’re afraid of.”

“They love you.
You saved them.”

He inclined his
head. “What do you think of them now?”

“I find it sad
that the only person they can love is you. They’d be so much
happier if they could love each other, too.”

“They’d have to
be normals for that, or compatible two-third marks. Rarely, a solid
mark will fall for a two-third and try to regain his or her
normality. Most of the time, it doesn’t work.”

She gazed
around. “Do you provide counselling for them?”

“There are
counsellors, but they have few clients. Untouchables don’t talk
about their past, not even to each other. That’s why Grambol was so
shocked when I told him we’d been in a
tralack merdan tran
together. It’s one of the worst things that can happen to a slave,
and those who do suffer that fate never speak about it. Those who
survive, that is, which is few.”

“But you’ve
never actually been in one, have you?”

“No.”

“What does he
think we did for each other that made us trust each other?”

He turned his
head away, clearly reluctant to talk about it, then he sighed. “Can
you imagine what happens when people who are as angry as these, and
who hate people as much as they do, are thrown together in a pit
and expected to hurt each other in horrible ways?”

“I’d rather
not.”

“Exactly. Even
though they’re all slaves, when someone hurts you, you want to hurt
them back. It’s only natural. That tends to escalate in a torture
pit until one dies.”

“Why can’t they
refuse to hurt each other?”

He shook his
head. “The collar, remember?”

“Right. So what
does he think we did?”

“He thinks we
pretended to hurt each other. It only works if both parties agree,
and stick to their pact. The moment one breaks it, the cycle of
violence resumes. The slaves in a pit aren’t given weapons, so
there’s generally not much blood. It’s... gouging, beating and
biting, mostly.”

Her bile rose.
“Why would anyone enjoy watching that?”

“Why do some
people enjoy watching animals fight to the death, or gladiators?
It’s not about who wins, or the money they can bet on the fight.
It’s the fight itself; the pain and blood, and ultimately, the
death. Some people enjoy it.”

“Sick
bastards.”

“Yes.” He leant
forward again. “The ones who are even sicker are those who enjoy
doing it themselves. There are plenty of those, too.”

“Sadists.”

He nodded.
“Mostly the slaves put into a torture pit are worthless. They’re
burnouts, cripples and the diseased. You don’t really fit the
profile.” He drained his glass. “Come, let’s go.”

Silence fell as
they headed for the door, and once again she was glad to be out in
the fresh air. As they wandered along the street, pedestrians
paused to gaze at Tarke, some with smiles, others with anguished
expressions.

She glanced at
the inscrutable mask. “I’m surprised you’re not mobbed.”

“No chance of
that. My people know better.”

“Where are we
going now?”

He shrugged.
“You choose. It’s your honeymoon.”

“I chose last
time, and it’s your honeymoon, too.”

“Okay.”

The Net shell
dispersed on Shadowen’s bridge. She was a little surprised that he
had chosen her ship. He pulled off his gloves, unclipped his mask
and tossed it on the pilot’s chair, then removed the hood and
skullcap and leant on the console.

“A drink?” she
asked, moving past him to go to the galley.

“No. Wait.”

Rayne stopped,
surprised, and he took hold of her hand, drawing her closer. Her
breath caught as he studied her with a strange intensity, and she
wished the bridge was brighter, so she could see him clearly. He
seemed to be wrestling with a dilemma, and she waited as seconds
ticked past, hoping he was going to do what she had wanted him to
do for so long. He raised his other hand and brushed her fringe
aside, trailing his fingers down the side of her face to her
cheekbone. He seemed uncertain, or undecided. She swallowed hard,
her heart hammering, as he cupped her jaw, his fingers caressing
the soft spot behind her ear. He leant forward, releasing her hand
to clasp her face.

Rayne gulped
again as he drew her closer, and she closed her eyes. She shivered
when his lips brushed hers, and the rest of reality seemed to
recede. He hesitated, as if gauging his reaction and deciding
whether or not he actually wanted to go through with it. Her heart
skipped a beat as his mouth captured hers ever so gently, a
zephyr’s caress that made her stomach try to turn over and her
knees almost buckle.

Somehow, she
managed to keep her hands off him, even though the effort was
almost unbearable. His slow, lingering gentleness was intensely
seductive. His powerful allure took her breath away, and there was
no mental coercion with it this time. This was just his natural
charm, but ten times more potent when combined with the exquisite
tenderness of his touch. She was determined she was not going to
spoil it. She would remain frozen in place for a year if he would
just carry on.

This was only
possible, she knew, because the advance had come from him. She
sensed it then, leaking through his mental shields: a deep-seated
apprehension. He released one side of her face and took hold of her
hand. Her eyes stung as he placed it on his waist, then repeated
the procedure with her other hand, always keeping one hand clasping
her face. Slowly, he drew her to him, and an electrical frisson
shot through her when she made contact with his chest.

Tears
overflowed and ran down her cheeks, and she sobbed, overwhelmed by
the sweet poignancy of it. She had all but given up hope. When he
drew back she followed, not wanting it to end, as if he was a
magnet to which she clung. His smile broke the spell, and he raised
his head. She swallowed a huge lump and opened her eyes to stare at
him in wonder.

The bridge
lights grew brighter as he gave Shadowen a mental command, and he
studied her, his luminous eyes seeming to gaze into her soul. She
was sure she must look as stunned as she felt. He drew her close
again, flinching a little when she hugged him.

His breath
fanned her ear as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“It was a bit
overwhelming for you?”

“It should be
illegal.”

He gave a husky
laugh. “I won’t do it again, then.”

“I think once
was enough, yes,” she joked.

He held her
away and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “That was just a little
demonstration of what I feel for you, Rayne.”

“There’s
more?”

“Much
more.”

“I don’t know
how much more I can handle, actually.”

He smiled and
brushed a lock of hair from her brow. “Oh, I think you’ll handle it
just fine.”

“I’ll have to
get a pair of handcuffs.”

He laughed,
shaking his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“I wouldn’t be
so sure.”

He lowered his
eyes, and the lights dimmed. “I would.”

“Good god,
Tarke, what was that?”

“Love.” He
hesitated. “Just love. It has allowed me to touch you, and even for
you to touch me a little, because I yearn to be near you so much.
Love is the cure for hatred and the balm for pain. Just as you have
those dark pits in your mind where the Envoy hurt you, so I have
deep scars in mine from my years in slavery. After what they did to
me, I never wanted anyone to touch me ever again. You sensed that,
I think.” He raised his eyes and wiped a tear from her cheek.

She nodded. “I
did.”

“Being close to
someone… is something I learnt to dread.”

Fresh tears
spilt down her cheeks, and he wiped them away as she said, “How
awful it must be, to want to touch someone you love, but to be
unable to get close to them.”

“More than I
can ever tell you.”

“How long have
you been like this?”

“Since I was
nineteen.”

She loosened
her hold on his waist. “I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“No…” He pulled
her closer, pressing her arms around him. “Don’t… Don’t shy away
from me. You have no idea… how much I want this. All these years,
no one has touched me, and I thought that was all I needed, to be
left alone, untouched forever, but now I know… it’s a cold and
empty existence. I want you to hold me now, because it hurts more
to be apart from you. The slave laws have kept us apart, and the
more we’re apart, the more I long to be near you. You see?”

“I do.” She
smiled through her tears. “You could always tie me to the bed.”

He gave a bark
of laughter and pulled her closer, bending to whisper in her ear.
“Ah, Rayne, you never cease to delight me. We’re a long way from
that, I’m afraid.”

“I wouldn’t
mind, really,” she said, her words muffled against his chest.

“I would. Don’t
ever suggest it again.”

“Why? Oh, god,
I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

“No.” He shook
his head and stroked her hair. “You’re just not an ex-slave. You
don’t know why that’s so wrong to me.”

“I do now and…
I’m sorry for the shower… and the other times. I didn’t
understand.” She drew back to look at him, not having to look up
since he leant on the console and was therefore on her level.

“Do you really
think I want you to be afraid to touch me?”

“God, Tarke, if
it’s horrible for you…”

He looked away,
frowning. “It’s not. You still don’t understand. I don’t want to be
an untouchable anymore. I never did, but now I’ve chosen to try to
overcome it. For that, I have to get used to it. I’m in love with a
girl whose touch I crave and whose love I’m so afraid of
losing.”

“It’s
diabolical. Will you let me sense a little more of what you feel
next time?”

“No. I’ve dealt
with it for years. I can handle it.” He met her gaze. “You, on the
other hand, have a dangerous psychological condition, a legacy of
your battle with the Envoy. Shocks can send you into that dark
place in your mind, and I never, ever want to lose you again. Got
it?”

She nodded, and
her throat closed, her eyes overflowing once more.

He cupped her
chin and raised her face. “Don’t cry. Please.” He took her hand and
raised it to kiss the back of it. “I don’t want this to change
anything. Yes, there have been times when I couldn’t deal with it,
like the shower, but I can’t keep you at arms’ length forever. Just
be yourself, and when I can’t bear it, you’ll know.”

“Because I’ll
be flying through the air with your boot up my bum?”

He snorted.
“Rayne…”

“I’m
kidding!”

“Good. Will you
stop crying now?”

“Yeah.” She
smiled and twined her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

Tarke jerked
back so violently his head hit the console behind him. She released
him, stepping away, but he caught her wrists and held them, tilting
his head, his eyes shut and a muscle jumping in his jaw as he
wrestled with whatever reaction her action had provoked. She chewed
her lip for the several seconds it took him to win his inner
battle, then he relaxed and drew her into his arms again. She
hugged him, hating whoever had caused that reaction, and wondering
at its source. He would never speak about it, she knew, so it was
pointless to ask. Whatever it was, it must have been something
truly horrific.

After a minute,
she leant away and touched the sleek black collar, frowning at it.
“I’m going to beat this.”

He stared
across the bridge, shaking his head. “That won’t be easy.”

“What was
that?”

“A reflex. One
that saved my life many times.”

“As a fighter
or a sportsman?”

“Sportsman.”

“Playing Dodge
Blade.”

“Yes.” He met
her eyes.

“How was it
played?”

“Rayne…”

“Just tell me
how it was played. Please?”

“I told you,
the name is pretty self-explanatory.” He paused, frowning. “Several
players enter a circular arena with a number of spinning hover
blades – essentially anti-gravity units with two or more
half-metre-long blades on them. They’re programmed to fly at about
chest height, in random patterns around the arena. They only avoid
metallic objects, such as the walls and each other. The players
wear only shorts, or sometimes nothing. You just have to dodge the
blades. Last man standing wins… and survives. And, of course, the
sooner you become the last man standing, the sooner the ordeal is
over, so shoving your opponents into the blades is a good strategy
that all the best players use. The higher the level of the game,
the more hover blades there are.”

“What’s the
maximum?”

“Ten, in a
thirty-metre-diameter arena.”

She swallowed
bile. “How fast do they move?”

“Fast.”

Rayne slid her
hands up his chest to stroke the sides of his neck. “And pulling
your opponents into the blades is just as good as shoving them,
isn’t it?”

He sighed and
nodded. “It’s called a neck hook.”

“And injured
players?”

“Are left to
die. No freeman enters the arena until the game is over and the
blades deactivated.”