WOLF DAWN: Science Fiction Thriller/ Romance (Forsaken Worlds) (22 page)

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.

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

W
hile 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.

C
linton 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.

I
t 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.