Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2) Page 14

  In that moment, Klane realized there were more than one man’s memories. Seekers before the seeker had done the same thing. They had transferred old knowledge to the seeker below him. Sights and unbelievable sounds thundered upon Klane’s conscious mind and seeped into his unconscious. Concepts, theories, and knowledge, more knowledge and accumulated wisdom rushed into his mind. He saw stars, oceans, books, buildings, Chirr, Kresh—

  What about the singing gods? What are the singing gods?

  The memories flooded as from a holo-vid drama at high speed, like a downloading computer.

  “What?” Klane whispered in the darkness. “What are these things? I don’t understand.”

  The seeker groaned, and for the first time his grip weakened.

  Klane tried to part his lips. He wanted to speak. He wanted this to stop. It was too much. So many thoughts conflicted with each other. Demons, Kresh, magic, psi-power, and on and on it went.

  The torrent slowed finally, and the seeker’s grip weakened even more. Suddenly, abruptly, it ended as the seeker’s hands dropped away. The old man sat still for a second. Then his heart gave way. It stopped beating. He stopped breathing, and he thumped onto the cold tiles.

  Klane wanted to bend over him and hear a last word. He wanted to calm his friend. He wanted to weep. He could not. He was frozen, with his mind overloaded.

  Time rolled on without meaning. The distant sounds didn’t matter anymore. Klane was in his own world, trying to sort things out.

  “How . . .”

  He found himself on his hands and knees, dry heaving.

  “Why . . .”

  In the darkness, he bumped into a wall. Only then did he realize that he’d climbed to his feet.

  “Where . . .”

  A man shouted at Klane, and he found himself on the street. He had come out of the basement, out of the building, and wandered like a fool.

  Klane kept walking. The man shouted again and gave chase. Stopping, Klane turned. It was hard to think. He had so many memories, so many different ways of doing things tumbling in his mind.

  At the last moment, Klane saw it was a Vomag hailing him. The soldier had a stun gun out, and he approached cautiously.

  “What’s your name?” the soldier asked.

  Klane tried to form a reply. He heard the hovers before he saw them in the air floating. In one of them sat a Kresh.

  A grim smile stretched Klane’s lips. “What are you?” he asked.

  “I’m asking the questions,” the soldier said.

  “You’re a slave to an alien,” Klane told the Vomag.

  “I’m a soldier, and I’m doing my task.”

  “You’re helping to enslave your race, your people.”

  The soldier pulled a communicator from his belt. “I’ve found him,” the man said.

  Klane raised his hand. He would cause a valve in the soldier’s heart to stop, and that would give the Vomag a heart attack. As he tried just that, he felt blocking psi-minds.

  Klane snarled, and he charged the Vomag. It didn’t do any good. The soldier pressed a stud, and a beam hit Klane. His knees crumpled under him, and he slammed against the ground.

  With his mind, he sought to see what the ray had done to his body. Quickly, using bodily chemicals, he counteracted the stun. He let himself go limp, however, and stayed prone on the ground.

  Ten different voices sought to give him advice. It was too many memories of doing things many different ways. He needed time to sort the memories into categories. To have all these new thoughts—

  A hover—a sky vehicle—grounded nearby. A dome opened and Kresh talons clawed against the walkway. Beside the alien ran a man in a white smock.

  “Turn him over,” the Kresh said.

  Klane decided to wait, to play out the drama.

  The Vomag rolled him over, letting Klane witness the new Kresh. He believed this one was called Zama Dee. The human was Mentalist Niens. Klane didn’t know how he knew these things.

  “He’s faking stun paralysis,” Niens said.

  Klane sat up before one of his memories could warn him in time not to do that.

  The Kresh glanced sharply at Niens. “This is the one who slew Chengal Ras?”

  “Yes, Revered One,” Niens said. “It was astonishing—I mean horrible, horrible, vile sacrilege.”

  The Kresh’s lips peeled back. “Are you the Anointed One?” Zama Dee hissed at Klane.

  Klane recognized the name “Anointed One.” “Who is to say?” he responded.

  “You lack the proper deference,” the Kresh told him.

  Klane could feel the many psi-minds shielding the Kresh from him. He was still tired and weak from the original ordeal. His head hurt and so did his heart. The seeker was dead. The transfer had been made. Now he was trapped in the demon city.

  Am I the Anointed One of legend?

  Klane lowered his head, and he would have thrown a mind bolt. But the Vomag shot him a second time, with a higher stun setting.

  Before he could counteract it, Klane slid unconscious onto the cold ground. He had tried, but they’d caught him nonetheless.

  16

  Yang of Berserker Clan set a stiff pace every day. They ran single file, one warrior following the next, their callused feet slapping dirt, sand, or rock. Through gorges, uphill, and across the plains they moved.

  Cyrus felt their stares, and every time he looked around, he caught one of the warriors watching him. They obviously weren’t going to take any risks with him. They were also Kresh-cautious, these Berserkers, and they had marvelous hearing.

  Cyrus ran near Jana as she ran behind Yang, who led the way. He caught a sudden shift of her head, as if she heard something odd. As Jana passed a lichen-covered boulder, she halted and raised her spear. The warriors who ran behind her halted. Yang hadn’t seen that and he took two more running steps. Then he stopped and whirled around.

  “Do you hear demons?” Yang growled at her.

  With her spear still raised, Jana cocked her head further. Then she aimed her spear in the direction of the valley. The effect upon the others surprised Cyrus.

  “Hide,” Yang said. He didn’t shout, but it was loud and it was an order. The big hetman glanced right and left, adding, “Blend into the ground.”

  To Cyrus, the command seemed senseless. They raced across a red wasteland. It was as much rock as sand, and left few footprints that he could see. How was anyone going to hide out here? If sky vehicles showed up, the Kresh had them.

  “Jana,” Yang said. “Put a knife to the wizard’s throat. If he betrays us, kill him.”

  She grabbed Cyrus’s right arm, pushing him away from the lichen-covered boulder. “You must hurry,” she said.

  The other warriors scattered like mice in every direction. Yang took Skar, with the soldier’s arms tightly secured by thick cords.

  “Here,” Jana said. “Kneel, and curl yourself into a ball.”

  Cyrus knelt on the hard ground in a shallow depression, but he didn’t see how that could help them. She crouched on her hands and knees beside him, leaning her shapely body against his. With a deft move she cast her reddish cloak over them. From underneath it, she adjusted the cloak, tugging down a corner here and straightening a different edge there. Afterward, with a twist of her neck, she faced him, and there was a knife in her hands. It was his knife: the one he’d hurled at Yang.

  “If the demons land, I am supposed to kill you,” she whispered. Her breath was warm against his skin.

  “Why would I want the demons to land?” he whispered back.

  She eyed him with something akin to admiration. “You are not supposed to talk. Yang said if I let you talk, you would cast a spell on me.”

  “I won’t do that.”

  “No more talking,” she whispered. “Yang might hear, and that would not be good for
either of us.”

  They stayed like that for some time, and finally, Cyrus heard a sharp and steady whine from overhead.

  “Is that what you heard earlier?” he whispered, impressed with her hearing.

  “I have the best ears of Berserker Clan,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said, glancing at one. “Indeed you do.”

  She smiled. It was a quick twitch of the lips. She must have caught the double meaning. More than once, he had observed her graceful neck and the way her hair curled around her ears. With her so close . . . he wanted to kiss her neck and nibble on those ears.

  “Stop that,” she whispered. “Remember, one stroke of the knife and your blood will gush onto the sand.”

  “You would cut a man simply for admiring your beauty?”

  “Stop,” she whispered, with a hint of desperation in her voice.

  The sky vehicle’s whine increased. Cyrus felt her tense. What did the Kresh flying the sky vehicle see? Maybe it didn’t notice a thing. The alien must have tracking equipment. Then again, no one moved, and maybe the cloaks helped the primitives blend into the surroundings. The Berserkers thought of the Kresh as demons. Over the years the primitives would have worked out a system that kept them hidden while traveling.

  Slowly, the sky vehicle’s whine began to fade. As it did, Jana relaxed. Long after the last sound stopped, she rose abruptly, yanking the cloak off them, letting their warmth escape.

  “You may stand,” she said. She turned, put her fingers in her mouth, and whistled. Cyrus was astonished. All over the plain, mounds and flat spots shifted. Berserker Clan warriors rose to their feet. Some dusted their cloaks. Others simply pinned them over their shoulders.

  Cyrus had read about Apaches at the institute at Crete. He’d even seen a holo-vid drama about them. Then, their abilities had seemed preposterous. Now he realized the announcer hadn’t done the ancient warriors justice.

  Without a word, Yang took the lead again, and the trek continued.

  As Cyrus put one foot in front of the other, he glanced back at the soldier. He was worried about Skar. They had spoken only once since the capture. That’s all Yang had allowed. During that time, Cyrus had noticed lumps on Skar’s head and an ugly bruise over his left eye. Skar had gotten those from the beating, from the clubs.

  “Are you well?” Cyrus had whispered.

  Skar had appeared not to hear the question.

  Cyrus had snapped his fingers. Skar’s hand had shot out and pressed down the finger-snapping hand. Cyrus opened his mouth to say something. A look in Skar’s eyes stopped him. The soldier had a plan, obviously. Very well, that had been good enough for Cyrus.

  Skar’s eyes still had a glazed look. The Vomag’s skin was splotchy. He breathed too hard some of the time. He must have a concussion, or maybe one of the clubs had hurt an organ. Skar was tough, but those clubs had smacked hard and repeatedly. Cyrus was sure that he himself would have been crippled by the beating.

  Well, Cyrus’s limbs worked fine, and so did his head. He’d been observing the primitives now for several days. It was time to think things through. Yang had Skar’s hatchet and pistol. A different warrior carried the heat gun, while Jana had his knife. He’d overheard Jana telling Yang about the pistol. The hetman had hefted the pistol once and thoughtfully eyed Cyrus. He’d debated going to Yang and apologizing for killing the three Berserkers that first day. Then he’d decided he couldn’t gain anything by that. They were going to do what they were going to do.

  No. He had to think this through. First, Yang wasn’t stupid and neither was Jana. They lived out here in the wild, in this thin-air wasteland. They had mastered the harsh surroundings. They didn’t eat bloody spider-coyote meat, that’s for sure. They fed Cyrus jerky most of the time, plus nuts and some tough fibrous roots. He’d watched them dig with a flat stone until water seeped out of the ground. They had a cloth for purifying the water and they had filled every leathery canteen.

  Two things profoundly impressed Cyrus about the Berserkers. First, they hated the Kresh. They fought or avoided the aliens. The other humans in the Fenris System either worshiped the Kresh or did the aliens’ bidding. Yeah, High Station 3 had Resisters. Here, everyone hated the Kresh and would gladly kill them. Despite their rough ways, the Berserkers were free. In fact, they were the freest people he’d met anywhere. The closest to them in freedom would have been the Latin Kings. Yet in truth, the drug gangs back on Earth had lived like parasites. The primitives on Jassac ran their own lives, and didn’t prey on their own kind. That was worth something, even if they possessed freedom at the whim of the aliens.

  What did that mean? Cyrus laughed silently as he jogged behind Jana. The barbarian princess had fantastic legs and the shapeliest butt he’d ever seen in person. He’d viewed his share of porn back in Milan, and the ladies had been hot, hot, hot. But Jana was real, not a fantasy on a screen.

  Cyrus didn’t intend to live the rest of his life out here. Before he made a break, though, he needed to understand the situation. It was why he’d been taking his time, observing and thinking.

  What he realized now was that the Berserkers, maybe all the primitives out here, had an extremely precious thing. They had freedom.

  Yes, they were free due to Kresh whim. It was critical to remember that. But they thought as free people. That was the most important thing about the Berserkers. The majority of the humans in the Fenris System—at least the ones he’d seen—thought like slaves. Cyrus wondered if he might be able to do more with free primitives than with sophisticated slaves.

  “Why do you grin?” Jana asked.

  “Huh?” Cyrus asked, looking up.

  “You were staring at the mountains,” she said. “Your eyes have been glazed as one who is thinking deeply. Then you smiled. It was a cruel smile. Are you thinking of revenge?”

  “As a matter of fact, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “You are a fool, outlander,” she said. “Yang tolerates you. If he believes you are bent on nothing else than revenge—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Cyrus said. “Back up.”

  Jana asked, “You want me to run beside you?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said back up.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, back up with your thinking.”

  “You do not make any sense,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder if you are too wise.”

  What did that mean? Too wise for what? “I make perfect sense,” he said. “You asked me if I wanted revenge. I said yes. You assumed I wanted revenge against the Berserkers. But that isn’t so. I want revenge against the Kresh.”

  “Are you boasting?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’m hoping. That’s a completely different thing.”

  She searched his eyes.

  “What are you gazing at, Jana?” Yang shouted from ahead. “Sometimes I think you look at the outlander too much.”

  Jana turned away from Cyrus.

  “Is the outlander plotting an escape?” Yang asked, striding near. Cyrus wasn’t sure, but Yang sounded as if he kidded with her. “Is that why you look at him like that?”

  “He wants to kill demons,” she said, sharply.

  Yang glanced at Cyrus. “Bah! He is a dreamer. Kill demons, indeed. Why not ride the wind or fly to the moon? I have seen his kind before. Do not pay any attention to his words. He is cousin to the fool.”

  Jana nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.

  The line of warriors ran in silence afterward, their feet rhythmically striking the ground. Later, they rested near an outcropping of stone. The youngest warrior disappeared into the rock formation, and he returned carrying canteens.

  Cyrus had seen this before. The Berserkers seemed to know where every trickle of extra water lay. This pool was in a hidden tank of stone. He breathed deeply, sitting alone, resting his back against
a rock, gnawing on a piece of jerky. Someone blocked the sunlight then. He looked up, and saw Yang glowering down at him.

  With a grunt, Yang rested on one knee. He was even more intimidating up close. He had coarse facial skin and yellowed teeth. In the daylight, his shrewdness was more obvious.

  “I have been watching you, outlander,” Yang said in a rough but quiet voice. Maybe he thought this was whispering. “I know you are watching us, studying everyone, but most of all studying Jana.”

  Cyrus continued to gnaw the jerky, but he became tense. Years in the Latin Kings had made him sensitive to these kinds of conversations. The hetman was going to warn him about something. Since he’d spoken about Jana, Cyrus wondered if that was the sore point. Maybe Yang wanted the girl for himself. Maybe Yang was going to warn him Jana had a boyfriend who would carve the flesh out of him for even eyeing the shapely barbarian princess.

  “I want to live,” Cyrus said.

  Yang shook his head. “No. You are not a slave.”

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow, wondering where Yang had gotten the idea to say such a thing. Maybe the clans kept slaves of captured enemies.

  “Those are slave words,” Yang said, as if reading his thoughts. “A warrior does not speak like that. You are a warrior. You risked everything on the single cast of a knife throw. That took courage.” Yang showed his yellowed teeth in a grin like a wolf. “You dared to fight me because you sought to rule the Berserkers, even though you are an outlander, a man from space who knows nothing about us. When you say, ‘I want to live,’ you imply that you will bear any degradation to remain living. I do not believe that about you.”

  “Yeah?” Cyrus asked.

  “There—you have a sharp tongue, not a slave tongue. You itch to insult me. You desire a rematch. It oozes out of you, outlander.”

  Cyrus’s estimation of Yang’s intelligence climbed yet another notch. How could he ever have believed the man was stupid, an oaf?

  “So what happens next?” Cyrus asked.