Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2) Page 22

“Gladly,” Klane said. “I would have given them to you already if I’d only understood you before. My ignorance of your ways is nearly total. Only now have I realized what you asked. Please, let me see the other so he and I may give the magic you desire.”

  The interpreter turned to the viziers.

  Exhausted, feverish, and with a pounding headache, Klane lay down.

  “Man,” the interpreter soon said.

  “I can’t think anymore,” Klane groaned.

  “You need nourishment?”

  “And rest,” Klane said. “I’m very sick.”

  Klane faded until someone set a bowl of water before him. He stirred enough to slurp it. Someone set down gruel. He sniffed it and groaned. The interpreter spoke and the warrior grabbed a fistful of Klane’s hair and shoved his mouth into the gruel. Rather than fighting them, Klane ate the bitter slop. Surprisingly, he kept it down. A little later, the fever seemed to recede.

  Had the Chirr medicated his gruel?

  Thrum-thrum-thrum beat that intrusive sound or—

  Klane pushed himself to a sitting position. Viziers watched him and chittered quietly among themselves. The pleasure-Chirr licked them vigorously. The interpreter stood motionless like an idol.

  Klane tried to concentrate on the thrum. There was something about it—something that could work in his favor. He glanced back. The warrior waited, and it watched him. Klane shuddered. There was motion to one side that drew his attention.

  Two warriors carried a litter. On it lay a naked, scarlet-spotted soldier. The spots dotted Turk from crown to heel. The soldier was thinner, although still muscled. His eyes were filmed over and drool spilled out of his mouth.

  Something tore deep in Klane’s chest. This was awful.

  While carrying Turk’s litter, the warrior-Chirr marched to Klane.

  “Ask for his permission,” the interpreter commanded.

  Klane struggled to his knees. “Turk,” he said.

  With infinite slowness, the soldier turned his dotted face.

  Klane wiped the filmy gunk out of Turk’s eyes. Heat radiated off the soldier.

  “Turk, right armguard to the senior drummer, the Ninth Maniple, Tenth Cohort Invincible, at attention,” the soldier mumbled.

  “Turk,” Klane whispered. He touched the soldier’s cheek. The dots were hard raised bumps, growths.

  Turk blinked several times, but without seeing.

  “He’s dying,” Klane accused the interpreter. “What have you done to him?”

  “Clarify your statement,” the interpreter said.

  “What are these red spots?”

  “We tested new spore,” the interpreter said.

  The tearing within Klane changed into a terrible hardening of resolve. He would never return to the torture cell. Bravery was beyond him here, deep in the hive. But—

  “You must heal him.” Klane said.

  “Clarify ‘heal.’”

  “Fix him as before,” Klane said.

  “He must give you permission,” the interpreter said.

  Turk’s left hand lifted and he groped toward Klane. Klane grabbed the soldier’s heated hand.

  “I expire,” whispered Turk.

  “Hang on,” Klane said. “Don’t quit yet.”

  “I will find out soon what waits on the other side of death,” Turk whispered.

  “Don’t leave me here alone,” Klane pleaded.

  “I have never deserted my post,” Turk whispered.

  “Tell us your magic,” the interpreter said.

  “What?” Klane asked.

  “He has given permission,” the interpreter said. “We heard him speak.”

  “He’s too sick to give his permission,” Klane said. “You must fix him so I can get permission.”

  Vizier-Chirr interrupted the interpreter before it could reply. Their movements were like crickets rustling.

  Soon the interpreter said, “It is too late to counteract the spores.”

  “Can you try?” Klane asked.

  “Clarify—”

  “Give him the counterspore and find out if it’s too late or not!” Klane shouted.

  “You speak futility,” the interpreter said.

  “I want his permission for the good of the nest,” Klane said. “He must help me remember the magic.”

  The interpreter blinked its eyes and spoke to the viziers. The exchange was faster than before.

  “You want his permission so you can forgo more torture,” the interpreter said.

  “Wouldn’t it be quicker to give him the counterspore than to torture me?” Klane asked.

  At that moment, a warrior marched toward Turk. The Chirr held a flask.

  “Stand back,” the interpreter told Klane.

  “Fight it,” Klane told Turk. “Fight the sickness and help me.”

  “Stand back,” the interpreter repeated.

  Klane shuffled away, horrified.

  The warrior-Chirr uncorked the flask, pried open Turk’s mouth, and poured a substance with the thickness of blood into the soldier’s throat. Turk began to thrash and jerk. The Chirr set him down, and each clutched part of his body. Turk humped, screamed, and spewed a globule spray. He began to tremble.

  Klane’s features had hardened, and his heart thudded painfully. If only he had more power. If only there was—

  Shocked, Klane looked over his shoulder. The thrum-thrum-thrum—he finally recognized it. If a fever hadn’t raged through him, if he wasn’t tormented by pain and fear, he would have surely realized before now. The thrum was like a giant junction-stone. But it was more than that. It thrummed and buzzed in a similar way his mind did whenever he used his psionic abilities. Something decidedly strange occurred here, something alien beyond his understanding.

  As Turk humped and twisted, as the soldier trembled and cried out, Klane attempted to tap the alien junction-stone. His mind sought to use the alien power. With a shock, he realized he psi-touched a living thing, a dumb thing without intellect that yet held onto churning psi-ability of an incalculable nature. He couldn’t breach the main stores of power, but like condensate on a barrel, he sampled the dribbles of power from the weird living storage.

  Psionic energy trickled into his being. It strengthened his mind, and he wondered if he could help Turk as he’d once repaired his own flesh on Jassac. With psionic concentration, he attempted to heal.

  Unfortunately, the warrior from earlier shoved Klane from behind. It broke his concentration as he sprawled onto the floor.

  “The soldier is too sick,” the interpreter said.

  With inspiration, Klane said, “Touching him has helped me recall magic.”

  “Explain it,” the interpreter said.

  Klane began to explain how he used psionic telekinesis to repair damaged tissues.

  As Klane spoke, the interpreter chittered to the vizier-Chirr. None wrote on parchment that Klane could see. He concluded that vizier memory must be excellent.

  “That is all?” the interpreter asked.

  “That is one technique,” Klane said. “I remember more now. His presence helps me,” he said, pointing at Turk. “If the soldier lives long enough, I’ll be able to tell you all I know.”

  “How many do you know?”

  “Several hundred,” Klane said.

  “You falsify. We of the hive only know of six spell techniques.”

  “With my new technique, you now know seven,” Klane said. “And if he lives long enough, I’ll be able to tell you everything I know.”

  The interpreter chittered and chirped furiously to the viziers. As they communicated, two warriors picked up Turk’s litter.

  “Where are you taking him?” Klane asked in alarm.

  “We go to the magus-Chirr,” the interpreter said. “They will use your new knowl
edge and heal him, and you will begin to explain your other techniques. We particularly want to know how your consciousness can cross space as it has.”

  “Yes, I’ll gladly tell the magus-Chirr,” Klane said.

  “But if you have falsified, you will return to the torture cells.”

  “I’ve learned the power of the Chirr. I fear you. I will tell you only the truth.”

  “The power of the hive is only matched by our wisdom,” the interpreter said. “Unmodified humans always succumb to the persuasion of the torture cells. We knew it would be so with you. Now go, follow the other.”

  The journey lasted longer than Klane expected, and it showed him several incredible sights.

  The interpreter led the way, while warriors carried Turk and another followed Klane. They entered a new area with steel walls, a steel ceiling, and electrical lighting. It was unlike anything Klane had seen in the hive before. They entered a lift with a glass front, and it immediately sank with speed.

  Klane’s stomach lurched, and the window passed steel banks, pink crystal walls, and suddenly a cavernous open area. The extent of the cave boggled Klane’s senses. How far were they underground anyway? How much labor had this taken? The need for the vast lair became evident a moment later.

  What are those?

  Shoving past the Chirr holding Turk’s litter, Klane stepped up to the glass. His mouth opened in shock. The cavern rivaled the Valley of the Demons in extent. It was huge and lit, and it contained hundreds of thousands of Chirr. They swarmed what looked like rockets. Some were vast, others small.

  “Are those missiles? Or spacecraft?” Klane asked.

  “Step away from the glass,” the interpreter said.

  Klane took a last look as the lift sped down. In that look, he realized he hadn’t understood the gargantuan nature of the rockets. Those weren’t missiles. Those were indeed spacecraft. They had to be.

  Had the Chirr built a secret space fleet under the surface? If so, how long had they been building it? Years, decades, centuries?

  “Step back from the glass,” the interpreter repeated.

  Klane did, and he marveled at what the Chirr had accomplished. They must mean to challenge the Kresh in a new realm, not just on the planets. It made strategic sense. Until the Chirr won space, they would always be on the defensive on and in the planets.

  Did the Kresh know about the secret Chirr fleet? He doubted it.

  They passed the cavern and continued to sink into the ground. The ride down lasted longer than Klane expected. It depressed him. He looked up at the lift ceiling. Would he ever see the sun again? Would he ever leave Malik’s beaten body?

  Eventually, the lift came to a halt. They exited and marched through steel corridors and soon reentered dirt tunnels. In time, they trekked through a low chamber. The warrior-Chirr carrying Turk led now and the interpreter brought up the rear. They marched through narrow lanes.

  On either side, lumbering genetrices fifteen feet long twitched and squirted eggs. Scuttling, crablike Chirr hefted the eggs, carting them toward glowing domes. Thousands of eggs lay under each heated dome. This must be a hatchery. It also must be one of the more protected places in the hive.

  They exited the hatchery and hurried down a steep tunnel. The entire time the thrum-thrum-thrum grew in strength.

  Finally, they entered another large chamber. Although they were extremely deep underground, the chamber had a high vaulted ceiling. Klane might have examined the ceiling in detail, but another marvel had his attention.

  A mighty, swirling, seething, ghostly ball radiated over a dark pit. The immense ball heaved one way and coils of sizzling power jagged into the air, only to sizzle back into the ball. The sight staggered Klane. It awed him. One didn’t see psionic power. The idea didn’t make sense, did it? What was that thing anyway?

  Several dozen magus-Chirr circled the giant pit. Klane recognized them. Thin, with skinny braches folded inward like a half-open flickknife. They had elongated insect skulls and horizontal mouths. They chanted, or sang, or chirped in unison. It was obvious to Klane that they balanced the seething ball of psionic power. In some alien manner, the psi-able among them must have transferred psionic strength into the sizzling, ghostly ball of power.

  It was a hive psionic bank.

  “Man,” the interpreter said.

  Klane twisted around.

  “Explain to the master magus your healing magic.” The interpreter pointed at the thinnest, tallest Chirr present. It was half again as tall as a man was and it seemed old and brittle.

  Klane spoke, and the interpreter and the master magus chittered together. Soon, a loud whistling chirp emanated from the master magus. More magus-Chirr appeared. They each held a buzzing instrument.

  To Klane, the Chirr seemed like worshippers. What would magus-Chirr worship? Klane wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  The magus-Chirr towered over Turk. They waved their buzzing instruments in seeming magical passes and chittered in unison.

  For an instant, Klane felt he almost understood the words. He stood transfixed, and he noticed that the red spots dotting Turk’s skin began to fade.

  Klane took several slow steps back. The magus-Chirr continued their healing psionics. Klane didn’t dare twist around to see if the warrior from earlier still watched him. Instead, as if stretching, Klane lifted his aching arms. That hurt. He almost lacked the strength and will to force his puffy joints to move.

  He attempted to settle his mind. A plan had been forming during the journey down. He hadn’t let himself think about it, lest he give himself away. This was a horrifying world, a nightmare beyond what any man should have to face. He wanted to get back to his body on Jassac. He hated the Kresh, but he loathed and abhorred the Chirr even more. He could half fathom the Kresh. They had enough similarities with men that one could bargain with the other. The Chirr were just too alien, too strange for him.

  Klane was going to take what he foresaw as his lone chance for life. He opened himself and began to drink from the seething ball of stored psionic power. Unfortunately, only trickles of psi-energy entered him, no more. Something inhibited him. Klane had an idea what might be wrong. The magus-Chirr circling the pit balanced the psi-power. Their balancing must help keep the power in place. They also kept the psi-power from entering him in any large amount.

  The warrior from earlier shoved him, making Klane stagger. But it didn’t stop Klane from doing what he’d done before on Jassac. He gave himself strength, even though this time he wasn’t able to heal his joints and smother the aches. With the physical strength came the ability to ignore the bodily pain.

  Then an idea struck. He couldn’t pull the power to him. Maybe he thought of this the wrong way. Instead, he willed a void in his being, and that void he increased in size.

  The warrior neared again. Maybe it sensed something wrong. It chirped angrily and raised its pincers.

  Klane shuffled toward Turk, guessing the warrior would fear to upset the magus-Chirr. Indeed, the warrior-Chirr hung back, but its pincers jerked as if in agitation.

  The master magus glanced at the warrior.

  Klane knelt beside Turk. He knelt even as he increased the void in himself, and as more trickles of psionic power siphoned into him. It felt oily and alien, but useable nonetheless.

  The magus-Chirr completed their mind weaving. The spots were only vague marks on Turk’s skin. The soldier breathed evenly now.

  The magus-Chirr circling the pit began chittering loudly amongst themselves. To Klane’s ear, they seemed concerned.

  The master magus turned toward them.

  The interpreter told Klane, “The soldier is healed. Explain how you transferred your consciousness to this body.”

  Fear and elation battled in Klane. He wondered if the magus-Chirr had to act in unison to use their psionic power. Fear filled him because he would have liked t
o plan better. He needed more time for this. Yet he knew this was all the time he was going to get. He had to strike now before the Chirr grew aware that they’d clutched a gat to their bosom.

  Klane stood over Turk. He built a shield over the soldier and himself, a half-visible telekinetic force that would stop physical objects and mental thought. Then he attempted a technique of psionic ability that the seeker had once spoken to him about: spontaneous combustion.

  The others drifted toward the master magus. That allowed the warrior to lunge near Klane. It raised its pincers and chittered a command.

  Klane pointed at the warrior. It squealed like a stuck gat. It howled as it burst into a fiery blaze of fire, the base around its body an intense blue color.

  Then time seemed to stand still for Klane. The magus-Chirr circling the pit stared at him. The master magus made a high-pitched, twittering sound. The ones holding the buzzing objects opened their mandibles, perhaps in stunned amazement. In the frozen moment and in rapid succession, Klane pointed at various magus-Chirr circling the pit. Like some horrible musical instrument, the squeals increased in number and pitch as one magus after another burst into a flaming blaze.

  Whether it was surprise or because too many psi-balancing Chirrs blazed like living torches, a coil from the seething, ghostly ball jagged toward Klane, seeking a place to go. It zigzagged like a slow-moving lightning bolt and thrust into the void in Klane’s being as a knife shoves into a scabbard. Klane screamed, and his eyesight wavered and his ears filled with a roaring sound. He’d never felt so much psionic power roiling within him at once. If he lived twenty lifetimes, he could never have attained so much strength. It was beyond human capacity and he glowed so his bones showed through his now translucent skin. Instinct took over, and unconsciously he strengthened his telekinetic shield, which also continued to protect Turk.

  In a wavering blur, Klane saw images around him. The master magus raised its thin braches. Around the master chirped smaller magus-Chirr. They tried to counter Klane. Other magi scuttled toward the group, chirping their chants. The seething ball seemed more settled. The coils had submerged into the whole. They had become humps circling the ball at high speed.

  Klane screamed his thoughts. Everything seemed distant and surreal. He thrust an arm at the interpreter as it lunged at him. The Chirr squealed, burst into a blaze, and rebounded off the telekinetic barrier Klane had erected.