Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2) Read online

  Fear boiled with the exaltation. Klane realized this wasn’t a time for niceties. His new body had spent far too long in the torture cells. The Chirr had tormented Malik and him for the last time. Now, now was the time for his revenge and for revenge against what the Chirr had done to Turk.

  Oily, seething, alien psionic power filled him. Who knew how many generations the Chirr had been adding to the sphere of power? Klane was beyond caring. He screamed in terror at his own daring. He’d endured too much. The torturing Chirr had stung his pride to the depths of his being. And there was too much power in him.

  One after another, Chirr burst and exploded into fiery pillars. The floor smoldered and exuded a vile stench. Chirr psi-masters died. The master magus made the tallest blaze. The wave of heat reached the Chirr encircling the sphere of power. They, too, burst into fire. Their squeals were music to Klane’s ears.

  Now great gouts of psi-power leaped from the sphere and jolted into Klane. He laughed insanely. He howled, and aimed his two arms at an upward angle. Fiery spontaneous combustion like lava poured from his clenched fists. As the sizzling jolts of psionics entered him, they poured into the pillar of superheated plasma. Like a volcano, the force spewed against the asphalt tunnel walls and burned through. Everything in the subsequent chamber exploded into flame. The pillar licking from Klane’s arms smashed into the next wall and blew it down. The irresistible fire—powered beyond anything Klane knew—blasted like magma against level after level.

  Klane felt like a god, yet he howled in agony. Fires raged in the equatorial jungle nest. Chirr by the tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, exploded into flame. Imps and bantlings perished. Genetrices shriveled. Warriors, interpreters, workers, and eggs blazed. It was a holocaust. It was disaster. And it came from the heart of the hive. The fiery pillars melted spacecraft alloys and continued to blaze upward. Incredibly, they smashed through to the Kresh-held tunnels, and they finally shot out of the nest’s outer shell. The lavalike columns raged into the air like a volcano, as if hell itself spewed its hatred.

  The torrent of psionic power from the seething sphere would soon kill him. Klane was incapable of funneling so much pure power through this body. He could not expel it fast enough. So he reversed the void in him. He did it even as the power poured out of his fists.

  The coils of alien psionics no longer writhed into Klane. Like wounded snakes, they lashed and sizzled into the heated air of the burning hive. In almost the same instant, Klane stopped shooting the fiery pillars out of his clenched fists. Lastly, realizing this was the moment he needed, Klane’s consciousness shot out of Timor Malik’s body.

  He used the teleport capacity then, transporting Timor Malik and Turk to the surface. He couldn’t do any more for them. They would have to explain their presence there as best they could.

  After that, Klane’s consciousness roared out of the equatorial nest and shot heavenward. He reached a Kresh satellite, and the Bo Taw there tried to stop him. As powerful as Klane had become, they didn’t have a chance, and three of them screamed in pain, bursting into fire and howling on the floor of the Fenris II satellite.

  Klane’s consciousness continued to speed into the void, heading back for Jassac and to whatever state in which the Kresh had his body. He believed he could bargain with the Kresh now. He had information he was sure they didn’t have. The ambitious Chirr had built a space fleet, and they had stored psionic power such as the Fenris System had never seen.

  This was about to get very interesting, indeed.

  24

  Mentalist Niens paced back and forth before the test subject. He had a decision to make, and it frightened him to the core of his being.

  The huge chamber hummed with equipment. Several brown-skinned techs monitored the banks of machines, computers, and reality enhancers. They were a self-contained group and wore dark uniforms with various markings on their shoulder boards. Each of the techs wore a cap, some with one stripe, some with two, and only one with three. That last was the chief technician, and he was the only one who had spoken to Niens.

  The machines kept the test subject alive, and they kept the reality field shimmering with electrical and psionic-laced substance.

  At a distance, Niens circled the reality field. It was difficult to marshal his thoughts while he stood beside it. Worse, fantasies began to coalesce into reality, or seemed to. He had debated recording the various sequences. Then he had wondered what would happen to him if he were trapped in a “real” fantasy. The recurring imagery had been of exquisitely beautiful pay girls engaging him in his dearest desires. The conversations with them had nearly lulled him. Only at the last minute had he staggered away from the reality field. What had made it worse had been the pay girl pleading with him to make her real.

  The reality field confused those under or too near it by creating believable fantasies in a person’s mind. It was one of the best ways of nullifying a powerful psionic individual. Those near the field were also shielded from Bo Taw psionic spying.

  Niens exhaled sharply. It was clear that Zama Dee had a hunch, or whatever a Kresh called such a thing. The 73rd believed he could achieve a miracle by enticing Klane’s consciousness back into his body and then trapping it behind the reality field. If Niens did this thing, she promised to cage him with beautiful pay girls and let him marinate with pleasure for the rest of his life.

  There were two problems with that. Firstly, could he trust Zama Dee to keep her word? He believed so, but there was a possibility she lied to him. The second problem was more devious. If the 73rd kept her word, he would be trapped in a hedonistic but potentially dull world. Yes, for a time gluttony and fantastic sex would satiate him. Yet he knew himself: boredom in such a place would drive him mad. The cage would cut him off from new insights and new curiosities. Besides, the episode with Klane had opened new thoughts.

  What was the origin of human life in the Fenris System? The idea of an Anointed One led to the conclusion that once, men had been free to think and act for themselves. Was there truth then to the Resister ideas? It hardly seemed conceivable. Yet Zama Dee had called him a nascent Humanity Ultimate. That meant the Kresh would never trust him. He was living on borrowed time with no good options for his future.

  Another thing bothered Niens. Klane had shown him mercy. Klane had slain Chengal Ras, but let him live. He owed the test subject his life. It was an odd idea, yet Niens found it strangely compelling.

  Did that mean he should consider Resister ideas because they might be his only salvation?

  He glanced about the chamber as fear compelled him to drown the thought. Was he insane? The Resisters lacked the strength to challenge the Kresh. And yet, Klane had slain Chengal Ras. What would happen if Klane’s consciousness returned to his body? Was it conceivable the Anointed One could achieve a Humanity Ultimate miracle?

  Niens didn’t see how. But in the interests of self-preservation and more than idle curiosity, he wanted to know.

  Very well. How do I entice Klane’s consciousness to return? Can it return and pass through the reality field? If not, then why do we still have it up?

  Clasping his long-fingered hands behind his back, Niens began to pace around the reality field and the test subject underneath it. Niens had been reading the data the 73rd had left behind for him. For the most part, it was Resister literature. It was mainly about a psionic savior helping to free humanity from the scourge of the Kresh. It other words, it was Humanity Ultimate heresy.

  Why didn’t Zama Dee simply firebomb the game-preserve primitives and destroy the test subject, Klane? Niens had a theory about that, and he knew he was right because it was his own problem. The Kresh had a curiosity failing. They wanted knowledge. To gain new knowledge they would go to just about any length and risk any danger. New knowledge had the potential to give the Kresh insights that would help them gain codex points. If they could increase the Codex of All Knowledge . . .

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sp; Niens nodded somberly. In his opinion, Zama Dee hadn’t destroyed Klane because she saw a benefit to herself through him. She wanted to know how Klane had evolved such psi-powers. Yet the Kresh rightly feared the man.

  Tapping a middle finger against the palm of the other hand, all while keeping them behind his back, Niens continued to pace. Zama Dee had given him this task because of his curiosity and cleverness. Given that, he should attempt experiments that a regular, staid mentalist would avoid.

  He would do so for three reasons. The first was to continue his existence a little longer. The second reason was his desire for knowledge. He needed to know. The last reason was self-preservation. He was beginning to believe the Resisters had a point. He didn’t know how it could be that they could successfully challenge the Kresh, but it seemed to him he ultimately had no other reasonable option. He needed a miracle in order to survive more than a few extra weeks. By naming him a Humanity Ultimate, the 73rd had pushed him into a corner.

  Niens now turned toward the fuzzy field. He had to do something radical.

  Mentalist Niens cleared his throat in an authoritative manner. Reluctantly, it seemed, the chief tech faced him, although keeping his gaze downcast.

  “Lower the reality field,” Niens said, crisply.

  The chief technician looked up. The man had dots for eyes and leathery features, with lines around his mouth. “That would be against regulations,” he said.

  “You surprise me,” Niens told him. “I have full authority over the test subject.”

  “I hesitate to correct you.”

  “Then don’t,” Niens said. “Get on with your task.”

  “But you lack anything approaching full authority. For instance, you cannot order me to move the test subject.”

  “I have authority to turn the reality field on or off. Check if you must, but be quick about it.”

  The chief tech pulled at the bill of his cap. “Very well, if you insist.” The man palmed a small device. He read the tiny screen while clicking it with his thumb. At last, his head darted up.

  “I beg your pardon, mentalist,” the chief tech said. “I will turn off the field.”

  “You will remain at your stations ready to snap the reality field back into existence.”

  “I will remain. But may I point out that one doesn’t snap such a field on and off. It takes time to calibrate and—”

  “I’m not interested in the technical side of your equipment.” Niens knew the limitations of the reality field. He didn’t want the others to know that he knew, though. “You will keep the machines in prime readiness as I . . . you will remain ready.”

  “Yes, mentalist,” the chief tech said.

  “Good,” Niens said. “Now begin.”

  The chief tech hurried to his fellows.

  Niens faced the test subject. What had happened to the consciousness? The Kresh’s data hadn’t given any suggestions. How could a consciousness survive without its body? It was very interesting.

  Keep thinking about that instead of—I love the Kresh. I love them with all my heart.

  He didn’t know how, but he had to survive long enough to bring Klane back and win himself extended life.

  25

  Cyrus lay in the seeker’s tent, surrounded by the strange junction-stones. He had just come back from the funeral, and he couldn’t stand his own company. He wanted to get drunk or high, do something other than think about his failure.

  He’d told the seeker he would anchor her. She’d known he would fail. She’d tried to soften the blow, in fact. That only made it worse.

  “I killed her,” he said. “It was my insistence.”

  The tent flap drew back, and Jana bent down, stepping within.

  Cyrus closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see or speak to anyone. He had failed. He was forsworn.

  “It’s time,” she said.

  He exhaled, sat up abruptly, and regarded her. Jana had changed. There was a new awareness in her. She didn’t smile as much, and she looked at him differently.

  “Time for what?” he said.

  “To leave,” she said. “The rest of the clan has grown wary of us, and they hate you.”

  “They should,” he said.

  Jana frowned. “You told us what happened—”

  “Bah,” he said, looking away.

  “The seeker is dead,” Jana said. “By sacrificing her life she gave us knowledge. Yesterday I was a Stone Age tribesman. Now—I don’t know who I am.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. He’d been so absorbed with his failure he hadn’t thought about her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Jana shook her head.

  He wanted to ask her if she was still willing to be his wife, but this didn’t seem like the time. What’s wrong with me? This faintheartedness wasn’t like him. He was the man from the slums. He’d killed as a kid. He’d done it without mercy. So why should he become soft all of a sudden?

  His eyes widened.

  “What is it?” Jana asked.

  Had some of the seeker’s memories or personality transferred to him last night? Had they lodged in him? Did he now carry some of the seeker? Those seemed like crazy questions at a time like this. He regarded Jana. Maybe she didn’t smile as she used to because similar questions rattled around inside her head. He should be helping the eight, not moping around. He was a knife man, a killer. He—

  “I’m the Tracker,” Cyrus told her.

  Jana smiled, and it made her seem like the woman he’d asked to marry. He stepped beside her and took one of her hands. Then he leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  “It took you long enough,” she said.

  “Yeah, I’ve been busy thinking.”

  “So have I.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “Tell them I’m coming. I want to look around in here, see what we can use.”

  “Maybe I should do that. I have her memories and will know what will come in handy.”

  “Good thinking,” he said. He stepped outside.

  Clan members quit talking and quit moving. Everyone stared at him. A warning crawled up and down his spine. They wanted to kill him. He was evil in their eyes. He couldn’t blame them for thinking that, either. They still thought like primitives, and now some of their best people had become strangers and were heading off on an impossible quest to slay the demons in the valley.

  Cyrus knew better than to hurry. Running or moving fast only encouraged primitives to give chase like dogs. He put a sneer on his lips, one that he’d used in Bottom Milan many times. With the sneer, he reached the other end of the tents. Then he saw Grinder, and he hailed the man.

  Grinder scowled and hesitated, but finally he motioned with a thick arm. When Cyrus reached him, the man said, “I still think you’re a bastard for gunning down Stone Fist. Now that I know more . . . I see it was—”

  “The only thing I could have done to survive,” Cyrus said. “It wasn’t fair, but neither were the five-to-two odds coming against us.”

  Grinder didn’t say anything more. He took Cyrus to where Yang and the others fashioned bows. So far there had never been any bows and arrows on the uplands of Jassac. There had been only knives, spears, and shields. Bows against blasters weren’t good, but at least bows were better as ranged weapons than hurled spears.

  The ten of them worked hard on the implements. As they worked, Cyrus began to explain about space marines and their tactics. Skar added information concerning Vomag practices. The others asked plenty of questions. It reminded Cyrus of his time among Discovery’s marines during the journey to the Fenris System. He wondered how many of the marines were still alive on High Station 3. Would he ever see them again?

  Jana joined them later. She handed Cyrus a leather bag. Whatever it held rattled.

  “Junction-stones,” she whispered.
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  “I’m not sure I want those along,” he whispered back.

  “You’re the only one with psionics who can handle them with any degree of safety,” she said.

  “You’re not calling it magic anymore, are you?”

  “Psionics,” she said. “I know what’s going on. Maybe Klane will want them.”

  “Okay . . .” he said, reluctantly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  After everyone had fashioned at least ten arrows with fire-hardened tips, Yang suggested they leave.

  “The rest of the clan is getting antsy,” Yang told them. “If we stay too long, they might decide we’re possessed and try to stone us.”

  Cyrus wanted to ask the others about the transfer. Memories—the seeker had given each of them several lifetimes’ worth of memories. What was it like to go from being primitive one minute to high-tech the next? Maybe a little bit like what he’d gone through when he’d gone from Bottom Milan to the institute at Crete.

  An hour later, they left the last trees behind, skinny, twisted things with shriveled leaves. Yang led them, moving onto what seemed like a trackless red desert full of half-buried boulders. The former hetman broke into a trot, one that Cyrus had learned a Berserker could hold mile after mile after mile.

  Cyrus followed Skar, breathing the thin air, knowing he’d have trouble keeping the stiff pace. Even so, it felt good to be on the move again. Yeah, the guilt still haunted him. He wished he could have saved the seeker. But she’d had no illusions about what she’d been doing. Jana had spoken to him, explaining how the seeker had realized and been glad that this was the long-sought day when humans could finally turn the tables on the aliens.

  As he thought about that, a sad grin spread across Cyrus’s face. Including Skar and him, ten puny humans crossed a desert on foot. They were off to challenge a star system filled with space-faring aliens. It was crazy. It was a holo-vid drama come to life, and it was the stuff of legends like Spartacus.