Alien Chronicles 2 - The Crimson Claw (32 page)

She walked forward, past the bowing physician, and approached her father’s bedside with trepidation, afraid too many of her conflictful emotions were revealed on her face.

The Kaa had been robed in formal sleeping attire of crimson silk embroidered heavily with thick gold thread. He wore no collar and his rill lay in flaccid folds across his shoulders. Although he had been propped up high on cushions and lay on his side, his breathing remained hoarse and labored. His skin, once a gorgeous iridescent shade of bronze, had turned ashen and pale. She had never seen him look so ugly, so weak.

She stepped up beside him, hesitated, and was prompted by Temondahl’s nod.

“Father, I am here,” she said. “I, Israi your daughter, have come as you requested.”

The Kaa dragged open his eyes. They remained as deep and as brilliant a blue as ever, startlingly so in contrast to his gray skin. Israi felt the force of her father’s will travel through his gaze, boring deep inside her. For a moment it felt as though the Kaa could see into the very depths of her mind. Did he know what she had done? Did he suspect?

His hand moved weakly toward her and stopped.

“Take his hand, highness,” Temondahl coached her.

Israi realized her own hand was trembling as she reached out and gripped her father’s fingers. They moved against hers without strength.

She knew then, with absolute certainty, that he was dying.

“Father,” she began, then stopped. She could not command her voice.

“Israi,” he whispered, and his voice was no stronger than a sigh against his labored breathing. His eyes closed a moment, then opened again. “Our daughter.”

“I am here, Father,” she said, trembling all over now.

“Take our vital . . . force into . . . yourself,” he gasped. “From our hand to yours. From us, receive the throne. Let history . . . judge . . . you as it will . . . judge us. Israi . . .”

Her name sighed from his mouth, and the labored breathing stopped. His blue eyes stared at nothing until the physician reached out to brush them closed.

Israi stood there frozen, unable as yet to believe he was truly gone. She had never seen death before, had never witnessed its finality.

In the distance, a drum began to throb, low and steadily, carrying the news to all within the palace.

Temondahl glanced at Israi, still clutching the Kaa’s dead hand, then stepped around her and murmured to a guard. “The Kaa’s flag must be struck. Let word go forth to the city, to the empire, that Sahmrahd Kaa is dead.”

The guard saluted and hastened out, his eyes staring in shock.

Temondahl faced all those present in the room and lifted his staff of office. “The Kaa is dead. Long live the Kaa!”

Their voices rose in ragged, uncertain unison: “Long live the Kaa!”

A commotion broke out beyond the doors. Wailing could be heard from the servants, a raw, ugly sound.

Israi turned at last, releasing her father’s still hand and laying it gently against his side. For a moment she was blind with grief, with a sense of loss so intense it felt as though she had been struck.

Somehow she turned around to face the others, her body moving stiffly and unnaturally. She could not think of what to do. Her mind felt frozen. Protocol, so stiff, so boring, supported her now, and for the first time in her life she was grateful for it.

She would be required to walk forth from the Kaa’s apartments. She was to go straight to the throne room. There the chancellors would declare her rights, and the courtiers would declare their acceptance of the changing order. Her flag would be raised over the palace . . . only she didn’t have a flag, not the proper one. The sri-Kaa’s banner could not fly.

“Temondahl,” she said in alarm. “My flag . . . it’s all wrong—”

“All is prepared for the Imperial Mother,” Temondahl said smoothly. His eyes were kind and sympathetic. “It is time to go forth. Not until the declarations are made can the grieving begin.”

She blinked, remembering the procedure as she had been taught it. “Yes,” she said numbly.

“Come,” Temondahl said.

Israi swallowed hard, coiling her tongue inside her mouth, and walked forward. She moved slowly, stiffly, with great dignity. It was as though the weight of the empire suddenly had fallen on her shoulders with crushing force.
Imperial Mother,
her mind thought dizzily. Temondahl had called her Imperial Mother. It had happened, really happened. She was now the Mother of the Empire, the Supreme Warrior, the Guardian of the Golden Seals, the Ruler of All Things. Israi felt that she had just been hatched. She emerged from the Kaa’s chambers a new person, all her past shed behind her like an unwanted skin. Israi’s head lifted and her shoulders straightened. Her grace returned to her, and she lengthened her stride.

But before she reached the end of the corridor she was met by a phalanx of Palace Guards, grim-faced and marching in unison.

Beside her, Temondahl hissed in alarm. His rill shot up.

Israi stopped in her tracks, but Temondahl urged her forward.

“Courage, majesty,” he murmured.

But Israi was afraid. She could feel her heart thudding inside her torso. Had Oviel succeeded with his plotting? Was this the coup she had dreaded? She reached out and snagged Temondahl’s sleeve.

“Chancellor,” she said, her voice low and urgent, “tell me the truth now. Are you loyal to me? Where do I stand with the council?”

Lord Temondahl turned his calm, sympathetic face to meet her gaze. His tongue flicked out. “That, majesty, has yet to be decided.”

Israi stood there, stunned by his unexpected honesty, while Temondahl advanced to meet the captain of the guard. “Have you come to escort the Imperial Mother to her throne?” he demanded.

The captain saluted stiffly. His gaze swept over Israi, giving her no loyalty as yet. “We have come to offer our protection and escort. The throne is being claimed by another.”

Rage swept Israi as though she had been ignited by fire. She stepped forward, her rill stiff and tall. “What?” she demanded. “Who dares to oppose me?”

The captain did not hesitate with his answer. He met her furious eyes without fear. “Lord Oviel, son of the Kaa,” he replied. “He waits in the throne room for his declaration at this moment.”

“Get up!”

A swift kick thudded into Ampris’s side, knocking her from her bunk. Startled from sleep, she snarled and sprang up, but another blow across her shoulder drove her to her knees.

Across her quarters, Lamina was being dragged from bed with equal roughness. The door slammed open, spilling light into the cramped room, and Ampris saw Viis patrollers in black body armor and helmets surrounding them.

“What is this?” Ampris demanded. “Where is Master Halehl?”

“Shut up!” One of the patrollers struck her in the jaw with his inactivated stun-stick, knocking her back and making her head ring. “On your feet! Now!”

Ampris staggered upright and was shoved outside into the conference room. The rest of her teammates were there, Omtat nursing a bloodied ear, Teinth growling steadily with his eyes like burning coals.

“Stealing us,” he said while Lamina roared in outrage.

Afraid that he was right, Ampris glanced around swiftly, wondering if Elrabin was still out on his venture or if he had returned. She saw him across the room, cringing and massaging his shoulder where he’d been struck. Ampris wasn’t certain whether she was relieved to see him taken prisoner or not. Her head was aching. She had no idea of the time. But the absence of Halehl and the Toth bodyguards made her worry.

The patrollers locked them in restraints and marched them out. They were herded down a corridor thronged with other abiru folk of all kinds. Ampris’s puzzlement grew. She did not understand what was happening, why all abiru on the station—whether fighters, servants, station workers, engineers, dock cleaners, shopkeepers, or laborers—were being thrown together like this.

As they were marched along, their numbers continuously swelling as more abiru were added at every corridor junction, Ampris no longer believed they were being stolen. No, something else was happening, something sinister and alarming.

In the distance she could hear loud wailing coming from Viis throats. A pair of well-dressed tourists rushed past, tearing at their clothing and crying out as though they had gone mad.

Indeed, all seemed like madness. Jostled and pushed along with the others, Ampris became separated from her teammates and struggled to keep her feet as the crowding grew worse.

The patrollers swore at them and beat them indiscriminately to keep them moving.

Finally they reached the end of a corridor that stank of machinery lubricant and were shoved through open bay doors into an icy cold darkness.

Some of the abiru, obviously fearing that they were going to be ejected into space, screamed and fought to double back, but the patrollers shoved them forward, shouting as they hit anyone who hesitated.

Ampris stumbled into the darkness, finding herself almost blinded except for what light filtered in behind her from the corridor. She had an impression of enormous space. The smells of machinery crisscrossed each other and mingled with a confusing myriad of other scents, some ordinary, some exotic. Ampris heard no humming sounds of engines, only the cries and frightened babble of the abiru being thrust inside.

Lights flickered on, spaced far apart and casting only a dim orange glow, but it was enough to see by. They were inside a cargo bay, a long narrow space with a high ceiling of metal fretwork and catwalks. Stacks of crates and shipping pods lined the bay on both sides. At the opposite end, Ampris could see the sealed air locks that opened to space itself.

“We’re going to die!” wailed a Kelth station worker. “The world has gone mad. They mean to eject us!”

“Shut up!” Ampris shouted over the cries and hysteria. She roared, deepening her voice so that she could be heard over the din. “Everyone, stay calm. We haven’t been ejected yet.”

Someone swore at her, but in general the station workers calmed down or were smacked into silence. More gladiators poured in, snarling and struggling against their restraints. Ampris even saw her Toth bodyguards towering over others. She made no move to go in that direction and instead looked around for Elrabin.

The doors were closed finally on the last of the abiru. Locks engaged with echoing thuds, and all the prisoners fell into an uneasy silence, exchanging wary looks, fear flashing in their eyes.

Most of them stood without moving for several minutes. It was as though they believed that by remaining motionless they would avert the expected disaster.

Elrabin, however, came threading his way through the crowd to Ampris.

She smiled, glad to see him. “What do you think is happening?”

“Hey, nothing good for us,” he said, rubbing his shoulder again and swiveling his ears. “These station workers be going crazy on us. Going to cause problems, if we let them.”

“Do you think they know what is happening?” Ampris asked.

Elrabin snarled with scorn. “Not likely.”

Something thudded against the wall, sending Ampris and others whirling around. Shouts came from outside the locked doors, and someone banged on the doors as though trying to break in.

“What they saying?” a Kelth female in black coveralls asked breathlessly. She panted, fear in her eyes. “What be happening to us?”

Elrabin gripped Ampris’s arm. “Hey, Ampris here understands Viis talk! Put her over there so she can listen. Make way! Move your fur, you! Let her through.”

Ampris was shoved over by the doors. She pressed her ear to them, jumping back as the thudding came again. She listened to the hysterical shouting and wailing. Most of it was Viis babble, but what she understood disturbed her.

After a moment, the Viis trying to break in left, arguing and fighting among themselves. Ampris swung around and found all the prisoners staring at her.

She blinked at them and drew a deep breath, knowing she must keep things simple and clear. “They are mourning someone important. I don’t know who. I think they’re looting the station.”

“Be it the Dancing Death come for them?” piped up a voice from the crowd. “Be it the judgment?”

“I don’t know,” Ampris replied. “I couldn’t tell much from what they were shouting.”

“Over here!” a gladiator called. He was standing by the wall and he lifted his bound hands to point. “There’s a ventilator grille here. Stand by it and see if you hear anything else.”

Ampris stationed herself under the grille, which was too small for anyone to crawl through. She listened for what seemed like hours while Elrabin squatted next to her and tried to pick the lock on her restraints.

“They keep crying out, ‘He’s dead. He’s dead,’ ” Ampris reported whenever a faint and distant shout echoed to her through the ductwork. The echoing made it difficult to translate. “It’s like their world has ended.”

“Maybe empire be ended,” Teinth said. “That be what you preach, eh, Ampris?”

“They’ll kill us,” a station worker declared vehemently.

More wails echoed down the ventilation shaft, eerie and strange enough to make the fur stand up around Ampris’s neck.

“You’re fools, the lot of you,” said an unfamiliar voice.

Ampris glanced up to see an older male Aaroun wearing the insignia of the Greens standing before her. She rose to her feet in respect for a professional colleague. He inclined his head to her in response.

“You know something about this situation?” Ampris asked.

“If someone important has died—and that could be anyone from the station manager to a minister of state—then there will be a period of mourning. We’ll be kept here until the mourning is over. Then the competition will go on.”

The Aaroun sniffed scornfully, raking the crowd of worried faces with his fierce old eyes. “What have you to fear? If they meant to kill us, they would have shot us in our bunks.”

Ampris hoped he was right. She felt greatly reassured, yet saw that many remained afraid.

Not everyone could hear what the Aaroun of the Greens had said. Clearly not everyone was ready to believe it.

“Let’s keep everyone calm,” Ampris said to Elrabin, who swiveled his ears and nodded nervously. “People need something to do.”