Slave Empire - The Crystal Ship (18 page)

Tarke had not
used a sword for decades, and it seemed heavy and unfamiliar.
Severing the tendril with a stroke, he gripped Rayne’s collar and
dragged her away. The mental storm subsided, and she blinked as if
coming out of a daze, turning her head to gaze up at him. Slime
dripped from her arms, coated her clothes and slicked her hair. She
smiled, her eyes filled with echoes of psychic agony.

“
Tarke.”

Another
tentacle snaked from the Envoy and whipped around her knee. She
gasped, and he raised the sword to cut it.

“
No!” Her cry stemmed his stroke, and she added, “I have to do
this to beat him. Just don’t let him... kill me.”

Rayne’s face
twisted with fresh pain and her eyes glazed. The psychic storm
enveloped him again, battering his defences. She closed her eyes,
lines of suffering bracketing her mouth and wrinkling her brow, her
lips compressed in a grim line. He frowned, disliking the
situation, but lowered the sword. His clothes stuck to the film of
sweat that popped out all over him, and he twisted in their clammy
confines.

Tarke longed
to help her, but the psychic barrage that hammered on his defences
was so intense he doubted his ability to endure it if he allowed it
in. Somehow, she was able to withstand it, but its toll was evident
on her pain-racked features and in her occasional gasps.

The parasite
dragged her closer again, its tube mouths making obscene sucking
noises as they awaited their prey. The iridescent feelers that
waved above the Envoy’s back swivelled in his direction, and
another tentacle lashed out, fastening onto his ankle. He cut it,
and the severed end writhed away, puckering and folding inwards on
a hollow tube.

Rayne was
close to the tube mouths again, and he unsure of whether he should
interfere or not. A tendril snaked towards him and whipped around
his legs, but he sliced it off before it tightened. The Envoy’s
feelers focussed on him as another tentacle coiled towards him like
a demented serpent.

Tarke hacked
it off, and the Envoy seemed to give up, concentrating on his first
victim, perhaps deciding to deal with Tarke later. The girl was
dragged closer to the waiting mouths. Just how far was he supposed
to let this go? If he did not stop it, it was going to start eating
her alive. The mental storm made it difficult to think while
keeping his shields in place. He wondered how she could endure it,
then realisation struck him, and he understood what she was trying
to do.

The Envoy was
an empath who fed on the pain of others, which brought him intense
pleasure. Rayne’s empathy allowed her to share his pleasure, make
it her own and send it back. Her pleasure was poison to the Envoy,
and Rayne used it as a weapon, causing him deep distress. Just as
she reflected his pleasure, so she did his distress, increasing his
pleasure and hers, forming a mirror into which the Envoy was being
forced to look.

Could anyone
endure so much suffering and remain sane? He glanced around, wary
of other dangers, but the huge chamber remained empty apart from
the two antagonists. To distract himself, he studied the seething
sea with its millions of glowing crimson creatures, discerning
their purpose.

A cry of pain
jerked his gaze back to the girl, whose foot had been swallowed by
one of the tube mouths. Its fangs lacerated her ankle, and he
sensed the increase of the empathic maelstrom, his head aching from
its pressure. The Envoy writhed as the psychic circle intensified,
several submerged tentacles rising to lash the air. Rayne’s face
twisted with a mixture of pain and delight, her smile a grimace,
her back arched in a spasm of bitter pleasure. Tarke had seen many
people tortured, and had always been helpless to prevent it, now he
had to stand idle while she suffered, and hated it.

Tarke could
not interfere, however, no matter how he longed to wrest her from
the alien parasite’s cruel grip. A planet relied upon her success,
and its populace’s suffering would be far greater than hers.
Strangely, her empathy lessened her pain, since she shared the
Envoy’s pleasure, but still, it was hard for him to bear. To
distract himself, he strapped the fighting blade onto his arm. The
length of razor-sharp steel ran from his elbow to fifteen
centimetres beyond his fist, which gripped a protruding hilt. With
this on his left arm and the sword in his right, he was a match for
most enemies, alien or otherwise.

Rayne was in a
dream-like state, the mental torture-pleasure now so intense she
was forced to distance herself from it or go mad. She channelled
most of the pleasure back at the Envoy, and tried to heighten her
pain. Her healing abilities helped by increasing the sensitivity of
the nerves in her legs. It seemed crazy, but in order to escalate
the Envoy’s pleasure so she could send it back to him, she had to
endure more pain. Now that the Shrike stood guard over her, she
focussed on the battle, trusting him to prevent the Envoy from
killing her. She did trust him, she found, quite implicitly.

Rayne also
knew that if she failed, he would die too. This powerful goad
carried her along her painful path, enforcing her resolve when it
might otherwise have crumbled. She sensed the Envoy’s burgeoning
distress, and at the same time, she became aware of her failure.
The Envoy’s pleasure matched her increasing pain, but her suffering
cancelled the distress his reflected enjoyment brought. No matter
to what heights she took this battle, she could not win it alone.
The realisation brought a surge of despair, and she cried out to
the only other entity that could help her. The Ship’s mind was
distant, but it heard her.

Rayne
struggled to free her legs from the Envoy’s gnawing mouths. Her
eyes opened, filled with suffering, and she stretched a hand out to
Tarke.

“
Help me!”

The Shrike
thrust his sword into the floor and grasped her hand, pulling her
away. The Envoy’s hold tightened, and Tarke slipped, falling to his
knees. He dug the fighting blade into the floor, gaining sufficient
purchase to drag her away. The tube mouths lost their grip, their
teeth tearing bloody gashes in her legs. As soon as she was free,
her eyes glazed again. He wondered if he should cut the tendrils
that held her, but her return to the psychic battle seemed to
indicate that he had done enough. An empath worked better when in
touch with her subject, and he knew this fight was far from
over.

Using the
fighting blade as an anchor, he kept her out of reach of the
groping, sucking tubes. A movement caught his eye, and he tensed in
alarm and surprise. A horde of pinkish-grey creatures detached from
the walls, oozing from the Ship’s flesh. They galloped towards the
fray on black-tipped legs, some raising claw-tipped hands.
Twisting, he grabbed his sword and yanked it free, hanging onto the
girl with his left hand as he faced his new foe. The first wave of
beasts galloped past him and attacked the Envoy, leaping onto him
to plunge fangs into his flesh. The Envoy squirmed, the long
tendrils that spanned the chamber writhing.

The Ship’s
pain hit Tarke like a steel hammer, bent his mental defences and
made him groan, a creeping blackness trying to blot out his sight.
He shook his head, fighting the urge to curl up and clasp his
beleaguered skull, forcing his barriers to greater heights, far
surpassing anything he had achieved before. The psychic power
required to hold such iron blocks sapped him, and his brain seemed
to grow hot, the tension making his temples pound. His vision
blurred with the strain, but he retained his hold on the sword and
the girl. Some of the Ship’s soldiers veered to attack him and the
girl. Tarke raised the sword in a slashing stroke, lopping off a
soldier’s head. It fell jerking, and he reversed the slash, opening
another’s chest.

The rest came
on in a bunch, forcing him to release Rayne and use the fighting
blade, slashing with it as he cut and thrust with the sword. A
soldier’s crystal claws sliced a long gash in his arm, and he
struggled to his feet. As he did, Rayne was pulled back towards the
Envoy, but the huge beast seemed to be in great distress now.
Another wave of pain went through the Ship, making Tarke stagger as
it hammered at his shields. He shook his head to clear the aching
redness, chopping and hacking at the soldiers. Their loyalties
still seemed divided; some attacked the Envoy, while others came at
him.

Rayne writhed
as the Ship’s agony burnt through her in a crimson tide. The
Envoy’s enjoyment blossomed, and she channelled it back to him. His
mental bellow almost crushed her mind, then he struck back by
punishing the Ship, and again the deadly circle poisoned him. Each
escalation burnt new paths into her brain, opening unknown areas as
her pain brought waves of pleasure from the Envoy, and she sought
to channel this back to the monster. She had a vague awareness of
Tarke battling the soldiers that were under the Envoy’s control,
preventing them from reaching her.

Many more
attacked the Envoy, and she sent a wave of gratitude to the Ship.
Scrysalza had responded bravely to her plea, and the first wave of
soldiers had brought retaliation from the Envoy, just as she had
hoped. The Ship’s pain, so much more powerful than hers, had evoked
enough pleasure in the Envoy to cause its reflection to hurt him
badly. Now that the Ship was embroiled in the escalating
pain-pleasure battle, Rayne had at her disposal enough pain to
torture the Envoy with his pleasure.

The Envoy’s
tendrils tightened, more snaking forth to wind around her hips and
waist in a crushing hold. She gasped at the fresh wave of pain,
using it to strike back with the Envoy’s resulting pleasure, but
the parasite had decided to end the conflict the easy way, by
removing the source of his peril. She fought the tentacles, but
their strength defeated her, and she cried out to the Shrike for
help.

The girl’s cry
distracted Tarke, allowing a soldier to slash his chest, its claws
shredding his armour. He cut it down and spun to chop through two
of the tendrils that held the girl, then whipped back to face the
soldiers. The fighting blade sliced into a beast, ending its
existence, and it sank into the ship’s flesh, as all those he
killed did. The numbers that attacked him were undiminished,
however, oozing from the chamber’s walls in a seemingly endless
tide.

Already he had
learnt that the slightest damage to a soldier caused its immediate
reabsorption, and that had gained him an advantage. Sweat ran down
him under his clothes, stinging his eyes within the mask. His arms
ached with growing fatigue, and now he was forced to cut the
Envoy’s tendrils as well as fight the soldiers, for the alien
clearly intended to kill the girl. The escalating psychic maelstrom
threatened to overwhelm his mental defences.

A soldier
crashed into him in an ungainly charge, and he lost his footing as
he cut it down. Sliding on his knees, he ended up crouched over the
girl, forced to cut more tendrils as he fended off the soldiers
with the fighting blade. The Envoy’s tendrils snaked around his
arms and legs, hampering him. They were close to the tube mouths,
but he could not drag her away. The soldiers’ attack occupied most
of his attention, and he could only spare an occasional slash to
chop off the tendrils that sought to capture him. He needed another
two pairs of arms to win this fight. He chopped and hacked,
occasionally cutting a tentacle when the soldiers allowed,
preventing the girl from being crushed.

The Envoy
writhed. The psychic poison Rayne channelled into him appeared to
affect his ability to control his tentacles and the soldiers. More
and more left the battle with Tarke and flung themselves at the
parasite as the Ship regained control of them, but the price it
paid was high. The Ship’s suffering darkened the chamber and fouled
the air with a harsh, gritty stench. Its distant howling keened
through the chamber, and the blood beasts’ brilliant glow faded.
Tarke wondered if, in the process of killing the Envoy, they would
slay the Crystal Ship as well.

The soldier he
stabbed staggered back and was reabsorbed, then no more faced him.
He cut the tentacles that held the girl, whose eyes were glazed. He
dropped the sword and searched for a pulse in her throat, then
dragged her away from the Envoy. The massive entity writhed and
shuddered, its submerged tentacles lashing the fluid into froth.
The red sea no longer seethed, since many of the blood beasts had
fled, reducing the light to a twilight glow.

Tarke sensed
that the battle had injured the Ship and the Envoy, and they had
withdrawn to recover. The respite allowed his gasping breaths to
slow, and as soon as he had the girl safely away from the Envoy, he
wiped the slime off her face and patted her cheek. For several
minutes, she stared at the roof, and he feared her mind had snapped
under the strain. Then she blinked several times, focussed on him
and smiled.

“
Tarke.”

“
Are you all right?” He realised that these were the first
words he had spoken since arriving here.

“
They’re tired. The Envoy’s sick. He can’t take much more of
this, but Scrysalza’s suffering too.” She pushed at the severed
tendrils that still clasped her waist and legs. “It’s not over yet.
It won’t end until the Envoy’s dead.”

Tarke pulled
the dead tentacles away, freeing her arms and legs. “Can you tell
the Ship to turn away from Atlan? Does it have enough control to do
that?”

Her eyes glaze
for a moment, then she shook her head. “No. It doesn’t dare.”

Tarke helped
her to sit up, concerned by her pallor. He tore away the shredded
remains of her suit that clogged the bleeding cuts in her legs and
used the rags to wipe them. She leant against him, closing her
eyes. He eased her back onto the floor and patted her cheek.