Slave Empire - The Crystal Ship (23 page)

Tallyn gazed
at the Ship again. “It does seem that she’s succeeded, although she
might not have survived. Could her ship transfer her out?”

“
It’s not talking to us, sir.”

Tallyn sighed.
“Then we wait, I suppose, for something else to happen.”

Tarke woke
stiff and cold, his clothes caked with dried slime. He rolled over
and sat up. Nothing had changed, although he had slept for five
hours, according to his timepiece. The red sea’s glow barely
illuminated the shores, and the Envoy’s bulk lay like a beached
whale. He stood up, wincing as stiff muscles protested and his
injuries stabbed him. Dried blood caked his ankles and calves, and
pulled muscles and strained ligaments twinged.

Stripping off
the fighting blade, he dropped it before he limped over to Rayne’s
huddled form, squatted beside her and ran his hand over her face in
the gloom. She breathed evenly, although her skin was cold. The
chill in the air was sharp and clammy, reminding him of a tomb. Was
the Ship dead? He sensed no presence, and sighed. Rising, he limped
to the shore and gazed into the glowing sea. The blood beasts lay
at the bottom, unmoving, but the fluid was still warm. He cursed,
angry and disappointed.

“
I didn’t do all that just for you to die,” he
muttered.

Dropping his
shields, he opened his mind and sent it out. Decades of experience
had honed a fairly good telepathic ability, and he used it now to
search for the Ship. If it was alive, he would find it. He touched
the girl’s sleeping mind, shocked by its emptiness. Moving on, he
searched the Ship’s deeper realms, its inner core far below him,
denser than lead. There he caught a soft sigh of sentience, a
fading shimmer of life. He chased it, but it flitted away, as
elusive as a sea breeze. The Ship was still dying, as it had been
during all the hours he had slept. As it had promised, it took a
long time to die, and even now its last shreds of life were leaving
it. Why? He had cut the blue ganglion. Had he been too late? The
dead Envoy already sagged.

“
You’re free,” he said. “Why give up now? The parasite is
dead. You can go home to your nebula, be with your
friends.”

Tarke wandered
away from the shore and stepped on something hard. He picked up his
sword and hefted it. “I hate quitters, Scrysalza. I’ve never been
one myself, and I hate it in others. We did a lot for you, and she
almost died. But she’s alive because she’s not a quitter, and the
Envoy’s dead because we killed him. All of us, you, me, and her.”
He raised the sword and plunged it into the floor. “I hope you can
feel that, although I doubt it. Live, Scrysalza! Live!”

Tarke walked
over to his mask and picked it up. He wondered if the girl could
help the Ship. She was, after all, a healer, and she would be angry
if she woke to find the Ship already dead. At least she deserved a
chance to try, if it was not too late. He ran a hand through his
short hair, easing its stiff itchiness, then donned the hood and
mask and went to kneel beside her and pat her cheek.

Rayne remained
inert until he pulled her upright and shook her, then she coughed.
He shook her until her eyes opened and her face twisted with pain,
then laid her on the ground. Her eyes held a frightening vacancy,
and he remembered her previous incapacitation after her first
battle. The second one had been far worse, longer and more
strenuous, and he wondered if her sanity had survived. A chill ran
through him at the possibility that she might also be lost,
swallowed by the strange emptiness he had sensed within her mind
earlier. He patted her cheek again, making her flinch.

“
Come on; snap out of it, Rayne. Fight.”

She gasped and
coughed, her eyes wide and empty.

“
You’ve got to heal yourself. Come on, don’t give up now.” He
rubbed her icy face, alarmed by her pallor, visible even in the
gloom.

She turned her
head away, seeking to escape his insistent patting.

“
Come on, heal yourself. For me.”

A little
awareness returned to her eyes, and tears leaked from them as she
fought the painful numbness within her mind. He stroked her cheeks
and stiff hair, knowing his touch was the only thing keeping her
from sliding back into the dark arms of unconsciousness to escape
the howling emptiness of her scarred mind. His voice made her
twitch in distress, soft as it was, and he murmured words of
encouragement to hold her attention.

Rayne clung to
the sound of Tarke’s voice, and his touch slowly brought her back
from the blank blackness that had held her in its grip for so long.
It seemed like an eternity that she had lain in the silent folds of
utter numbness, the world lost in the great void left by the
Envoy’s pain. Her pain sharpened her awareness, and a burning agony
in her lungs demanded her attention. She gasped, trying to fill
lungs that seemed to have shrunk drastically, fluid bubbling in
them. With each breath, her lungs healed as she concentrated on the
task until the tightness eased and the bubbling lessened.

When her
breathing was normal once more, she opened her eyes, squinting at
the man who sat beside her. He stroked her hair, his touch
awakening her senses and bringing reality closer with each caress.
The howling emptiness tried to fill her, but she held it at bay
with his image, using it to fill the void. The numbness receded,
shut off by the closing of doors that had allowed it to sweep in
like a winter storm. As her mind drifted up into the light of
awareness, the pain of its raw wounds pounded her temples.

She groaned
and lifted a shaking hand to her head. “It hurts.”

“
I’m not surprised. Heal it. You can do it.”

“
How would you know?”

“
Because I know how strong you are,” he said. “Anyone who can
survive what you did can heal a little headache.”

“
It’s not so little.”

“
But you’re getting better all the time.”

“
It’s not as bad as the first time.” Her fierce frown eased as
she soothed the ache in her temples, and the apathy and dullness
ebbed as her health improved. When her pain had abated
sufficiently, she studied him. “Are you all right?”

He nodded.
“I’ll live, but the Ship needs your help.”

“
Why?” Alarm blossomed in her as she struggled to sit up,
wincing. He helped her, and she gazed around at the gloomy chamber,
shivering with shock and cold. She rubbed her arms, startled by the
air’s damp chill, and her teeth chattered.

“
It’s cold! And dark...” Her breath caught in a sob. “It’s
dying!”

“
Yes. I cut the ganglion, but I might have been too
late.”

“
The Envoy...?”

“
Dead.” Tarke took her icy hands and chafed them, and she
wondered how many hours she had lain on the cold floor, her
metabolism at a low ebb. He asked, “Are you okay?”

“
Cold,” she bit out, her teeth rattling.

“
Can’t healers do something about that?”

“
We’re not bloody magicians, Tarke.”

“
Right,” he muttered, and stripped off his torn battle armour,
then undid his shirt. “Now I wish I’d worn the damned
coat.”

She stared at
him. “What are you doing?”

“
Basic survival tactics. You need to warm up quickly so you
can help the Ship, and sitting here shivering isn’t going to do
it.”

Rayne half
expected him to strip to bare skin, but was sadly disappointed, for
beneath the shirt he wore a form-hugging tunic of a thin elastic
material. It was dry and warmed by his skin, and when he took her
in his arms she pressed close, sensing his slight shudder. She
wondered at it, and his tension. She got the impression that he
disliked her proximity intensely, and endured it only so he could
warm her. That confused and hurt her, making her wonder if it was
just her, or if he reacted like this to everyone. Somehow, she
sensed that his aversion was deep-seated, and applied to all and
sundry, which mollified her somewhat.

With detached
efficiency, he assured that as much of her as possible was in
contact with him, thereby speeding the warming process. While she
enjoyed the unexpected intimacy with the formidable Shrike, she
also wondered at the lengths he went to, to cover himself from head
to foot. The chill air nipped her through her suit’s thin, damp
material, and Tarke draped his shirt over her. Far too quickly, she
warmed against him, and despite her keen worry for the Ship, she
longed for the wonderful intimacy to continue indefinitely.

As soon as she
stopped shivering, Tarke released her and pushed her arms into the
sleeves of his shirt. With this to increase her warmth, he stood up
and pulled her to her feet. Her knees buckled, forcing him to hold
her up, and she clung to him while her legs shook.

“
You need to keep moving now,” he said. “That will warm you.”
He held her away, but her legs promptly folded, so he pulled her
upright again, chafing her arms to get her circulation
going.

“
I need to lie down and bloody well sleep for a week,” she
muttered. “You don’t know what it’s like to have a yawning abyss
where your mind’s supposed to be.”

He steadied
her when she wobbled, foiling her attempts to hang on to him. “No,
but I do know that if you don’t help it, the Ship’s going to
die.”

Tears of
sorrow and tiredness ran down her cheeks. “What can I do to help
it?”

“
You’re a damned healer, Rayne.”

“
It’s an alien.”

“
One you know pretty well. Better than me. I don’t think it
requires you to heal its flesh, only its mind. You know what it’s
been through. You were with it, so you know how it feels
now.”

She shook her
head, gazing up at him. “But it’s gone. I can’t sense it. Maybe
it’s too late.”

“
No, I sensed it, near its core. It’s not dead yet. Not
quite.”

“
I can’t. I have nothing to offer it but my own
emptiness.”

“
Then what do you need? Is there anything I can
do?”

She nodded,
clinging to his arm, which was the only support he was prepared to
offer now. “Yes, but first we have to get to the core.”

“
Why can’t you do it from here?”

“
Because I’m not like you; I can’t send my mind there. I don’t
have the skill.”

He cursed.
“All right. We’ll have to find a way to the core, then.”

Tarke wished
the chamber was brighter. Dozens of tunnels opened into it, but
there was no way of knowing which, if any, led to the Ship’s core.
The air was growing stale. The wind had died, and a terrible
silence filled the Ship, making him realise just how many
unobtrusive noises had been there before. The sea’s glow had faded
to a deep crimson, like cooling lava. He hunted for a solution, and
remembered his ship, somewhere outside. The Crystal Ship had
blocked contact with it before, but could he reach it now? He
tried, and received Scimarin’s concerned reply. After reassuring
him, Tarke thought of ways to reach Scrysalza’s core with
Scimarin’s help.

Can you transfer us,
he
asked.

The ship was silent for a time, pondering the problem, then
answered,
The crystalline entity no longer
has a Net energy shell, but it still possesses a distortion shield,
which has weakened sufficiently to allow contact with you, but
remains a barrier to the transfer locator beam.

Tarke shook
his head in frustration. The transfer Net, while able to circumvent
any barrier due to the fact that it passed through the energy
dimension, had its limitations. When transferring between two known
points, especially the metal plates in permanent transfer points,
no barrier could prevent transfer. When transferring to an unknown
location, however, such as the Ship’s core, a locator particle beam
had to be used to map the destination, lest the person being
transferred emerge from the energy shell inside a solid object.

This had
hampered him when he had tried to rescue Rayne from the Draycon
ship. The ship’s energy shell had distorted the locator beam until
he was able to synchronise Scimarin’s shell with it. Evidently the
Crystal Ship’s distortion shield was too alien for Scimarin to deal
with, otherwise he would have suggested it. The transfer Net was a
wonderful tool, but it always seemed to present this problem just
when he needed it most. Rayne released him and rubbed her arms
while she waited for him to finish communicating with his ship.

“
That means we’re also stuck here until the Ship dies,” he
muttered, “unless we can save it.” He closed the communications
with a mental switch and turned to the bedraggled girl. “Our
options appear to be limited. Any suggestions?”

She shook her
head, looking miserable. “I’ve tried to contact it. The Ship won’t
answer me.”

“
Can’t,” he corrected. Tarke eyed the Envoy’s dead bulk. “The
ganglia go straight down, which means the ship’s brain is directly
below us.”

“
Not necessarily.”

“
But in all likelihood. Come on, be a little
optimistic.”

She shrugged.
“So what good does that do? We still have to find a tunnel that
goes there.”

“
No, we don’t. You’re a healer. That’s it!” He snapped his
fingers.

“
What’s it?” She looked suspicious.

“
You’re a healer. You can make a tunnel down to the ship’s
core.”