[05] Elite: Reclamation (30 page)

The radio?

No, that was gone too.

Tears of frustration flashed in her eyes and she howled with rage, jolting spasmodically in sheer fury against the cords that held her. It did little to reduce her ire, but increased the pain in her wrists. After a moment she stopped, trying to focus her churning mind.

She rolled onto her side, slowly and painfully looping her arms under her legs. After a brief rest she got to her knees and crawled away, gasping with the effort. Her legs and arms were cramping, stiff and sore, the bonds around her wrists tight and secure. Her head pounded from the exertion.

She investigated the two bowl-like indentations. The water was obvious enough. The white mulch was some kind of crushed vegetable. It tasted bland, but food was food. She bent down and ravenously ate it, scraping every last morsel out as best she could.

She looked into the water, catching a faint reflection of herself in its surface. Her hair was a sodden black mess, wild and unkempt, she could make out a nasty congealed cut on her forehead and a face streaked with the crusty remains of blood, sweat and sand. It brought memories back into her mind …

Dark hair. Something bad about dark hair.

She shouldn’t have dark hair, it was wrong.

A man, berating her for having dark hair. A long corridor, a palace, a throne. She was looking up at him, arguing … words …

Your very presence distresses me.

The memory faded. She grasped at it, trying to hold on, but it slipped away; ephemeral.

Frustration welled up. She was alone, imprisoned in this dank dungeon. She didn’t know where she was or even who she was. Angry, she staggered across to the bars, ramming against them with her shoulder, the gate rattled, but remained locked in place.

‘Let me out! Is there anyone there? I demand you let me out!’

She strained at the bars, exerting what little leverage she could muster. All ended in the same way, the bars were immovable; too strong for her. She sank slowly downwards, falling against the wall, headache throbbing. The bonds were cutting into her wrists. Tears came, scalding down her cheeks, shock and reaction mixing with despair, bewilderment and loneliness. Would this nightmare never end? The image of the sombre man in the trench coat came back to her. He’d tried to kill her again, but then he’d bizarrely intervened to prevent her capture? Why? Who was he?

Now she was lost again. Caught and molested by some other person or persons intent on doing her harm. She had no one, no family, no friends, no memory, not even a real name.

Save perhaps one. The sombre man had called her … Kahina. Was that her real name or something else? She spoke it out loud, whispering it like a mantra over and over again, trying to force memories to surface. Vague familiarity echoed in her mind, accompanied by a sense of distain, dislike and humiliation. It didn’t feel like a name she should be proud of.

Sobs wracked her, uncontrolled and unbidden.

How long she stayed like that she didn’t know, but something roused her from her desolation. A noise; a soft low thrum that echoed down the corridor and reverberated off the stony walls. It was eerie and mesmerising. The hairs on the back of her neck rose and a chill ran down her spine. She scrambled to her feet, looking into the dark depths of the corridor.

Nothing moved; nothing that she could see.

The sound changed. It was almost imperceptible at first, but she could sense it was growing in volume, becoming more distinctive. She could distinguish different timbres, notes rising and falling in a bewitching harmony of sounds both bass and treble. It sounded almost as if …

With rising clarity she could make it out. Voices; calling in unison to a slow measured beat. A strange, intimidating and somehow tragic chant; punctuated by the sound of footsteps. After listening for a while she heard the central theme repeat every six beats with a sharp tap, other voices weaving more complex refrains on top of the rhythmic undercurrent.

She backed away to the rear of the cell as the chant continued to rise in volume. Orange light flickered and she could make out a dim wall at the far end of the corridor. Flickering shadows, hideously elongated, cast themselves across the wall.

They were coming closer.

A flaming torch came into view, the sudden brightness forcing her to squint and blink. Men, dressed in austere robes very much like the one she wore, walked slowly but inexorably down the corridor, their dark eyes shining in the torchlight. Each looked remarkably similar, with hair cut down to bristle atop their heads.

They looked straight ahead as if mesmerised. Each bore a torch in one arm and a wooden staff in the other. On the sixth beat of their strange refrain, the staff was dropped in perfect synchronisation onto the stone floor with a loud crack. They walked towards her with almost mechanical precision, two abreast. Salomé counted ten of them.

She watched as they advanced down the corridor towards her, stopping immediately outside the barred doorway. The staffs came down with a final thud and their voices ceased.

Their bodies were stock still, immobile, their eyes never wavering. Long seconds passed in total silence save for the crackling torches. Salomé couldn’t even hear them breathing.

‘Who …’

The moment she spoke one of the men at the front turned to look at her. His mouth opened wide and an ear-splitting tone issued forth. It wasn’t a cry or a yell, but a pure note, higher and louder than she could have imagined it was possible for a man to generate. It hammered round the cell at a deafening volume, forcing her to stagger back in pain, her ears ringing.

As abruptly as he’d started, the man stopped.

Salomé cautiously looked at him and opened her mouth.

‘Are …’

The tone again, even more powerful than before.

‘All right! I’ll be quiet. Just stop!’

The man stopped and looked at her. Salomé looked back at him, not daring to utter a sound.

Satisfied, the man produced a heavy looking series of keys from within his robe and unlocked the gate. In unison the men stepped back a pace.

The gate swung back with a squeak of rust and old metal. He entered the cell and grabbed her by her wrists, pushing her towards the exit. She resisted and considered trying to fight him off, but the odds were ridiculous. She decided it would be better to save her strength.

A coarse hemp bag was pulled over her head and tightened with a noose. She yelled her protest, but there was nothing she could do. A rough shove in the back and a yank on her neck propelled her forwards. A second squeak and a clunking rattle told her they had locked the gate behind her.

She heard a deep hum from a pair of the men furthest away. Then the next pair hummed a harmony, as did the next two pairs.

Another yank on her neck started her walking forwards. She tried to resist but that just gained her a painful thump in the back. She heard two men beside her thud their staffs and then began a strange chant.

To her surprise she could understand them. They sung words on a single note, with a simple rise or fall to mark the end of a sentence as they marched on.

‘You are to be taken to the assembly. You have trespassed and defiled a holy land in defiance of statute and law. You will be judged and sentenced by the Elders according to scripture. You will submit to just punishment for your heinous deeds. Your life is now in the custody of the Brotherhood of Resonance.’

Chapter Ten

Dalk had been led to Octavia’s cabin. He was still handcuffed and the guards shackled him to a bulkhead. One left, the other remained, watching him warily.

‘I’d tell the truth sooner rather than later,’ the guard advised. ‘She always gets what she wants.’

‘Perhaps I’d rather die,’ Dalk returned.

‘Maybe you would.’ The guard grinned, ‘but she won’t let you off that easily. That girl we caught? She lasted two days after her arm was ripped off. Sewn up the veins and arteries, no painkillers.’

‘A charming mistress. Attention to detail too. It’s most commendable.’

‘Domina likes screams and blood,’ the guard said coldly. ‘She doesn’t want you dying too quick.’

‘I’ll do my best not to get stains on the carpet.’

The guard scowled, annoyed.

‘You’ll think different before too long, bounty hunter. You’ll be begging for death.’

‘I’ll take that under advisement.’

The guard stepped back, Dalk looked around the sumptuous cabin. He could see artworks and decorations from a dozen worlds. He knew Octavia had money beyond count and that her influence spread far and wide. She could have pretty much bought anyone at whim, so why her interest in Kahina?

Octavia had gone to extraordinary lengths to capture her. She’d been supplying arms to the Reclamists of course, tacitly helping the Federation as Dalk had planned, but he hadn’t expected her to intercept Kahina’s convoy and attempt to snatch the girl. What was the purpose in that? Ransom? No, she’d accused him of that. She wanted Kahina herself, for a reason compelling enough to make her attack the convoy, recruit a series of bounty hunters and then follow him across several star systems to personally try to recover the girl once more.

Why?

Dalk had seriously underestimated Octavia’s commitment, assuming she was concerned simply with the loss of face resulting from Hassan’s ill-advised heist. There was something else. Kahina was somehow vital to Octavia’s plans.

Yet where was Kahina? Octavia didn’t have her by her own admission. Somehow Kahina must have jumped out in Hassan’s damaged ship. If Octavia had been unable to track her that implied a mis-jump, probably more by luck than judgement. If she’d survived that experience she could be anywhere. Literally anywhere. Hassan had said she was acting erratically, her memory only partially restored after her ‘death’. If she wasn’t marooned in the depths of space, she would be easy pickings for anybody looking to take advantage. He had to find her before she was lost to him forever.

Hassan’s terrified face came to mind. The callow youth was out of his depth. Dalk shook his head at the mind-numbing stupidity of trying to swindle Octavia Quinton. What was the boy thinking? A desperate, ridiculous move. The boy had stumbled into something far bigger than he’d realised. Dalk felt regret for making the situation worse, but knew his involvement had made little difference. From the moment the boy had stolen from Octavia he’d marked himself. Octavia was never going to relent, her reputation wouldn’t allow it. The boy should have run further and faster, he might have been safe in the heart of the Empire or the Alliance.

A foolish mistake. Did he deserve to die for it? Probably. Dalk sighed. If he could save him he would. If there was anything left to save.

The doors to the cabin snapped open. Dalk looked around seeing Octavia walk in. She dismissed the guard with a brief wave of her hand. He left and the doors snapped closed behind him. Octavia turned, a coy smile on her face.

‘Your companion is most deliciously responsive,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should be thanking you for delivering him into my hands. Retribution is so satisfying.’

‘I live to serve,’ Dalk replied.

‘Do you indeed, Dalk Torgen,’ she smiled at his brief look of surprise. ‘Yes, I know who you are now. It took some time, I commend you on your thoroughness. It took a significant effort to discover your true identity. I see we have had dealings before now. Only you were called Solanac then.’

‘I like a little variety.’

‘Bounty hunter, revolutionary, Imperial servant and, if I’m not mistaken, a Military Commander for the Independents. You do get around, do you not?’

Dalk grew serious. ‘What do you want with me, Quinton?’

‘Octavia, I insist.’

 ‘Octavia then …’

‘I want to know what you’re about,’ she said, simply. ‘You served the Imperials yet your allegiance was with the Independents. You supported the Reclamists whilst claiming to be an Imperial, yet you arranged for the Loren girl to be spirited away whilst claiming to support the Reclamists, undermining their revolution. Quite a cocktail of identities. The Federation and the Empire are thrown into turmoil. No one has the upper hand. But where does your allegiance truly lie?’

Dalk didn’t respond.

Octavia moved closer to him. Her voice grew soft and low.

‘Torturing you would be tedious,’ she mused. ‘I know you’re capable of resisting and I have no desire to end your life. Drugs I have, but they would leave you permanently crippled. That seems such a waste.’

‘What do you suggest?’

Octavia smiled and backed away. ‘You are doubtless curious as to why I am pursuing your Imperial girl. You’ve gone to great lengths to protect her. I am prepared to tell you why I need her. Perhaps our reasons are not too dissimilar. We might find an accommodation.’

‘And just carry on as if nothing had happened?’

‘You have not wronged me, Dalk,’ she said, looking around at him. ‘Not yet. In fact, we’ve worked well together for many years. I want that girl and I will have her. You could help me in that. If I understood your intentions …’

‘Why should I trust you?’

‘Because I can kill you right here and now. It would be quick merciful death for you as befits your standing, but death nonetheless. Would you rather die? I will find her anyway and your plans will die with you. I’m offering a truce. Just help me find the girl.’

‘Perhaps you will simply kill me when you have what you want.’

‘A risk you’ll have to take. I am many things, but I am not a liar. I will not kill you if you co-operate. You’re more valuable alive than dead.’

Octavia folded her arms and smiled, waiting.

Dalk considered his options and then cast a glance above his head towards his shackled wrists. Octavia leant in close. Dalk smelt her perfume and a brief twinge of excitement coursed through him. She was a strangely desirable woman.

‘Trust,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘the anticipation, the danger. Exciting, don’t you think? History turns on moments such as these. Consider carefully.’

Dalk felt the shackles release. He could overpower her; he might never get a better opportunity …