Inherit the Stars (25 page)

Kivita shivered as Shekelor's final words over Tejuit entered her mind:
“You cannot escape
.
”

“Aldaakians lack the Savant ability,” Jandeel said. “Why destroy their worlds, too, Navon? I always assumed the two fought over resources.”

Everyone waited for Navon to answer, but Kivita bit her lip and shook her head.

“Remember—the Sarrhdtuu chased my mother's ship into the Cetturo Arm. By all rights, they should have incinerated it. Maybe that's how she escaped? By doing something to their ship . . . with her mind?”

“More speculation.” The Naxan Sage clicked once.

“So much death,” the Tahe Sage murmured. “It serves no purpose. This is genocide, complete eradication. Why?”

Something teased at Kivita's mind, a notion born of intuition. It bothered her that such thoughts might not be her own, but data recollected from the Juxj Star.

“Maybe the Vim developed Savants as a weapon?” Kivita said.

Everyone shot her a contemptuous look.

“We spread knowledge, not death!” one Savant cried.

“That's ludicrous, Kivita,” Jandeel said. “How would this be used as a weapon?”

“Yeah, but we already know someone—the Vim?—created humans, Aldaakians, and Ascali from one stock,
then put us in these spiral arms called Cradles. But why? Why would the Sarrhdtuu chase Savants across the cosmos, just to kill them? Why capture and torture them? It has to be something more than just broadcasting data.”

No one answered Kivita's questions.

“We must study these revelations,” Navon said, his deep, warbling voice a comfort among such concepts. “Study and discern them, before
Luccan's Wish
completes this jump.”

One by one, people left the library. The Tahe Sage still quivered, and one Savant had to be aided out by two others. Though Kivita also found the images disturbing, she failed to see what really troubled everyone. The Thedes were rebels. Weren't they used to death? Even Jandeel avoided her eyes as he left with the Naxan Sage.

She scratched her head. “I didn't mean to . . .”

Navon sighed. “They all refuse to entertain your theory, Kivita. Those who join the Thedes usually do so in rejection of war, forced coercion, and slavery. For you to insinuate—”

“What would the reason be?” Kivita crossed her arms.

“The Sarrhdtuu confuse me,” Navon replied. “They destroy, then enslave. The Vim either abandoned us or were unable to cope with Sarrhdtuu aggression. So many of their wrecked craft are found in the Cetturo Arm, and no one really knows why. It is a mystery the Juxj Star may never reveal, but there are uncounted datacores still awaiting discovery. Perhaps one will cast light on our ignorance.”

The mention of enslavement evoked the slave pens on Umiracan. Since Shekelor did not deal with the Tannocci, Naxans, Aldaakians, or Inheritors . . .

“Oh no,” Kivita whispered. A chill crept over her body.

“What is the matter?” Navon clasped her hands.

“Shekelor is green-rigged, right? He also had scores of slaves when I was on Umiracan. We know he's a Sarrhdtuu flunky. Think he sells slaves to them?”

The color drained from Navon's face. “If that is so, that might explain other things.”

“Navon?” Kivita walked over to him.

“Though it is unknown to most, the Inheritors press entire villages and townships into service from my homeworld,” Navon said. “That is one reason I became a Thede. Villages that are desolate, their people vanished. Yet no Thede agent has ever uncovered any clues as to where these people were sent or their fate.”

Kivita nodded. “Yeah, and you mentioned the Sarrhdtuu are the Inheritor's benefactors.”

Navon gripped her hands tight. “We must pore over our available datacores, Kivita. We must try to find all knowledge relating to Sarrhdtuu Transmutation and its links to the slave trade. I fear what you have shown me today is but the first murmurs of an ancient nightmare.”

“You cannot escape
.
”
Shekelor's warning sunk into her mind and burrowed into her heart.

Sar opened the Savants' cells one by one. Each huddled in a corner and regarded him as some reptilian predator from Bellerion. None left their cells.

All of them resembled Dunaar, but thinner and younger. They even shared his baldness and sweaty skin. Sar had to turn away from their pitiful stares.

“Food. Redryll?” Bredine pointed at the entrance.

Wincing at all his bruises, Sar stubbed the clothed Proselyte with his boot. “Put it on. It'll be easier to escape.”

Bredine rubbed her arms. “I won't wear void black uniform. Hmm. Beatings, beatings.”

With no idea who waited outside the chamber or how many aboard had already entered cryostasis, Sar considered his position. Either he could wait here and risk someone coming back or he could slip out and hope to hide somewhere aboard. Neither option appealed to him. He'd never been so brutally beaten in his life. It took all his strength just to stand.

“Fine. You lead,” he said.

Bredine unlatched the door and peered outside. Sar stifled a grunt as his nerves woke fully to the damage
he'd received. At least he'd not given away anything about his friends or Kivita.

“Redryll?” Bredine whispered, motioning him to follow.

No one stood guard outside, and the lamps in the corridor had diffused. His eyes darted to every corner. Disguised or not, his skin prickled. His breaths sounded too loud; each footfall was a cacophony.

“I lead. Hmm? Redryll. But you act the part.” Looping her arm in his, Bredine walked slightly forward of him. He leaned on her more than he liked to admit.

As Sar followed Bredine through
Arcuri's Glory
, lamps flickered on at their approach, then faded after they walked past. Inheritor transports placed the crew in cryo, while a scant security detail maintained the ship. With luck, he'd avoid them. After the beating, he was too weak for resistance.

“Food, food. Hmm?” Bredine's green eyes measured Sar with hope.

He put a gloved hand on her shoulder. She cringed for a second, then nestled up to him.

“I promised you would eat, but keep still. We don't know who might be about.”

Sar's breath came out in small clouds, which worried him. With
Arcuri's Glory
maintaining an air supply and the interior temperature not dropping as much as it should, it meant others remained awake, too. More than just a few crew.

Right around the corner, two soldiers snapped to attention.

Sar's heart almost leapt from his chest, but Bredine urged him on.

Two more soldiers stood guard at the end of the
corridor. Sar did his best to shamble past them, but the next corridor contained an entire squad of the bastards. Dressed in red jumpsuits and gold-chased polyarmor, they were Dunaar's elite troops. All gave him and Bredine a wide berth and nodded in respect. Playing the arrogant Proselyte, Sar didn't acknowledge them.

Was Dunaar in his own cryopod? Even though Sar wore the Proselyte's outfit and mask, he needed to know. He pointed at a squad commander.

“Has the Rector entered cryostasis?” His voice sounded like flesh scraping over gravel.

The commander saluted. “Indeed, sir. His holiness's staff, servants, and retinue have also entered cryo.” He frowned at Bredine. “Do you require assistance, sir?”

“The Rector wanted this one to eat before going into cryo.” Sar hoped the man would reveal the location of the kitchen galley, but the commander nodded again and continued his patrol.

Pain stabbed into his knees and shoulders. Bruises along his body pounded his nerves. Dammit, the shock was wearing off.

“Redryll?” Bredine leaned him into her right shoulder.

Without knowing the ship's total jump time, he needed a cryopod. One where, upon waking, he'd not be captured again. Dunaar would discover his absence shortly after exiting the jump. A more immediate concern was his health. A good cryosleep where he could be pumped full of medicine would help, but he needed a doctor.

“Hmm? This way.”

For a prisoner, Bredine knew her way around
Arcuri's Glory
. He tried to keep his footsteps silent on the
sandstone and quartz flooring while they crept into another corridor. A humming, machinelike sound rose above the ship's gentle thrum: a hot-wave disk. The scent of cooked protein slabs wafted up his nose.

Bredine's stomach growled. He tensed.

“Hey, nobody's supposed to be on this deck,” a voice called from a side galley. “Unless you're the Rector himself, get your ass back into cryo.”

Sar stood straight and gripped Bredine's hand. Walking into the galley, he tried to adopt a Proselyte's stiff, arrogant gait.

“You hear me? Dammit.” A crewman in a brown jumpsuit came out, holding a steaming protein slab. “Oh. I wasn't told one of you fellows would be still awake. Hey, prisoners aren't allowed on this deck. Rector's orders.”

“Where are your comrades?” Sar asked in a gruff tone.

The crewman frowned. “I won't be waking my reliever on this deck until another Haldon week has passed. Hey, what are you—”

Sar punched the crewman's jaw, then jabbed his knee into the man's stomach. The man crumpled to the floor and reached for a large wrench on his belt, but Bredine kicked the wrench away and twisted the man's legs together.

“Tell me what I want, and I'll dump you in a cryopod trussed up, not as a corpse.” Sar caught his breath, his bruises smarting.

The crewman went limp. “What the hell you need?”

“How many are awake in this section?” Sar propped himself against the wall. Damn, he hurt all over.

“One per deck, plus one in operations and one in the
engine room. So five others.” The man winced as Bredine tightened her grip.

“Soldiers, hmm?” she asked. “Hmm. Still eight squads? Already eaten this shift?”

“Yes. How did you—” He gasped as Bredine wrung his left arm behind his back.

Sar tried to think of what else he needed to know. “Is
Fanged Pauper
docked with this ship?”

“Yes, the Vim curse your eyes. Who the hell are you?”

Bredine undid the crewman's belt, along with its attached tools. She hesitated, then removed the tools and snapped the belt with a smile. Sar hadn't expected her to still have all her teeth.

Turning the crewman over, Sar pulled the man's arms to the center of his back. Bending over made him grunt from his multitude of agonies. Bredine looped the belt around the crewman's wrists, though Sar shook his head when she drew it too tight. She relented, then rewound and fastened it into a thick knot.

“Where's your cryopod?” As Sar tried lifting the man up, his battered body and stomach and tingling nerves made him stagger. With strength belying her appearance, Bredine helped Sar bring the bound crewman to his feet.

“Two doors down. You'll be executed for this, whoever you are. The Vim won't have mercy on you!” The crewman spat at Bredine. “Filthy witch!”

Sar forced the man along until they entered the specified door. Nineteen cryopods held various crewmen; one was empty. Sar shoved the man in and closed the hatch. Though the crewman struggled and cursed, the hatch muted his voice. Sar waited until cryosleep took the man, then returned to the galley, limping at every step.

Bredine sat on the floor, eating the crewman's protein slab. A placard of Inheritor Charter tenements hung over the counter.

“You're not filth or a witch.” Kneeling, he smoothed the dark bangs from her eyes. She watched him with wide eyes, chewing the slab.

“Food?” She pointed at an open food locker.

“Need a medical cabinet.” He lifted the ply mask. “I'm Sar Redryll.”

“Bredine Ov.” She pulled sugar reeds and Susuron mussels from the locker, then gobbled them by the mouthful.

Though raw pain shot through his legs and stomach, Sar rose and pulled out a water flask. “Hold still.”

He wet the ply mask and washed her face. Bredine didn't move, but he had to work around her continuous eating. A long scar ran down her left cheek; another went up from her right brow into her scalp. Around thirty years old, she looked attractive despite her abuse. Those green eyes . . . like those of an elderly woman. He wondered how long Dunaar had kept her in cryo.

Contrary to Dunaar's claims, Sar had aided many such victims of Inheritor hegemony. Bredine's dark hair and determination reminded him of Caitrynn, reminded him of what little his vengeance had gained him. He feared to abandon it. Shekelor had, and it had made the pirate even less honorable. Without retribution driving him, Sar wasn't sure what he might become himself.

“Grab a flask and let's go. Got to find a cryopod somewhere.” Sar stood and rubbed his pounding face. For a moment, Kivita entered his mind. He wondered if Cheseia had harmed her.

“Kivita sending to you?” Bredine asked between bites.

Stomach throbbing, Sar bent over and shut his eyes. No tears came, but emotions shook his body, ripped his heart. His sacrifice had been in vain; Cheseia would lead Dunaar to the Thedes, and all of his friends and the woman he loved would die. Now Caitrynn and Kivita both would haunt his frozen dreams across the cosmos. Sar's knees buckled and he flopped onto the floor.

Something soft and damp caressed his face. Sar opened his eyes.

Bredine wiped his face with the wet mask, her green eyes solemn and noble. The damp cloth mopped away dried blood from his lips and nostrils.

“Gushing hot love for her. She'll forgive.” Bredine popped another reed into her mouth. “Don't let heart get void black, okay? Sar Redryll. Redryll, Redryll. Hmm. Food?”

Wincing, Sar sat up. “No, thanks.” He lifted her up with him. “Need some medicine.”

“Brown face needs attention.” She tugged his hand and exited the side galley. Now she walked more upright, exuding confidence and purpose. They passed four doors and entered a slim corridor. A keypad prevented entrance to a medical ward.

“Six, eight. Stupid binary. Ah, lock. Redryll? Hmm.” She munched another reed and pressed the keypad's buttons. The door opened.

After passing rows of unoccupied cots, Sar rifled through a few wall cabinets, where he discovered thogens, cold packs, blue medical tape, and pink mollusk extract. With the aid of cryostasis, he might be fully healed before reaching their destination.

Had to be, if he planned to help Kivita.

Stripping to his underwear, Sar grimaced at the chill
air. All of his bruises flared up in aching protest. Bredine sat on a stool and ogled him.

Sar applied cold packs to his bruises, drank the extract, downed four thogen capsules, and wrapped blue tape around his neck where Shekelor's coils had left friction marks.

“Kivita is lucky,” Bredine murmured as she finished the last of her food. “Very lucky with Redryll. Hmm.”

Sar slipped back into his bodyglove and put the Proselyte outfit back on. Bredine helped, looping the copper-meld cuirass around his torso. Kneeling, she checked his boots and patted his black chaps with military crispness.

“How do you know this ship? This uniform?”

Bredine motioned for him to follow her into a storage chamber. Again, she knew the keypad sequence and opened several lockers, where she selected a soldier's red jumpsuit. She stripped from her bodyglove and donned it. Scars and more curved tattoos ran along her naked body, but she paid him no heed. The jumpsuit hugged her bony frame, which still retained toned musculature.

“Hurry. The thogens are making me drowsy.” He leaned on a bulkhead while she finished suiting up.

“Hmm. Warmer now. Ah.” She held up a hand. “My father. He might know. Redryll, Redryll?”

They passed into a carpeted, draped corridor. Several cryo chambers branched off from it, where dozens more soldiers lay in stasis. The temperature had dropped; their breath crackled as it turned into vacuum frost.

Bredine stopped at a large doorway framed in gold. Counting aloud, she tapped her fingers on Sar's cuirass. “Two, five, sixty. Hmm. It never changes.” She pointed at the doorway.

“What's in there?”

She jabbed the keypad, and the door slid open. As they entered, yellow ceiling lamps activated. The round room had a sandstone and quartz floor, couches, and various consoles.

Ignoring the rich trappings, Bredine led Sar to another large door. She entered a sequence into the keypad and it opened.

Who was she, possessing such an intimate knowledge of
Arcuri's Glory
?

An adjacent circular chamber, larger than the previous one, gave Sar pause. Dozens of upright cryopods lined the walls. Vacuum frost on the transparent hatches blurred the faces within.

Bredine stopped before one and activated its waking sequence.

“Don't! We need to hide, not wake them up—”

He stopped at the look on her face. Bredine's mouth turned down and her eyes narrowed. Despite her seeming near madness before, she appeared dangerously sane now.

The hatch opened, and a wrinkled old man shivered inside. A tube extended and squirted pseudoadrine into his mouth. The old man coughed, his lungs rattling like a broken Naxan clacker.

“Leave me be, Thev. I wish to meet the Vim soon.” His speech had archaic Meh Sattan trappings, as if he'd been asleep for a long time.

Bredine waved aside cryo exhaust. “Father. Hmm. I looked into their stones for you. Pictures, pictures.”

The old man stared at Bredine, then Sar. “You are not the Rector! How dare you awaken me like this . . . ?”

Sar stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“Imbecile. I am . . . Rector Broujel. I should be . . .” He paused and looked closer at Bredine. “What is this? Bredine? You . . . cannot still be here. Unless . . .” Broujel's eyes bulged, and he coughed in great, racking heaves.

“Unless she's been frozen on and off for centuries?” Sar leaned on the cryopod's hatch as the pain of his bruises mixed with the extract's tingling in his gut. “Heard you prophets froze each other. Guess you'll all kiss the Vims' asses together?”