Slave Empire III: The Shrike

Slave Empire III

The Shrike

T C Southwell

Published by T C Southwell at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by T C Southwell

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Rayne fiddled with her scribe pad while she waited for the four workers to complete the installation of a new air seal in the outer door on the eastern side of Ironia’s bio-dome. She had two more tasks to oversee that day, the overhaul of a lift in quadrant four and repairs to an air conditioner in mess hall three. In the two months that had passed since her marriage to the Shrike, her life had taken on a pleasant routine. Vidan gave her duties in the station’s maintenance, tending to the bio-dome’s running. Each day presented new challenges, and she enjoyed the satisfaction of fixing a minor atmosphere leak or water seepage problem, even though all she did was ensure the work was completed and check it off her list. She was sure the workers could have done that themselves, but she enjoyed chatting to them and learning how things worked.

The friendly crews ignored her occasional reactions to their emotions and seemed to welcome her supervision, casting her frequent warm smiles. Although there had been no ceremony, everyone in the base, and presumably the rest of the Shrike’s empire, knew she was now his wife, thanks to the announcement Vidan had made on her strange wedding day. She had hardly seen Tarke since then. According to Vidan, her elusive husband was always away chasing slavers, protecting his territory or rescuing slaves. On the ten occasions he had been at the base, she had had dinner with him, and they had discussed a variety of subjects, none of which touched on his past. Whenever she had let slip a question about it, she had apologised and withdrawn it. Sometimes he had answered her, other times he had accepted her retraction. Rayne disliked the amount of walking on eggshells she had to do, but enjoyed their times together and looked forward to seeing him again. He seemed to enjoy her company, and she longed to spend more time with him.

The workers’ murmur hushed, and the four men gazed past her, their expressions joyful, radiating the intense adoration she had come to associate with her husband’s presence. Rayne turned to find the Shrike approaching, and smiled. The workers bowed to him when he arrived at her side, their eyes darting from him to her and back again. At times like these, she wished she was a telepath. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned his head towards her.

How’s it going?

Almost finished, she replied.

The Shrike faced the workers, who returned to their task with a will and completed it in half the time she had expected it to take. As three of them packed the tools into a floating container, one opened and closed the door, allowing a brief rush of air out through it. It sealed with a smooth clunk, and Tarke nodded.

Good job.

The workers grinned, bowed to him again and hurried away, towing the hover cart.

Rayne updated her scribe pad with the door seal’s completion.

I have to have a meeting with a slaver later today, Tarke said. Would you like to come?

Sure. I’d like that. She knew his meetings with slavers were onerous, but necessary tasks, and was glad he wanted her to be a part of this aspect of his life.

Good. See you later, then. Tarke wandered off in the opposite direction to the workers. She gazed after him with deep disappointment, wishing he would stay longer when he made his odd visits to her workplace. She suspected that this was a major reason the workers vied to be on her crew, because the Shrike sometimes stopped by to offer advice and encouragement.

That afternoon, she accompanied the Shrike to the meeting venue on the far side of the base’s living quarters. Vidan had informed her that the slaver wanted to negotiate safe passage across part of the Shrike’s territory, which he could not venture into without Tarke’s permission. The slaver would have to pay for the privilege, too, she guessed. Usually Vidan handled such things, but sometimes Tarke did it so his rivals would not begin to doubt his existence.

Vidan waited outside the conference room’s old-fashioned wooden doors, his eyes twinkling. The presence of four armed guards surprised her somewhat. Two pushed open the doors as Tarke approached, and all four took up position just inside them. Vidan entered ahead of them and stepped aside. Rayne preceded Tarke into a sumptuous room that reeked of wealth and power, designed to intimidate his guests, she guessed. Its white marble floor was inlaid with a series of complex gold designs, some partly obscured by the priceless rugs and surfeit of soft chairs, poufs and crystal-inlaid wooden tables. Wood was a precious commodity on a desert planet, and the black variety that framed the skilfully rendered images of deep space and alien landscapes was particularly rare and expensive.

The embroidered velvet hangings, trimmed with gold and picked out with gemstones, were probably worth more than the ship the slaver had arrived in, and some of the ornaments were ancient. Modern amenities were in abundance; a sleek refreshment centre, a massive vidscreen covering one wall, holograph consoles and security sensors in the ceiling that tracked everyone’s movements. She found it overpowering, and suspected there were probably hidden weapons, too.

A spindly Shirran sat on a white leather settee, and stood up as Tarke approached, his slanted black eyes darting. According to Vidan, he was an unimportant slaver who had only been in the trade for fifteen years, and this was the first time he had met the Shrike. Tarke swept his coat aside and settled on the sofa opposite, a low jade table between them, and Rayne sat next to him. The business, he had assured her, would be brief.

The Shirran, Bartoff, bowed, coughed and sat down again. My humblest greetings, Grey Shrike. I will be brief. Your time is precious, I know. I would like permission for my ships to cross a distant corner of your territory, beyond Asimaar.

Tarke inclined his head. Very well. You will pay twenty-five thousand regals per year.

Bartoff nodded. A fair sum.

What’s the nature of your cargo?

I’m transporting equipment for a new base.

Rayne sensed his duplicity and opened her mouth to tell Tarke the slaver was lying. He took her hand, which startled her so much she forgot what she had been about to say.

Dear wife, would you bring our guest a drink?

Vidan, who stood on Tarke’s right hand, scribe pad at the ready, looked surprised. This was his duty, but only after the deal had been completed. The breach of protocol also seemed to startle Bartoff, but he requested a beverage in response to Rayne’s enquiry, and she went to pour it. While she was busy, Tarke turned to the slaver.

Your freighters will be stopped and searched when they enter my territory. I hope you haven’t lied about the cargo. If they’re carrying anything else, it will be confiscated or destroyed.

Bartoff gaped at him, neglecting to take the glass Rayne held out. She put it on the table and sat beside her husband again.

Bartoff frowned. Well, there might be a small amount of drugs, too.

You should know I don’t allow drugs to be transported across my territory. If you try it, they’ll be confiscated, so don’t carry them, or take another route.

That would mean entering the Varron space storm, or detouring around it, a journey of some ten hours through pirate-infested space. I’m offering good money to travel two hours inside your territory. What difference does my cargo make?

You know my rules, or you wouldn’t have lied to me. Where you go is your business, as long as it isn’t in my territory. I don’t need your money, so I can indulge my personal dislikes all I want.

Bartoff stood up, his sallow face pinched with ill-concealed displeasure, and Tarke rose to face him. Then I’ll make other arrangements, Shrike. Thank you for your time.

Tarke inclined his head, and Vidan showed the slaver out. As the doors closed behind them, Rayne raised her brows at her husband.

How did you know what I was going to say?

Your expressions are as easy for me to read as people’s emotions are to you. You looked so outraged. I had to stop you. I don’t want my enemies to know about your talent.

Then it’s useful to you? she asked.

Yes. I’ll have to bring you to all my meetings. But next time a glance will be enough.

I’m glad you don’t allow drugs in your territory, although it surprises me a little.

You thought I was a drug runner, too? He shook his head. I hate them, and my rivals know it. Bartoff was trying to pull a fast one, thinking I wouldn’t search his ships. Usually I don’t bother, even though I know they might be lying; they also sometimes tell the truth. Searching every ship would take up too much time, but knowing he was lying made it easy to catch him out. I had not suspected him of being a drug runner.

Why do you hate them?

Not all drugs are recreational or medicinal. Some are used on slaves.

Oh. I see. It was done to you.

Yes. He went to the doors and waited for her to precede him into the corridor. His terse reply told her the subject was taboo.

She shot him a smile as they walked down the corridor. ‘Dear wife’?

A common term of endearment. After all, that’s what you are.

Rayne grinned, delighted by the reminder of the bond between them that meant so much to her. It seemed to mean a lot less to him, although he occasionally referred to it. He had not made any gestures of affection, and adroitly avoided most of hers. Sometimes he allowed her to hold his hand, but seemed far more comfortable with it when he wore his gloves. Without them, he always found a reason to extricate his hand as soon as possible.

At first, she had thought he was giving her time to get to know him; now she feared that the arrangement was nothing more than exactly what he had said – a kindness he had extended to save her from her previous life. She wanted to know what the ‘technical detail’ was that made marriage to him a job that would otherwise not be filled, but lacked the courage to ask him.

Each time they dined together, she tried to look her best, wore a pretty dress and a little make up, but he did not seem to notice. She longed for him to give her a hint that he found her something more than just an interesting dinner companion. If she sat too close to him on the couch, he would find a reason to move away. If anything, he had become more unapproachable, and she had noticed that it coincided with the times when he was not wearing the mask. On those occasions he was clearly uncomfortable, and avoided eye contact. She had understood the reason for it at first, since he was so unused to anyone being able to see his face, but that should have waned by now. She longed to get to the bottom of the mystery, and, she hoped, discover what, if anything, he felt for her. She decided to see if she could find out more that evening.

Let’s watch a vidfilm after dinner tonight, she said.

He hesitated, then nodded. All right.

My choice?

Sure.

She glanced out of a window at the sinking sun, which bathed the dome in ruddy light. I’ll go and get ready.

Rayne headed for her apartment, mentally reviewing the contents of her wardrobe. The dresses she had bought for their previous dinner dates were lovely, but conservative, and she had visited a boutique the day before and purchased a slinky, sleeveless black number with a plunging neckline and a hemline that reached to mid-thigh, slit on the sides to miniskirt length. Clothes had not really interested her until they had become a tool to get his attention, and if the black bombshell did not get a reaction from him, nothing would.

In her apartment, she showered and donned the dress, an emerald necklace and matching drop earrings Tarke had given her a week ago, and a pair of high-heeled black sandals. She brushed her silver-streaked gold hair until it shone and anointed herself with a new fragrance the shop girl had assured her was the latest trend in temptation, guaranteed to turn any date into an all-nighter. She used a little mascara, lip gloss and blusher, then studied her reflection in the full-length mirror, liking it. Her skin had regained its creamy hue from healthy living and a little tanning, and her blue-green eyes sparkled with excitement. The dress enhanced her athletic figure and tiny waist, and the slits revealed plenty of thigh. She searched the base’s vast database for the most romantic vidfilm she could find, a new one from Atlan that reminded her of Romeo and Juliette. She had already watched it, and it suited her purpose perfectly. The prospect of trying to seduce the Shrike did give her a few qualms, but she quelled them. Perhaps he just needed a bit of encouragement.

When she arrived at Tarke’s apartment, he sat on the couch, drink in hand, gazing at the view of the sunset the floor-to-ceiling windows afforded. The last dregs of fiery light faded from the sky, gilding his face. As always, she marvelled at his flawless skin, fine features and sexy mouth. His jet hair seemed to drink in light and his level brows looked almost too well-defined, every hair in place. So far, she had found nothing even remotely bushy or banal about him, not even hair in his nose or ears. She assumed the windows in his apartment were one-way glass, so he was able to remove his mask in its privacy. He wore his usual black shirt and trousers, without his gloves and the grey coat. His blowtorch-blue eyes raked her outfit, and his brows rose a fraction.

She smiled and twirled. Like it?

He turned back to the view. Very nice.

She plonked down on the couch beside him. "Ah, come on, it’s a bit more than just nice, don’t you think?"

Very pretty, he said, rising to his feet. Drink?

Sure, thanks.

When he returned with a fresh drell juice and a glass of her favourite munga juice, he sat at the far end of the couch.

Rayne slid closer. What’s for dinner?

What would you like? He studied his drink.

Oh, I don’t know. She considered. How about oysters?

Oysters?

A type of shellfish found on Earth. Maybe you have something similar?

There are some seafood dishes, yes.

Shellfish?

He put down his drink and stood up, going over to the scrolling holograms at the back of the room. There’s Tyrenian sea mollusc in wine sauce, he said.

Sounds good.

Tarke returned and settled on the settee opposite, picked up his drink and made a remark about an aspect of base maintenance that started a conversation. Half an hour later, the partition whined across between the lounge and dining area of the open-plan apartment, which meant their dinner was about to be delivered. As usual, the lights in his apartment were set too bright for her liking, so she turned them down when Tarke visited the bathroom. The clink of cutlery and crockery came from beyond the partition, then it opened again to reveal the dining table laden with a seafood feast on gold-edged plates. The routine seemed well established, so she assumed he always ate alone in his apartment. He emerged from the bathroom.

Is there something wrong with the lights?

They were hurting my eyes, she said.

Ah. Of course. He smiled and sat down to dinner, and she sat opposite. The meal passed in pleasant discourse, as always, the excellent food accompanied by a rare wine. Afterwards, they returned to the lounge, and the partition whined across again so their empty plates could be cleared away. Rayne ordered the vidfilm to play on the massive lounge screen and settled on the couch, sipping her wine. Tarke sat at far the end of the sofa, at least a metre away. He had hardly looked at her all evening, apart from occasional looks. He always found something else to hold his attention; his food, his glass of wine, his hands and even his boots.

The wine bottle was in front of him, so she drained her glass and slid over to him to refill it. This brought her within touching distance of him. He shot her a quick glance and refilled his glass, which emptied the bottle, so he rose to fetch another one. When he returned, he sat at the other end of the couch. Rayne gazed at him in frustration, drained her glass again and slid up to him to refill it from the bottle in front of him. If she carried on like this, she reflected, she would end up drunk. This time, however, she had him trapped in the corner of the settee, with no excuse to move. The vidfilm started, and she pretended to be engrossed in it.

After several minutes, a thought struck her, and she turned to him, catching his eyes resting upon her in the instant before he looked away and sipped his wine. Her heart skipped a beat, but she berated herself for reading anything into it. He was probably wondering at her strange behaviour.

We need popcorn, she said.

He glanced at her, his brows rising. Popcorn?

Yeah. She explained what it was, and its traditional use.

He appeared to consider, watching the vidfilm. I could ask the cooks to prepare something similar.

That would be great.

Tarke rose and went to the holograms at the back of the lounge again, and she cursed herself for giving him another reason to move away. When he returned, he sat at the other end of the couch, and this time the wine bottle was in front of her. She wondered what he would do when his glass became empty, but for the next half an hour its level hardly dropped. Rayne almost jumped out of her skin when a flash of golden Net energy dispersed on the table in front of her, leaving behind a large bowl of what looked like popcorn.

Tarke gestured to it and said, Popcorn, I hope.

Swallowing hard, she leant forward to take a handful, her heart hammering. Using the transfer Net to transport something like a bowl of popcorn was unheard-of, in her experience, considering the amount of power required to achieve it, and a transfer within the base, without the benefit of a transfer pad, was something only Tarke could authorise. It would have required someone to set up a portable locator beam to map the destination area, then send the bowl via a spaceship, either one in the hangar or in orbit, since there were no planet-based transfer generators. It amazed her that he would go to so much trouble simply to provide her with the snack she wanted. Had it been anyone else, she might have thought he was showing off, but that would have been out of character for Tarke. This was the first time she had asked for a snack that was not available in the apartment’s kitchen, which, she suspected, would be stocked with the pseudo-popcorn after tonight. The warm, crunchy white flakes tasted a lot like salty, buttered popcorn.

Rayne picked up the bowl and scooted right up to him, holding it on her lap. Try some. It does taste like popcorn.

Tarke took a handful, shifting away from her, but now she was becoming frustrated with his elusions, and the wine bolstered her courage. She settled even closer to him, her thigh pressed to his, on the pretext of sharing the bowl. He drained his wine glass and rose to refill it from the bottle at the far end of the table, and she cursed herself for leaving it there. When he settled at the other end of the sofa once more, she slid across to him again, offering him the popcorn.

Nice, isn’t it?

He eyed her, a faint smile curling his lips. Not bad. You’re missing the vidfilm.

Oh, I’ve seen it, she said without thinking. It hasn’t got to the good part, yet.

Why would you want to watch it again? There are millions of vidfilms in the database.

I like this one. I wanted to see it again. She tipped a handful of popcorn into her mouth, several flakes escaping to vanish down her cleavage. Oops.

Rayne put down her wineglass and fished in the front of her dress, pulling the material away to reach the little flakes nestled in the edge of her lace bra. Tarke became utterly engrossed in the vidfilm, and she, finding that the bowl on her lap hampered her, dumped it on his lap. He put it on the table, refilling his wineglass, and she sensed his deep unease as she picked popcorn out of her bra and ate it. Her efforts jammed a few flakes into her bra, and a couple had fallen even further. Rising to her feet, she bent and wriggled, dislodging the remaining flakes, which dropped onto the carpet. Sinking back beside him with a sigh, and ensuring she was even closer to him, she picked up the bowl again.

Rayne ate two more handfuls of popcorn without mishap, but noticed that Tarke watched her out of the corner of his eye now. Perhaps it was working. Then again, it could have been the steamy bedroom scene on the vidscreen that he found stultifying. As she shovelled a third handful into her mouth, several flakes missed the mark again. Tarke’s hand flashed out under her chin, which would have made her jump if she had had time to react. He opened his hand and dropped the errant flakes of popcorn into the bowl. Evidently he had no wish to witness her popcorn-extracting antics again. After that she ate the popcorn one flake at a time. Her plot might still bear fruit, however, as she had planned it carefully. Towards the end of the vidfilm were several fairly scary scenes, which had made her jump the first time she had seen them. She put the bowl on the table and sat back, checking on Tarke. He was relaxed, and sipped his wine, his empty hand resting on his thigh.

At the first blood-curdling scream, Rayne jumped and squeaked, grabbing his hand. This made Tarke jump, almost slopping his wine. He tensed, trying to extract his hand from her grip, but she hung on, her eyes on the dark scene on the vidscreen.

He cleared his throat. Perhaps we should brighten the lights, then it won’t be so scary?

No, no, it’s better like this. Scary is good.

You like being scared?

Sure. It’s fun.

He glanced down at her hand. I’m glad you think so.

Aren’t you scared? She shifted closer, lacing her fingers with his.

Not in the least.

Rayne returned her attention to the vidfilm as it approached its climax, which she knew was good. The heroically romantic finale made her eyes sting and her throat close. She became aware that Tarke’s fingers had tightened a little and his thumb caressed her skin, but he seemed to be engrossed in the film. As the music rose and the final scene of the clinched lovers faded, she turned to him, leant against his shoulder and placed her other hand on his chest. He looked down at her, and she smiled.

That was good, hey?

It was mildly entertaining.

Right, no bloody stupid romantic ideas for you, huh?

Tarke averted his gaze, rubbed his nose and tried to reach the table to put down his empty glass, but she shifted even closer, tucking up her legs, which exposed a great deal of thigh. He balanced the glass on the arm of the sofa and frowned at it, clearly ill at ease. She slid her hand up his chest, cursing the fact that his shirt was fastened to the neck and the skin-hugging vest he wore under it even covered the lower part of his throat. What was he hiding? Her fingers encountered the smooth, warm metal slave collar and crept over it. Normally she would not have gone this far, but the wine gave her courage, and he still held her hand loosely, although he had stopped stroking it. She raised a hand to touch his cheek, longing to caress his face. He avoided it by turning his head to look at her again.

Rayne…

What?

What are you doing?

Nothing.

He tried