The Wilding

TWENTY-THREE

TATHAS AWOKE FROM a dead sleep to find someone shaking him. The room was dark but when he moved to turn the light on a slender hand stopped him.

“No.” It was Zara. “They’re watching you, “ she whispered.

His warrior instincts served to have him fully alert by the time she had finished her sentence. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He realized only a nanosecond later that she had just given him a direct command, but in the heat of the moment it seemed a very small thing. Utterly unlike her, though. She was usually more careful.

“It’s all gone wrong,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Tathas. We’ve got to go.”

He grabbed up his shirt from the formchair nearby—they’d given it to him at her insistence—and moved to follow her. He hadn’t undressed completely to sleep since he’d come onto this ship, sensing perhaps that an emergency might overtake him at any moment. It paid off now in how fast he could be ready to move, shrugging on his shirt as she unsealed the portal.

“Follow me,” she whispered, and because she seemed to be doing him a favor of some kind he didn’t make a fuss about her language . . . but what had made the normally respectful Mediator suddenly so blind to his traditions? If he was a Braxaná he’d be imagining the spirit of Ar descending upon the small ship by now, drawing strength from her dominant phraseology. Superstitious fools! He didn’t believe in divine intervention himself but it was still an uncomfortable thing to tolerate such casual commands from a woman without correction or comment. And it weakened the bi’ti, which was the core of the warrior’s strength, to do so; that was simple scientific fact.

Zara led him through the darkened corridors of the ship, narrow hallways that barely cleared his shoulders. Her exaggerated silence might have been well and good for guerilla action on the surface of some planet, but how much did it matter here? Couldn’t half the people on the ship hear their thoughts anyway, and look in on them mentally whenever they wanted?

“This way,” she whispered, and because it wasn’t a direct command he followed her.

Dark. The ship was so dark. It made the corridors seem even narrower than they were, downright claustrophobic. He felt as if there were eyes on him, many eyes, watching and taking notes on his every move. Was that just his paranoia, or was someone really watching him? With a ship full of psychics he couldn’t be sure of anything.

She brought him to a large chamber stacked with uniform crates. A docking bay of some kind. In the dim emergency lights he cocked an eyebrow at her, asking the obvious question.

“You need to go.”

“I can’t escape them,” he said quietly. “You know that. Why do you think I’ve endured imprisonment here; because I like it? Everyone on this ship can sense where I am and what I’m doing. Getting in another ship won’t change things.”

She looked him straight in the eyes, with a coldness that made the skin on the back of his neck crawl. “They’re going to kill you, Tathas.”

For a moment his heart stopped beating. Only a moment. Then blood flowed to his brain again and he could think.

“You’re saving me.” It was a question.

“You saved me.”

Warrior’s debt. It was a simple enough equation that he could accept it. “That still leaves the question of what good it will do to flee. They’ll have no trouble following me, yes?”

Her eyes were hard and cold. “Only if they live to do so.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak . . . and closed it again, silently. Not that it wasn’t a bad idea overall, and one he’d thought of. But it was hard for him to believe that this soft little diplomat had come up with it on her own, much less was willing to set it all in motion.

“Your sister is on this ship,” he said quietly. “Would you kill her too?”

Pain, it seemed, flashed briefly in her eyes. “Sister in blood. That’s all.”

He just stared at her. Wishing for once he could read her thoughts.

“She’s alien to me, Tathas. They’re all alien to me, at their core.”

He said it softly. “And I am not?”

The cold gaze eased a bit. “Not like they are,” she whispered.

Sounds echoed behind them, back the way they had come. Footsteps? “Come on,” she said. “Quickly.” Again the cultural error of commanding him directly. Had the stress of the moment compromised her normal cultural sensitivity? Or did she feel that because she was saving his life she had the right to address him in such a forbidden manner? A Braxaná would have stopped her then and there, risking death rather than accept those few words as they were spoken. As for Tathas . . . he discovered in that moment that he was not willing to throw away his life over the conjugation of a verb. Though all the gods of the human worlds knew that for blasphemy of the worst order.

Let Ar show up and argue about the matter if she feels like it.

She led him to a tiny vessel tucked away against the belly of the ship. The air lock was sealed but apparently she had whatever codes were required to open it. “Inside,” she commanded him. “Quickly.” The noise outside was getting louder, and yes, it clearly was footsteps. There were sounds of running, too, which was a very bad sign. Obviously someone had been watching him, and the alarm had already gone out: the Braxin was escaping.

He wondered if Zara’s sister knew she was there with him. Would it make a difference to her if she did?

He wanted to just get inside the ship and leave. He wanted that to be all there was to it. This alien woman, Azea-born, was willing to kill her own kin to set him free and he’d be a fool not to accept it. Never mind why she was doing it; that wasn’t his concern. His people needed him to return to them, and this was the first step in making it possible. Only an utter weakling would question such an opportunity, or fail to take it as soon as it was offered.

My people . . .

He was Viak’im. A leader of men. Not only because he had been stronger or faster than his father, but because the elders of the tribe had considered him a fit ruler for them all. If he had not been they would have given him poison before his duel, and thus guaranteed that the older man won.

A leader of men.

He blessed the Absent Gods under his breath, but made no move to get into the escape vessel. Instead he took her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. Never mind that the footsteps were coming closer now. Never mind that he could hear the cries of those approaching.

“Blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh.” His tone was quiet, even, belying the danger of the moment. A ruler’s tone. “Are you sure this is what you want? When you look in the mirror tomorrow, when this is over, will you be able to bear what you see?”

She put her hands over his, gently, and removed them from her shoulders. “There will be no mirror,” she whispered. “Now go.”

Understanding came to him, cold as a Braxin winter. “You can’t stay behind.”

“Someone has to blow up the ship.”

“Zara—”

“No. It’s my choice to make. Now go!”

He might have stayed to argue but just then his pursuers came into the bay. That left only one option which didn’t lead to his immediate death, and he took it. Ducking into the air lock, he gave his orders to the ship’s computer even as he sealed the door behind him. The lights on the ship came on. The engines stirred to life. By the time he got to the bridge and dropped into the pilot’s chair the vessel was thrumming with life, ready to head out into the darkness, far away from any source of imprisonment.

He took it there. Without hesitation, without second thoughts. And when he cleared the station and it blew up, sending its occupants back into the Void that had birthed them, he felt no regret. Such was not a Braxin emotion. Nor sorrow. Only a dark elation that he was on his way once more, heading toward that prize which might win him an end to his banishment . . . and revenge upon the tribe that had sent him there.

But when he was sure that no one on the ship had survived to follow him, and that no outside agency was about to arrive to compromise his bid for freedom, he put the small vessel on autopilot and sought a private space within its confines. He found it in a small lounge just behind the bridge. There he stilled his soul, and waited until the wild beating of his heart had become something more leisured and regular . . . and then he offered up to Zara’s spirit, in accordance with Kesserit tradition, his thanks, his respect, and wished her whatever manner of afterlife best suited those Chandrans who died with courage.

To make a sacrifice for what one believes in, even if it is such a foolish thing as love, is an act of greatness by any standard.

Tathas awoke from a dead sleep when a slender hand covered his mouth. He realized by its touch that it was not an enemy, which angered him. Was he not enough of a warrior to know that when you were surrounded by enemies, you always awakened in silence?

Another hand flicked on the light, at its dimmest setting. It was enough to see who stood over him, her green eyes warning him to silence.

K’teva.

Here?

When she saw that he was fully awake and understood the situation, she let go. He mouthed her name but didn’t voice it; a question.

“I’ve been following you.” Her voice was a whisper so soft that even here, inches from her, he could barely hear it. “When I saw they took you . . . I had to act.”

She was dressed in black, all black, tight-fitting clothes that outlined her body in hard, clean lines. Her hair was tied back into a functional queue but a few strands had escaped that effort, and they wisped about her face like a fine black veil. She had never looked better to him, nor had he ever been more glad to see her, but he found it hard to believe she was there. He started to ask her questions but she put a warning finger to her lips and gestured toward the door.

Into the darkness of the psychics’ ship she led him, through corridors so narrow it would be hard to fight in them if he had to. How had she gotten here? Every time he tried to think about it his mind shied away from the question, as if something inside him knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

“They’ll sense us,” he warned in a whisper.

“They won’t,” she whispered back. “I’ve taken care of it.”

He watched her back as they moved through the silent ship. The years had given him familiarity with the movement of her hair, the sway of her body, even her footfall . . . and all those things were right, down to the most perfect detail. The woman before him was no imposter, but the real K’teva.

Then why did this whole scene feel so wrong?

She led him to a large chamber filled with crates. A strange sense of déjà vu overcame him then, so powerfully that for a moment he could neither move nor speak. Had he dreamt of this place? His rational mind said that he had never seen it before, but on some gut, primitive level it was familiar to him.

And there was danger here. He could smell it. More danger than he had ever faced before, and a kind of danger that could not be answered with something simple like a sword. He didn’t know where the knowledge of that came from, but the sense of it was so strong that for a moment he couldn’t move, but stood frozen in the bay like an animal who’d just caught the whiff of hunters.

—(people all around, all around, hungry watching watching watching)—

“They know I’m here,” he whispered. Instinctively he reached for his weapon, only to remember it had been taken from him days ago, when he was captured—rescued? —on that planet with Zara. “They’re watching.”

“You’re wrong.” Had her expression darkened? It was hard to tell in the dim bay lighting. “No one knows we’re here.”

~more sensitive than one expects from a Braxin

She was wrong.

~or just paranoid

He knew it. Somehow. Just like he knew that he had been to this place before, and . . . what? What memory was just beyond reach of his mind, and why couldn’t he access it?

There was a small ship tucked away in a corner of the bay. The air lock was open, inviting them to enter. K’teva scanned the whole of the bay to make sure no surprises were there and then gestured for him to go inside. He did, and expected her to follow. But instead she stepped back far enough for the air lock to shut behind him; obviously she had no intention of getting into the small ship with him.

“K’teva?”

“I’ll see they don’t follow you,” she promised. Her expression was cold and strangely distant; something about it chilled him to the soul.

“You can’t stay here.”

“Our people need you, Tathas. More than they need me.”

The sense of wrongness that had been in him since he awakened was a roaring in his ears now, that drowned out all thought. He struggled to make sense of it, to determine the source. That was at the heart of his current danger, he knew it instinctively. Determine who or what and you would know why.

“Someone has to blow up this place,” she said.

No Braxaná as capable as K’teva would sacrifice herself so casually, he knew that. She should be climbing into the ship by his side, taking her chances, daring the universe to catch them both. That was the Kesserit way.

In the distance he suddenly heard shouts and footsteps . . . crew members running to catch up to them, to take him prisoner once again. K’teva glanced in that direction and then back to him; her green eyes glowed in the darkness. “Go, Tathas. Put as much distance between yourself and the psychics as you can. Anything else is suicide at this point.” When he didn’t move, but just stared at her, she urged, “This quest was doomed from the start, you know that now—”

He stepped forward, out of the air lock, and was before her so quickly she didn’t have time to step back. He grabbed her tightly by the upper arms—noting as he did so that her flesh felt just as it should, and that her warm, familiar scent was like a drug to his sex-starved senses—and demanded, “Who are you?” Not whispering now; her language had given the game away. “Why did they put you here? Is this some kind of test—”

—(abort abort abort)—

Darkness.

It was good to be back on Braxi, Tathas thought. Even though he hadn’t gotten to see much of the home planet before they had whisked him away on a transport. But the few minutes of real gravity he’d experienced, on the only planet in the universe that truly mattered, had done much for restoring his spirit.

It had been a long trip home. Too many checkpoints, too many petty bureaucrats who’d insisted on checking with the Central Computer System to confirm that the terms of his Wilding now allowed for his return. One hadn’t checked at all but had simply decided to take matters into his own hands. A fatal error. Would the Braxaná hold it against Tathas that he had killed some fool on his way home? Surely in the face of the other accusations against him that would be deemed a trivial offense.

Woe betide the man or woman who got between him and his destination now.

He tried to remember the face of the man he had killed but couldn’t. The whole journey home was like that, as if the memories were not real at all, but a story playing out in his brain. Very strange.

Now . . . now he was on a transport to the H’karet, with such treasure in his keeping that even the Pri’tiera would be moved. At first it had worried him when he had gotten the invitation to see the mysterious leader alone, but he knew that while the Braxaná were notoriously lacking in any commitment to true justice, they were equally notorious for keeping to the letter of the law when it came to their own tribal traditions. And it would be a defilement of the Wilding for the Pri’tiera to do anything other than receive him, receive his offering, and—if it satisfied the terms of the custom—let him go free.

~envision the offering . . .

He leaned back in the transport’s padded seat and started to think about the gift he had brought for the Braxaná leader—the culmination of all his efforts in the Outlands—but his warrior instinct warned him that this was no time for reflection. The gift he had brought was safe in a back chamber, there would be time enough to see it later . . . and to see the Pri’tiera’s face when he received it.

And then, he thought, when he was free to walk the Braxin streets again, when there was no price on his head . . . then he would make them pay. The Pri’tiera first, then all the others of his blessed race. First they would pay for the humiliation his people had suffered for centuries; that was just an appetizer. Then the grand feast of suffering would come, to pay them back for the murder of his tribesmen and their elders. He would find what Kesserit remained on the planet and he would mold them into an army such as the Holding had never seen before, and then they would strike against the Pale Ones in such strength that none could stand before them. For the rulers of the Holding made a good show of barbarism, but in truth they were weakened by eons of luxury and self-indulgence, while his people . . . his people were a sword honed by eons of hatred, readied for that one strike which would avenge all past indignities and set the balance of power right again.

—(hunger for details, hunger for information)—

The transport stopped. He took a second to gather himself together, to make sure the hatred that burned inside him was safely hidden from all observers. So it had been for his whole life, living this god-blessed subterfuge in order to survive. And look where it had gotten him. The elders of his tribe were dead, survivors scattered, and he now had permission to attend the Pri’tiera as a penitent sinner, begging for his master’s forgiveness.

He growled low in his throat as the portal dissolved, but his expression was as impassive as ever. That’s what came of a lifetime’s practice. Deception was second nature to the Kesserit, and may the absent gods help the Braxaná if it ever was allowed to falter.

There were two guards outside. Even here, even now, the renegade Kesserit was not to be trusted. “This way,” one of them said, and they let him fall in between them, matching his step to their own military stride.

He had never been inside the H’karet before. He tried to look around as they passed through it, but the details were strangely insubstantial. As if he were watching an entertainment piece that was not quite in focus. A strange dread shivered cold inside his gut, when he noticed that. Surely it meant nothing. Surely.

~hold on to the emotions this time, don’t want to lose this one like the last

They marched until they came to a matched set of doors, of a barbaric design that swung on hinges. Tathas waited while one of the men pulled them open for him, noting the relief carvings that covered both, depicting vast battle scenes as well as more private conflicts. He saw a few images of men subjugating women and that seemed strange to him. It wasn’t an artistic motif common on Braxi, nor was it one he had heard the Braxaná had a taste for. He tried to look more closely but the door blurred in his vision as it swung further open, and he was ordered inside.

~careful, careful, details must be right

~we have no research on such things

~if you can’t draw them from his memory, then don’t use them at all

The audience chamber was large and dark, its details lost in shadow. The only light within was fixed upon the man in its center. No, not a man; a boy, or little more than a boy, whose stark white makeup and stylized facial hair could not disguise his true youth. So young, Tathas thought, and yet you rule us? What strength can you have in you, what wisdom, that the Braxaná would allow this?

He bowed. Nothing else would be acceptable. “Pri’tiera.”

“So. You return to us.”

“As I promised.”

“And you bring us?”

“What I promised, Great One.”

“Indeed.” The boy’s black eyes narrowed as he regarded Tathas. The hatred in them was undisguised. “And I have your reward, Kesserit.”

He stepped back, far enough that Tathas could now see what lay at his feet, half in light and half in shadow. A body. A woman’s body. A body he knew.

He cried out—a mourning cry, a warrior’s cry—and his shout filled the chamber, echoing from the distant walls like the howl of some maddened beast.

“Did you really think you would escape us?” the Pri’tiera asked him. “Any of you?”

K’teva lay still on the floor between them. The life must have only just bled out of her, for her lips were still tinted the fresh rose of life and her eyes were shut gently, as if in sleep. Tathas knelt by her side and took up her hand—still limp, still soft, not yet stiffened in the finality of death—and trembled. Emotions that he had no for name for flooded his brain. Then came the ones that did have names. Grief. Rage. Determination. Hate.

You have pushed us too far, Braxaná.

He stood. His expression was impassive, and gave no warning of the maelstrom inside his heart.

I cannot unseat all your people, without my tribe behind me . . . but I can and will cut off the head of the monster.

There was no warning. One moment he was standing still before the Pri’tiera, as if he feared to act, and the next he leapt across the space between them. The Braxaná pulled some kind of weapon in a startled attempt at self-defense, but Tathas struck it aside easily as he slammed the weight of his battle-hardened body into the boy’s own.

Young, his warrior’s soul assessed as he bore him to the ground, muscular but not well-trained, and clearly not prepared to fight for his life. Good, that was good. The rage was pouring through his veins like molten lead and he had no desire for a good fight, just for the kill. He would rip the boy’s throat out with his teeth if he had to, and howl in triumph like a beast on the Blood Steppes howling at the moon. Never mind if they killed him afterward. He knew how the Braxaná mind worked, he knew that in taking down their leader like this he was dealing a death-wound to their pride, and that pride was everything in their government. The death of their precious figurehead would weaken the whole, and whatever Kesserit remained on Braxi would know that sign for what it was, and move against them—

Never mind that he would not live to see it. Never mind that within seconds now the guards would be upon him, dragging him off their leader’s body, to beat him to a bloody pulp in punishment for making them fail in their duty. Some things mattered more than a single life.

There will be revolution, he thought, as his hands closed about the Pri’tiera’s slender neck, driven by the strength of a madman. He could feel bone shift beneath his grip, and he slammed the boy’s head back against the stone floor, twisting it to one side with all his might. Revolution long overdue, you god-blessed tyrants. Do you know how many Braxins remember the days when tribal identity was the pride of every warrior, not merely the possession of an inbred elite? Do you know how many have secretly prepared for this day? The whole of this planet will vomit you up for what you have done to us, until the very gods are moved to applaud.

He could feel bone snap beneath his hands even as guards grabbed him by the arms and tried to drag him off the Pri’tiera’s body. But he kept banging the boy’s head back against the cold stone floor as the rage poured through him, a tidal wave of black emotion that became grief, became sorrow, became. . . .

~Is more needed?

~not our choice—

~getting harder and harder to control—

~he has a strong mind—

~stubborn mind—

~recommend further study. Unparalleled opportunity—

~should capture more Braxins. See if this is typical.

~tribal hostility has great potential—

~universal sentiment?

~this is an unusual specimen—

~the Lyu says to bring him to her—

~we should run more tests—

~orders are orders—

~maybe when she’s done with him we can run another sequence.

~maybe—

~shut down now?

~ Yes.

To have control over the life or death of another human being . . . that is the ultimate measure of power.

To exercise it, without restriction or remorse . . . that is the ultimate indulgence.

—Zatar the Magnificent