See Author's Notes at the end.
xXx
Thtarok seethed with pain, his fingers clamped over the arm. Muscles had been torn, damaged, but it was not his dominant arm; he would be perfectly capable of resuming normal duties inside of a week. The human was dismally slow; she was only now getting to her feet.
This wasn't what he wanted. Where was the supple, pliant fear? Where were her screams, the babbling for mercy? Why did she fight him when he was obviously stronger, superior to her? Her courage and spirit both doused and awakened the fire of lust in him. On one level, she was not the easily scared human that he had skinned alive so many years ago. But on another, she was a fighter, one that did not accept death willingly or easily.
While the first cooled his lust for the fear he could carve into her as she died, the idea of her as a warrior stoked a different fire. He could engage her as a Hunter does a female, but this time, he need not fear the spurs or beatings which often posed a risk to a male's health. This time, the male had the upper hand. He could court her gently with a few light blows to the head, a minimal effort, and if she still resisted, his superior strength would see him to his goal. And Paya help her then.
She was moving past him; her leg twitched as she rose. Thtarok knew the injury; a slightly twisted ankle was painful, but the flush of fear kept her moving. She was nearly out of his grasp. Would he let her get away, to the door? If Escthta was still in Da-kvar'di's thrall, it would not matter. But if he was not? Better not to take the chance.
His hand flashed out and caught her by the hair, threading his fingers through it and pulling hard. She screamed, and it halted her progress; she hung from his uninjured hand, her own hands around his wrist, squeezing as hard as she could. Her eyes seeped, her face splotchy, and she was nothing like the alabaster-skinned doll he had beheld first, so many months ago. This female was alive, her red blood pumping through her fluttering four-chambered heart. When they were caught like this, they showed the most incredible range of emotions. Thtarok lifted her by her short, dark hair, so that her feet were barely touching the ground. She strained up on tiptoe to keep her hair from fully supporting her weight.
Thtarok had no intention of pulling her hair out; the fine hair was one of the more attractive things about human females. They left it wild and unbound; even their braids were primitive, unable to keep the locks tamed, like wild animals that were heavily furred. He eased his grip on her, letting her stand on her two feet. She whimpered something, some blubbering plea, and he found it pathetic. Where was her fight now? Why did she continue to change her colors, playing with him like some yautja female? The duplicity enraged him; how dare she tease him?
xXx
Thtarok began to calm down, letting some slack into her hair. Her scalp stung as if a thousand needles were being pressed into her skin. Anise was unprepared for the blow that came arcing from his left, his wounded arm used as a club. She tottered back, dazed, her vision blurring, and then another blow, from the right. She wobbled on her feet, swaying backwards. His claws sliced into her forehead, and blood spilled out in a steady stream. She was more stunned than anything else; she didn't scream or yell. Instead, she only wiped the blood out of her eyes and backed away from her attacker, staring at him dully.
He seemed to grow more furious as she looked at him. A growl became a roar, and he charged her, pinning her to the wall next to the door. Anise turned her head away from his face, so close and angry, his yellow eyes half-focused and watery. He rumbled something, his voice smooth and bladed, and she closed her eyes. His hand traced down her body, his palms hot to the touch, even through her clothes. She lost track of his hand, preferring to ignore where it was leading, wishing she was someplace else, anywhere but here. Oh, God, anywhere but here. He slid up underneath her shift, and he clawed at her ribs, ripping her flesh open across the bone, and when she screamed, she heard him trill, his macabre delight at her suffering painted all over his split face.
Her shift clung to the wounds when his hand crept elsewhere, red lines blooming through the thin fabric. If she fought him, she would die. If she didn't fight him, she would die. Fight him, then! her mind cried, and she began to struggle, though her attempts were feeble at best; she was afraid, and he was so much stronger than she. After a few blows which he easily deflected, she lost her fight; he held both arms pinned above her head with his one good arm, and the other wandered freely over her without restraint, leaving smudges of green behind. The rivulets were drying, cracking on her skin, and she felt the blood stiffening in her eyebrows and on her arms.
The door suddenly began to creak, and the heat of his hand stilled. Thtarok dropped her as the door slid open. She landed in a small puddle of blood; was all of it really hers? Thtarok was suddenly occupied elsewhere, and she took the time to take stock of her injuries, thankful for the respite. A quick check confirmed a twisted ankle and scraped ribs, as well as her forehead wound. They stung even now, and moving the blood-stained shift from them made her hiss her breath inward.
The noise elicited a growl from the door. It was Escthta. He was none the worse for wear, with deep green furrows farmed into his legs, and similar scratches on his chest. He seeped his verdant ichor, but none of the wounds seemed too serious. His eyes were locked on her, and his expression darkened.
xXx
He saw the blood, red and horrible, under her shift. The wounds were not intended to be life-threatening- no, these were to be the first of many, a gory introduction to hours of torture. H'chak-di's eyes were glassy, distant; it was a condition he often saw in weaker animals that had suffered an initial blow. They gave up hope and simply sat back and let destiny work on them. He couldn't really blame her for it. Thtarok must be at least twice her weight and he would have brought considerable force to bear on her.
He did not have to look at Thtarok; the yautja fairly vibrated with lust and malevolence, ringed with pain. The green blood in H'chak-di's hair, and Paya help him, on her shift, could only belong to Thtarok. She had wounded him, however small, and it had spurred him on. It was a small fight, but one that she had tried hard to win.
It was only after a few seconds of study that the other parts of the attack, the pawing at her body and the threats of rape, came to light. The concept itself was known to him, but rape did not exist per se in the yautja world, since most females had no problems defending themselves. To take advantage of any female, regardless of her species, was an inexcusable act. Never had he been subject to fear or rage on anyone's behalf. Never had he allowed anger to take control of his body as he did now.
There were no claw-challenges, no pretenses toward an honorable fight. Escthta looked at Thtarok's hands, smeared with red, one arm with a small wound, and a strange light in his yellow eyes. Something broke loose in Escthta's mind; an occlusion which had previously bounded and contained some part of him bent and caved, and a new and complete understanding of his mind and its power issued forth as water from a spring. With this knowledge came a narrowness of his mind-vision, further eclipsed by a white-hot wrath which rendered him all but blind to H'chak-di's mental state. She was reduced to a small glimmer in the corner of his mind's eye as his power swelled unchecked.
The edge of H'chak-di's shift fluttered, though there were no gusts. The motion attracted Thtarok's eyes, and the lust surged forward, more prevalent than ever, and Escthta roared, a warning, though he had already begun to visit Thtarok's actions back upon him.
H'chak-di would later tell him that he had never moved, and Thtarok had somehow stumbled backward against a wall, but it was not the truth. Though his body stood still, his muscles bunching and relaxing, and his eyes half-rolled back into his head, Escthta's mind worked with new strength, new force against the scientist.
Escthta held him against a wall with one ephemeral hand; his physical body did not need to touch Thtarok to press him into the steel paneling. Escthta's arms were locked at his sides, yet he could feel the throat-skin of Thtarok moving under his fingers, the frenetic jerking of his neck column as he tried to open it against the pressure.
The air began to smell burnt, as after a lightning strike, but Escthta pressed further with his mental grip, enjoying the conflicting emotions playing out in Thtarok's brain, taking a strange sort of pleasure in seeing a torturer being subjected to his own bitter punishment. At once regretful, at another turn angry, Thtarok changed his thoughts rapidly, even as their disgusting brilliance began to expire. Against the brightness of Escthta's own mind-sparks and the fetid glow of Thtarok's fading thoughts, a smaller light winked out.
xXx
Hir'cyn and Rathde followed Ren'da without asking any questions, and although Hir'cyn made note of the corridors they passed through and turns they took, eventually even he became confused. The walls were undecorated, with no markers or friezes to record their trek down. They knew they were no longer above ground, for the lifts had been the first leg of their winding journey through the Library. After a stretch of time, the fallow lighting of the Library's lowest rooms yielded at last to pitch. With only the sound of Ren'da's footsteps to lead them, they trailed him through the darkness.
Neither gave thought to running, though both Hir'cyn and Rathde were sure that this was the end of their mortal days, to be decided by an unsympathetic Arbiter, or perhaps a small group of them. They were known at times to gather in small groups and dispatch Bad Bloods in deadly fights with the Bad Bloods at a terrible disadvantage. Although some questioned the honor of such practices, all agreed that the Bad Bloods were dishonorable and did not deserve life; one simply questioned the honor of a 'mock' challenge versus an outright execution. Allowing Bad Bloods to arm themselves, however weakly, relieved yautja society of their collective guilt, and made the battles between Bad Bloods and Arbiters both honorable and justifiable.
So why slaughter them in a small dark place away from crowds who loved to watch the Bad Bloods fall? Were they Bad Bloods now? Rathde and Hir'cyn's minds worked in tandem, each approaching the situation from different angles and trying to figure where Ren'da might be leading them and for what reason.
"Stay here." Ren'da, who must have been using thermal imaging implants, used his hand to push Rathde to the floor. Hir'cyn was dragged a few more feet, and then he, too, was instructed to stay still. Ren'da vanished.
Rathde remained seated, afraid to move for fear of falling into a pit that he could not see. All around him seemed to be smooth metal floor, and he could not find a wall within his grasp. "Hir'cyn," he began, "where do you think we are?" There was an echo, and from the sound of it, the space was large.
"I do not know..." His voice grew hushed. "I have never heard of such a place."
"Is there a wall near you?"
Hir'cyn was quiet, and then he replied, "There's a curved wall here." He smoothed his hands over it, feeling the seams of a door that was closed and did not give when he pushed or commanded it to open. He gave up, cursing.
"How long will he keep us here?" Rathde sounded worried.
"Who knows? He's an Arbiter and a Councilman, and both ranks give him license to act as he pleases."
"You don't think he's acting alone, do you?" It was a statement, rather than a question. Hir'cyn felt slightly proud of the slave already beginning to think for himself.
"With an elaborate setup like this? No, I don't. But he may be working in accordance with or even with the blessing of the Council." Hir'cyn finally sat cross-legged, folding his cape around him and into his lap, resting his forearms on his knees. "He is the Council, as far as we're concerned."
"What can we do?"
"We can wait." Hir'cyn shrugged in the darkness, though Rathde would not be able to see it. Time lost meaning in the blackness; hours seemed to pass, but they could have been minutes. The passage weighed heavily on Hir'cyn, who was of the mind that every moment lost was one step closer to their death. Rathde was driven to extremes with his forced inaction; the sound of his claws tapping on the metal floor sometimes stopped, but it always returned.
Just when Rathde had been subjected to enough waiting, the floor shuddered, and the sound of heavy gearwork moving echoed in the chamber.
"We're moving," Hir'cyn said, stating the obvious with a raised voice over the grinding kiss of metal on metal. He held his hand against the wall, but he could feel no motion past his palm. The room itself moved, but up or down he could not tell. The gearwork ground for several minutes more, and then halted with a stentorian boom. The door near Hir'cyn shifted and opened. A Hunter passed through it, collecting Rathde and walking him to Hir'cyn, and then leading them both forward into a doorway they could not see.
At last, the winding hallways and corners were lit, but by sad lamps whose flames were weak. The low ceilings were scorched black by the smoke, but even the small albedo could not make the firelight gentle enough for Hir'cyn and Rathde's eyes. They winced and blinked, and slowly grew used to light again, and began to look around as they walked. The same featureless walls greeted them, punctuated with black smears of burnt oil on the walls and ceiling.
The hallway spilled out into an underground courtyard, and a small fountain sputtered weakly at its center. Doorways around its perimeter were dark and open mouths into nothingness, but one was lit brightly, several sodium lamps turned up beyond candlepower. As their eyes adjusted, the light even seemed dim, and the sodium lamps created sinister shadows, muted with their orange light.
The room was much larger than the doorway had suggested it would be. Ren'da was seated at a wooden table which looked as if it might collapse at any moment. He seemed ready to receive the visitors, although he did not look pleased. Two more figures stood to the side, hooded and cloaked. Of course, they would not want to reveal their identity; this whole ordeal smacked of intrigue.
"You have a slave, Hir'cyn," Ren'da began. "A slave that was gifted to you by the Matriarch herself." He looked up from a slip of holofilm, his rings catching the orange light and glinting like firebrands. "Is this true?"
"Yes, my Liege," Hir'cyn said, his mouth dry.
"And yet, you have taken pains to employ only servants before. This slave is the first slave you have ever owned."
"Yes, my Liege."
Rathde felt his heart flop around in his chest like a dead thing's foot. They were on to them. The whole thing was going to explode in their faces. Would his new leg be hacked off?
"And furthermore, you took this slave, who had been hobbled, to a medic in the West Quarter, and had his foot hacked off, and replaced with a mockery of Paya's beliefs, a limb which is not his own. Is this true?"
"…Yes, my Liege." Hir'cyn felt his very well developed instincts tell him to run, but his honor wouldn't stand for it. If this was the moment in which his 'Great Experiment' would come to light, then so be it. He would die honestly and honorably.
"I implore you, Elder Hir'cyn, for history is listening," Ren'da said solemnly, "why undertake such dangerous and patently illegal acts for a slave?"
"He is not a slave, my Liege."
Ren'da's eyes glinted. "What did you say?"
Hir'cyn hardened his own stare at Ren'da and then looked at Rathde. "I wish this man freed," he said, his voice clear and loud, and he cuffed Rathde across the cheek, stepping back from him.
It was earlier than the seven years he had envisioned, much earlier, but this was a serious situation. Ren'da's comments had jingled some warning bells in Hir'cyn's mind; this was an inquiry into Heretics were dealt with swiftly, and their property, including slaves, repossessed and distributed as the Arbiter saw fit. Some slaves were even killed, and the bodies of slaves were hardly treated with anything approaching deference. Regrettable as it was, Rathde was freed, and if necessary, he could claim complete ignorance. The manumission might be the last thing he ever did, for the torture that lay in wait for Bad Bloods was nearly indescribable. 'To send from his hand', the slap made the freedom binding and legal in front of no less than four witnesses.
Ren'da stood suddenly. "Hir'cyn, do you know what you're doing?"
"I'm freeing a creature once pitiable. The Council hobbled him as punishment." The fire was lit under Hir'cyn, and his voice rose with his newfound spark. "You said I acted against Paya's teachings. How could I, when Paya herself granted me leave, and you, your Council, having marred her work so carelessly in the first place! I am not the heretic here, Ren'da!" Hir'cyn finished his tirade with a roar, although it seemed too theatrical in retrospect. It was done, and he waited for the reaction.
Ren'da sat unblinking, watching Hir'cyn, whose chest rose and fell with excitement, and Rathde, who was still stunned. Free? He was free?
"Hir'cyn," began the Arbiter, "if you had but asked, an entire City might have helped you in your endeavor to free a slave. As it was, I had to find out through one of our informers." He lifted a hand, and one cloaked figure pulled back his cowl. The druggist from the South Quarter Spire. His eyes seemed shifty, distrustful. The other Hunter shifted on his feet, but remained cloaked.
Hir'cyn blinked. "What?"
The cloaked Hunter pulled back the cowl which obscured his features, exposing a graying head and solemn green eyes. "The idea of abolition is not new, Hir'cyn. It has many supporters," Ghanede said quietly.
xXx
Escthta realized instantly what the smallest light's disappearance meant. Reluctant as he was, he pulled himself away from Thtarok, willing his mental projections back into himself. Thtarok collapsed against the wall, throat bruised, but breathing. Escthta dismissed him quickly; he could take care of him later if need be.
H'chak-di had lost consciousness, but her bleeding had slowed from the pouring blood of a head wound to a slight seep of fluid. A gentle inquiry into her mind discovered her conscious self locked off, protecting herself from further pain as her body began to fully feel the injuries visited upon it. Reluctant to leave her, but knowing she needed medical attention, Escthta decided to take her with him, rather than risk leaving her with Thtarok. He lifted her carefully, maintaining his link with her and searching both her conscious and unconscious mind for changes in her condition. When he was satisfied that nothing was broken and she might be safely moved, he left Thtarok crumpled in a corner and went in search of a medic.
xXx
Rathde had taken the chair offered him; Hir'cyn remained standing, still a bit uncomfortable with sitting down.
"You were hardly discreet, Hir'cyn." Ren'da was both serious and amused at the same time.
"Acting on your own was foolish, and I have no doubt that Kvar'ye has his suspicions, if he does not know already." Ren'da said this very matter-of-factly, and Hir'cyn kicked himself for not being more attentive. He blamed it on the unusual nature of the situation, and his own surveillance skills being somewhat out of practice. A Hunt would take care of that.
"Kvar'ye is hardly interested in what I do."
"On the contrary, Hir'cyn, because you are attached to the Psionic, he is very interested in what you do."
"Psionic?" Psionics were rare; there had been only five in his entire lifespan. All were touted as being extremely dangerous. Arbiters and in some cases, the entire Council Hunted them down and dealt with them. The last Psionic had been about 350 years ago, one of three born inside a century. Hir'cyn wrinkled his brow, recalling his conversation with the Matriarch. She had made mention of a Psionic, but had not let on who the unfortunate creature was.
"Escthta is a Psionic. He 'spoke' with the Bathyrian during his fight at Council; we believe that fight triggered his psychic development."
"Why let him wander around unattended? I thought all Psionics were dangerous." Escthta, the Psionic. Suddenly a great deal of the events in the past few months made sense.
"Since it does not appear to be the kind of psionicity that was at work in natural-born Psionics, the Council has given him a sort of leash."
"Enough rope to hang himself, you mean." Hir'cyn had no problems cutting through the obfuscations.
"In a manner of speaking, yes," Ghanede interjected. "He will either become dangerous enough to require intervention, or the effects of the Bathyrian may fade with time."
"It's been almost half a year. How long do you think you can call something temporary?" Hir'cyn demanded, but neither Ghanede nor Ren'da answered immediately.
"Other Hunters who received the same kind of wound from the Bathyrian during its capture," Ghanede explained, pointing to his temple, "complained of hearing voices for weeks; some died. Escthta received two strikes, one on each side, so he may have received a large dose of venom, enough to make the effects last longer."
"Or forever," Hir'cyn said.
"Or forever," Ghanede acknowledged. "It could also be genetic," he said, after a pause.
"Genetic? Psionics aren't allowed to breed," Hir'cyn countered.
"Known Psionics aren't allowed to breed," Ren'da corrected him. "They can have negative telekinetic effects or worse on the female. Add in that second-generation Psionics are often more powerful than their parents, and it's perfectly understandable that they're forbidden to breed. But this assumes that we know beforehand which yautja are Psionic. If they have not been found out, they may breed before we are aware of them."
"And Escthta's father was Psionic?" Hir'cyn found this all a bit hard to believe. Parental records were spotty at best; most yautja traced themselves through their mother's line, if at all, and female Psionics didn't exist, with the exception of the Matriarch. Male Psionics were sometimes undetected, though few lived long enough to mate and pass on their mental power.
"It is not common knowledge, but his father was Thio-de." Hir'cyn recognized the name, and his face showed it, twisted with horror and awe. Even Rathde, who must have only been an Unblooded at the time of Thio-de's death, could not hide the terror which flashed across his face.
"So, if a son of Thio-de received venom which increased his mental capacity…" Hir'cyn mused out loud.
"It could have serious consequences," Ghanede finished for him.
"That is one of the reasons we decided to approach you about your slave," Ren'da said finally. "If Escthta were involved, it would be enough for Kvar'ye to jump on and demand his removal. Seeing as how Escthta has no hand in the slave's 'miraculous' recovery, we're not obliged to continue to keep you." Ren'da said.
"You're not?" Hir'cyn was stunned, sure that after Escthta was cleared of involvement, he would still have to answer for the 'mutilation' of his slave.
Ren'da shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I do not personally agree with slavery, and any efforts you make to push it to the edges of our consciousness are welcome."
He stood, his cape dropping into place over his back, and then chittered amiably. "We must do this again, Hir'cyn."
"I can't say I look forward to it," Hir'cyn grumbled.
Ren'da and Ghanede chuckled. "Perhaps we could blindfold you next time," Ghanede offered.
Ren'da laughed, and the two of them stepped through the doorway, motioning for them to follow. The druggist, Rathde and Hir'cyn all rose, and the druggist parted company soon after. The hallways back were lit, though faintly, and the circular room where they had sat in darkness was exposed as a vast cylinder, a rotating elevator that accessed many levels. Ren'da and Ghanede seemed quite used to it, and they passed through to another doorway on the other side.
When they reached the lowest crypts of the Library, Ghanede went on ahead, and Ren'da indicated that Hir'cyn and Rathde should wait. "It will look bad if we all leave at the same time," he murmured. "I understand that you have other obligations elsewhere, Elder Hir'cyn," the note of familiarity gone, and replaced with polished politeness. "I urge you to keep to yourself everything I have told you, and avoid moving whenever possible; the more you move around, the more Kvar'ye will focus in on you, and that may make things difficult for Escthta."
"You sound as if you want to protect him."
"I do." The admission was blunt, though whispered. "It is part of a promise I made to his father."
"A promise?"
"To protect him when I could, but let him make his own mistakes." Ren'da's voice was low, but strained. "He is destined for great things, or so his father told me; I have not the future-sight he did. I have done what I can for him, shielded him where I could. But if he goes much further in testing the Council's patience, he will be beyond my help."
Hir'cyn took a protective interest in his young friend, and he could not believe that all was lost if Ren'da could no longer help him. "What waits for him beyond that? Without your help, what will happen?"
Ren'da sighed softly, and then shook his head. "Execution, if Kvar'ye has any say in it."
xXx
Escthta could hardly believe his luck; a medic sent from the Matriarch had arrived as he stood indecisive in the hall. The female was shorter than he and bore the medic's mark on her dome. She was beholden to help the injured, and he held the human out to her. She took H'chak-di's condition in with a practiced eye, and simply carried her off, Escthta staying close behind. Escthta was no medic, and all he could do was trust her.
The smaller female bound H'chak-di's chest, salving her wounds with a gentle hand, and making sure the bandages were snug, but not tight; the Escthta was jittery as she worked, knowing that Thtarok got closer to consciousness with every moment, and once he was upright, he would want revenge. Escthta looked forward to it; he outweighed Thtarok, and might easily best him in a fight, if he was careful.
Perhaps what he worried about more was H'chak-di's state when she awoke. Would she blame him for abandoning her? Would she understand the singular drive that took control of a male's mind in the presence of the mating musk? She had not seen the smashed monitors and overturned apparatus in the other room, where he had again mated with Da-kvar'di, and she had again brushed him off as soon as coitus was finished. Her spurs had been brutal to him, leaving him with gashes similar to H'chak-di's, but he would survive. Males were made tough to survive the courtship- she was more important right now.
Perhaps the thing that haunted his mind more than his own wounds or H'chak-di's condition was the successfulness of the hormone cocktail that had induced heat in Da-kvar'di. The 'cure' had been found, and females might breed again any time they wished, ovulation stimulated by sex, and more sucklings born from more sex. It made sense. But if so, then Da-kvar'di was right—H'chak-di had outlived her usefulness. The information they had gotten from her hormones was invaluable, but the source was no longer necessary. What would they do with her now? With her role in the trial filled, would she choose to go back to a human-settled planet? Of course she would; the yautja were not her people, not her way, and as today's events proved, she was anything but safe here.
And yet, Escthta could not help but feel sad that his time with her might be near its end.
xXx
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry this chapter has taken so long; I have been working long hours lately, and this was a difficult chapter to write. Many times I find myself looking at two major plot points and saying, "But how do I get from here to there?" I have done what I can to bridge the gap and fill in some knowledge holes as well.
The next few chapters may also be long in coming, as I am drawing up plans for Cthinde's story. I have decided to take a leaf out of an existing AvP comic book, "Booty", and work with something similar for him. Bagthak will be playing a larger role in Cthinde's story, which may end up being named "Booty Call", simply because it's catchy and I like the word 'booty'.
Thanks to Masurao for her version of Escthta from my garbage drawings; it's great to see him in the flesh like that. Thanks also to Sara for her companionship and general insanity; you're a LOL a minute. :)