Inherit the Stars Page 10

  Kivita stayed close to Sar as they entered a covered courtyard. Old starship engines, mining tanks, and gas skimmers filled it. A few pirates watched from dark corners. A pretty woman giggled as two pirates tugged at her clothes. Angry voices reverberated from the level above.

  “You can remove ya helmets now, if you wanna conserve air.” Their guide tugged off his own with a small pop. A gray beard, mustache, and mohawk dominated his dark features. “You may not remember me, Redryll. Orstaav, Shekelor’s old partner? Now I run security for him and all that.”

  Sar pulled off his helmet. “I remember. Still growing that blacklight cactus I sold you?”

  Orstaav laughed. “That thing still makes the tastiest damn juice. C’mon. Shekelor hopes ya brought nice stuff for him.”

  Kivita caught the warning look in Orstaav’s gaze.

  The four followed Orstaav up another ramp onto a third level. Dung, urine, sweat, and vomit odors attacked Kivita’s nostrils. Seul grimaced, but Cheseia wheezed and covered her mouth. Kivita guessed the stench choked the Ascali’s keen olfactory senses.

  Stone cubicles separated scores of families on the third level. The noise of mixed voices grew in volume. Humans, a few Ascali, and even a score or so Aldaakians convalesced in the poorest conditions Kivita had seen. Not even the farmer hovels on Haldon Prime matched this.

  People dressed in ragged wool or stapled-together burlap cloaks munched rancid gruel. Flimsy cloth curtains served as doors to each cubicle. Arguments, sexual moans, infant wails, and coughing filled Kivita’s ears. The wet crunch of someone getting bludgeoned, the hard slap of thighs thrusting against a rump, the splash of piss on stone . . . She wanted to put her helmet back on and mute it all.

  “Gotta take these slaves away soon,” Orstaav said. “Damn babies’ crying driving me and the rest crazy.”

  Seul stumbled over a man vomiting outside a cubicle. His ribs showed through sickly skin. Kivita caught Seul’s arm, steadying her. They both shared a determined, disgusted look. While Cheseia’s eyes narrowed and her shoulders stiffened, Sar acted as if nothing bothered him. How many times had he been here and seen this travesty?

  A narrow hall led from the third level to another ramp. Pirates sat on the stone incline, gambling with Naxan dice, functional in any gravity. Many studied Kivita and Cheseia with calculating, lustful eyes. Measuring them for profit, pleasure, or both.

  Kivita’s knuckles burned; she’d been gripping her sword handle without realizing it.

  “Hurry up. This way.” Orstaav climbed a metal latter into a loft where orange and green light flickered. Eight hefty pirates guarded the bottom of the ladder.

  Sar looked straight at Kivita. “Say nothing unless he speaks to you. All of you.” Something different from before swam in his brown-and-green-flecked eyes. Worry, maybe even dread.

  Kivita had no choice but to follow.

  After trailing Sar up the ladder, she paused and stared. The loft measured a hundred feet square. Old windows had been fitted with viewports cannibalized from starships. Strobe lamps flashed green and orange, while the scents of alcohol and perfume choked the air.

  Gold-thread tapestries hung from torch sconces like misplaced towels. Chipped mosaics filled with armed men and women decorated tables. Counters overflowed with steaming dishes. Coral chandeliers from Susuron dangled from the ceiling, each holding a nude dancer.

  The pirates themselves wore polyarmor with a double-headed green-and-red snake painted on their cuirasses. Humans from Bellerion, Dirr, Bons Sutar, and Tejuit rubbed shoulders. Ascali with designs shaved into their fur stood tall and brawny. Renegade Aldaakians in polymail looked like albino ghosts under the flashing lights.

  Orstaav shoved a path through the crowd, and the pirates grew still. Greedy stares followed Kivita and Cheseia. Weapons clicked with Seul’s passage. A few whispered Sar’s name.

  “Right through there.” Orstaav pointed at a battlement entrance in the stone wall. A curtain embroidered with a two-headed green-and-red snake draped the doorway.

  Sar walked past the curtain without obvious reservations. Kivita followed, helmet clutched under her left arm, right hand above her sword hilt. Seul and Cheseia came in behind her.

  Before them rose a stepped dais in a room larger than she’d expected. A gem-encrusted throne rested on the dais. Crimson, pink, and green pillows lined the floor. Huge feudal tapestries and Sutaran glass sculptures rivaled the decor in the Rector’s Compound. Two coral chandeliers holding white lamps lit the room. Six human and four Ascali females lay at the foot of the throne, dressed in transparent red-and-green shifts.

  “Sar Redryll. What lovely companions you have. I already possess some of the finest beauties from across the Cetturo Arm, as you can see,” a cultured voice said with Sutaran tongue inflections. A figure rose from the shadowed throne.

  Kivita bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.

  Shekelor Thal stood about her height, but wide shoulders and corded limbs made him look as intimidating as a Kith. Dark green polyarmor covered his body. Black braids hung from his head. He had one brown and one purple eye.

  Normal characteristics ended there. His left arm ended in three Sarrhdtuu coils, and his flesh bore the olive tint of one who’d undergone Sarrhdtuu Transmutation.

  “They’re nice. You’ve done well over the years.” Sar smiled.

  As Shekelor walked down the dais, the females scattered from his path. His eyes focused on Kivita. “I might make an exception for this one, Redryll. Yet, if I know you, these three are not here for you to bargain. That means they shall have to part our company while we conduct business.”

  Kivita tried to look aloof and tough while Sar remained silent. What was he waiting for?

  “Come, now. You are my guests and shall not be harmed. Eat, drink, copulate—I care not! If you wish, there is a second covered courtyard where other activities are to be found. Orstaav will show you.” Shekelor dismissed them with a look.

  Sar spoke without turning. “You all heard. Wait for me out there.”

  Kivita didn’t speak as she, Seul, and Cheseia entered the pirate hall again. Without seeking Orstaav, she barged through a doorway on her right. Just like Shekelor had said, a second courtyard waited. Rock shacks, stalls, and three dismantled starships filled it. The people wore better clothing, and several children peeped from dark windows. Kivita realized these were the pirates’ families and personal slaves.

  Cheseia stopped in the hall doorway. “Sar will not take long, I truly hope, and—”

  “What the hell has Sar gotten us into?” Kivita asked. “What kind of deal is he working up there with that green-rigged brute?”

  “I will not accept any offer from a Sarrhdtuu ally like that one,” Seul said.

  For once, uncertainty tainted Cheseia’s voice. “I definitely do not know.”

  “So, how often do you and Sar spend a romantic getaway out here? What a charming little shithole.” Kivita’s face grew hot and she lowered her voice. “Have you no shame, dealing with these scum?”

  “Do you stupidly think we would save you, just to mercilessly leave you to these people?” Cheseia’s whisper cut into Kivita, along with her hurt glare.

  “Arguing will get us all killed.” Seul flicked her gaze to either side as pirates filed past them into the hall.

  After studying Seul for a moment, Kivita undid the flexi around the Aldaakian’s wrists. “Here, you’re free.”

  Seul nodded once. “I’d prefer your company for now. I don’t like this planet or its people.”

  Cheseia slung the beam rifle over her shoulders and tied the helmet to her envirosuit’s belt. “Sar would certainly not have brought us here without good reason. Remember—he knows coordinates to a genuinely safe location.”

  “Yeah, like this one?” Kivita stared at the ceiling and sighed. “Damn it all to the void. I need a dri
nk.”

  She left Cheseia in the courtyard and returned to the drinking hall. Seul followed, a strange look on her sharp features.

  11

  “It looks different here since my last visit.” Sar glanced at Shekelor’s throne; the man must think himself a king. “More pirates, more ships. More girls. Too bad we didn’t have all this in the old days.”

  Shekelor’s purple eye looked Sar up and down, but his brown one remained fixed on Sar’s face. “One likes to stay busy. My followers are culled from the transients orbiting Tejuit. Former mercenaries or Tannocci lords fallen on hard times. And you would not believe what a starving family will trade in exchange for a crate of moldy foodstuffs.”

  Words came to Sar’s lips, but thoughts of Kivita stopped them. She’d better not be pawning off the Juxj Star in the drinking hall.

  “So, what did you bring me, Redryll?” Shekelor caressed the face of a tawny-furred Ascali. “You look like a man on the run.”

  Sar held his helmet in one hand and ran the other through his hair. He never could hide things from his old friend. “The Inheritors have something planned. It might be bad for everyone in the Arm—even you.”

  He tried not thinking of what’d flashed through his mind after bumping into Kivita earlier. Sights of unknown planets, details on cryogenic colony ships he’d heard about only in spacer legends. What had happened to her since their days together at Gontalo? The strange mixture of loathing and expectation in Kivita’s eyes now . . . Her lithe body in that outfit he’d selected for her . . . No, he needed her for his rebellion.

  “I doubt it.” Shekelor smirked. “Judging from the company you keep, I would say things aren’t bad for you, either. Even that Aldaakian is rather easy on the eyes.”

  Sar returned the smirk, though he didn’t feel it. Kivita was far more special than the lover he’d abandoned. Telling her about his Thede allegiance would’ve been folly, considering her wish to sell the Juxj Star. “The Inheritors are—”

  “I do not prey on them anymore,” Shekelor said. “Raiding Aldaakian and Tannocci shipping has been more lucrative for me of late. You still seek revenge on those silly prophets? I would have thought your double-sided game had ended by now. The Fall of Freen is in the past. Leave it there with the dead, Redryll.”

  Caitrynn’s charred body invaded Sar’s thoughts, but he continued. “Help me against the Inheritors like you used to. My allies will pay.”

  “I care not. The prophets will not dominate the Cetturo Arm forever.”

  Stiffening, Sar met Shekelor’s eyes. The man had never interrupted him twice in the same conversation before. “And you’ll be satisfied raiding trade routes forever? Or have you forgotten your own dead family?”

  Shekelor’s coils snapped at Sar’s neck. “Revenge is something I understand, Redryll. But it does not feed or protect me. The Thedes lack the payment I require for such a risk.”

  Sar smiled to hide his concern. He’d never told Shekelor who he worked for. “So, the Sarrhdtuu feed and protect you? Never thought you’d enter the slave trade. Who buys all those people?”

  “The Sarrhdtuu pay me in ways your rebels cannot,” Shekelor said. “The prophets killed your sister. They killed my son. Years ago, they burned half my body away during that failed raid at Tahe. But I am a pirate now, not a freedom fighter. I sell slaves, so I do not become one.”

  “Then be a pirate. Cover my tracks from this system,” Sar said.

  “The Expanse’s radiation hides my presence here, Redryll. You must really expect to be followed. Of course, that means my operation here might be exposed. I shall require something special for this inconvenience.” Shekelor paced before Sar.

  “I’ve got Susuron water on Frevyx, Naxan fruit trees—”

  “Who is the human with you?” Shekelor asked.

  A chill formed in Sar’s gut. “The friend of an ally. I brought her from Inheritor Space.”

  Shekelor’s eyebrows rose. “She resembles Kivita Vondir. I have seen her placard in spaceports. It seems she is as skilled a salvager as you. Rather attractive, she is.”

  “No.” Sar kept his gaze firm.

  Shekelor laughed. “Do not reject my offer before you hear it.”

  Sar had intended to lose any pursuers in the Terresin Expanse while escaping to key Thede coordinates. Shekelor’s fleet could at least provide a diversion, but the warlord wasn’t the same man Sar remembered; those slave pens and captive beauties revealed a new ruthlessness.

  “She’s not for sale.”

  A faraway look stole over Shekelor’s mismatched eyes. “Once I believed that about certain liberties I considered unassailable: free will, safety, love. In the end, they are cheaper than dust, upon realizing you will trade them to destroy another.”

  The chill in Sar’s gut stabbed his spine. He’d never be like that. His revenge could be achieved without sacrificing his morality.

  “I see you are mulling it over. We shall discuss it over drinks, since I owe you an Umiracan Kiss.” Shekelor pointed at the doorway.

  Sar exited the room first. Kivita, sitting at the wooden counter with all the other pirates, stared right at him. Damn, why did those hazel eyes have to be so unforgiving? He’d been cold to her on purpose and ignored her again. The more others realized her value, the deadlier her situation would become.

  And the greater his pain if something happened to her.

  • • •

  Kivita tried not to inhale the mollusk vapors drifting from the end of the counter. Three pirates bent over a decanter, sniffing the spicy aromas. Within seconds they staggered into each other, giggling like children. She started to move, then glanced around.

  Orstaav ogled Kivita from across the counter with a sneer.

  Best stay in this seat, then. With no empty stools beside her, at least the bastard couldn’t get too close.

  As Sar and Shekelor sat at an adjacent table, the pirates raised their mugs and cheered. Sar still avoided looking at her. Cheseia sat beside him, and they shared a few whispers. The Ascali clutched Sar’s leg beneath the table.

  Kivita’s cheeks burned.

  Orstaav held up a mug and pointed at her, slowly licked his lips. If the man’s antics didn’t make her nauseous, Kivita would flirt with him just to annoy Sar. Yeah, like he’d notice.

  Seul nudged a drunken pirate aside and sat beside Kivita. For all her military demeanor, the Aldaakian seemed disgusted by the behavior around them. Every now and then, she tried to wipe spilled ale from her armor as pirates jostled past them.

  “I don’t like this.” Kivita kept staring at Sar, but he paid no attention.

  “Neither do I,” Seul said. “You have dealt with Sar before?”

  Frustration smoldered in Kivita’s chest. “You could say that.”

  “There’s something you should know, Kivita. Commander Vuul might be searching.”

  “For you? You his girl or something?” Kivita avoided looking across the counter at Orstaav.

  Scowling, Seul leaned close to Kivita. “I’m not his daughter.”

  Kivita’s brow furrowed. Then she barked a short laugh. “No, I meant, are you his woman? His lover. You know, his—”

  Seul’s eyes widened and her hands balled into fists. “You crusty vacuum turd. No, I’m . . .” She banged her elbow against Kivita and grinned. “What a morbid sense of humor you humans have.”

  No, the joke was on Kivita. Sar had seemed desperate to escape the Inheritors, but now he wanted to party with Shekelor Thal? And he still hadn’t bargained with her or Seul as promised, either. She wondered if Orstaav had a ship, and if she could get him drunk enough to steal its access code. . . .

  Ugh. Now she was the one getting desperate.

  “If Vuul has tracked our coordinates, then it’s you he seeks, not me.” Seul gripped her arm. “We are both prisoners here. Help me and I will h
elp you.”

  Despite the hall’s clammy warmth, Kivita shivered. “Your commander. If he’s really searching, would he be willing to make a deal?”

  “Yes, Vuul would . . .”

  Seul’s words faded as Kivita’s mind swam with images: yellow-suited Rectifiers patrolled the large cryopod chamber she’d envisioned before. Autohandlers on metal tracks maintained occupied cryopods with moisture canisters.

  “Kivita?” Seul’s voice brought Kivita back to the drinking hall.

  “Huh? Yeah, sorry.” Now the strange dreams disturbed her waking thoughts, as well, ever since she’d touched the Juxj Star.

  Cheers and laughter deafened Kivita as she collected herself. She slumped forward to avoid the sloshing mugs behind her.

  Shekelor beckoned a topless dancer to his table. “My friends, Sar Redryll has traveled many light years for a specialty only we can offer. The Umiracan Kiss!”

  The half-naked dancer poured ale, wine, and blacklight cactus juice into her mouth. Holding the liquid in her cheeks, she smudged a bone-yellow stone, taken from Umiracan’s surface, over her closed lips.

  Sar leaned over the table, and the dancer placed her lips on his. The pirates roared with approval as the dancer spat her mouth’s contents into Sar’s. A tiny spark lit between their lips.

  “Orstaav, bring in more Susuron drinks!” Shekelor called, his eyes sweeping over Kivita.

  The dancer sat in Sar’s lap and jiggled her breasts. Whistles and laughter filled the hall, and Kivita glared at Sar as her cheeks grew hotter. Musicians played grind boxes; the electrified vibrations drowned out all other sound. Pirates danced, pushed, and puked all around them.

  “To hell with this.” Kivita pushed her way from the hall and entered the courtyard. A knot rose from her stomach and enveloped her heart. She pretended to adjust her envirosuit while contemplating her situation: no ship, trapped on a pirate planet, holding the greatest salvage of her career. And spurned again by the man she used to love.

  A hand grabbed her arm.

  “Shekelor says to take ya to your room,” Orstaav said. The alcohol on his breath wrinkled Kivita’s nose.