Page 9 of Chieftain
Bartuk scanned his hand-held device. With the technology, we could tell the layout of the Trogvyk skip and the genetic signatures of anyone on board. "Sensors tell me there are seventeen slavers still on board. Fifteen are moving toward the control deck while two remain in Medi-Bay.”
I offered a slight incline of my head. Daicon, Tarook, and a dozen other warriors sprinted down the ramp toward the control deck. I set off toward Medi-Bay with Charick, Bartuk, and another half dozen warriors at my heels. Through the comm piece I wore in my left ear, I heard the sounds of Daicon engaging in battle. I envied him.
The Trogvyk ship was not even a quarter the size of the Bardaga. Slavers favored smaller vessels. They were more maneuverable in getaways and could hide in asteroid fields, moon craters, and other space junk. Matched against a battle cruiser, though, these ships had little defense.
The passage we traveled was narrow and heavy with the scent of blood. Not the rotten egg smell of Trogvyk blood; this scent was metallic—human blood.
"What do your scans tell us of the humans?" I asked Bartuk as we approached the large double doors leading to Medi-Bay.
"I'm only getting the genetic readings for the Trogvyk." He swallowed hard as he met my gaze. "There are no other life signatures."
Bartuk flinched at my low growl. Beside me, Charick's sigh rang heavily. Sadly, the young warrior would learn that we often found Earthlings dead or so near to death that nothing could be done other than ease their passage to the great beyond.
"The door is jammed," Charick frowned at the small black control panel to the left of the door.
"Of course, it is," I grunted, drawing the short knife from my belt. The hilt was made of rare Extuvian stone, and the blade was Tirathathum, the most rigid metal in the known universe. It was my father's blade and his father's before him. A blade endowed with the strength and magic of my ancestry. A blade I could always count on to get the job done.
I stabbed the knife in the seam between the double doors, getting just enough space to get my fingertips in and push. Whatever the Trogvyk used to tie the doors shut gave a loud twang upon breaking.
The ping of something hitting the door near my head jerked my attention toward a Trogvyk warrior standing near a supply cabinet a few feet away, laser gun aimed. I flipped the knife in my grip and threw it, spearing the Trogvyk in the throat before he could get off another shot.
“One more chieftain,” Bartuk commented.
"Hold." I lifted a raised fist, ears attuning to a clicking noise from a nearby storage cabinet. Two warriors flanked me as I reached forward and jerked open the door.
The Trogvyk that rolled out was smaller than most, his forehead considerably more prominent than others of his kind. While his body was leanly muscled, this Trogvyk wasn't built for battle. He didn't wear the gold chains of a warrior. Instead, he wore a floor-length gray tunic--the splashes of deep red on the fabric did not go unnoticed.
"A prisoner, my Chieftain?” Charick hauled the alien to his feet, handing him over to two warriors who placed a hobbling bar on his ankles and thick cuffs on his wrists.
"Take him back for interrogation," I ordered, retrieving my knife from the dead Trogvyk's throat.
“I’d rather be dead.” The alien's voice held more trembling than bravado.
I leaned close, hearing the hiss of his sharply drawn breath. "You may get your wish."
“Chieftain?” Bartuk’s voice interrupted. "Is this a human?"
With a wave, I sent the prisoner to the cells. Bartuk was a few feet away, staring into a Medi-tube, his tan pelt holding a faint green cast.
“Valana be merciful,” Charick murmured as he came to stand beside Bartuk, placing a steadying hand on the younger warrior’s shoulder.
The human in the chamber--there wasn't a lot of human left to it. The body was slit from throat to crotch, with most vital organs and the head removed.
“I didn’t think the Trogvyk experimented on humans,” Bartuk’s voice warbled.
“Not as a general rule,” Charick frowned at the corpse. “Trogvyk usually steal humans for profit.”
"We need to inform the Alliance about this," I nodded toward the tablet Bartuk held. "If the Trogvyk have started experimenting on humans…." I let the thought trail off, not wanting to consider the horror further.
“Look at its hands,” Bartuk’s voice was low and sad.
The human’s fingers were frozen in a bizarre array of ghastly poses, the nail on each appendage either broken or ripped away. There were defensive wounds on the hands and arms and bruises on the chest leading up to a blackened cauterized wound on the neck.
"He was a warrior," I said, noticing the spirit of a kindred soul. "He fought hard for his life."
“Yes,” Charick agreed.
In silent accord, the three of us shifted stance, squaring our shoulders and crossing our arms over our vika at the wrists—The Vaktaire sign of respect for a fallen comrade. This wasn't the first human we encountered in this condition, and sadly would not be the last.
