The Price of Conquest

Kressa braced herself for the Om-Mar's final incursion, aware that it would strip away the very essence of who she was, and there was nothing she could do to resist.

It began.

Her perceptions blurred as the combined psyches of the Om-Mar flowed over hers. She held tight to the arms of the two th'Maran and drew what reassurance she could from their physical presence and the distinct, individual feel of their minds.

The Om-Mar hesitated, and Kressa sensed an opening, a possible way to resist.

Never break the Pack. Cody's words, the Wolfpack credo, echoed in her mind. The Pack, a collection of individuals joined together to create a stronger whole…

The opening she sensed grew wider.

Heartened, she seized onto the two th'Marans' personalities and clung to the impressions of individuality she found within each of them, defying the unity the Om-Mar sought.

The th'Maran fought her control, but with the seemingly limitless energy of the Om-Mar to draw upon, Kressa found it easy to hold them.

She reached out with her awareness and extended it beyond the room, outward and downward, buoyed by the Om-Mar's power. She touched other minds, bypassed some, latched almost passively onto others, so delicately they didn't feel it.

Cody. B'Okhaim. Tyler. Saunorel. Jonathan. Others she needed but did not recognize.

Gritting her teeth from the strain, she willed her personality and those of the others she held over the undifferentiated beings that made up the Om-Mar. Its surprise at the intensity of her resistance flooded the link that held them together.

The Om-Mar tried a second route, then a third, but Kressa would not back down. Determined, she met each incursion with a wall of individuality formed into an all-but-impassable barrier.

Slowly, the battle turned, and the Om-Mar faded from her awareness.

As it retreated, a mournful cry filled Kressa, and she experienced the profound sorrow brought about by the fruitless conclusion of a purpose that had endured forever.

And then, with a soundless gasp, she collapsed.

* * *

"Kressa!"

Saunorel's terrified cry jerked Jonathan back to his senses. He opened his eyes and glanced around in confusion. Had he been dreaming of Kressa?

The th'Maran who had taken his pulse gun stood against the opposite side of the foyer, silver eyes wide and staring, mouth agape, as if he had backed away and been brought up short against the wall. He held Jonathan's gun loose at his side. The stunner lay on the floor between them. Saunorel and the other two th'Maran stood nearby, wearing similar trance-like expressions.

Jonathan launched himself toward his stunner, and B'Okhaim charged for the th'Maran who held the pulse gun. The big man tackled the th'Maran to the floor, knocking the gun from his grasp.

Jonathan scooped up his stunner from the floor, spun and fired twice. His shots struck the other two th'Maran, and they collapsed. He turned his weapon on the third th'Maran, but B'Okhaim held him pinned to the floor. Cody rushed forward and grabbed Jonathan's pulse gun.

Tyler had not moved.

Saunorel stared at the two th'Maran Jonathan had shot. Her expression shifted from dread to wonder. "They are not hurt."

Jonathan shook his head. "They're just stunned. They should wake up in a few minutes. What—?"

A scuffle interrupted him, and he turned to see B'Okhaim haul the third th'Maran to his feet. Cody swung the pulse gun to bear on him.

"Do not hurt him," Saunorel said to B'Okhaim.

"Tell him not to hurt us," the big man rumbled.

Saunorel met the captive th'Maran's eyes and spoke to him in a language Jonathan assumed must be their native tongue. The captive listened intently. He flashed a suspicious glance at Jonathan, and then whispered something to Saunorel.

Her brow creased, and she looked at Jonathan. "What did you do to him?"

"What did I do?" he asked, startled by the question. "What in hell did he do?"

"The shorom entered your mind to learn who you are and why you are here," Saunorel said.

Jonathan gave the th'Maran prisoner an uneasy glance, uncomfortable with the idea of anyone poking around inside his head. "Were they successful?"

Saunorel nodded.

"Well, that's good." He kept a wary eye on their captive. "Now that they understand what's happening, they might—"

The prisoner said something else to Saunorel, and a troubled look crossed her face. She glanced at Jonathan again.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"He fears you."

Jonathan gave her a wry smile. "Considering the way the humans of the United Galaxy have been treating your people, I'd fear me, too."

"No," she said quietly with a slow shake of her head, "it is more than that. They felt something in your mind." She searched Jonathan's eyes, and he felt a brief pressure in his head. "I feel it, too, but…" She shook her head again. "I do not understand."

Jonathan indicated the th'Maran B'Okhaim held with a nod of his head. "Tell him we're not going to hurt him. B'Okhaim, sit him down at the table."

He glanced to where Cody stood with the pulse gun aimed at the th'Maran. The sensor in the grip wouldn't allow the boy to fire it, but the threat of the weapon should be enough to keep the th'Maran under control. "Keep an eye on him, Cody."

The boy nodded. Jonathan dropped his stunner into his pocket, then watched as B'Okhaim led the th'Maran into the main chamber, and Tyler helped settle him in one of the chairs.

Satisfied they had the situation under control, Jonathan looked at Saunorel again.

"Why did those three back off so suddenly?" he asked and then remembered something else. "You called out Kressa's name."

"The Om-Mar," Saunorel whispered. "We felt it cry out, and then Kressa…" Her voice faded to silence.

"'Then Kressa' what?" Jonathan asked, concern for Kressa's safety once again taking over his thoughts now that the immediate crisis was over. "Do you know where she is?"

Saunorel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I feel her, but there is something blocking her mind. Something I do not understand."

"Take me to her."

She nodded, and Jonathan turned to the others.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"You three wait here while Saunorel and I…" He hesitated when he realized that Tyler now held his pulse gun and was pointing it at him.

"Sorry, Captain," Tyler said, "but the only place any of us are going is to your ship. Now." He motioned toward the door with the weapon. "Let's go, B'Okhaim, Cody, and bring the prisoner, we may need him." He gestured to Jonathan. "Come on, Westlex, you're my ticket out of here."

Jonathan scowled and drew his stunner. "Give me the gun, Tyler."

Tyler laughed when he saw the little stun gun pointed at him. "I hardly think you're in a position to make demands, Westlex." He leveled the pulse gun at Jonathan's chest.

"Captain—" Saunorel started to protest Jonathan's apparently suicidal behavior, but he held up a hand to quiet her.

B'Okhaim, Cody, and the th'Maran prisoner watched him, their expressions displaying varying degrees of astonishment.

Jonathan kept the stunner aimed at Tyler. "You said it yourself, Tyler, you'll never get to my ship without me."

"Your th'Maran friend will get us there." He glanced at Saunorel. "Won't you, girl?"

She drew in a quick breath.

Tyler returned his gaze to Jonathan. "But it would be so much easier if you'd just cooperate, Captain."

Jonathan sighed. He didn't know who this Tyler character was or why he was behaving so irrationally, but he'd put up with enough of his obstinacy. He took a step forward. "Tyler, give me the gun."

Tyler pulled the trigger.

His surprised look when nothing happened lasted only an instant before Jonathan's stunner wiped it away and he folded in a limp bundle to the floor.

Jonathan watched him for a moment, retrieved his pulse gun from the man's unresisting grip, and tossed the stunner to B'Okhaim. He gestured toward Tyler. "What's his problem?"

B'Okhaim caught the stunner. "He, uh…" His gaze drifted down to Tyler's unmoving form, and he smiled. "He's upset the universe hasn't learned to revolve around him yet."

Jonathan gave the unconscious man another brief glance, holstered his pulse gun, and pointed to the stunner B'Okhaim held. "Don't use that unless you have to. It's harmless enough, but I'd rather we didn't have any more shooting."

He stepped toward the doorway, motioning for Saunorel to follow, and glanced down at the two unconscious th'Maran. "Make these two comfortable. We'll return as soon as we can."

Saunorel opened the door and stepped through.

Jonathan cast a final look into the room, briefly held the uneasy gaze of their th'Maran prisoner, and then followed Saunorel.

* * *

"I did not kill it!" Kressa glared at the L'Aron Om and the five th'Maran priests who stood before the bench on which she sat, their powerful minds holding her in place as effectively as physical bonds. "There was nothing to kill. It's simply gone."

She lowered her eyes from the accusing looks and the bright, painful patterns of color and ringing sound around her.

Her collapse in the Om-Mar temple had left her only semi-conscious, but she'd had the presence of mind to scan the room with what little remained of her psi energy. She'd detected only the unconscious minds of the two th'Maran who brought her to the temple. The obelisk gave off no energy, and she'd sensed no curtain of power.

Before she could determine what that might mean, the L'Aron Om and his entourage of priests arrived to carry her and the two unconscious th'Maran from the room. They placed them on the benches in the lobby outside the temple.

Once Kressa had regained complete awareness of her surroundings, she'd eased herself into a sitting position and looked up to find the L'Aron Om's deeply lined features distorted by fear of the one who had slain his god.

Now, only moments later, that fear had evaporated to anger.

"You claim there was nothing there?!" He spoke in the th'Maran language, his voice teetering on the edge of control.

Kressa met his eyes, no longer surprised she could understand his words, having surmised that the communal mental link that held her immobile also allowed her to comprehend his language.

"I claim nothing," she said wearily. "I simply said there was nothing to kill. There was no being, only a consciousness. How can you kill—?"

"The Om-Mar is more than a being," the th'Maran leader interrupted in a lilting voice that suggested the recitation of passages from scripture.

"Perhaps." Anger began to eclipse Kressa's exhaustion. "But is that all you know about the Om-Mar? Don't you know what it planned to do to us, to your people as well as mine? I felt it, L'Aron Om, and although I don't completely understand what it wanted from us, I do know what was behind its intention."

She paused to struggle briefly against the mental bonds that held her. "The creatures that made up the Om-Mar don't have physical bodies. They can't experience what you and I can see and hear and feel and taste. All they want is to use our bodies! We are nothing to them, nothing more than your fralsha are to you. Vessels, that is all."

The L'Aron Om took a step closer, his silver eyes locked on hers. Anger and frustration poured through the link that bound them. The halo of light around him blazed in response to his heated emotions, the colors grating painfully against the raw, open wound of Kressa's mind.

"You speak sacrilege, human! There was to be a joining—"

"Fancy words!" Kressa spat as the agony in her head drove her beyond all thought of caution. "There was to be a takeover! That's what your Om-Mar tried to do to me. So I fought it, like any free-thinking individual would. You'd have done the same thing!"

She struggled to calm her tone. "Your beliefs in unity and joining are just that. Beliefs. Beliefs to keep you on the Om-Mar's track, within the bounds of its great plan."

The L'Aron Om slapped her, snapping her head to the side.

The gathered priests gasped and fell back a step, but a cross look from the L'Aron Om silenced any comments they might have made.

He looked at Kressa again. "You shall not speak in such a manner of the Om-Mar. It is sacrilege."

Kressa snarled. If her legs weren't held as tightly as the rest of her, she would have kicked the great th'Maran leader in the shin. As it was, all she could do was glare.

The L'Aron Om met her eyes, challenging her to— What? What could she do? She held his gaze. A long silence ensued, interrupted only by the random tunes that accompanied the now idle swell of mental light.

"We shall deal with the blasphemer," the L'Aron Om said suddenly, his tone decisive. "We shall call the Om-Mar back to us. It will come."

He scanned the room, and his eyes landed on the two th'Maran who had brought Kressa to the temple. They watched him, their expressions wary. The L'Aron Om beckoned to them. They stood and moved hesitantly toward him.

He turned to the others. "Leave us."

The five priests filed obediently from the room, and the door closed behind them.

With the absence of the priests came Kressa's freedom, but it was little consolation. Her psi energy was almost gone, her mind in tatters. Even thinking hurt. At least the flare of light and sound had dimmed, giving her a respite from that torment.

Then the lights blazed again, and she looked up to find the two th'Maran standing before the L'Aron Om, their heads bowed.

One at a time, the th'Maran leader met their eyes. "Open to me, Nari. Open, Shella. Let me experience what has happened."

With a start, Kressa recognized the names of the two th'Maran; they had been Emre's Triad partners.

After a long moment, the L'Aron Om turned back to Kressa.

She glanced warily at him, but he no longer looked like a man who gazed upon the slayer of his god. A different quality surrounded him now, as though he had dropped a veil he used to mask his true self.

He looked annoyed.

His consciousness grated against Kressa's. She tried to pull away from the mental touch, but stopped when she realized his mind was completely open to her.

In one incredible instant, she knew everything about him.

The L'Aron Om's position in the th'Maran priesthood wasn't so much one of faith as of power. As he had risen through the ranks, he had learned the tricks behind the rituals and the truth behind his faith. He knew the Om-Mar existed as a consciousness within the temple, but to him it was no god, for gods do not weaken, and during his lifetime, the Om-Mar had become less powerful with each passing year.

The Om-Mar's disappearance (he did not believe a single human could destroy it) came as little more than a minor setback to his plans. He did not know where the Om-Mar was, but if he could not call it back, he would find a way to feign its return. He felt confident that several of the more powerful priests whose faith he'd seen waver would aid him in the endeavor.

He would even find a way to deal with the problem of the United Galaxy's betrayal, for what was happening between his people and the humans was not as important as the fact that something was happening, and it was happening during his reign. If it cost a few lives, so be it.

He would complete the th'Maran destiny through the unification of his people and these strange others, the humans. In this way, his people would learn to understand the technology granted by the Om-Mar. With the ability to control those gifts, he would gain what his people needed to survive: power over the violent, unpredictable humans.

Kressa saw all of this and more in the instant it took for the L'Aron Om's mind to brush against hers.

For a long moment, she felt certain he would remain ignorant of her newfound insight into his character and motivations, but then a mixture of fear and irritation spilled from him, and the mental lights around Kressa flared anew. She struggled to pull away.

"Do not fight me." The L'Aron Om's expression hardened to a look of grim determination. He laid a hand on the side of Kressa's head, wrapped his mind tighter around hers, and told her, oh so gently, to die.