“Pathetic,” Shal’tha spat. “Stand up, van’va.”
“What do you want?” Ethan gasped, finding his senses. This was no doubt an interrogation, and he was not keen on torture. He would rather surrender non-vital information than suffer at the Naldím’s hands. He was no soldier.
“If you feel inclined to feed us intelligence, do so freely,” Shal’tha said. He reached down and hauled Ethan to his feet, shoving him against the wall. “But it is not my purpose.”
“What do you want?” Ethan repeated. He felt a trickle of bile leaking from his mouth.
“For you to feel pain.” Shal’tha struck again. Ethan’s rib yielded an audible crack as it gave way. “There is nothing you could tell me regarding your filthy companions that I do not know already,” he said, pausing before delivering another blow, this time throwing spots across Ethan’s vision. “This is merely for show. And my entertainment.”
Ethan could barely think at this point. His head swam in a frothy haze, and his entire body seared in pain. His flesh was so saturated with agony that he failed even to register the next strike that sent him tumbling onto the floor.
“How many soldiers would they send to retrieve their lost pilot, I wonder?” Shal’tha growled, lashing out again and again. “It makes no difference. Send one. Send a thousand. Our message is the same: the agony you and your kind will face before your demise will be unparalleled.”
He stopped for a moment, allowing Ethan time to spit a glob of blood and saliva from his mouth. Every fiber of his body was in throbbing pain now, and there was nothing he could do to lessen it. His muscles refused to move, and still he had not succumbed to unconsciousness, no matter how much he wished it.
Shal’tha turned to one of the guards that had accompanied him into the room. “Ful’ka tanen,” he hissed. One of them departed the cell, returning a moment later with a device in hand. He pointed it at Ethan, who could do no more than look weakly in its general direction.
“See what has become of your comrade, shli’esy,” Shal’tha spat, looking towards the device – a recording device of some sort. “This is but a taste of what shall become of each and every one of you. When the Grip is released and the sun once more rises over this world, our war cries will sound, and it will be a day of great reckoning. Take comfort that the pain we will inflict is the last pain you will ever feel.”
Shal’tha signaled for the device to be deactivated. The guards obliged, taking it from the cell and leaving the Naldím Lord with Ethan.
“I would continue,” Shal’tha said, bending down to Ethan’s ear, “but the doctor yet fears for your life. He predicted your frail figure could not withstand much punishment. I see he was right.”
Shal’tha barked for Thar’o, who quickly appeared in the doorway. “Scrape this mess off the floor and see him to N’muhl’on,” he commanded. As Thar’o came forward, Shal’tha pushed past him, exiting the scene with purpose.
Thar’o waited until Shal’tha had left before dragging Ethan to his feet. “You lucky Lord wants you alive. N’muhl’on not care for you now if other way.”
Ethan tried to respond, but was thwarted by his swollen tongue. He managed only a grunt.
Thar’o buzzed slightly. “Lord right; human frail. Need many armor for battle.” They arrived at N’muhl’on’s operating room, where Ethan was deposited unceremoniously on the table. “Bad pain, you no talk,” Thar’o continued, looking down the hallway for N’muhl’on, “I respect. Quality of Naldím – not reveal what you know when torture. With weak body, is strong feat.”
N’muhl’on entered a moment later as Thar’o backed away from the table, lapsing into silence. “I’m not equipped to heal such wounds,” the bitter doctor grumbled as he began to examine Ethan’s battered flesh, “Especially those of n’vovanka humans. If Shal’tha wishes that you live, he should have left you with less damage. Now he tells me his plan requires your life being prolonged, and yet this is what he gives me?”
He made a sound akin to a sigh. “U’tah’no, na’shal?” he muttered, “You will be lucky to last the night, Sergeant Ethan Walker.”
The Plan
“The message has been received. If the Humans fail to act now, they never will.”
“I expect little. Hold the human for a few more days, should we wish to send another message. After that, do what you will to him. I know you will find a creative way of disposing of that filth.”
“He shall yet serve as an example to his kin.”
Bruises, welts, and scabbing wounds marred Ethan’s body even days after N’muhl’on’s indifferent medical care. Ethan was somewhat amazed at the doctor’s willingness and ability to heal him, despite the enmity between them. It was lucky N’muhl’on had taken such an interest in human physiology.
Ethan was back on his feet, which he took as a sign of significant recovery, but he ached unlike anything he had experienced before. Thar’o acted as though nothing had happened. Either it was a common occurrence aboard this ship to see someone beaten to a pulp, or he did not care nearly as much about Ethan’s well-being as he first appeared to. But he was still Ethan’s guard, and took whatever moment that N’muhl’on was away to chat with Ethan.
Having first seen Thar’o merely as an equal – his alien counterpart – Ethan was steadily beginning to think of the Naldím as a friend, and even found himself looking forward to their time away from the doctor. Thar’o did not exhibit the same utter repulsion at Ethan’s presence as the other Naldím did, and failed to bring up human shortcomings, as N’muhl’on constantly did.
But Ethan knew his time on the Naldím ship was coming to a close. After the thorough beating that the captain had inflicted on him, it became a terrifying reality that he was not going to last much longer. Either he would outlive his usefulness, or the captain would return to kill him. There was nothing left for Ethan aboard this ship but death.
His hand forced, Ethan prepared to carry out his half-cooked escape plan. He took what little time he had searching the few Naldím that were around him for weaknesses. There was no doubt that at least one would stand between him and freedom. In fact, his plan depended on being near Naldím.
Three days after Shal’tha’s beating, Ethan put his plan into action.
N’muhl’on entered the operating room for their morning session, his head buried in a document. “Remove your shirt,” he said absently as he passed by the table, setting the document on a counter and procuring a set of medical instruments.
Ethan obeyed, gingerly peeling back his undershirt to reveal a bloody gash across his chest, compliments of Shal’tha. The stitches had burst, opening the wound to the elements. It hurt like nothing Ethan had ever experienced before, but it was necessary; this self-inflicted setback was the first step in his plan.
N’muhl’on did a double-take upon seeing the injury. “What in Revas’ec happened?” he hissed, rushing forward to examine it.
“It must’ve reopened,” Ethan said casually. He was doing everything in his power to ignore the searing pain that stretched across his chest.
“And you didn’t come to see me sooner?” N’muhl’on demanded, “You shli’es’an bleed to death so easily. It’s a wonder you’re not already unconscious on the floor.” He paused. “You are not showing signs of pain,” he observed.
Ethan looked down at the wound, feeling sick at the sight. “It must be infected,” he said, “When human injuries get infected, it deadens all the nerve endings.” He only wished it were true. Every second N’muhl’on spent looking at the wound and not treating it was agony.
“Vol shal’rhii’orotho,” N’muhl’on cursed. “How long do you have with such an infection plaguing you?”
“A day, maybe,” Ethan lied, “but I have a med kit in the fighter I was in when you captured me. It has the right medicine in it.”
“Ah, is that why you’re so calm regarding your impending death?” N’muhl’on said, buzzing slightly. When Ethan did not respond, N’muhl’on continued. “
I will send for your guards. They will escort you to the hangar to retrieve your… ‘med kit’.”
“You’re a life saver,” Ethan said, equally sarcastic and relieved. His plan, still in its early phases, was showing promise.
A minute later Ethan was being escorted down the hall by Thar’o and another Naldím he did not know. The latter was carrying a vast array of weapons. Ethan made note of each one, searching for a way to steal one. Unless his plan worked as designed, he would no doubt have need of them. He realized only then he had forgotten to concoct a plan B.
The hangar was devoid of life, but filled to the brim with Naldím fighters, each waiting patiently in an elaborate cradle to be launched. Below them, haphazardly sprawled out in a corner of the hangar, was Ethan’s Sparrowhawk, seriously in need of maintenance.
Thar’o led the way to the fighter, jumping up with feline agility to the canopy, which he pried open.
“What it look?” he called down to Ethan.
“Brown box with a triangular design on it,” Ethan lied; he needed Thar’o to be occupied for a while. There was still the other Naldím to deal with.
The Naldím stood facing Ethan, his back to the Sparrowhawk. Several of the pistol-like weapons strapped across his chest were within Ethan’s reach, but there was no way to take one before the Naldím would react. He eyed Ethan with a vicious, unwavering glare.
The distraction Ethan was waiting for came a moment later as Thar’o activated the emergency startup motor – a small brown box with a triangular caution symbol on it. The Sparrowhawk’s engine sputtered to life, and the second Naldím whipped around to face it.
“U’tah’no, Thar’o?” he barked over the turbine.
“Beshla!” Thar’o spat back. He searched frantically for a way to deactivate the jet.
Ethan wasted no time. He lunged forward, grabbed the Naldím’s head, and twisted it violently. Ethan waited for the telltale crack that would signal the Naldím’s neck breaking, but its head spun with ease. The sound did not come. Ethan watched with horror as the backward-facing Naldím snarled and lashed out, knocking Ethan to the ground.
He scrambled to recover, slipping over the well-polished floor, and made a move for the Naldím’s bandoleer. He grabbed the nearest gun in the small window allowed to him as the Naldím untwisted his neck and readied his own weapon. But the guard was too slow. Ethan fired, the sound of the shot masked by the roaring engine in front of them. With a bloodcurdling scream, the Naldím burned into nothingness.
Thar’o was still struggling in the cockpit, cursing loudly. He did not see Ethan or the charred pile of ash on the ground. Ethan took his chance. He took aim, gripping and steadying the gun as Rebecca had taught him… but failed to fire.
Ethan could not explain why he faltered; he had only known Thar’o for a few weeks, and despite their similarities, Thar’o was the enemy. If allowed to live, he would happily continue slaughtering humans at his captain’s whim.
Still, Ethan could not pull the trigger. He lowered the gun and ran, now bound for the rows of Naldím fighters in lieu of his Sparrowhawk.
As he approached the nearest fighter, its glass bubble cockpit rotated to expose a rear entrance, ignorantly accepting him as its pilot. He sat down in the oversized chair and took the briefest moment to familiarize himself with the controls. Instantly he spotted the control sphere that N’muhl’on had been so naïve to describe, but the rest of the instruments were too foreign for him to have any hope of understanding. He opted to ignore them, simply gripping the control sphere.
Nothing happened.
He wiggled the sphere. He pressed it in various locations. He even tried speaking to it. As his plan seemed to be falling apart, Ethan noticed the imprint on the control sphere. It looked remarkably similar in shape to that of the device N’muhl’on had grafted onto his wrist. Ethan gripped the sphere again, this time with his left hand, and the cockpit sprang to life.
The harness around the ship unlatched and the fighter began to hover under its own power. Ethan touched the sphere lightly in each direction, getting a feel for its handling. It felt wonderful.
Three years of flight school and five years in the field, he thought as the ship pitched and rolled at his touch, but I’ve never flown anything this nice. He gunned the throttle, squeezing the appropriate point on the control sphere, and rocketed out of the hangar through the nearest launch tube. Almost instantly he was in open space and setting a descent course into the atmosphere.
The escape seemed almost perfect until a shot singed his starboard wing, screeching against the metal. He glanced around to see a squadron of Naldím fighters zeroing in on him as he entered the ionosphere.
Ethan spun the control sphere violently, falling into a banking dive, and gunned the engine. The pursuit fighters followed without missing a beat, now blatantly opening fire. In a desperate attempt to ward them off, Ethan whipped the ship around, stretching his fingers in unnatural ways in attempts to reach the pressure points scattered across the spheroid controller.
Suddenly, he remembered N’muhl’on’s boast about Naldím thumbs – one on each side of the hand for increased dexterity. Ethan slapped his right hand over his left atop the control sphere, using his extra thumb to reach the firing button. Now equipped to retaliate, he let loose a volley of energy beams, scattering the fighters. They regrouped in a single, fluid motion, instantly resuming their assault.
His only hope, Ethan reasoned, was to reach Voyager Dawn and let them intercept his attackers. It was only upon sighting Dawn on the horizon that Ethan realized the flaw in his plan: to his compatriots, he was one of the enemy.
Voyager Dawn was equipped with four point-defense flak cannons and two heavier guns. The larger batteries had been disabled by the Naldím’s initial offensive, but the four anti-fighter weapons were perfectly functional and extremely lethal. Even with the Naldím fighter’s exceptional agility, Ethan would not last long against them.
He racked his brain for a way to alert the crew to his identity. Without a HUD of any sort, there was no understanding how the Naldím fighter’s radio system worked, and without his helmet, there was no way of making a short-range transmission.
As Voyager Dawn grew larger and Ethan’s chances of survival grew slimmer, a plan came to mind. It was insane, but, he reasoned, the alternative was guaranteed death.
Ethan jammed the throttle back, decelerating until the Naldím squadron had overshot him, then opened fire. The tail of the squadron leader’s ship caught fire before they once again scattered, flipped around on a dime, and charged back at Ethan.
Guiding his fighter through a sickening series of twists and dives, Ethan resumed his journey towards Voyager Dawn. Every few maneuvers he let off on the throttle again, coming into range of the enemy and letting them take a shot. His craft became increasingly worn as the skirmish moved slowly but steadily towards Dawn, but it held. Barely.
Finally Dawn made its move. The flak cannons rotated into position as the Naldím pack came screaming into range. They let loose a barrage of hellfire. Ethan leveled out as the exploding rounds hurled past him, praying that the gunners were as skilled as he thought they were, and that they had picked up on his signal.
Shot after shot rocketed over his wings, exploding uncomfortably close as they tore into the pursuing fighter squadron. They made motions to evade the incoming attack, but the sheer blast radius of the shells proved too much even for the Naldím technology, and a tense minute after Voyager Dawn had fired, Ethan found himself alone in the air.
Breathing a long sigh of relief, Ethan wiggled his wings in thanks to the turret operators and swung into an approach pattern, ready to come home.
The Wraith
“The Humans prove more resourceful than I anticipated. This one – Walker – in particular.”
“You do not sound nearly as disappointed as I would have thought, given the situation. The Human escaping our custody tears down everything we were building toward with his capture.”
>
“A minor setback, with minimal costs. The Grip persists, and even with our technology in their hands, the Humans have no hope of stopping it. We will drive them to madness, as we originally planned, and then we will slaughter them. I want to remember this Hunt for a long time.”
Confined to the medical bay for three days following a gauntlet of stitches, medications, and examinations, Ethan found himself inundated with more visitors than he thought possible. Nearly everyone he knew aboard the ship – and he had made a point of knowing many – came to express their happiness at his return. The first visit was, of course, from Omicron Squad.
Mason had to back away from his bear hug as Ethan began to feel his twice-opened gash starting to strain against its bandages. Kyle offered reserved congratulations – not unfriendly, but consistent with his character – and Ford loudly exclaimed that Ethan was the luckiest sonuvagun he ever had the privilege of knowing. Ethan reveled in all the human good will. After many weeks on the Naldím ship, he couldn’t be happier to be among his own kind.
Even Rebecca was there to welcome him back. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said nonchalantly after the others had said their piece. “You’re a good pilot. Hate to lose you.”
Taking it as a compliment, or at least as much of one as Rebecca could muster, Ethan smiled warmly. “I’m not planning on going anywhere,” he said.
Before anyone could say any more, Captain Rhodes appeared in the doorway. Omicron Squad straightened into salutes, and Ethan struggled to get into an upright position. “At ease,” Rhodes said upon spotting Ethan. He sank back into his bed. Rhodes turned to Mason. “If I could have a moment with Sergeant Walker,” he prompted. Mason saluted again and corralled his squad out of the room.
“You owe us a lot of stories when they let you go,” Mason called as they exited.
Ethan nodded and grinned. “Count on it.”
Voyager Dawn Page 11
