Captive Embers (The Wardens' Game Book 1)

by Brian Mansur

  “What does Mykonian Fleet Intelligence know about our operation?” the man in black asked.

  Rafe gasped as his mind raced. His addled intellect fumbled for a safe way to answer. He coughed and said, “I think there has been a big misunderstanding here.”

  The interrogator’s wintery expression chilled Rafe. “Your name is Rafe Hastings, Commander, Mykonian Fleet, Serial Number M644201.”

  Rafe tried to conceal his shock with a blank expression. In addition to giving him plastic surgery, Fleet had gone to great lengths to erase his true identity from the public records. He reasoned that his captors must have matched his DNA to an old database.

  “I’d like to speak with the Mykonian embassy, please,” Rafe said.

  The man in black touched the power cord to Rafe’s side again. The current seared his insides and melted his thoughts. Every muscle in his body strained as if trying to escape his skin.

  When the cable withdrew, Rafe found it had reduced him to a quivering bag of misfiring neurons. His lungs struggled for air. Over his labored wheezes, he heard a splattering sound below him. A warm, wet liquid trickled down his front but the pain was too intense for him to even care.

  The man in black said, “You don’t have to go through this. Tell me what I need to know, and we can stop.”

  Rafe ignored the hollow offer and concentrated on clearing his head. He stared into the yellow pool below. As it spread, so did his sense of resolve.

  He knew only a small percentage of torture victims divulged anything of value. He recalled how one of the most ruthless empires in human history had even described torture as the clumsiest possible method of gathering intelligence. The man in black either knew little of professional interrogation techniques or else he needed information fast.

  A nucleus of hope ignited within Rafe. If he could keep Lilith and her ruffians guessing, they might accelerate their timetable and make mistakes. Those mistakes might save lives.

  Taking Rafe’s silence for defiance, the man in black said, “We have days, Mr. Hastings. Weeks even. But eventually, you’ll break.”

  Rafe set his jaw. He had endured special forces training and swore he would suck up anything this amateur dealt him… for months, if necessary. He knew he wouldn’t see his wife and daughters again, but….

  Stay positive, he reminded himself.

  “I would like some water, please,” Rafe said with polite obstinacy.

  The man in black quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve already inconvenienced me, Mr. Hastings.” He studied Rafe while scratching his upper lip. “And I can see by your attitude that this will take longer than I’d hoped.” At that, the man tossed aside the cable. He banged on the door with a fist.

  “Markem!” he yelled. A few seconds later, the sound of something heavy scraped across the other side and thunked on the ground. The entryway swung open. A muscular, barrel-chested man in plain blue coveralls stepped through.

  Rafe guessed the man to be in his mid-thirties. His stubby black beard and weathered face lent him a working-class air. A jagged scar stretched from the left half of his neck up to a notched earlobe. His copper eyes bore into Rafe’s with a reptilian intensity.

  The man in black said to Markem, “Crack a few ribs then focus on his face.”

  The enormous brute grunted then grabbed a roll of tape from the instrument stand. After wrapping his knuckles, he moved up to Rafe. Rafe tucked his tongue behind his teeth and turned into his shoulder.

  The man in black repeated his demand. “What have your friends learned about our operation?”

  “What operation?” Rafe replied.

  Markem sank a series of vicious uppercuts into Rafe’s gut, driving the wind from his lungs and pushing toward the edge of blackness. Markem waited for Rafe to regain some lucidity before landing another blow. This time, Rafe felt a crack and the sting of fire in his chest—the first broken rib. Then, like a prizefighter demonstrating his technique, the brute delivered one jab after another.

  Before long, Rafe felt his muscles slacken from lack of oxygen. His head dropped from his shoulder, and a fist smashed into his nose. Rafe’s head snapped back, rattling his brain. Somewhere around the twentieth punch, Rafe started to feel like he was dying. The pummeling dragged on until Rafe's world faded into darkness.

  A splash of frigid water brought him awake. Vaguely, he realized they had lowered him to the ground.

  “Hit him again with another bucket,” the man in black said.

  Rafe couldn’t focus. His eyes felt heavy and puffy. Another bucket of icy water engulfed him, and he grew aware of a sharp ache in his sides.

  “Hello, sunshine, did you enjoy your nap?” the man in black asked. The chain attached to Rafe’s wrists jerked him upright until he again dangled above the floor.

  The man in black pulled Rafe’s head up by the hair so that he had no choice but to look at him. Fingers drummed along Rafe's torso, causing him to shriek and twitch.

  "Save yourself any more pain, and tell me how much Mykonian Intelligence has learned about us,” the man in black said.

  Certain that talking would only encourage them to hurt him further, Rafe whispered, “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you."

  Without a word, the man in black picked his power cable back off the floor.

  Rafe wheezed, “I can’t… can't help you.”

  Fire lanced through him again. His senses exploded with savage suffering. Rafe found it almost impossible to form thoughts. Part of him wanted so much to give in: to make the ordeal stop. He sputtered words between desperate gulps of air. “If I knew... something... I would... I would tell you.”

  The man in black’s voice rose with impatience. “You do know something. Whether it takes days or weeks, you will answer me with the truth.”

  Rafe spat blood from his mouth. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He could only hurt. And before long, he couldn't do that either.

  5

  Location: Warden orbital space lane, Cervantes system_

  “Your Mykonian pets are taking what little they’ve learned about Lilith’s plans seriously,” the transhuman called Cef said. “Shall we wager as to whether or not any of the recent developments will prompt Lilith to attack early?”

  Cef’s missive leaped upon the radio waves and arrived a second later at the ship carrying the Transhuman named Len. The query caught the newcomer to the Cervantes system in deep analytical mode. He was pondering why Cef had directed the Wardens near Lilith’s henchmen to discretely assist in capturing Rafe Hastings.

  Luckily for Len and the Mykonians, the light-speed lag to Lakshmi had delayed the order long enough for Rafe to get word out about Lilith’s schemes. Moreover, the move had cost Cef valuable command points. Such resources might be missed later in their game.

  It was a victory for the Mykonians, Len concluded, except that Mr. Hastings had to endure Lilith’s fury as a consequence. The thought prompted Len to make one of his customary pleas.

  “You are ill, Cef. End this cruel game and grant me control over the Reservation. We will find an appropriate therapy for you.”

  He expressed the message by transmuting his brain impulses into digital code. Since converting their human bodies millennia ago, the transhumans had cast off the need and ability for voice-modulated speech. Instead, they communicated thoughts by direct dendritic contact between their minds and semi-organic computers.

  Cef colored his reply with digital shades of amusement. “How often have you said I am morally responsible for my choice to orchestrate the misery and deaths of millions? At the same time, you say I am ill. Which is it?”

  “We have covered this,” Len said. “You are impaired in your ability to feel empathy for others. You can still understand what is right and wrong.”

  “I feel fine,” Cef declared. “So, why should I care? Besides which, this is far too much fun. And after you lose, per the terms of our bargain, you will be mine to control for a thousand years. Together we will play at this over and over
again.”

  “Not if I win,” Len said.

  Cef laughed. “A pity that the Reservation Charter forbids us from striking down the humans unless they break the Warden Code. I’m doing them a favor by helping them destroy themselves. Don’t you think?”

  Len’s boneless limbs churned with revulsion. “How can you hate humans so much when we were once one of them?”

  Cef barked a form of mirth that painted the data spectrum. “Why would you think I hate them?”

  “You do everything you can to bring them misery.”

  “I enjoy their pain,” Cef said. “That isn’t the same as hating them.”

  “I fail to grasp the distinction,” Len said with disdain.

  “It gives me pleasure to see these foolish creatures squirm and cry. It’s no different than the joy we felt as children while annihilating illusory enemies in a sim. But this is more satisfying because it’s real.”

  Len said, “How can you think you have the right to push these people to needlessly torment one another?”

  “How can I not? The truth of the universe is that the strongest rule and I am the greatest of the transhumans.”

  “And yet you are as constrained as the rest of us by the Wardens we helped create. As you said, you can only kill the humans if they break the Code.”

  “Which I do.”

  “In brutal, gruesome ways, might I add.”

  “If you didn’t want the possibility of that to happen,” Cef said, “you should have argued for a different Charter. You certainly shouldn’t have left only one friend to stand watch over the Reservation while you sightsaw the galaxy.”

  Len wanted to scream out across the dataflow in frustration. “You stirred up the quorum against Brel’s shepherding program.”

  Cef replied with smug conceit. “There was a measurable risk of the humans gaining control over the Wardens under Brel’s governorship.”

  “An infinitesimally small one,” Len railed, “which did not break the Code!”

  “The quorum found the odds unacceptable.”

  “And with Brel gone,” Len said, “you so kindly volunteered to replace him: you—one of the chief architects of the Cull!”

  The demon-like being signaled diffidence. “Our fellows wanted someone they had confidence in to watch over the Reservation while they explored the galaxy. It wouldn’t do to have the little upstarts become like us and challenge our Grand Order.”

  “Have you and the others no empathy at all for these poor beings?”

  Cef provided the digital equivalent of a coy grin. “I think it is plain that our fellows couldn’t care less about the welfare of these humans. It is the lower creatures’ misfortune that the ascension process tended to dull our empathetic sense. As mentioned earlier, of course, I have a great deal of empathy for the spawn.”

  “Yes, you have a heightened appetite for sadism.”

  Cef laughed again. “You say that so disdainfully. Who are you to judge that I am wrong for how I enjoy the suffering of lower beings? Morals are a construct, a social survival mechanism designed to perpetuate genes. I don’t need humans to survive, so why should I care?”

  “They are thinking, feeling people.”

  Cef replied, “You can argue with outrage all you want, Len, and it will change nothing. The strong rule and always will. Now then, it will soon be time to start watching humans burn. Enjoy the show.”

  6

  Location: Lakshmi Colony_

  When Rafe next awoke, he found himself tied to a chair that hadn’t been in the room before. He re-inventoried his surroundings. The man in black sat on the exam stool, power cord again in hand. Rafe saw no one else and enjoyed a modicum of relief at Markem’s absence.

  Rafe took stock of his battered body. His throat felt like desiccated parchment, but he could feel his fingers again. He had heard that suspension by the wrists could cause permanent nerve damage after only a half hour. Perhaps they'd lowered him in time to avoid that. Come to think of it, his torso didn’t hurt as abominably as he would have expected. Thoughts circulated with an unexpected fluidity. That could only mean one thing.

  “What did you give me?” The words seeped out of Rafe in a raspy whisper.

  “Painkiller,” the man in black said. “Lilith’s associates left a medical kit here.”

  Rafe latched onto the words, “Lilith’s associates.” Was this person not part of Lilith’s organization? Rafe coughed and mumbled, “Who do you work for?”

  The man allowed a small grin. “Glad to see you are still paying attention, Mr. Hastings. Tell me, what do you know about Lilith?”

  Rafe remembered his training. Don’t play the interrogator’s game. Battle of wills, not wits. In a sluggish cadence, he said, “You’ll have to tell me about her.”

  In response, the man in black stood up and extended the electric cable to Rafe’s chest. A mind-crushing electric fire jolted Rafe. For several seconds, he screamed and, in his mind, pled for the pain to stop. When, eventually, it did, he broke into a string of forceful coughs before he could regain control of himself.

  The man in black regarded Rafe, stern-faced. “You’re most obstinate, Mr. Hastings. All I want is a polite, reasonably informative conversation. What does the Mykonian Fleet know about our operation?”

  Anticipating the punishment that would ensue, Rafe nevertheless gave the only honest answer he could. He gasped as he spoke. “I can’t... tell you.”

  The man in black moved closer, wearing a heartless glare that promised violence.

  Rafe’s brave front, at last, began to crumble. He wanted the pain to end. And to his shame, he realized the only reason he didn’t talk was because it would only encourage the man in black to continue torturing him.

  The man in black dropped the cable. Rafe tensed, expecting to get a fist to his ribs or jaw next. Then, to Rafe’s bewilderment, the man pulled up the stool and sat back down.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” the man in black said.

  Rafe watched his tormentor through puffy eyelids, wondering with unrelenting apprehension what would come next.

  “I’m not going to hurt you anymore,” the man said. “Sorry I had to put you through this. I’m Henry, by the way.”

  Rafe recognized the interrogator’s “good cop” tactic. For some reason, his drug and trauma addled brain found it amusing. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell the others you weren’t thorough?”

  The man in black said, “So they’ll finish what I started? No, you won’t do that even if you thought it might complicate my life.”

  Rafe held Henry’s gaze. “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Not because of me torturing you, no. In my experience, if you were going to talk, you would have by now. I’m sure you’d agree; torturing people for information is what amateurs and sadists do. I’m neither, but I’m obliged to humor Lilith. She’s rather pissed at you, as you can imagine.”

  Rafe concealed his shock at the man’s frankness. “And yourself?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m angry at you too, but I see little point holding a grudge against someone who’s doing his job. Besides which, nothing you have to say can change what should be done next.”

  For a terrible moment, Rafe feared Henry meant he was about ready to kill him.

  The interrogator regarded Rafe with a smirk. “You must be wondering why I would share any of this. You know about Lilith’s moods swings? The state she’s in now, she’ll work you over for days on end. If you’re lucky, she’ll just shoot you dead.”

  Once again, Rafe felt himself edging toward delirium. He said, “She doesn’t sound very stable.”

  Henry leaned forward. “I’m your only hope for getting through this. I can persuade Lilith to keep you around as a bargaining chip. That is only possible if you tell me what I need to know before she gets her hands on you.”

  “I can’t,” Rafe said, wishing he could believe the man.

  “Listen, I admire you, b
ut if you don’t cooperate, I can’t give you any more painkillers. In an hour—two at the most—you’ll start to feel like pureed crap. Spare yourself that.”

  Rafe kept silent.

  Without warning, the door opened a crack, and a young man stuck his head into the room. “Comandante Wilkinson, Mistress Lilith demands an update. She’s on the secure link.”

  Through his fog of exhaustion, Rafe recognized the Spanish rank. That meant the man in black was a Celesian officer. By treaty, Celes couldn’t keep a military presence around Belia.

  The Celesian named Henry Wilkinson rubbed at his eyebrow and looked to Rafe. “So hard to find competent help these days. Well, now that my secret identity is out I guess I really will have to kill you when this is over. A pity. As one spy to another, I would rather you’d lived.” At that, the Celesian moved to the door. Before leaving, he said, “If you cooperate, I promise you’ll die quickly, Mr. Hastings. Lilith isn’t likely to give you that option.”

  Comandante Wilkinson fumed as he followed Lilith’s pageboy who’d revealed his identity. It matched the sophomoric pattern he’d come to expect from Lilith’s thugs, especially after the way they’d handled Baylor’s surveillance. Her henchmen should have stormed the restaurant once they’d pegged the fat smuggler for a traitor.

  "You people need parental supervision,” Wilkinson said to the page.

  The man looked back but said nothing.

  Wilkinson drew a deep breath to cool off. He was about to speak to the demoness. Navigating the deranged woman's fickle nature taxed him at the best of times. Unfortunately, he had caught precious little rest since. In the wake of a Mykonian-facilitated police raid on Sundar Colony a few weeks back, Lilith had finally let him take charge of security. Thanks to him, they’d found their leak in Baylor, but the damage had been done.