Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  The second factor was the random surge of direct current electricity released across the floor grid, causing unpredictable instances of pain. Sleep, when it came, never lasted long. And awakening to the jolt was less than the pain from the odd position I was forced to take while sleeping. That was compounded by the pain while recovering from where my body had pressed against the unyielding narrow-gauged grate.

  The third factor was the excessive heat and humidity, sapping my strength and causing me to sweat profusely.

  Sleep deprivation and constant thirst piled onto my misery. The odor of my urine and solid waste a foot below the grate barely registered. They must’ve force fed me while I was unconscious. Off to my right, built into the floor, was a hole that I guessed to be there for a prisoner to relieve himself. That would require more freedom of movement than available.

  It was impossible to tell how long I’d been in custody. The tube they lowered from somewhere beyond the spotlight offered a bitter liquid and tasteless food paste. When it appeared was as unpredictable as the electric shocks. Sometimes it was nourishing. Other times it caused me to vomit, or suffer diarrhea. Or so I believed its contents was the cause.

  The light never dimmed. It wouldn’t have mattered. No human or AI contact. Not a friendly face. Not a hostile one.

  Careful observation revealed a pattern that provided an anchor. Ships and docks, and even subsurface colonies altered lighting, including UV lighting, to simulate day-night patterns. Cockroaches, German cockroaches, Blattella germanica, came and went, feeding on the vomit and waste beneath me. I imagined the time of insect scarcity to be day, and increase in numbers to be night.

  Discovering the cockroach pattern offered me a small victory. Something beyond just existing, weakening in body and increasing in despair, spiraling down into depression. I continued to observe the pattern while scraping a section of the cable against the floor grating. It was a futile effort, but kept me focused and busy.

  Then they increased the sweltering heat, so humid that I imagined steam floating in the air. Then, they infused the air with bitter cold. It made me shiver for what had to be hours on end. So cold that the cockroaches wouldn’t show. And my growing beard? Had they trimmed it back when I passed out beyond all recollection? Or maybe the nutrition tube held drugs that put me to sleep, allowing them to act. My beard trimmed, along with my fingernails? Or was that all my imagination? Or not my imagination, and simply an effort to throw my mind further off any recollection of time’s passage?

  How long had it been? Five days? Four? Fourteen or twenty four? I decided that days didn’t matter. My mind’s wandering, circling in on itself…grasping at straws, wondering on what ifs. Would I be here if I’d only have…?

  Up until that moment the only thing I’d succeeded in maintaining was my silence. My refusal to cry out, ask for help, for mercy. For death. I was like a hare in a rabbit hutch of torture.

  No, not a hare. Wrong animal. A terrier. That fit better.

  Despite the pain, despite the growing grate-induced body sores that wouldn’t be attended to by my captors…I needed a focus more than I needed answers…answers to unanswerable questions. Pointless questions.

  I needed a strategy to survive. A strategy to endure.

  There wasn’t anything Heartwell or Capital Galactic wanted from me. Any information I might have was out of date. They had no idea of my knowledge pertaining to a subterranean Umbelgarri breeding ground and nursery on Tallavaster. My knowledge of Maximar Drizdon Senior’s wife and son, their location was part of my Documentary, which CGIG representatives had seen, the primary reason they’d initially wanted me. There was my mission with Guymin and Vingee, but that had likely already come to fruition, or failure.

  Now it was all about payback. Revenge for my significant part in revealing their collaboration with the Crax, mankind’s enemy. And the company’s subsequent downfall, imprisonment of thousands of CGIG loyalists, and auctioning off of all corporate assets—or all that hadn’t been swiftly hidden or liquidated before the hammer fell. Before the government, the military and rival corporations came after them, freezing and seizing everything.

  As those really important within the CGIG hierarchy knew, or at least suspected what my Documentary might reveal, they were able to take action before the authorities could respond, gain a head start. Disappear.

  Capital Galactic had been the largest and most influential corporation, with varied assets and interests scattered from Earth to the inner and outer colonies. That worked to their advantage. Wealth can trump morality, loyalty. Right versus wrong? Look where I ended up.

  Too many key persons disappeared before they could be detained or arrested, as did ships, financial assets, and valuable data and equipment. They’d retained more than enough credits and influence to offer the bounty which led to my capture.

  Heartwell, on behalf of Capital Galactic, intended to simply make me suffer pain and agony. Vids of my capture and the result would be distributed far and wide. And Heartwell would enjoy it. Every week. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every second.

  Intel would be seeking me, if not on their own, at the urging of the Umbelgarri. Intel was seeking Deputy Director Simms. Why not me as well? The Umbelgarri, with the destruction of their homeworld, or moon, at the end of the Silicate War wouldn’t want any of their vital breeding grounds revealed.

  I didn’t think they had many breeding sanctuaries, and those they had were key to the Umbelgarri’s long-term survival. Their hope for recovery, if we won the war. A big if.

  I had to hold out, give Agents Guymin and Vingee, and McAllister and crew…I took a sad breath, recalling Kent’s death. No longer part of McAllister’s crew, a friend I’d never see again. Another reason to survive until they found me.

  They’d come looking. My com-set’s coded emergency transmission alerted them, helped put them on the trail of Dr. Sanchez and her crew of two. They’d have to find them to learn about the handoff of me to CGIG loyalists.

  McAllister was unrelenting. Guymin too, once he found Simms and maybe Tahgs. Maybe others.

  I’d have to survive. Endure, while waiting my turn. They had to come for me. And if I didn’t endure?

  What would be lost in trying?

  The solace of my teen years’ favorite fishing hole, a deep channel nestled between rows of cattails where a shallow stream trickled into a small man-made lake. The memory of croaking bullfrogs, glimpses of surfacing painted turtles and reed-rustling muskrats while I fished for bluegill and catfish using my cane pole. Remembering that experience distanced the pain inflicted by flaring hemorrhoids and the biting pressure of the grated floor. But the random jolts obliterated the solace, the memory, making it more and more difficult to reconstruct. The jolts overwhelmed attempts to rebuild distant, carefree memories. Jolts that left me twitching and drooling, alternately grimacing and panting, trying to recover.

  I needed something more, and fell back on another comforting memory. One where I wasn’t a passive participant, observing within the memory. One where I didn’t wait and listen, but could participate in, actively. Better enable me to fend off Heartwell’s torture regime.

  I felt myself slipping and needed a better place to retreat. Lack of sleep, disrupted sleep, wrecking any pattern. Insufficient food and water. No outside stimulus. Just lights on white walls, indenting, cutting pain from the floor, the smell of my wastes, bowel and bladder and vomit. Alternating hot and cold. And electric jolts.

  Mental and physical breaking down brought on depression. Despair ascending.

  A comforting memory arose out of those jitters. They reminded me of vibrations, strong sounds reverberating through the air. A massive organ at the front of my childhood church’s sanctuary. Bronze pipes reaching toward the arched ceiling, framed by stained-glass windows.

  As soon as I was six, in first grade, my mother allowed me to sit by myself in the front pew, a wooden one without cushions. In wonder and awe of the organist, a stern elderly woman who s
ometimes smiled at me as I struggled to stay awake during the preacher’s sermons.

  The music, forced out through the pipes, caressed my face as it filled my ears. It vibrated through the hardwood floor during some hymns, touched my feet through black socks and brown dress shoes. I sang the hymns, even though I couldn’t read all the words. I learned them by sound and belted them out, even though I had no talent for singing, then and continuing as I aged.

  Choir members, sitting in their loft to the left of the massive organ pipes watched me, kept an eye on me for my mother, permitting me to sit every Sunday morning and feel the music through my skin and muscles and into my very bones.

  Trapped within my cell, I retreated to that memory, of a Sunday where I sang. Where Miss Rita played the organ, and the preacher’s Scripture reading reminded me, and where the Lord’s roof and walls sheltered me.

  A Mighty Fortress, a shield to defend me from evil, from Heartwell, Capital Galactic. Muffle and dampen their blows. Lord of the Dance, reminding me Jesus struggled to dance with the Devil on his back, but did. Heartwell was one of the Devil’s minions. Miniscule in comparison. Nevertheless, I determined to do the same. Finally, The Battle Hymn of the Republic, reminding me that through the centuries, men and women had fought and died for others’ freedom. If the same was to be my fate, I found comfort in that.

  I didn’t belt out the hymns, my throat dry and my voice weak. But they sang in my head, giving hope to my heart. When the shocks came, they melted into the pipe organ’s vibrating voice. The pain was there, but I had a measure of detachment from it. Insulation. Over and over again, verse after verse, and sometimes returning to my fishing hole, to relax and catch instances of sleep whenever I could manage.

  For how long? The cockroaches came and went, when the cold and heat cycles allowed. Came and went again. During their next return, the nutrition tube appeared. Its contents must’ve been laced with drugs that knocked me out, put me into a deep sleep. Drifting beyond my sheltering memories and song, but also beyond the pain.

  Chapter 37

  A stream of water splashed against my shoulder. Brisk and steady. At first the sensation was incorporated into my dream. An unexpected storm, a downpour of rain at my fishing hole.

  Refreshing, despite the sting as it ran down my scabs and open sores. After awakening to my confined reality, I caught and swallowed mouthfuls until the streaming water switched to a chemical soapy mixture.

  I coughed and spat out the cloying, bitter taste. I smiled at a childhood instance where my grandmother caught me cussing and stuck a bar of soap in my mouth. “Let’s clean that tongue of dirty words,” she’d said, like it was a mutually beneficial project.

  Taking advantage of the opportunity, even as I spat, I rubbed what had become sudsy foam along my chest, legs, face, and neck as my cables allowed. My sores burned like peroxide being rubbed into them. A good burning, clean.

  Malnourished, dehydrated, and weary as I was, the effort wore me down. Someone must’ve been observing because the stream of water returned, rinsing my grime and blood to drain away beneath me.

  Abruptly the water stopped and the spotlight, my constant companion, was shut off. Dripping wet, I began shivering in the absolute darkness. I’d like to think the shivering was due to the cold and not the darkness, but I’d lost a good measure of my brashness. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, even after several moments for my eyes to adjust.

  Black, silent, closed. A coffin without cushions or pillow.

  I sat, huddled as much as my shackles allowed, listening, waiting, braced for the electrical jolt that’d shoot into me from the floor and through my manacles. Like a thousand times before. A thousand times? More than that?

  Only then, while shivering dry, did I ponder why they’d allowed me to clean up. Until that moment, the ‘why’ hadn’t occurred. My mind was worn down, my thought patterns frazzled.

  Leaning back carefully to inflict as little pain on my stiff and sore-ridden body as possible¸ I decided not to worry or wonder, but to begin the process of revisiting my sheltering memories. To disconnect, whether the shock or something else came. The cold darkness that surrounded and enveloped me would follow. Could it dim the stained glass windows, even shatter some of the lights? Maybe muffle sounds, but not the organ and its music. I had to believe that.

  The chance to determine the accuracy of my hope never occurred. A needle prick in my shoulder came first, bringing with it an alternative form of darkness.

  A thudding pain aroused me.

  “Want me to kick him again?” asked the deep-throated voice of a thug if I ever heard one.

  “Make it twice more,” replied a nasal voice.

  I recognized Heartwell’s voice before the second of two booted kicks knocked the wind out of me. The thug must’ve known his business because he didn’t crack any of my ribs.

  I rolled over, trying to breathe. When gasps of air finally reached my lungs I sat up. My periphery vision identified someone in black standing next to me. In front of me, not five feet away stood Heartwell. He wore his business suit without tie, and his malicious grin.

  With everything I had, I launched myself at him, expecting the thug to grab hold of me, or at least my daisy-adorned hospital gown. There was no need. The perfectly clear plastic wall proved an effective barrier. Fortunately my hands impacted first or I’d have broken my nose.

  Both men laughed heartily as I struggled to my feet.

  “Specialist Keesay,” Heartwell said, wiping a mirthful tear from his eye, “that was quite amusing. Thank you.” He rocked on his black boots’ heels and pointed his rectangular remote at the man standing next to me. “I’ll thank you even more if you go after Mr. Gillgall, there. If you think you’re a match for him.”

  I obliged Heartwell, turning as I got to my pink-socked feet and went after the hulking Gillgall. He stood well over a head taller than me, his bodysuit and jacket unable to disguise his muscled frame. I faked going for him in the same manner as I had Heartwell, but pulled up, intending to sweep Gillgall’s feet with my legs. I must’ve telegraphed my move, or I was too weakened to change direction with any amount of surprise, because he stepped back, out of my reach. His square face grinned and deep-set, brown eyes sparkled as he beckoned me to try again.

  I didn’t understand what was going on, but what did I have to lose? They couldn’t punish me any worse. I shook my head as if to clear cobwebs and took a fighting stance, protecting my kicked but uninjured ribs.

  He took a martial arts stance, not too dissimilar to mine. I moved in to jab at about 80% my current speed and strength. He blocked and laughed, moving away in a circle, trying to draw me forward. I knew I couldn’t win. But he could pay.

  I sneered, pursuing with caution, and waited. Jabbing again he blocked and sent a left my way. I ducked inside, grabbed hold of his forearm and bit down, hoping to tear through his jacket and jumpsuit sleeves and come away with flesh. I knew what was coming but didn’t care.

  His laughter turned to a howl of rage. My teeth dug into flexing muscles before his fist clubbed down on my skull. Somehow I lost my grip on his arm. Next thing I knew, my airborne body slammed down against the tiled floor.

  I tried to get up, but had spent all of my strength. All of my reserves.

  Gillgall’s strong hands yanked me up from the floor. “Stand,” he ordered.

  I did, only swaying a little, ignoring the pain inflicted by the floor. In a few minutes I might have the strength to go at him again. For some reason, the back of my neck, near the base, itched. When I moved to scratch, Gillgall slapped my hand down and batted me across the back of my head. I stumbled to one knee but got back up.

  “Pay attention,” he ordered.

  I didn’t even bother to look at him. “I’ll get you,” I said, staring ahead at the grinning Heartwell.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Heartwell said. “Nemo me impune lacessit, if I accurately recall.” He rocked on his heels again, looking smug. “You must ha
ve forgotten the three main tenants of goal setting, Specialist. Specific, measureable, and attainable. You fail on all three counts.” He put a finger to his cheek. “The first two, possibly you’ve internalized rather than verbalized. But for the last, you are guaranteed never to achieve.” He shrugged and smirked. “Sorry, but that’s the truth.”

  I shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “Speaking of that, something else I believe you might be interested in seeing.” He stepped aside. So focused on him I hadn’t even noticed the man sitting on the floor, along the wall two paces behind him.

  The man’s bald head was bowed as he sat cross-legged, his attire similar to mine, except for his gown held a pattern of tiger lilies. Two long-healed scars, white and puckered, poorly stitched after something had torn across his skull years ago.

  The light-skinned man was emaciated, not quite to the extent of concentration camp victims. My mind flashed to flat screen black-and-white vids from World War II archival footage.

  Was I staring at my future?

  Something about the man tugged at my memory. With his head drooping forward I couldn’t see his face, but something about him. I knew him.

  Before I could chase down that memory, Heartwell said, “I believe this counts as a reunion, Specialist Keesay.” He walked back and placed a hand on the seated man’s forehead, pushing it up for me to see. “Say hello to Deputy Director Karlton Simms. The man you and your friends abandoned.”

  I just stared ahead and suppressed a smile, before receiving a beat down with fist and boot. Guard Gillgall didn’t appreciate being bitten, believing a concussion and severe bruising to be sufficient payback.

  While he delivered it, between punches and kicks, I managed to ask him, “What use will the Crax have for you, if they win? Will they enslave, or just kill you?”

  Chapter 38