Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  My future sat across from me: Deputy Director Simms, unmoving, catatonic, wasting away.

  At first I thought the clear plastic between us had been shifted, like a one-way mirror. I’d seen some interrogation rooms set up that way. When a guard entered Simms’ cell, I asked, “What’ll your job be if the Crax win? What use to them will you be?”

  He flipped me off while making eye contact. Some simple gestures endured. His finger gesture not only survived many decades but had become universal. The guard could’ve been using an ocular and been connected by radio to my cell, but I didn’t think so. Even so, Simms didn’t respond, didn’t look at me. Didn’t even blink.

  The guard, like all the others, wore standard penal colony gear. A black bodysuit with an eight centimeter diagonal white stripe across his chest and back. Underneath, a thin layer of body armor protected his chest and abdomen, back, biceps and forearms, thighs and shins. They had close-fitting helmets, shiny black boots and white belts, and were armed only with stun batons. Heavy duty models, probably security locked based upon hand print activation. No nametags or other visual forms of ID.

  After several days, estimated by the healing of sores inflicted by my previous cell’s flooring, little had changed.

  The Intelligence deputy director sat silently. Unmoving. When physically guided by guards, Simms complied so that he could be cleaned, being either incontinent or uncaring. He didn’t follow guard movements with head or eyes when one entered our cell. He swallowed when nutritional paste and vitamin-fortified juice was squirted into his mouth, but made a mess as the first attempt always resulted in some dripping down his chin.

  He did isometric exercises, but only to music occasionally piped into our rooms. It was intentionally horrendous, fading in and out, skipping seconds at a time, adding random noises. While I ignored it, Simms responded with his exercise. His only response to our environment or external stimulus.

  They kept us under constant lighting. Both Simms and I slept, he usually after his exercise. Sometimes immediately, other times after what seemed like several hours. He just curled up against the wall and slept, returning to a sitting position upon awakening. I slept, stretched out, mimicking his cycle.

  The main difference between Simms and myself was that both of my arms and legs were shackled to the wall. He only had his left arm secured. The manacles were attached to retractable cables so we could be pulled back and held flat against the wall. Or at least I could be when guards entered, fed me, and cleaned my chamber pot by hosing it down. That, and I didn’t think Simms was afflicted with inflamed hemorrhoids. It was impossible to 100% ignore the burning and need to shift positions constantly. The condition had to be chemically induced. All my years of sitting warehouse duty, they were never a problem. I had no family history. No genetic predisposition.

  I spoke to Simms extensively, for hours at a time, relaying to him news about the war. Old news openly broadcast, so that nothing of value was shared with anyone listening or recording. I remembered most of War of the Worlds and Moby Dick, the two most recent novels I’d read, so I retold them in a summarized fashion, covering major plot events but lacking most of the dialogue. I discussed my thoughts on some of Shakespeare’s plays, mainly Othello and Hamlet.

  After that I related to him what I remembered of the Chronicles of Amber. It’d been a long time since I’d read them, but it challenged my mind to do so. None of those efforts had any impact on my roommate. I thought of him as that, as opposed to cellmate. My efforts didn’t appear to stimulate thought or interest, so I switched to topics and events that would be familiar to him. I spoke of several corporate espionage cases that had been in the news while I was studying to be a security specialist. Being with Intelligence, he certainly had some knowledge of them.

  I had to pace myself, my shared stories, leaving hours of silence in between, so that I didn’t lose my voice. And run out of things to say. Simms, being an Intel director, certainly had training to endure and survive as a prisoner. Resist interrogation and psychological tricks any captors might employ. I told myself I was a rugged individual, hardened by life and reality. A Relic not dependent on constant computerized stimuli. I’d been trained and used my mind in different ways, had different outlooks and strengths.

  But Simms had training, the best training humanity had to offer. Look where it ultimately left him. Catatonic.

  Eventually I told Director Simms about Diplomat Silvre’s death aboard the Iron Armadillo, after he’d been shot, and presumed dead aboard the Pars Griffin. Again, all of the information wouldn’t be new to Capital Galactic. They had representatives view the Documentary’s first showing, and certainly had copies. Simms and the diplomat seemed to hit it off professionally. I thought her name, her death, might twitch his mind into motion. It didn’t.

  I even told Simms about the battle against the Crax on Tallavaster, something he’d have no knowledge of. Once, when I mentioned Janice Tahgs visiting me, Simms blinked twice. I’d never seen that before, and never saw it again, no matter what I spoke about or tale I told.

  I fell back to reciting sections of Scripture and poetry memorized in my youth and a weak attempt at Abbott and Costello’s Who’s on First routine, switching my voice to reflect two speakers. The last one took a lot of practice to get right, but the effort filled what I guessed to be most of a day.

  Time passed, days stretching into weeks, into a second month. A small measure of my strength returned. The guards allowed me enough freedom to do basic exercises like pushups, sit-ups, and running in place. Lawyer Heartwell didn’t stop them. The whole time he never showed his face, or spoke through the cell’s intercom.

  Time’s passing concerned me, causing me to weigh the resulting good news and bad news.

  The good news was that if Guymin and Vingee eventually found Director Simms, they’d find me. That we hadn’t moved, entered condensed space travel—I’d’ve felt it—provided more opportunity for them to locate us and formulate a rescue plan. The bad news was that if they didn’t find him in time, I’d be shipped off to Crax space along with him. What I estimated to be each passing day weighed more and more heavily.

  The question was: What use would I be to the Crax?

  One day, they changed Simms’ gown from tiger lily patterned to one patterned with vines of morning glories. It reminded me of my brief time on the space dock orbiting 70 Virginis, in the market area not far from the Celestial Unicorn Palace’s entrance. The moment I’d caught a view of Kent O’Vorley there flashed through my mind, and twists of emptiness formed in my chest. My mind shifted to my encounter with Colossra—Yeong. It seemed ages ago, like my memories of childhood.

  I shook it off, deciding that today I would tell Director Simms a few Aesop tales. Maybe The Tortoise and the Hare would be a good one to start with. A solid moral to the story for both him and me to remember, locked away in our mind-numbing cell.

  A maintenance man in tan coveralls affixed hooks to the wall above Simms. The man carried no weapons, only a couple of plastic hooks and a tube of adhesive. While he worked, stepping around the unmoving deputy director, I asked, “What job will the Crax have for a human maintenance tech if they win the war? What use will they have for you? A liability on their ledgers, food, medicine, oxygen in space, and someone to watch. You turned coat once. With that record of loyalty, why keep you around and risk it?”

  It was my standard round of questions for the guards each time one entered to clean my chamber pot set into the floor by using a mild chemical wash hosed out of a pressurized canister. It wasn’t technically a chamber pot, but better than calling it a toilet hole. They did the same with Simms, hosing him down when he soiled himself and squeegeeing the contents into the chamber pot. The maintenance tech’s response mirrored the guards’. No response. Not even recognition that I’d spoken.

  So that my questions didn’t become background noise, and no longer noticed, sort of like the stench of our cell had become for me, I changed the contents up a little e
ach time, every repeated opportunity.

  They were questions that would bother me. Make me wonder. I knew they dug at them as well, despite any assurances they might get from the higher up CGIG loyalists, or even the Crax themselves.

  One angle I hadn’t used was the fact that in Crax society, humans would be considered Relics. Something else to add to my repertoire.

  Without warning, the cables to my shackles were drawn in. That was normal. As expected, they didn’t bother with Simms’ single arm shackle. They didn’t drop the clear wall between Simms and me before the entry door slide aside.

  Lawyer, or Warden Heartwell, strode in wearing an amused grin, as if someone just told him a dirty joke. That didn’t match his conservative business suit. Behind him walked a guard that I hadn’t seen before. He was thin with gangly arms, and legs that seemed about a half foot shorter than they should’ve been. That wasn’t what made my eyes widen. It was that the guard carried a shotgun—my pump action shotgun—with bayonet affixed.

  Was this it? My time had come, Heartwell hoping for some irony? Me being shot or run through with my own weapon? Or would it be Simms? Or both?

  It appeared neither. Not at that moment at least. The guard walked to the wall opposite me and rested the shotgun, sling, perforated jacket protecting the barrel, everything apparently oiled and well maintained.

  It wasn’t a replica, unless they’d perfectly copied scuffs on the stock and scratches on the receiver, all earned in combat against Gar Crax and Stegmar Mantis. That was possible, but not Heartwell’s style. Even if loaded, they could’ve disabled it. Removed the firing pin. But the bayonet, made from a superior Umbelgarri alloy, strong and sharp beyond I-Tech capabilities, including the saw back portion of the blade? It could cut my restraining cables, even pierce and pry the cell’s secure door open, if I could get the time, and for the latter, leverage.

  But they’d hung it on the opposite wall, far beyond my reach.

  “I see, Specialist Keesay, that you’re transfixed by the presence of your weapon of choice, archaic yet effective.” Heartwell turned and feigned admiration of the shotgun, then pointed at it. “It was this firearm, or your revolver, designed upon even more archaic technology…” He didn’t finish the thought.

  Having recovered my initial shock of not only seeing a weapon brought into my cell, but my weapon, I shrugged, and shifted position.

  “Ah,” Heartwell said, bringing a thoughtful finger to his chin. “I had forgotten, but those assigned to your care have not.” When I didn’t reply, he tilted his head and grinned. “When you arrived, my belief that since you’d proven to be such a pain in the ass for me and my associates, we’d return the favor. I see by how you’re sitting that your caretakers have continued the…symbolic gesture.” He turned and took a step toward Simms, who hadn’t moved a muscle from his lotus position. “Or, in my absence, they may have discontinued, and the rectal inflammation caused by the chemical added to your food paste has become permanent.” He shrugged and glanced back over his shoulder at me. “Either way, I approve.”

  If he was expecting some sort of response, a request for relief, for some sort of mercy, it wasn’t going to happen. He had to know this.

  “However, Specialist, what I do disapprove of is the cessation of electrical discharges, to keep you on your toes. Otherwise, life within your cell, your permanent home, might lose some of its allure. Some of its mystery.”

  I kept a sneer from forming on my face. Refrained from balling my hands into fists.

  To emphasize his point, Heartwell pulled his remote from a pocket and thumbed an icon. The shock’s length and intensity brought me to the brink of passing out. He sent another brief jolt while I struggled to catch my breath.

  “I imagine someone will have to clean that up,” he said, referring to my bowel and bladder discharge. “But that reunion will have to wait.”

  He moved to stand over Simms, then slid to the side so that I could see him take the director’s chin in his hand. Turning the director’s face up toward him and then to face me, Heartwell said, “Our V’Gun specialists have monitored your cellmate for eighteen months. Brain activity has dropped off, especially within the frontal lobes.”

  With a look of disgust on his face, Heartwell let go of Simms’ chin. The director continued to stare ahead blankly, as always. “It was my hope that your nattering presence might reverse the progression of your associate’s spiraling internal psychosis.” He sighed. “Place one more failure on your ledger, Specialist Keesay.

  “To emphasize how far gone he is,” Heartwell continued, “and establish in no uncertain terms what your future holds, I’m placing your archaic firearm here in your cell, within easy reach of your cellmate.”

  He rocked on his heels, saying, “The Intelligence director is supposedly among the best they have. Highly trained. Mentally the strongest. Truly, Relic, what chance do you have?”

  I didn’t bother sharing what I knew to be true: Never underestimate a Relic.

  The shocks weren’t entirely random. Every time I encouraged Simms to reach for my shotgun, I got a good, long jolt.

  Heartwell’s goal wasn’t to break me, at least not quickly, or he would’ve kept me in the first cell. Besides causing me to suffer, there was some other game he was playing. What he’d said about moving me into a cell with Director Simms. If that was true.

  His objective for me? A slow path to mental degeneration. Whatever his goal, I planned to endure.

  My primary goal? Survive until Guymin and Vingee found me—us. My secondary goal? Escape my cell, damage the facility, and launch a message rocket. The second part of my second goal was the only one I had confidence I could achieve.

  But for anything positive to happen, I had to survive. Await an opportunity. So I went back to my routine, talking to my roommate. Telling him stories. And endured the random electrical shocks.

  Chapter 39

  My flowered gown was a soiled mess, again. Despite the fact that I did my best to use the chamber pot and avoid any buildup in my bladder and bowels, whoever was at the switch caught me in my sleep just before waking to relieve myself. It wasn’t difficult to tell how they knew. With V’Gun support, using their advanced medical knowledge, it only made sense. They apparently monitored Simms’ brain activity from afar. Why not my bladder and large intestine?

  My sense of smell was already deadened to defecation odors. I wasn’t humiliated, or ashamed. Constantly disrupted sleep patterns, isolation, and the resulting lack of mental stimulation and boredom were of greater concern. Stinking up the place? I had no control or choice in the matter. But that changed after a gray and wrinkled old woman entered my cell.

  The guards hadn’t retracted my shackles, allowing me to retain a small range of movement.

  She looked to be a centenarian, except for her posture. Too straight, too nimble. Despite my efforts to keep in shape, what I could see of her muscle tone not covered by her hospital gown covered in patterns of violets, she didn’t look half as worn down as me.

  Her long hair was rolled up in a bun and her sagging cheeks and face held no expression. She carried two ten liter buckets, one in each hand, and two fresh gowns thrown over her shoulder. Morning glories for Simms and daisies for me. From the astringent odor, at least one bucket held the harsh chemical cleanser.

  She shuffled over to Simms and began cleaning him and his filth first. She didn’t even appear to notice my shotgun. Surveillance would allow the guards to move on the old woman before she could accomplish anything, except maybe to shoot either me or Simms. Maybe she didn’t know how to use it, or believed it was a non-functioning replica.

  The relative ease with which she toted the filled buckets surprised me.

  I didn’t say anything to her. No warnings about being useless to the Crax, or even casual conversation. She was a prisoner too, at least her gown said so. Maybe she’d earned this privilege through good behavior? Or maybe through something more nefarious…

  The old woma
n was far gentler than the guards who tore our gowns from us and sprayed us down and used the same hose and squeegee to direct the waste into the chamber pot. She was also adept with the pattern of tie strings around the shoulders and sleeves to accommodate Simms’ shackled left arm.

  Two buckets. One to cleanse the main waste and grime, and the second, with a separate sponge, to finish the job. Being second, after Simms, I wouldn’t end up as clean, but far better than my current condition. From what I could see of the liquid and rinsing, we were first on her list of prisoners to be cleaned.

  I wondered at the reason. Heartwell had to have some motivation for our contact with someone other than a rough-handling guard. Were we—or mainly me, considering Simms’ catatonic state—being set up for something? I’d just have to roll with whatever metaphorical, or psychological punches, were certain to come.

  After placing Simms’ soiled gown near the door, the old woman retrieved her buckets and the daisy covered gown, and moved toward me. Why Capital Galactic used flower-adorned gowns, I didn’t know. A supposed feminine touch to emasculate, or soften us? To remind us of the outside beauty we’d never see again? Something with more sinister intent? The only thing cheap and available? Asking wouldn’t garner a response, and even if a guard did say, he wouldn’t provide an honest answer. Of that, I was sure.

  Distracted, I didn’t immediately notice the old woman had stopped in front of me, so I moved to stand. As I did, she dropped her buckets. One spilled, washing over my bare foot. Her wrinkled and liver-spotted hands shot up to cover her mouth.

  It was then that our eyes met, hers purple, with loose folds of skin around and beneath.

  Something about her eyes...purple…I knew them.

  “Tahgs?” I asked. The administrative specialist was one of a handful that survived the Crax’s boarding of the Kalavar.

  The last time I’d seen Janice was on Tallavaster. I was wounded, dying from Crax acid rounds and being wheeled into surgery under V’Gun surgical scalpels. Heartwell was there, having failed in his attempt to interrogate me. He’d said he’d had better luck with Tahgs, enjoyed the experience, and looked forward to interrogating her again, despite her knowing nothing of value. One of her purple eyes was swollen shut. Her face was bloody and bruised, and wet with tears. Having seen that, I told Heartwell his time would come.