Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  I’d brought down Capital Galactic, but Heartwell had survived, and had been tormenting Janice ever since. She had been so young. What had he done to her?

  Less than a second after her name fell from my lips, the jolt of electricity came, coursing through my body, causing me to collapse and convulse. When I recovered, Tahgs was at the cell door, on her knees, pounding feebly. Weak, grief-filled cries filled the otherwise silent cell.

  “Janice,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.

  She huddled onto herself and turned away from me.

  Through the intercom system, Heartwell said, “I just love organizing reunions.”

  Sitting up and sneering, I said, “You’ll pay for this, Heartwell. Know that it’s true, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Heartwell laughed. “No, Specialist. I’ve heard that threat from you before. Some day when I neglect to take my finger off the command icon, this is the last thing you’ll be doing.” With that, he sent another extended jolt of energy through me.

  Chapter 40

  There was little vacillation between who I hated more, Falshire Hawks or Jerden Heartwell. Both were traitorous and evil, but Heartwell was far more malicious and deserving of a slow, painful death.

  Janice Tahgs and I became friends on the Kalavar. We weren’t lovers, and our relationship went in spurts, but friends in my life have always been few and far between. I cared for her. She was softer and more innocent than me. I’d saved her life several times, and McAllister told me that Tahgs saw me as her knight in shining armor. That if I was around, I’d save the day.

  That hadn’t been true. I brought down most of Capital Galactic, but hadn’t helped her. What they’d done to her…

  I sat, seething. Heartwell wasn’t interested in breaking me, turning me into an unresponsive vegetable like Simms. He wanted payback for what I’d done, and showing me what he’d done to Janice…prematurely aged her, at least superficially. And to break her spirit even more. Demonstrating that he’d captured me, and I was caught in his web, just as she was. And that my life, like hers, lasted as long as he desired. Could be ended on a random sadistic whim.

  My focus shifted, from holding on until help arrived, to escaping. Delivering payback to Heartwell no matter the cost. Humanity was losing the war. With diminishing resources, that meant diminishing chances of Guymin and Vingee finding me. McAllister too, if she was still looking. Guymin had some urgency in finding Simms before he was moved out of human-controlled space to Crax-controlled space. Or maybe major swaths of space claimed and colonized by humanity was now under Crax control, including the region where our cell resided.

  Doctor Sanchez’s medical shuttle wasn’t fast and didn’t have great distance. I imagined I’d been handed off and shuttled again, presumably while still in hybersleep. But with V’Gun assistance, who could be sure. My guess was that we were stationed somewhere near the border between the inner and outer colonies. Far away from the conflict. Probably aboard a converted freighter orbiting some uninhabited moon or planet. Maybe somewhere in the middle of space, near no sun, planet, or moon. A needle in a colossal haystack. One ten times the size of Jupiter.

  I bided my time, observing and seeking patterns to exploit. I continued as before, telling stories to Simms and reminding every guard I saw that their future under Crax rule was destined to be grim. That was, if their future didn’t end the moment Humanity’s final defenses collapsed.

  I no longer said, “If Humanity lost the war.” For me, it was over. All that was left was revenge. I’d kill everyone on board the space barge, dock, converted freighter, surface or subsurface colony if I could. Take as many down with me as possible.

  Nemo me impune lacessit.

  The cell’s ceiling held five spotlights. Four shined down from the corners in addition to a central one, powerful and able to rotate. Hidden behind the glare were the intercom and the surveillance system. The walls were metallic, probably steel, with a dura-plastic cover. The chamber pots were nothing more than thirty-centimeter-diameter bowls ten centimeters deep and set into the floor with a small, five-centimeter-diameter drain.

  The shackles had magnetic locks secured with a secondary hex key lock. My training indicated that the type on my ankles and wrists received power energizing the magnets through the restraining cable. Even if power was lost, the standard battery reserve was eight hours for four shackles with an additional twelve for one. Usually a wrist. So, even having a hex key wouldn’t help, unless it was titanium and the length of a crowbar to give sufficient leverage to overpower the magnetic lock. Which would crush my wrist in the process. Better to hacksaw the wrist off—but if I had a hacksaw, the cable would be the weak link.

  If I had an actual crowbar, I might be able to dig at the wall through which the cables emerged. Maybe after ten hours of effort. A hammer and chisel would take several hours of pounding, minimum, for each manacle. That was if I didn’t injure myself. Holding the chisel with my feet to work on my wrists would increase the chance of injury.

  Those were all fanciful thoughts, and showed my mental sharpness floundering.

  The weakness in the system was the cable. An hour with a hacksaw and several fresh blades would take care of them. A pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters would work, more efficiently for the cables running to the legs than the arms, but I’d manage. If I had them. Again, wishful thinking, but it reminded me what I was up against.

  Plugs on the other side of the wall stopped me from yanking and unspooling the cable until it could be disconnected with a Herculean yank.

  Beyond the cell door, all that could be seen in the poorly lit hallway was the floor with a narrow grate running down the center. A two-meter-wide corridor with maybe a two-foot-wide grating.

  Besides my hands and feet, the only weapons I had were the cables and my gown. They could be used to strangle anyone that came within reach. Otherwise I could spit, or throw insults, or fling my crap like a crazed circus monkey. But, except for Tahgs, before a guard approached me, the cables were fully retracted to the wall. A few inches were released, one at a time, to enable my gown to be changed. Even then, the guards’ training kept them out of range of my teeth.

  The hex locks, I might be able to loosen within the shackles ahead of time, if surveillance wasn’t on top of things, and if the manacles’ sensors didn’t go off. But I had an idea to address that as well. The only weakness in the magnetic lock system might be to break free while power was running through them, shocking me. The magnetic hold would be affected. The problem was I had little to no body control when that happened. Plus, I had four manacles. Maybe if I had only one to deal with…

  There was no way to fake catatonia, especially if they monitored my brain activity.

  I might just have to wait for someone to mess up. The tool to get out of the cell once I was free hung on the wall above Simms. A weapon to help extract revenge.

  So, whenever I got the chance I soaked my manacles in urine to degrade the sensors attached to the hex locks. I chewed and compacted scraps from my gowns, with the intent of stuffing one part into the lock and the other as a bar to twist, giving leverage to unscrew the lock.

  Since I had nothing to lose, and to disguise what I was really up to, I sat and scraped the rounded cuff of my manacle against a leg cable. I made efforts to disguise the effort. I’d never cut through the cable, but if they punished me for trying, it’d tell me about their level of surveillance.

  While working on that, I periodically reminded Deputy Director Simms that he had my shotgun, with bayonet affixed, resting on hooks attached to the wall behind him. That always earned me a shock.

  They sent a long jolt into me, and examined my leg cable while I lay on the floor, recovering. One of the guards actually spoke, warning me to stop or suffer. The backup guard laughed. Then he informed me that urinating on my manacles wouldn’t short out the magnetic components. More likely the damage would release an uncontrolled current that they might not be able to shut off in time. The
y’d responded to me and my actions. A small victory.

  They never noticed or at least said anything about my tearing and chewing shredded fibers from my synthetic gown.

  All of that effort never found a chance to be used.

  Chapter 41

  I awoke from my standard sleeping position, on my left side with my back leaning against the wall. This time a shadow stood over me.

  It was Tahgs, somehow transformed from a woman my age to a centenarian. I’d tried to push that from my thoughts, and not wonder at what had happened to her. If my goal to destroy the ship or dock or colony succeeded, it meant her death too. I wouldn’t be Janice’s knight in shining armor. I’d be her black-robed grim reaper.

  I blinked twice to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

  There she was, buckets in hand. I glanced between her bare ankles toward Simms. She’d apparently cleaned him first and I hadn’t noticed. My vigilance was slipping.

  I braced myself for the anticipated electrical jolt certain to accompany Tahgs’ appearance in my cell.

  “I have been assigned to clean you, Specialist Keesay.” She set the buckets down and tossed my replacement gown to the side, opposite from the chamber pot.

  My gaze shot up to the ceiling where the surveillance camera and mic were located. “Are you permitted to converse with me?” I asked. I’d gotten used to speaking with the twist of synthetic threads pressed against the gums above my teeth on the left side of my mouth.

  Her purple eyes went wide in worry. I’d seen that look several times before.

  Eyes are not wells to the soul. They’re vehicles for nonverbal cues.

  While Tahgs wasn’t a hero, she wasn’t a coward either. She stood with a handful of Kalavar shipmates against the Stegmar and Crax boarders. She witnessed friends and acquaintances die next to her in the barricade, stopping the advance. Survived the cat and mouse game with the military-trained aliens. One of a small fraction of the crew. But I also witnessed how it had affected her. Enduring the stress of being under a space blockade on Tallavaster, and surrounded on the ground by the enemy. She wasn’t a trained, battle-hardened warrior. She was an average civilian, doing the best she could to find her way. To survive. She was doing that now, standing in front of me.

  She’d been a prisoner since her capture on Tallavaster. The entire time I’d been under the Cranaltar IV, recovered, joined Intelligence, and participated in the search for Director Simms. The man sitting across from me, unmoving and unaware.

  She’d been out of her cell. More than I’d managed, at least while conscious. Did she know who Simms was? Did she know any other prisoners? Where were we being held? Ship or planetside? What star system?

  It also occurred to me that she’d somehow earned privileges. Was it her job to get information from other prisoners, from me?

  After several seconds of silence, I stood since they hadn’t sent a shock into me or retracted my cables. “Complete your assigned duty.” While there might be limited information gained, reestablishing a bond, however limited, was something. Something they could take away from her. Away from me.

  She removed my gown and tossed it onto Simms’ soiled gown near the door. Since I was relatively clean, she wiped me down quickly with a sponge from the cleansing bucket and moved more slowly with the rinse bucket.

  We largely maintained eye contact. Less than a year ago I would’ve been embarrassed to stand naked before her. Situations and experience change things. Her eyes weren’t filled with volumes. Rather only with fear and sadness. My gaze was filled with the best expression of courage and defiance I could muster.

  When she’d finished slipping my fresh daisy hospital gown over my arms, I stepped forward to give her room to tie it in back. That was one thing that normally I had to do myself after the guard exited. While Tahgs did this task, I felt a narrow pressure against the small of my back where the only set of strings were, just for an instant as she tied my gown closed.

  She came back around and our eyes met as she faced me to pick up the buckets.

  “Thank you for completing your duty,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, wincing, but nothing happened to her or to me, and she left without another word.

  No punishment felt more unnerving than receiving it. That said something about my state of mind. I sat back against the wall and closed my eyes. Yes, I felt something along the edge of the gown, just below the tied strings. Hard and narrow, and hooked…or bent.

  Discovering what it was would have to wait. It was time for me to talk to Director Simms. Since we hadn’t eaten yet after sleeping, giving me a temporary time anchor, I announced to Simms, “This morning I will tell you about working with automated landscaping equipment, and how a piece of it caused the death of my father, and my brother trying to save him.”

  Then, I thought better of it. CGIG probably had that basic information on me, but why go into detail? Tahgs’ visit reminded me of something from my youth, so I continued after a breath, saying, “Not interested in that, Director Simms? How about a story about post-apocalyptic Earth? Everyone enjoys those. My teacher assigned me to read and research this for a cross curriculum assignment back when I was about nine.”

  I paused, gathering my thoughts. “Pail of Air by Fritz Leiber…”

  The question was: Where to hide the hex key Tahgs had given to me?

  I couldn’t leave it stuck in the lining of my current gown. They changed them infrequently, sure. But without warning, and the cables were always drawn in immediately beforehand. Also without warning. So I wouldn’t be able to remove it from the gown before the garment was taken from me.

  They used a sonic depilator to cut my hair and shave my beard, again, without warning. So, hiding the key in my hair wasn’t an option. Its size, L-shaped with the longer leg over three inches and the shorter leg a little less than one and about 1/8 of an inch cross section, meant hiding it in my mouth wouldn’t work. The rectum, a cavity regularly searched among penal colony prisoners, wouldn’t work either. In addition to the danger of perforating an intestinal wall, the uncontrollable bowel discharges Heartwell enjoyed inflicting would prove troublesome. Similar concerns if I swallowed it. Plus, if the opportunity to escape presented itself, I wouldn’t have immediate access.

  Hiding it in the chamber pot drain or in the ankle or wrist cuff of my manacles wouldn’t be effective. It’d be washed out of reach in the drain. It’d be visible if stuffed between my wrist or ankle and the manacle, especially if its color contrasted with the metallic shackles.

  Until I could find a satisfactory solution, I removed the hex key from my daisy gown while lying against the wall, and later stuck it between the back of my ankle and the shackle. Both were a dull metallic color so it blended well enough—if someone wasn’t paying close attention.

  In addition, I kept the gathered synthetic fiber hidden in my mouth, and added to it a little, even if it wouldn’t be used. Avoid any pattern changes, especially if they were watching. Doing otherwise might bring attention to what Tahgs had given me.

  My shotgun was one small step closer. An uncertain step, and not likely an enduring one. The key offered a tenuous route to revenge. Another, better one, might present itself. Unlikely, but I never guessed a hex key would fall into my lap. Keep my eyes and ears open. I didn’t pray for opportunities or for any special help. My goal was to kill, revenge killings. And if I succeeded, innocents would go down too. It’d aid the war effort, one we were losing and probably would lose, but that wouldn’t wash the blood of intention, blood of guilt from my hands.

  My destiny wasn’t to end up catatonic like Deputy Director Simms or prematurely aged like Janice Tahgs. Although calibrated for pain and not permanent damage, the frequent jolts were certain to impact my muscles and nervous system.

  Beyond the potential physical damage, I noticed my habit of involuntarily tensing up for no apparent reason. Anticipating a jolt. Sometimes I was even right. Or someone was watching and obliged my anticipation. Ma
ybe Heartwell was sending some subtle, subconscious signal. A sound at a frequency on the edge of detection, or a barely perceptible change in the light’s intensity. Messing with my mind. Conditioning me.

  He planned to have me in his clutches for years. Why would the bastard be impatient?

  Chapter 42

  I was telling Director Simms about my security training coursework related to crime scene preservation when our cell shuddered. The lighting flickered. For several seconds I felt lighter, not quite floating. We were on a space craft of some sort, one with a gravity plate. One with minimal power reserves. Something, either an internal explosion or an outside impact caused the shudder and a temporary power loss. It was impossible to tell if main power had been knocked out and she was on auxiliary or even battery power. Probably not battery, as the grav plate wouldn’t be functioning.

  The cables attached to my shackles remained locked in place. The emergency default is to fully retract and lock in place. It might be only seconds before someone entered that verbal command or tapped the icon. Kneeling down, and still talking to Simms, I removed the hex key from behind my ankle and did my best to block surveillance’s observation with the bottom of my gown.

  The lock on my ankle was still functioning. Even under battery power it would.

  Kneeling, I continued talking to Simms. I did a double take. Despite no music being piped in, he’d begun his isometric exercise routine. Maybe the change in gravity affected him.