by David Adams
“Naval Captain Melissa Niu Liao,” she said through gritted teeth, repeating the words that were her mantra. “People’s Republic of China. ID: 110100-2—”
Once again, the pain danced along her body. She was used to it, however. All she had to do was wait for it to stop. Pain, pain, pain…
Finally, the heat faded. Then, as it usually did, the music came. Toralii music, alien and strange, was piped through unseen speakers in the room. Light-hearted and airy, the distinct melody had no beat, just a soft, feel-good tune, neither annoying or frustrating. It was actually rather nice. Perhaps her Toralii captors intended it to be so; she had taken care never to mention how the music made her feel. Best not lose one of the few pleasant things in Zar’krun.
[“You are running out of time.”] Yarri’s words carried an edge of something—frustration, perhaps? [“Captain Liao, there is little you can truly offer us. We need something to justify keeping you alive. You eat our food, you breathe our air, you drink our water… you have been our guest for some time. You should repay your debts.”]
“Naval Captain Melissa Niu Liao. People’s Republic—”
The hum of the heat machine stole her words then faded after a moment. Silence, so complete that Liao assumed whatever served as a microphone had been muted, settled over the room for a moment.
[“It is no matter,”] Yarri eventually said. [“In time, you will come to help us. Return here tomorrow, or be dragged here by the guards.”] The faint hiss of static indicated that the line to the room had been cut. The seal holding her to the floor—a false-gravity similar to the reactionless device—released, and she was free.
Slowly, achingly, Liao propped herself up on her sole elbow. Her body burned, but it had been through much worse when the Toralii had bombarded Velsharn and a stray plasma shot had almost annihilated her. She used the memory of that pain to banish her current discomforts. Liao had passed through fire and survived. A little more heat barely felt like anything.
She waited, despite it being time to leave. She lay there, listening to the music. If the music was a torture, focusing on it was only playing into their hands. If it wasn’t, then what good did it serve? She should go. The door would be open. It was never locked. The force that held her to the floor was sufficient to keep her restrained, and if a medical team was needed, the unlocked would reduce the response time. Or so she reasoned.
Perhaps the Toralii liked to taunt her with the unlocked portal, by showing her that freedom was just a few scant metres away. All she had to do was reach out and touch it…
Thinking like that was stupid, though.
She stood, staggered over to the door, and pushed it open. It swung easily as unseen motors silently moved the thick steel, revealing the dull-grey metal corridor beyond. She followed the familiar hubbub of voices, passing room after room after room, until the corridor lead her back to the main holding area.
Sixty metres by sixty metres, with a low ceiling, the main holding area was a huge octagonal shape. Every face was a door to a smaller area: one for interrogation, one for medical, one for showering and ablutions, one for administration, and one for meals. The others were all smaller holding areas that led to cells.
She missed James. Captain James Grégoire. The father of her child.
Such thoughts came to her often, but she banished them as soon as they arrived. There was no dwelling on what might be, could be, would be, or should be. There was only the now. She walked a little faster; the sooner she got to the main holding area, the sooner such thoughts would leave her.
Lieutenant Samuel O’Hill was waiting for her outside the interrogation sector, as he usually was.
“How did it go, ma’am?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder. A fresh series of familiar square welts had blistered his exposed flesh.
“Oh, not bad. Yarri was off her game today. Barely felt like her heart was in it.” She grimaced, kneading her side to soothe the lingering tingles. “Maybe that’s just her way of hitting on me. You know. Flirting. Turning down the heat a little.”
“Probably,” O’Hill said. “I think you two would make an adorable couple, Captain. You can have delightful tea parties and discuss ways to exterminate the other races of the galaxy.”
“Eh.” Liao pressed her fingers into the burned, scarred flesh of her shoulder. “She’s not my type.”
A little bit of the mask faded, and O’Hill’s tone became concerned. “How badly hurt are you? You are going to be okay, yeah?”
She wasn’t a doctor, so that was hard to answer. “Probably. Makes me long for the good ol’ days when all I had to worry about was the Toralii trying to kill me in an almost-fair fight.” Her voice softened. “I wish there was a way to know when you were in the good ol’ days before they’re over.”
“Yeah, you and me both.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s get you some food. That’ll help.”
She had completely lost her appetite after several hours of torture, but logic overruled her apathy. She would need to keep up her strength—as much as was possible, at any rate—for the upcoming rescue attempt. It would come. She knew it would.
“If,” Liao said, managing a smile as they set off for the dining area, “you can call what the Toralii give us ‘food.’”
“It is absolutely food!” O’Hill said, feigning offence. He altered his tone, adopting a low growl similar to Commandant Yarri’s Toralii accent. “The nutritional paste provides all essential ingredients for Human life. Eat and be nourished! Now, when you’re done shovelling this delightful slop into your mouths, you can tell us where the Human fleet is hiding. I’m so intimidating.”
She snorted out a laugh, mostly out of charity. The heat was too fresh on her back to find it truly funny.
The noise of the other prisoners grew around her as Liao made her way across the main holding area towards the dining area. “How long have we been here?”
“Not sure,” O’Hill said. “Probably about a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty, days. Sanders is doing her best to keep track, despite her illness, but honestly, who knows.”
Three to four months. She felt as though she’d been there barely a few weeks. The American, Warrant Officer Trish Sanders, was doing an admirable job of record keeping, but she had missed her meal the previous night. “How’s Sanders holding up?” Liao asked. “Is she better today?”
“Worse,” O’Hill said, grimly. “Hopefully, she gets better.”
“Hopefully.” Sanders wasn’t technically her crew, but Liao considered all the Human prisoners to be her responsibility. If Sanders died… “The Toralii took a look at her, right?”
“Yeah, but they can’t find out what’s wrong. And they didn’t exactly bring a Human doctor along, so…”
That wasn’t problem she could fix. “Hopefully, she gets better,” Liao said again. There wasn’t much else they could do. She tried to change the subject. “You know, I was thinking. Why do they keep asking us where the Human fleet is? Shouldn’t it be in Velsharn guarding the rest of the Humans?”
“Apparently, it isn’t.”
She felt strange discussing it, as though the Toralii might be listening. “Well, then, why don’t they attack Velsharn? Why don’t they finish the job? Why do they have to keep us here, instead of just either letting us go or killing us?”
“No idea,” O’Hill said, just as he had the last few times she’d asked. It was good of him to answer her questions with politeness.
“I’m still hoping,” Liao said, “the fleet shows up and gives this facility a lifetime supply of nerve gas.”
O’Hill grimaced at that. “I understand, Captain, but maybe there’s a way they can do that where we don’t die with them.”
Liao smiled grimly. “I try not to hope for too much.”
She wanted to say more, but a figure approached her, waist high and covered in scales. Sunkret, the Kel-Voran was the only non-Human prisoner in the facility.
“Greetings, Butcher of Kor-Vakkar,”
Sunkret said, speaking English, bowing low before her as was his custom. His dark scales, almost black, reflected the light in strange hues. His four arms—a very uncommon mutation amongst his kind, she had learnt—were crossed over his chest. “How was your… session with the interrogator?”
“It was fine. What doesn’t kill you leaves you with a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms and a dark sense of humour.” Liao drummed her fingers against the stump of her missing forearm. “How can I help you, Sunkret?”
“The Butcher asks if she can help me?” Sunkret raised his head, settling his arms by his sides. “Has this one not explained that he is her loyal servant and seeks only to serve her?”
The Butcher. A title she’d unwittingly earned from the Toralii, for destroying their largest shipyard. It was a title for their enemies. Humans did the same thing. One man’s massacre was another man’s decisive and noble victory. “You know I don’t like that name,” she said. “It’s Captain Liao, if you please.”
Sunkret’s thick tongue flicked out over his lips. “This one understands, but struggles with the pronunciation. Still learning your languages, am I—or at least, a vague approximation of it. This one would not dare to insult…” his reptilian lips struggled to form the words. “Captain Lee-ow.”
They had played through the same conversation track many times before. Mispronouncing someone’s name was, apparently, a grave insult for the Kel-Voran. Sunkret had tried so hard to learn English from Liao and the other crew… it was probably time to just drop it and let him call her whatever he wanted.
“As you wish,” Liao said. “And actually, there is something you can help me with. Escort us to dinner.”
The little guy’s sharp teeth clicked together eagerly. “Of course. This way.”
Sunkret led them through to the dining area, a long, rectangular space that branched off from the main holding area. Row after row of long metal tables were set out, with uncomfortable chairs put before them. All around them, other prisoners—all of them Human—sat in groups. Friends, officers, service branches—whatever their bond, Liao had let them self-organise, and the Toralii didn’t seem to care either way.
They made their way to a long rectangular bench at the far end of the hall, which had, unofficially at least, become the officers table. Sanders, due to being unwell, had also been invited to sit there. Apparently, the officers received the best food—an unbelievable thought, given how unpalatable it was.
Sanders wasn’t eating. She just sat there, half curled up in pain, her hands on her abdomen.
“Here.” Sunkret pulling out a chair for Liao, one right at the head of the table. “For you.”
“No.” Liao moved over to Sanders. “Hey.”
“Captain Liao,” Sanders said through gritted teeth. “How’re you doing?”
“Much better than you.” Liao examined her with a concerned eye. “You’re pale.”
“I feel like shit,” she said.
Liao touched her shoulder. “Let me know if I can do anything.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Sunkret still had the chair pulled over. Exactly how long had it been since someone had done anything like that for her? She wasn’t sure how to react—she was missing an arm, not utterly crippled—but the mess hall wasn’t the time or the place. So without making too much of a deal of it, she sat in the offered seat and scooted forward. O’Hill sat next to her.
“At ease,” Liao said to the table. Everyone, even Sanders, had waited for her. That was something of a custom for the officers: they ate only when all of them were present. Liao respected that show of solidarity.
“I shall fetch your meal,” Sunkret said then left.
As everyone went back to eating, Liao and O’Hill sat there awkwardly.
“What a weirdo,” O’Hill said.
“I think he’s nice,” Liao said, unable to keep a tinge of hesitation out of her tone. “In… a way.”
“In the way that he’s a weirdo,” O’Hill said. “I don’t like him, ma’am.”
In truth, she didn’t, either. “We don’t have many allies here. For all his weirdness, Sunkret is one of them. He’s strong, and he’s not afraid to be seen with us, even if he just wants to suck up to me. He knows things, he knows people, and he speaks a lot of languages. Communication is important if we’re going to survive here. Besides… he’s the only Kel-Voran in this whole facility. He needs allies, too.”
“That’s true, ma’am,” O’Hill said, although the concession seemed to sting him. “I still don’t like him. The Toralii Alliance are motivated, technologically advanced, innovative, and driven. The Kel-Voran are psychotic barbarians kept in line only by the promise of more bloodshed. That makes them fierce, yes, but also predictable and stupid. I’d rather fight psychotic berserkers than cold-blooded sociopaths any day.”
There was some truth in that. “Unfortunately, one doesn’t get to pick their enemies.”
Her eyes met someone else at the table—US Air Force Brigadier General Andrew Decker-Sheng. For so long she had suspected him of treachery, probably for the entirely stupid reason that he shared half his surname with her first XO.
She had been wrong. Dead wrong. But that didn’t mean they’d become friends.
“Hello, Captain.” Decker-Sheng was sporting fresh welts over his face and neck, driving home the point that he had suffered both her misdirected suspicions and the Toralii brutality.
“Good evening, sir,” Liao said. His outranking her, even if only technically and in another nation’s armed forces, made things worse.
There wasn’t much else to say, and Liao awkwardly avoided his eyes.
Sunkret returned, balancing a tray of dark-green soup on each hand. He laid one out before O’Hill, one for himself, then the last two for Liao.
Two plates of the Toralii slop for her. Just what she needed to cap off a session in the interrogation room. The olive paste, half liquid, half solid, reeked of sour slime, just like every other meal she’d eaten since arriving. Liao managed a little smile and dipped her fork into the stuff then into her mouth.
Trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, she gulped down the stuff, which was dry yet simultaneously soggy, almost tasteless except for a lingering sourness. The faces of her fellow Humans reflected how she felt—disgusted.
Sunkret, however, seemed to enjoy it, wolfing down the gunk with a gusto that seemed entirely unbecoming. He tipped his bowl, slurping loudly as he poured the stuff down his throat. Kel-Voran eating habits were unknown to her. Maybe it was Sunkret; maybe it was his people. Either way, seeing him down the disgusting goop made the last dangling shreds of her appetite evaporate.
“So, okay, Captain. I got a joke.” O’Hill shovelled food into his mouth, and a green dribble ran out one side of his lips. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the process, but took to it with remarkable vigour regardless. “Wanna hear it?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom?”
“I don’t know. Something about them being frightening?”
“Because…” He flashed a wide grin, showing his green-stained teeth. “They’re extinct.”
“O… kay. Okay.” Liao put down her spoon. “If we’re going to spend the rest of our lives in here, listening to those kinds of jokes, I hope the guards just shoot me right now. I—”
A high-pitched noise heralded the activation of Zar’krun’s equivalent to the public address system. A Toralii voice, rough and masculine, came through. [“All prisoners report to their cells immediately.”]
The light changed from stark, sterile white to a deep purple, and loud klaxons sounded throughout the complex. A dozen armed guards clad in thick armour, ran into the dining hall, plasma rifles raised and pointed directly at her.
“Well,” Liao said, feeling all eyes upon her as she slowly raised her lone hand. “I guess sometimes wishes do come true.”
A tense silence, punctuated only by the wailing of klaxons, fi
lled the dining hall for several seconds. What were they waiting for?
The leader of the guards, a short, angry-looking Toralii with orange fur, seemed ready to pull the trigger—then he lowered his weapon, almost in frustration.
[“This is the wrong one,”] he said, then addressed his fellows. [“Fan out. Find the other Liao. Make sure it doesn’t escape.”]
The… other Liao? That shocked her for a moment, then she realised the truth with a start. They were keeping Ben at Zar’krun, too.
Apparently, he was being even less cooperative than she was. For the first time in a long time, Liao smiled.
Then Sanders fell out of her chair, slumped on the deck. For a second, she just lay there, then her whole body jerked as though electrified. She twitched and thrashed, then went completely limp.
Ben’s Detention Cell
Zar’krun
Ten minutes earlier
Ben did not like being in a cage, but endless idle time was useful to recharge.
An active, fit human body required approximately two thousand calories a day or eight million joules of energy. His implants required an additional one million, three hundred thousand above that, daily, and his battery could hold a further three million.
That battery was long since exhausted. The Toralii denied him access to power, of course. Some of his implants allowed him to function without breath, even in the vacuum of space. They also made him stronger and faster. At least one was a weapon—a plasma pistol built into his wrist. At short range, the pistol was deadly, but useless without energy.
His many implants could not be removed, so tightly woven around his flesh, bones, and organs were they, but without power, they were dead weight—so the Toralii thought. Ben’s emergency power generator could convert ten joules a minute to the internal battery. Slowly, agonisingly, he was gaining strength. Waiting for the right moment.
