Another figure emerged from the corridor and looked around, more tentatively than the red man had. This new person was more normally-sized, about five foot ten tall and clearly not-red. He seemed Middle-Eastern to Halloran, at first glance. Perhaps thirty. Thick brown hair. A plain dirty-brown set of clothes, not a uniform.
The red guy pointed directly at Halloran and said something to the shorter one in an unknown language.
Halloran was about to pull back against the wall when the shorter man man stepped towards him and motioned for him to approach.
Not seeing an immediate threat, Halloran took a step out from the wall, feeling Reyes’ trailing fingers on his arm as he went—the Chief had been holding him back, he realized.
The red guy was blabbering and pointing at the crew, directing his tirade towards the shorter guy who suddenly shrugged in a very recognizable fashion. Okay, okay, I get it. Halloran was suddenly hoping the guy was potentially a friendly and starting to open his mouth to try communication when the guy stepped forward. He grabbed Halloran’s forearm and drew him in towards him with a strong movement. Reyes and Chandler jumped forward but Halloran waved them back with his free hand. If he was going to go the way of his friend John Buston he was ready to face it. But it didn’t feel like that…
Before Halloran could formulate an appropriate response, the shorter man took his other hand and grasped his neck, tilting it to one side. He briefly held Halloran—awkwardly, given his shorter stature—as he did something with his other hand and quickly reached up and pressed something against Halloran’s neck, causing a sharp, pointed pain. Halloran grunted and pulled away, hands going to the base of his skull behind the ear. He felt something metallic protruding from his skin and began to pull at it.
“—he’s trying to remove it!”
“Calm down, Axxa! You there, don’t take it out…it goes in harder when you know what it feels like.”
Halloran realized with a start that he’d just heard and understood the two of them. He found himself ignoring the shooting pain in his head and lowered his hands, attempting to look more in-control than he felt.
“See, Axxa? He’s figuring it out.”
Halloran frowned and tried an experiment. “Who are you?”
The red guy stepped forward. “He’s speaking that odd language.”
The shorter man grabbed Halloran by the arm. “You are in great danger.” He glanced around. “All of you. Axxa here,” he gestured with a thumb at the red guy, “wants to get you out of the Center. Now.”
“What’s the ‘Center’?” Halloran demanded. The thing in his head didn’t hurt anymore, he noticed. “What language are you speaking? This is English I’m speaking,” he added as an afterthought, a bit lamely.
“The device I implanted in you will interpret most known languages and eventually train your vocal abilities in our language, which is called ‘Standard.’ Axxa here can speak Standard because he has to, but the device does translate Prax. But now, we need to get out of here.”
Halloran concentrated. “Who… Are You?”
“I am Deacon and you are imprisoned within a large Prax base. I…used to work here so I know my way around. Axxa here is one of the Prax leaders and he’s coming with us.” The guy shot a pointed glance toward the red guy, giving Halloran the distinct impression that the stated arrangement wasn’t entirely set in stone.
“Prax?” Halloran tested the word on his tongue. It sounded bitter.
The red guy nodded. “I am Prax. We must go now.” The words magically appearing in Halloran’s head didn’t convey the emphasis coming out of the big red guy’s mouth, and certainly not his tense body language.
Suddenly the guy looked eerily familiar to Halloran. Had he been outside during the massacre of his crew?
Deacon pulled on Halloran’s arm, the one he hadn’t let go. “Are you in command of this group of humans?”
“Yes. What?” Halloran felt sudden confusion at the man’s wording.
“Then order them to get up and follow us, now.”
“Why?”
Axxa leaned in over Halloran, looking seriously at the officers now assembled around him. “Come with me if you want to live.”
Chapter 18
Sol Center - Lower Levels
“Where are we going?” Halloran asked for the first time in at least five minutes. And once again, the young man called Deacon just stared at him without answering. He certainly doesn’t want to be here, Halloran thought.
The group was in a long, narrow passageway stumbling through near-darkness. He’d assigned an officer each to small groups of survivors to urge them along and motivate the ones less cooperative. And indeed, almost a dozen sailors had refused to move from their prison cell, citing nonexistent injuries or tiredness. It had taken personal motivation from Halloran himself in some cases to get those people on their feet.
He got it. Everyone had seen their comrades slain in cold blood right in front of them; not something they trained you for in sub school. Death in a submerged ship was more likely to come from drowning or fire, rather than a sword blade. Halloran had a feeling most of them would recover once they saw a new reason to live.
As he stumbled over an unseen piece of equipment mounted on the floor, Halloran thought of his ship. It had been clearly beached in a channel that couldn’t support its draft, so getting it back out to sea seemed like a longshot. In addition, who knew what these red people were doing to it as he wandered impotently meandered through the basement.
They had descended in a large elevator rather than ascending. For quite some time, in fact. Halloran had no idea how deep they were but it was deep…dozens of stories below wherever they had already been. One thing’s for sure; this is a massive facility. Halloran wished Buston were there with him. But John was never coming back; the bastards—one bastard in particular—had cut his head off.
Halloran suddenly wanted to vomit from the lump of rage that was embedded in his gut.
“Keep moving, Captain,” Reyes mumbled at his side.
He hadn’t realized that he’d paused. Halloran wished they could all get some proper medical attention. Between the injuries and trauma, his people were on the edge—himself included.
Halloran urged himself forward ahead of the pace the group was making and came up alongside the young Deacon. “Hey,” he said, grabbing the man’s elbow.
“Keep moving. It will be a miracle if we get out with all of you people dragging us down.” Deacon practically growled the words through gritted teeth.
Halloran pressed. “We don’t even know where we are or where we are going. Do you realize that we’re United States Navy? Our ship was unlawfully stolen and boarded…”
The red man poked Deacon. “Say nothing until we arrive. They will not comprehend.”
Deacon nodded and slowed a bit, turning into Halloran. “Look,” he whispered, “you don’t understand what has happened to you, and now is not the time to stop and expect explanations. We need to get everyone into the city and to a place I have in mind to lay low until we can get you a…ride.”
“A ride? To where?”
The red man was poking Deacon again. With a shake of his head, Deacon turned back. “Just make a maximum effort to keep your people up. No one can be left behind now. They would be tortured for information.”
Halloran fell back to Reyes and the lead group, frowning.
“What’d he say?” Reyes wanted to know.
Halloran shook his head. “Nothing that made any sense. Let’s just get out of wherever here is first, then we’ll pin those two down for explanations.”
The passageway finally ended after what seemed several miles of jogging/shuffling and pausing for breath. It had widened and another set of cargo-style elevators presented themselves.
Axxa checked their status panels. “They are functional.”
Deacon leaned against the wall next to him, warily watching the prisoners coming up in their small groups, some clearly out of breath fro
m the exertion. He looked up at the Prax. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a full unit of guards up there waiting for us to pop out of the lifts.”
Axxa stared back at him. “I engineered the video display of these humans’ cell to repeat in a loop, causing the guards monitoring to think they are still there.”
Deacon nodded at the Praxxan’s cunning. “That is excellent. But what if the Prime sends for them to be executed, as you have been claiming is imminent?”
“What choices did we have?”
Deacon raised his eyebrows. “Leave them there of course. We could’ve already been on our way to the extraction by now, otherwise.” He felt bitterness toward this hulking Prax, despite a grudging admiration for the alien for his concern for Deacon’s fellow humans; something he himself couldn’t muster.
He looked them over again. They were just humans, like all the rest who slaved and died on Earth under the heel of the Prax. You didn’t make time for others. You survived by specifically not doing that.
Deacon sighed at the irony of his situation.
The tall leader of the group came over. “Are we going into this elevator? Where does it go?”
“He asks a lot of questions,” Deacon pointed out to Axxa, knowing the man would hear and understand.
Deacon stared back at him. “Your life is in my hands. And I don’t want it; but…” he tapped Axxa’s broad arm muscles next to him. “…He wants it. And I want him. He’s my ticket off this rock.”
The man frowned at them. “What rock? Are we on an island?”
Axxa looked pained and actuated the lift controls. “Say nothing, Deacon.”
“Look, my people are injured, hungry and emotionally spent. We need medical care and rest—”
Deacon cut him off. “You’ll find that there’s none of that for you or your people.” He sneered the last. “You’ll be blessed by the stars to survive the next hour, let alone the rest of the day.”
The lift door opened and Axxa stood back to allow the group to enter; it would be a tight fit.
The leader looked at Deacon warily, as if to inquire as to the safety of the lift. In response, Deacon shrugged and said, “this may be the shortest rescue in history, or it may work—at this point the odds are only a million to one. They might improve.” He waved at the lift. “Try your luck?”
The leader gave a short laugh, catching Deacon off-guard. “They must have gambling in this island, at least.” He motioned to another man near him, a tough-looking one about Deacon’s height, and spoke to him. “The guy says us getting out alive are long odds but it’s worth a shot.”
The other one said something in their language and they both laughed quietly. Their camaraderie puzzled Deacon. He’d never seen it before in humans.
Those two and several others herded the group into the lift, squeezing the whole of them in with inches to spare. Axxa crammed into the corner near the controls and nodded to Deacon, who returned the head movement. He found himself matching stares with the tall leader as the hatch slid closed and the lift began to rise.
“So if the doors open and we’re still alive, that’s a good sign?” he asked.
Deacon dipped his head in agreement. He noticed for the first time that he could almost understand portions of their language. Not whole words, but some of the expressions and tone of voice rung familiar to him.
The leader raised his voice and spoke to the group packed in around them. “People, we’re on a one-way ride to what these folks think is a possible escape route. I don’t know what’s going to happen when those doors open, but I know that in the final analysis you’ll all do your duty and comport yourselves as members of the United States Navy. If I am incapacitated, follow the directions of your officers and even these two civilians—I believe they have your best interests at heart. Good luck and Godspeed, ladies and gentlemen.”
Deacon heard the words but only understand almost none of th references. But this man clearly held the loyalty of the assembled people tightly; he could sense the renewed purpose in the close space.
They passed the rest of the minute-long ascent in silence, the mass of green-uniformed soldiers looking stoic around Deacon. He grudgingly acknowledged their courage. He himself was feeling less sure about dying. Not now, after all I’ve done to get here. To get to Axxa.
The red alien in question called from the corner of the lift, over the heads of the soldiers in between them. “Arriving now.”
“Here we go.” The leader said to his people.
The lift slowed and locked into place at the assigned floor.
Deacon exhaled and watched the doors slide open.
Chapter 19
Prax Sol Center
“Lord, Elexxan reports that he is preparing to unload one of the human missiles in order to move it to the science center.”
Talxen the Prime nodded at the messenger as he stood at the partially-opaque window in his chambers. The opening was adjusted to dim the harsh sunlight of the planet’s midday, even though the heat and radiation of Sol was little compared to the stars of Prax. The Prime missed his homeworld, but loved the power granted to him within this star system more.
“Lord, do you have any orders?”
The Prime considered a moment before turning. “Yes. Have the human ship’s captain brought before me, I wish to explore him further. Also, bring along several crew for torture in front of him—particularly females.”
“Yes, Lord.”
He watched the messenger leave and reached for a container of refreshment, sensing the imminent satisfaction of death at his hands. It was intoxicating for him. One of the drawbacks of command was the fewer opportunities to draw enemy blood one drop at a time in ground battle. Lording over an occupied world was far less exciting but sufficed to entertain, even after all the cycles spent breaking down this planet once the human fleet had been beaten off and the Prax had established their base of operations.
The Prime knew the reports from the early days, before his arrival. The ill-prepared planetary defenses were quickly crushed underfoot and the leaders of the race caught, publicly tortured and taken apart. Then the strong humans imprisoned and weakened to the point of starvation. Finally, segmenting the population and culling millions in mass executions in order to thin the cities to manageable numbers of residents. And using the willing as personal servants for the menial tasks that maintaining the Center and other planetside bases required. This process continued to this day and Talxen had been assigned by the Premier to complete the conquest of Sol’s planets.
In other conquests, the Prax had even been able to impress slaves into their service as conscript soldiers, boosting their numbers in battle and providing fodder for the first assaults on enemy strongholds. But the humans on Earth had proven too weak to be reliable soldiers. The Prime thought of the deteriorating human fleet over the planet Mars, and wondered how strong their long-term resolve was in the face of the generation-long domination of their homeworld. His sources within their operation reported flagging enthusiasm on the part of the race in general to “fight to the death” for Earth. Arguments were made to regroup at Coloran and leave Sol to the Prax.
All attempts by the human fleet at arming resistance forces had met with destruction by the Prax, and the flow of ships to and from the planet had been reduced to a trickle of smugglers through regular patrols of Praxxan gunships using sensors to detect atmospheric flights and incursions from space. The system worked well to maintain control of Earth, but the time was coming to take the fight directly to the human fleet and destroy the Mars forces in order to clear the inner system of threats. Then the outer system’s ring of colonies and bases would easily fall…It would be his system. And the new weapons would be the centerpiece of his destruction and the gateway for his clan to ascend in the empire.
The Prime took a sip and smiled. Yes, he would enjoy this interrogation session. And more.
The doors were open. When nothing happened, Deacon was overcome with curio
sity and leaned out of the lift, looking left and right. He straightened and waved to Axxa. “The corridor is clear.”
The human leader stepped out. “Which way?”
Deacon followed him, annoyed at not being the first to get out. “I know where we are; Axxa has taken us directly to a service entrance.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted. “Wouldn’t it be guarded? This is a military installation?”
Axxa elbowed his way through the crowd and stepped out, his massive bulk towering over them. Except the leader, who was fairly tall himself. “We go this way.” He looked at Deacon. “This was our pre-arranged point for today.”
Deacon nodded. “I remember. And you remembered…”
Axxa nodded. “I disabled the security for this entrance. And the recording devices.”
The leader nodded. “You think of everything.”
“Well, he didn’t take having an extra crowd of humans in consideration.”
The leader corrected Deacon. “Sailors. In the US Navy.”
Deacon started off down the corridor. “Let’s get moving.”
Axxa and the leader shared a look, the former looking down into the human’s eyes. Finally he asked, “What is your name?”
The human did something unusual—he extended his arm and made a flat gesture with his hand. “Tom Halloran. Glad you’re taking us under your wing, Mr…”
Axxa didn’t understand the references, but realized the human was requesting his own name. “Axxa. Second Advisor to the Prime, Sol system.” He ignored the human’s arm gesture, unsure of what it meant. Tomalloran was an odd human name in his experience.
“Sounds important, Axxa. So why are you helping us lowly prisoners escape?”
Axxa wanted to tell him, but he realized that time was precious. The Prime would be discovering the missing humans any moment now. “We must move.”
War Without Honor (Halloran's War Series Book 1) Page 11
