ylllrinkastral p’rol uullrekskannrrr ne oobra<
A long silence followed the proclamation. Haal’ithor glanced around at her fellow councilors; she didn’t need the connection provided by the hivemind to tell her no one had understood a single word the biped had uttered, beyond identifying himself as “Sommers.” Obviously, the man attached some level of importance to the rest of his speech— the tone, if not the meaning, was unmistakable. Were it not for the unconscionable destruction he and his kind had caused, the lives they had so callously exterminated, Haal’ithor might have been amused by his efforts at communication.
The Sommers-man stared stoically at the members of the High Council, his facial muscles shifting beneath the pale skin to bend the comers of his speaking-hole downward. He grunted, then turned to the warriors behind him. >ooll! ooll re vaes karellK A command of some sort, given the speed with which two of the warriors moved to carry it out. They pushed their way through the cadre of bipeds, heading for the rear of the group.
Moments later, they reappeared, dragging another small biped between them. Like the Sommers-man, the ... woman(?) was not as physically developed as the soldiers who held her in a terribly strong grip, as though they were concerned she might try to flee. Unlike the Sommers-man, however, this creature was attired in a black, formfitting garb that completely covered her skin, leaving only her eyes and speaking-hole exposed. Manacles impeded the movements of her limbs, the short chains connecting them slowing her step enough that the warriors literally dragged her in front of the High Council. The short fur that grew from her head was a darker shade of brown, with a white streak running down the center of it. Haal’ithor wondered if this was an elder of their hive—did not white fur denote great intelligence and wisdom among the bipeds?—though the woman did not look old enough to have seen that many harvest seasons. On closer inspection, though, Haal’ithor could see the fear in the creature’s eyes, hear the quick, ragged gasps she made as she drew breath through her speaking-hole. The woman was terrified, but Haal’ithor could not imagine why— was she not among her own kind?
The Sommers-man barked another order, this time at the woman. She frantically shook her head and tried to pull away from her bearers. One of them responded by jabbing her in the side with an energized baton he had taken from a clip on his armor. A sharp scream emanated from the woman as blue-white lightning crackled around and through her, and she slumped to the floor.
Barbarians, J’laan commented. They even torture their own.
Old Ones preserve us, El’zelius said. Have they so little respect for life?
Again, Haal’ithor’s thoughts turned to her grubs, and she shuddered. No more than a few teek’lan into their first meeting with these creatures, and the aliens had already shown a disturbing level of intolerance for a fellow biped that had refused a command. What would they do to the lion if they continued to be frustrated by a simple lack of communication?
What man doesn’t understand, he destroys. . . she thought darkly.
The warriors pulled the woman back onto her lower limbs, but then had to hold her upright; she appeared ready to collapse again at any moment. The Sommers-man stepped over to the group and savagely gripped the sides of her speaking-hole with one of his armored claws; the woman moaned in obvious suffering. The edges of his speaking-hole turned upward, and the biped bared his teeth, much like a wild saarlat when it was hunting. Haal’ithor started. Could it be the creature enjoyed inflicting pain on his own people?
Poor creature, El’zelius said. Why doesn’t he leave her alone?
The man snarled something in his gutter-tone language, and the woman’s eyes widened in terror. Then he waved a claw at the council, and the warriors began dragging the woman further into the chambers.
They’re coming over here! J’laan said, panic in her voice. The thoughts she now had of suffering directly at the claws of the very invaders who had decimated her homeland not more than five deenahl ago, clearly transmitted through the hivemind, set the entirety of the council in a near-frenzy. It was a powerful sensation, detected even by the bipeds—the air was suddenly filled with the sound of safety-catches being deactivated on the weapons they held.
Order! Geer’lak shouted through the telepathic link. There will be order!
The command was strong enough to shatter the almost overwhelming feeling of dread that had taken hold of the council. Slowly, calm was restored. Even the Sommers-man motioned to his soldiers to lower their weapons.
Geer’lak scuttled forward. More than a century old, his frail legs growing steadily weaker but still able to carry him where he needed to go, the president of the High Council approached the man.
On behalf of the High Council of Ishla’non, Geer’lak said slowly and cautiously, I welcome you to our chambers. He paused, and Haal’ithor knew he was waiting to see if the creatures could at least understand the lion on a telepathic level, if not a verbal one. It had worked with other races.
The Sommers-man tilted his head to one side, as though attempting to hear Geer’lak’s greeting, then shook his head. He turned to the woman and grasped one of her claws. As she struggled to pull away, he peeled off the material covering it; the dying sunlight of the day reflected off pale-white skin. With a brutish yank, he tugged her forward, slapping her bared claw against Geer’lak’s antennae.
The woman screamed again; this time, her cries of anguish were joined by those of the entire High Council.
Haal’ithor reeled in pain as the biped absorbed the memories and communicative abilities of not just Geer’lak, but of all lion in the chamber—a flood of thoughts and emotions that poured through the telepathic link into a brain too small to contain it. The agony shared by all only worsened as the psychic backlash created by the intrusive mental contact tore through the hivemind. The High Council was overwhelmed with images of death and destruction projected from the woman’s tortured subconscious—of planets laid to waste; of civilizations wiped from existence; of entire races enslaved. And above it all hung an immense vision of a biped’s head: a giant, grinning skull, the color of dried blood.
The woman—her name was Rogue, they all now knew—groaned loudly, eyes rolling back in her head. She loosened her grip on Geer’lak and staggered back, into the arms of her guards, who quickly slipped the black material back over her exposed claw.
“No ... no more . . . please . . she gasped, and Haal’ithor suddenly realized she could understand her words.
The man barked a few garbled words at her.
“Yeah, Major ... I can . . . talk to ’em,” Rogue replied, breathing hard. The biped stood uneasily on her. . . feet (?); the guards’ strong hold on her upper limbs seemed to be the only thing that kept her from collapsing onto the chamber floor. “So many thoughts... all runnin’ ’round in my head ... too many voices . ..” An odd noise burbled out of her speaking-hole—’’laughter,” it was called, Haal’ithor remembered, from her brief contact with other races, though she could never recall it sounding quite so hollow. “They . . . don’t know what. . . t’make outta y’all...”
She swooned then, and the guards tightened their grip as her lower limbs lost their strength. Haal’ithor couldn’t help but feel pity for the creature. Obviously, she wasn’t capable of handling unshielded contact with the hivemind, yet her fellow bipeds had forced her to do so. The fact that her mind hadn’t been destroyed during the process was an impressive enough feat, but to realize that the woman’s companions now expected her to hold a conversation without giving her time to recover from her psychic ordeal filled,Haal’ithor with dread. J’laan was right— the invaders were barbarians all; the past dee’nahls’ worth of planetary destruction had more than proven that observation. And if one of their own bipeds could be made to suffer so, just as a way to establish communication, there was little hope that the lion could simply talk their way out of any further unpleasantness . . .
The Sommers-man stepped forward and slapped Rogue across the face with the back of one claw; linked to her thro
ugh the hivemind, the entire Council flinched from the blow. She stirred, and he leaned in close, inches from her material-encased features, muttering something that immediately brought her back to full consciousness; the rush of fear she felt while looking at her own terrified expression in the reflection of her superior’s quartz visor swept through the lion. Geer’lak’s soothing words, though, immediately brought a sense of calm to the hivemind, preventing another tense situation between invaders and inhabitants. Even Rogue began to relax, though the haunted look in her eyes never quite diminished.
She shakily regained her footing, then turned to Geer’lak. “On behalf of His Majesty Johann Schmidt, grand ruler of the ryylllj’kkksrr (another of those strange, guttural words that remained unintelligible, even through the psychic link) Empire, we demand the immediate surrender of all enemies of the Empire t’our forces.” She glanced at the Sommers-man, who nodded his head once. “Y’all have one hllrshh (a measure of time, no doubt) t’tum them over... or suffer the consequences,” she added, voice barely above a whisper.
A tremor of fear passed through the congregation, only to be quickly overwhelmed by even stronger feelings of anger directed toward the invaders. Haal’ithor’s antennae bobbed with indignation—how dare these four-limbed monsters attack a peaceful civilization without warning and then issue demands upon making planetfall! Her mandibles scraped together with a sound like cutting blades being sharpened.
As always, Geer’lak was the voice of reason.
Friend Rogue, he replied evenly, there is no need for threats. We understand the severity of the current situation, and have no desire to antagonize your people—even if you were the ones who struck first. But tell me: why must you communicate aloud? Through the hivemind, we can speak without words—the irises of one multifaceted eye flickered toward the Sommers-man, then back to the woman—or unwanted participants.
Rogue’s surprise flowed through the link; she’d never even considered that possibility. Y’all can hear me?
Indeed, Geer’lak said. He slightly inclined his head toward the other councilors. We all can. As well as understand your. . . relationship with your superior officer. The president paused. He enjoys causing you pain, does he not? It was apparent in the thoughts we detected when you made your. . . unconventional method of connecting with the hivemind.
I’d... rather not talk about that stuff. . . Rogue stole a glance at her superior. But with the visor covering his eyes, it was impossible to tell if he was actually watching her. Are y ’all sure the Major can’t hear none’a this?
Correct. Since you were the only creature to make contact, this conversation is strictly between you and the members of the High Council. Unless you wish to translate it for the Major as we talk, that is.
No, that’s okay, Rogue said quickly. This set-up’ll do just fine. I can always fill ’im in on some’a the details later.
The president nodded. As you wish. Now, how may we be of service?
Geer’lak. . . The warning tone from J’laan was unmistakable.
He rolled a stem eye toward her. What would you have me do, J’laan? The bipeds have already laid waste to our world. If providing them with the information they seek will bring a quick end to their hostilities, then we should make every effort to be accommodating. He turned back to the woman. Is that not so, friend Rogue?
I s ’pose . .. she replied, though hesitantly. I can’t really speak fer Major Sommers, but I could try t’convince him t’lay off the attacks . . . if y’all do as he asks.
And what would that be? J’laan demanded. What could the lion possibly do for a race of starfaring miscreants like yourselves? Perhaps polish the blades of your swords before you run us through with them?
Enough, J’laan, Geer’lak said wearily.
We 're lookin ’ fer a terrorist faction, Rogue explained. A bunch ’a bad apples that’ve been causin’ trouble along the edge o’ the Skrull territories. She inclined her head toward the group of green-skinned creatures standing behind her. That’s why these boys are here—the ullrkk’yllon (some kind of military organization, Haal’ithor imagined) thought havin’ a squad o’ Skrull warriors tramplin’ through yer back yard might make y’all more willin’ t’help.
Was that decided before or after your commanding officer ordered the attack from space? El’zelius asked. As you’ve no doubt noticed, we have precious little “back yard” left for them to “trample through” at the moment.
Rogue shifted uncomfortably on her lower limbs and turned her gaze to the floor.
And what do these “terrorists” look like? Geer’lak asked.
They ’re, er. .. Rogue paused, searching for the right words, then looked up. They’re. . . bipeds like us, ’bout the Major’s height, with yellow hair an ’ blue skin.
They’re Kree? J’laan asked, surprised. There are Kree spies hiding on lion?
That’s what Skrull Intelligence says, Rogue replied. We’re hopin’ y’all might be able t’tell us where we can find ’em.
What makes you think we even knew they had arrived? Haal’ithor asked, no longer able to remain silent.
Rogue silently stared at her; then, slowly, the muscles around her speaking-hole twisted downward. I didn’t say y’all did. But if you folks are s’posed t’be the rulers of this planet, it’s kinda logical t’think you’d be the ones t’ask, right?
And you could not have done so without first laying siege to our world? Haal’ithor asked.
I ain’t the one who makes policy . . . Rogue said, and looked away. It was a poor answer, a bureaucrat’s answer, one apparent to all—especially to the woman who had just uttered it with more than a trace of embarrassment.
Major Sommers suddenly stepped over and grabbed her by the upper limbs. He shook her for a moment, snarling in their native dialect, apparently dissatisfied with her progress.
“I’m workin’ as fast as I can, Major,” Rogue said nervously, “but I had t’make our intentions clear before I could start pumpin’ ’em fer information. You know protocol.” For just a moment, the flames of defiance burned in her eyes—only to be quickly extinguished by the icy glare of her superior.
Slowly, the Major’s lips drew apart in another unnerving smile. He turned to one of the Skrull warriors and growled an order. The greenskinned soldier nodded once, raised his weapon to eye level, and brought it to bear on his target.
It took Haal’ithor a moment to realize the weapon was aimed at
her.
“NO!" screamed Rogue. She leapt forward in an attempt to stop him, only to be halted by her restraints. The butt of a plasma rifle smashed against the side of her head with a sickening crack, and she fell to her knees.
Closing her eyes, Haal’ithor disconnected herself from the hivemind, to spare her fellow lion from sharing in her agony, and whispered a quick prayer to the Old Ones to watch over her grubs and her mate.
And then the world burst into flame around her.
“I think our intentions have been made very clear, Citizen Rogue,” Reichsmajor Scott Sommers declared with satisfaction. He waved a hand in front of his face to dispel the scent of burning carapace that filled the chamber, irritating his sinuses. “Ooff. These vermin certainly make quite a stink when they’re set alight, don’t you agree?”
Rogue didn’t respond. She lay on the tiled floor, curled up in a fetal position. Tears streamed from her eyes, mingling with the small pool of blood that had collected under her head; more continued to flow from , the wound delivered by the rifle butt.
“Get up, citizen,” Sommers ordered. He prodded her with the toe of his boot. “Get up and do your job, or you’ll have another death on your conscience.”
Slowly, Rogue struggled to her knees, the bulky manacles making it difficult for her to rise unassisted. She wiped her tears on the shoulders of her bodysuit, then gazed at the lion. The creatures had drawn back, giving her—and the smoldering corpse of their comrade—a wide berth.
The Major was pleased. With the proper
display of force having been made, these vermin would now be more than willing to divulge any information they possessed about the Kree strike force. He smiled tightly. No matter where one traveled in the universe, the old saying remained true: fear was the great motivator—even among bugs.
“Telepathic cockroaches,” Sommers muttered, shaking his head in wonder as he stared at the lion. “I’m sure that, somewhere in the universe, Franz Kafka must be laughing.”
Beside him, the Skrull who had executed one of the bug-like things smiled broadly. Then his mouth went slack, as though he had been about to make a witty reply, only to realize he had no idea what his superior was talking about. Instead, he merely said, “Ermm, yes, Major.”
Grasping Rogue by the arm, Sommers hauled her to her feet. “Talk to them, citizen. Make them understand we’re only here for the Kree; once they’ve told us what we need to know, we’ll be on our way.” “I’ll... do my best, Major,” Rogue said huskily.
Sommers patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. “I know you will.” As Rogue shuffled forward to try to regain the lion’s trust, the Major pulled aside the Skrull warrior. “I’m returning to the ship,” he said quietly, then gestured toward Rogue. “Watch her, Sub-commander. If you think she’s trying to make friends with another race she hopes will help her escape, kill two of them.” He smiled. “I need her focused on her work.”
The Skrull nodded. “Understood, Major. And when we have the location of the Kree?”
“You hunt them down, Sub-commander,” he replied, as though addressing an idiot. “Your orders are to eliminate all enemies of the Empire, correct?” He pointed at Rogue. “And while you’re doing that, have some men bring her back to the ship for a . . . full debriefing. Make sure they understand that under no circumstances are they to touch her skin.” He sneered. “I don’t need another Bloodstone Crater on my hands. I lost a dozen soldiers on that attempted break-out—I’ll be damned if she’s going to cost me any more.”
“And the High Council?”
Sommers considered the question for a moment, then shrugged. “Exterminate them. The Empire doesn’t need any more vermin infesting it than it already has.”
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