by Dan Moren
Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that it wasn’t as though he were going to be locked up in here forever. He wasn’t dead yet, which boded well. At the very least, they’d figured he was worth something, or that he had something they wanted. Which meant they’d have to feed him at some point. That might give him a chance to gather some more information about his situation.
Until then, he just had to stay cool. He exhaled at length, then gingerly prodded at the bump on his head. It still evoked a wince, but not the stars-lighting-up effect it had had when he’d first gotten up. He might have a mild concussion, but he’d woken up of his own accord, so that was probably a good sign.
All things being what they were, he supposed he had little better alternative than to lie down on the cot and rest until his captors showed up to feed or interrogate him. He flexed his fingers.
Waiting. A pilot’s least favorite game. He pulled himself up the cot and stretched out.
The voice of Dr Thornfield suddenly echoed in his head, just as it had during his simulation exercises. Relax. Close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Concentrate on those breaths. Then visualize what you’re going to do, slowly, deliberately. He’d never put much stake in the psychobabble, but he had to admit – grudgingly, of course – that it had helped him make progress. This wasn’t flying, but it was a stressful situation, and many of the same triggers applied, so why not?
He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, focusing on drawing the air into his lungs and then expelling it. Again. In his mind’s eye, he pictured himself in the cockpit of a fighter, waiting to be ambushed. And yet he felt strangely calm – ready, but not tensed. He felt…
Eli must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew his eyes were sliding open at the sound of the door’s lock clicking. He had enough presence of mind to remember that his head injury probably wouldn’t take too well to suddenly bolting upright, and took a moment to gather himself before he sat up.
The door swung open, admitting a man around Eli’s own age. Average height, build that looked more towards the stocky side, most of it probably muscle. His black hair was cropped short around his head in a military cut, and his brown face was broad, with a prominent nose and dark, quick eyes. He carried a plastic-wrapped package that he tossed on the cot, along with a bottle of some sort of juice.
Behind him, a hand closed the door; Eli heard it lock again. The man leaned against one of the walls, nodding at the package. Eli cast a wary glance at the square, which appeared to contain an unremarkable ham-and-cheese sandwich. His stomach growled at the sight of it; he’d eaten very little at the cocktail party, and he’d probably been out for at least a few hours.
Part of his brain insisted that he shouldn’t take their food, that it could be poisoned or drugged. But another part reminded him that they’d gone through great trouble to keep him alive. Ultimately, the animal part of him was too ravenous to even care. He ripped the package open and sank his teeth into it, chewing noisily. Though the rubbery texture of the ham and the floppy slab of cheese signaled fare straight out of a vending machine, it was at the same time the most delicious food he had ever tasted.
“Feel better?” the man asked. His voice was thick, unhurried.
Eli shrugged, his mouth too full to answer. He swallowed. “You don’t have any mustard, do you?”
“This ain’t a restaurant, pal.”
“Good thing, too,” said Eli around another mouthful, “because let me tell you, the reviews would not be kind. The ambiance, for one thing…” he said, gesturing around the room.
The man crossed his arms over his chest, but didn’t reply.
“Anyway,” Eli continued – he’d given in to his somewhat unfortunate tendency to babble when not sure what else to do – “what can I do for you? Please, step into my office.”
“Your name is Elijah Brody,” said the man, finally. “You’re a covert operative…”
The ham-and-cheese congealed in Eli’s mouth, and he swallowed the lump whole, feeling it almost choke him on the way down. They know my real name. I’m cooked. I screwed up again.
“… for the Imperial Intelligence Services.”
The last lump of sandwich almost made its way back up his throat at that, but he forced it down again. And then he started to laugh. And the more he laughed, the less he felt capable of controlling it. He threw back his head and laughed. He laughed until he had to wipe his eyes at the tears. And then he laughed some more.
When he’d finally worked through that, he gasped for air, looking over at the man against the wall, whose expression of stone-cold seriousness had been replaced with one that looked rather unsettled by the sudden outbreak of hysteria.
“Sorry,” said Eli, still catching his breath. “I just thought of something funny. Not this, I mean. Something else. Continue.”
“So glad to have amused you,” said the man, his brows knitting. “You have no idea the joy it brings to my heart.”
“I really don’t think there’s room for both of us to be sarcastic,” said Eli, taking another bite of the ham-and-cheese monstrosity.
“Shaddup,” the other growled. “We want to know exactly how much you know.”
Well, this is an interesting situation. The thing he’d learned about misapprehensions was that they could be very valuable, if you played them right. And in this case, Eli’s instincts – the same arguably misguided ones that had come to play in his conversation with Erich – were telling him one thing.
Double down.
“For the record,” Eli said, imagining Taylor’s voice and trying to keep his as evenly modulated, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He swallowed another chunk of ham-and-cheese, but the sandwich was quickly losing any remaining appeal.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m saying that Eyes didn’t send an officer to the Illyrican embassy to snack on canapés. I want to know what you were doing there.”
“You know, I didn’t get to try the canapés,” Eli said, folding the remains of the sandwich up into its plastic and putting it down on the cot. “I’m regretting that now.” He pushed the package away with a finger.
A sort of twisted scowl crossed the man’s face, and he pushed off the wall and strode over the bed, snatching up the sandwich. “Well, let me just get this offending item out of your sight, then.”
“That would be great, thanks,” said Eli, resisting the urge to flinch. The man was shorter than he was, but the broad set of his shoulders suggested that he’d have little problem besting Eli in any sort of physical contest. Still, he couldn’t afford to look scared in front of this guy or he’d lose any leverage he might have.
“Fine,” said the man. “But you’re going to talk eventually. If not now, then later, when we get more… convincing.”
“That sounds rather like a threat.”
“It was.”
“No, no, a threat sounds like this.” He locked eyes with the man, but let his tone take on an edge of the steel that he remembered from the first time he’d met Kovalic. “If you touch one hair on the head of any of your ‘guests,’ you’re going to wish that you had never ever had anybody in your life that you cared about, because both they and you will regret it. You have my word on that.”
The other man’s expression didn’t change, but Eli noticed that his weight had shifted to his rear foot, as though he were subconsciously taking a step back.
“I mean, if I were in the business of making threats.” He gave the other man a friendly smile.
The man didn’t return it. If anything, he looked like he really, really wanted to punch Eli, but he apparently managed to control that impulse, instead crumpling up the sandwich even further in his fist. Finally, he shrugged, poorly feigning an air of indifference.
“Suit yourself.” He turned on his heel and banged on the door. It opened in response, and the man stalked out with a parting glare over his shoulder. The door slammed closed after him, the lock clicking closed with funereal finality.
&nb
sp; Eli sat staring at the door for a minute, then let out a breath that would have inflated a balloon and fell backwards on the cot. He sucked air through his teeth as the bump on his head hit the not-so-soft mattress, and turned onto his side, rubbing at the spot gingerly.
It hadn’t been a total loss – he’d picked up a few salient details. For one thing, whoever these people were, they weren’t IIS, or else they would have already known that Eli wasn’t one of them. Not that he could imagine why IIS would want to kidnap the heir to the crown anyway, but if he’d learned anything about espionage during his – admittedly brief – career, it was that it rarely followed the rest of the universe’s definition of “sense.”
Despite having an ear for accents, he’d been unable to place his interlocutor’s. It had been flattened, generic, the kind of gruff tone that wouldn’t have been out of place on any of a dozen worlds. Nor had his word choice been particularly illuminating. Then again, veiled threats didn’t always involve the most sophisticated vocabulary.
He’d also concluded that, besides absconding with Taylor and the prince, his captors had most assuredly taken Erich von Denffer, too. There was no reason Taylor’s cover should have been compromised, and he didn’t see her giving up either of their real names quite that fast. Nor had she known about his IIS play – Erich had been the only one he’d told, and Erich knew his real name. He was a little surprised that the man had just blurted it out, but on the other hand, Erich’s priority was protecting the prince, and letting them know they had also pissed off IIS might have been a strategic move, letting the abductors know they were in over their heads.
So, what kind of options did that leave him? In retrospect, he wasn’t sure that threatening the man had been the most prudent course of action; he could only go so far down that road before he’d be forced to back up those threats. Maybe he could deal – try to convince the man, or one of his compatriots, to betray the others. He dismissed the idea almost as soon as it had occurred to him. The way the man had stood, his whole bearing, said ex-military. Or, come to think of it, active military. If they were mercenaries, Eli might be able to appeal to their greed, but again, he’d be forced to make good on that. But if they were fighting men, the chances of getting one to turn on the others seemed low. Brotherhood, loyalty, all that crap.
That also seemed to eliminate any chance of escape: There was no way he was going to be able to overpower the guards with his rudimentary, almost a decade-old, combat training.
If I get out of this, I’m going to insist on a refresher.
What he really needed was to talk to Taylor. Presumably she was here somewhere, and she’d probably have a much better plan. But it would be suspicious for him to demand to see her – after all, she was ostensibly a nobody. Not like the prince…
He blinked. The prince. If they thought Eli was IIS, he could demand to see the prince. That would make sense. He wasn’t sure they’d accommodate him, but it couldn’t hurt. Probably.
Something about actually having a plan cheered him. Enough that he cracked open the bottle of juice that his guard had left him and took a great big swig. He made a sour face at the taste and glanced at the bottom of the bottle.
Expired, six months ago.
Worst room service ever.
An hour later, the door clanked open again. Eli hadn’t been sleeping, just lying on the cot with his hands cradled behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He’d been trying to review the principles of spaceflight in his head, harkening back to his first year at the academy, in the hopes that it would give him something else to think about beyond his current situation.
The first man into the room was his conversation partner from earlier, but this time he wasn’t alone. A second guard dragged in another figure, more bedraggled than the last time Eli had seen him, but still undeniably Erich von Denffer. There was an ugly bruise high on Erich’s left cheek, and his previously immaculate dress uniform had been torn at the seams. Even his usually perfect hair had been mussed. He looked somewhat dazed, but his eyes cleared when he saw Eli.
“Eli,” he started.
Shit.
“Not another word, Erich,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve said enough.”
Erich at least had the decency to look abashed. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
The man who had dragged in Erich pulled in a pair of chairs from the hallway, setting them up opposite the end of the cot. The man to whom Eli had talked earlier sat down in one and Erich was pushed down into the other, on the man’s right. He refused to meet his captor’s eyes. The second guard took up a position leaning against the room’s door.
“Now,” said the first man, eyes on Eli. “Let’s have another little chat. This time with incentive.” He reached into his jacket and removed a pistol, flipping the safety off with an audible click.
“Come on,” said Eli, trying to force down the anxiety bubbling his stomach. “You can’t expect me to believe after all the trouble you’ve gone through that you’re just going to shoot me.”
“Not at all,” said the man. “You’re our distinguished guest.” He raised the pistol at him, then swung his arm so it was pointed at Erich. “Him, though? Him, I’ll shoot.”
Eli gritted his teeth. Goddamn it. He had to force each word out. “What exactly do you want to know?”
The man did a reasonable imitation of smiling pleasantly. “See? That’s much better. Now, tell me why IIS sent you to the embassy.”
And now it’s time to get inventive. But not too inventive. Stick to the truth where you can.
“To help keep an eye on the prince.” Technically true.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” said the man. He lowered the weapon, but kept it resting on his knee. “Is keeping an eye on Prince Hadrian one of your normal duties?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then why now?”
“We had reason for concern.”
“This one,” said the man, nodding at Erich, “said you told him threats had been made against the Illyrican presence here.”
Eli shrugged, noncommittal. “We get a lot of threats.”
“But you reportedly told him these threats were ‘credible.’”
He gave an inward sigh. Christ, Erich. Show a little backbone. One punch and you spill everything? “Look, threat assessment isn’t really my department. You’d have to ask someone higher up the food chain.”
“I’m glad you brought that up,” said the man, leaning forward. His eyes glinted with interest. “Who do you report to, Mr Brody?”
Here’s where things get dicey. Dicier. “I’m not going to tell you that.”
“No?” said the man. He pointed the pistol at Erich’s head again. “I’d ask you to reconsider.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Eli quickly, “I’m not eager to see you blow Commander von Denffer’s brains out. But consider what they’ll do to me if they find I’ve given my superior’s name to a bunch of thugs. No offense intended – I’m sure you’re all lovely people when you’re at home.”
“I’d suggest you worry less about what may happen in the future and more about what’s happening right now.”
Eli blinked. “If you’re saying that you’re going to kill me, well, that’s not exactly persuasive, is it? What’s my incentive then?”
“I can make it less painful,” he said, smiling wide.
You never worked in sales, did you? Eli had been racking his brains since the man had asked about his superior. The easiest thing to do would be to give them a fake IIS officer’s name and hope that Erich was quick enough to back his play. That would send them running in circles, hopefully buying enough time for someone to come looking for them. But Erich hadn’t exactly shown to be either quick on the uptake or terribly reliable. So Eli fell back to plan B: giving them the name of the one IIS officer he actually knew.
“Colonel Harry Frayn,” he said with a sigh.
The man nodded – as if he’d been expecting that answer, Eli realized. They
know who Frayn is. Did Erich tell them that, too?
A lead weight suddenly dropped in his stomach, the undeniable sense that he had missed some crucial piece of information and was now in way, way over his head. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and worked the sandpaper strip that was his tongue around, trying to moisten it again.
Eyes on the ball. Don’t get distracted. “I’ve answered your questions,” said Eli, looking the other man square in the eye. “But that’s all you’re getting unless you let me see the prince and his companion so I can make sure that they’re safe.” In his peripheral vision, he saw Erich’s mouth drop open slightly, as though he couldn’t believe that Eli was still bargaining.
“Oh?” said the man, resting the gun on his knee once more. “And why would I do that?”
Eli met his gaze. “Because you abducted them for a reason. That means you want something out of it – some sort of deal. And in that case, you’re going to need to establish good faith.” He spread his hands.
The man’s face shifted into neutral, but for the briefest of seconds, Eli thought he saw a look of surprise there. That lead weight in his stomach plummeted another foot. I’m not looking at the whole damn puzzle.
“I’ll take it under consideration,” said the man, getting to his feet. He nodded to the second guard, who pushed himself off the wall and hauled Erich up by the scruff of his neck. “I’m glad you’ve decided to be cooperative, Mr Brody.”
Eli swallowed, bile rising in his throat, as the men got to their feet. He’d critically misplayed his hand, and all because he was lacking some crucial piece of information that would make this whole situation fit together. The man had looked surprised when he’d offered a deal; he’d been expecting something else entirely. Why wouldn’t he want a deal?
The most obvious answer was that the prince – and probably Taylor – were already dead, giving them nothing to bargain with. But that didn’t make any sense, because why go through the trouble of taking them in the first place? If they’d simply wanted Prince Hadrian dead, the firefight in the street would have been a perfect opportunity.
