War Games

by K S Augustin

  Lith stumbled to the bed, drawing shuddering breaths into her body. Under the pile of thick clothing flopping over her arms, her fingers were frigid and shaking. Her legs trembled with the thought that Cheloi Sie would soon be dead and her stomach churned with bile.

  She had no doubt that Drel would eliminate his Perlim enemy. That was his role and she noticed the glint of happy anticipation in his dark, heavy-lidded eyes at the prospect of it. But what was her role? At one time, she thought it was destroying the Colonel. Then it segued into comforting her. And now, it seemed to have seesawed back to retribution.

  Where was the accompanying feeling of triumph? She clenched the clothes with strong bitter fingers. Nils would have been turning celebratory cartwheels and composing triumphant speeches by now. But Lith felt sick and hollow. Just the thought sent bile rising up to her throat.

  How would they kill the Colonel? Would they form a squad of weapon-bearing rebels to shoot her? Inject her with a poison? Suffocate her in an hermetically-sealed cage? Leave her to dehydrate and die under the harsh Menon sun? Would they execute her in public? Or record it in private? Lith’s imagination conjured up an alarming number of images, a relentless barrage of unspeakable options.

  And she was responsible. Not through words, but by agreeing to Grakal-Ski’s scheme in the first place.

  He would have killed me.

  That was the only excuse saving her sanity. Not the justifiable shock at the callous way the Colonel had dissolved their relationship, nor even the simmering anger afterwards, but the mortal choice. Her life against that of the Colonel’s and she was so desperate to keep living. Did that make her a bad person?

  Was there really a better option waiting for her? Didn’t she deserve this chance to return home? And if so, were the tears running down her cheeks ones of relief? Or something else?

  “Does the Perlim Empire know how stupid it’s been?”

  Drel paced the floor of the interrogation room in front of a standing, swaying Cheloi. She wasn’t in very good shape and she knew it. One side of her face was bruised and swollen and she suspected that she was now definitely sporting several broken ribs. Despite the pain, she felt exhausted enough to go to sleep right there on the hard tiled floor.

  She knew she wouldn’t last another few days of similar treatment. Her jacket was long gone, probably being touted as a trophy or demoted to dishrag duty. Her gold scar-raptors, symbols of her rank, were probably dented and crushed under someone’s contemptuous heel by now. Her pants were filthy, covered in dust and dirt and stained with blood and patches of perspiration. Her feet were still bare, leaving her psychologically naked.

  “Where’s my driver?” she croaked for the tenth time. She had tried everything to get news on Lith, from asking Drel a plain question to shouting in the face of every rebel that came near her. Neither tactic had yielded any concrete results.

  “Your driver?” He finally paused and seemed to consider something. He opened his mouth then closed it again and shook his head with a smile. “Never mind. She’s in far better shape than you, Senior Colonel.”

  “Let her go.”

  “In good time. Once we explain the situation to her.”

  Cheloi stared at the rebel leader through her spiky fringe of hair. Her experience of having the situation “explained” to her involved torture and pain. She wanted to step forward. Her hands were tied behind her back but maybe if she concentrated, she could at least get in one good kick before she was brought down. She lifted a leg, tried to walk, but the effort defeated her and she crashed to the floor, landing on already bruised knees. To top it all off, she was hungry, a black gaping hole where her belly should have been. Head down, she drew in shallow breaths, only noticing Drel’s approach by the pair of boots that appeared in her view.

  “So this is Senior Colonel Cheloi Sie, the scourge of Menon IV. Central Control’s most beloved weapon. Brutal and stupid. Cruel and sadistic.” He lowered his voice, all the better to emphasise the acid in it. “What did you think my people would do if you attacked our homes? Sab-Iqur, Sab-Solin, Sab-Supehn. Did you think we would crawl to you like beggars? How long did you think you could get away with such wanton murder?”

  Cheloi took one more breath to steady her voice. With the eye that wasn’t swollen shut, she looked up at the man who towered over her. “Why don’t you stop the nagging and kill me, Drel? I’m sure that would be a relief for both of us.”

  “You’d like that.” His voice shook with emotion. It emerged in tight bursts through gritted teeth. “A quick end. Mercy taken when you have given none. Oh no Colonel, you won’t get away from me that easily. We have something special planned for you.”

  Not a trial, she thought with weary humour. Please, spare me the justifications of freedom-fighting fanatics. She knew she had killed civilians, Drel knew she had killed civilians. What more was there to explain?

  “My peers have demanded a trial.”

  Cheloi couldn’t help the sharp bark of laughter that escaped her lips. “Your people are so predictable, Drel. Originality isn’t one of your strong suits, is it?”

  Even awake, she could suddenly hear Copan screeching with disbelief in her head. Maybe the level of stress hormones surging through her system had triggered his presence in her waking mind.

  ~ What do you think you’re doing? Do you want him to kill you right now with his bare hands?

  That wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. And it would be a lot more private than the gala event he’s planning.

  ~ How could you insult him like that? At least before, you said you had a slim chance of survival. But now?!

  It’s over. I’m too tired.

  ~ You want to die?

  I’m too exhausted to live.

  ~ But to die as Cheloi Sie, the war criminal of Menon IV? Doesn’t that bother you when you know you’re really Laisen Carros of the Fusion?

  It’s too late. Cheloi is the identity I’ve taken now and if I’m going to die as her, then I get to do it my way.

  ~ Foolishly?

  My way. It may be foolish but it won’t be cowering.

  The meaty backhand caught her just below the eye and sent her sprawling to the floor amid a shower of stars and jagged streaks of colour. But it was only sensation not hurt. Her ribs were biting into her like jagged teeth, making even the shallowest breath an agony to draw, and the pain of that consumed her.

  “We will peel the flesh from your body in strips,” he warned her, “and send your bleached skeleton back to your headquarters in a box.”

  Cheloi thought about that for a second, about Rumis opening an anonymous crate containing dozens of bones, curved and straight, long and short. Would he think of putting it together? Hanging it in his office?

  ~ You’re losing your mind, Laisen.

  Under the circumstances, I don’t mind in the slightest.

  She stayed where she was, lying on the smooth tiled floor, gasping in air through her mouth. Nobody moved to help her up.

  Angling her head, she looked at the unfocused man-shaped blob that represented the rebel leader, spitting out her words in quick gasps. “If I’m going to be your star celebrity, Drel, you’d better find me a cleaner uniform.” She swallowed, trying to lubricate her scratchy throat. She wanted to make sure Drel understood every word that emerged from her mouth. “At least think about giving your circus an air of legitimacy, even if you can’t manage the substance of it.”

  She tried to keep up the laughter as she was dragged back to her cell but her ribs began hurting again.

  She heard the guards talking and now, in the deathly quiet of night, she almost regretted the brash words she had thrown at Drel. But a way of escape eluded her and if she managed to inflame the rebels against the Perlim even more, then that was a good thing.

  Maybe she and Eys weren’t so dissimilar after all. Like her dead lover, she made sure she had a testament drawn up before the Perlim mission. It was a document of cowardice, leaving everything to her parents to di
spose of as they saw fit, but at least it meant that loving hands would touch Eys’ possessions one more time. Or maybe she should have just directed that everything be crated up and shot directly into Floks’ star. That would have been cleaner in so many ways.

  This was it. Her last night as a living person. She could have recited the agenda of the following day to any interested bystander. They would try to spruce her up and she was positive they would manage to materialise a cleaner uniform to slap on her body. The trial would be held in the afternoon, to enable the other rebel leaders time enough to attend the show. It would be recorded and a copy left somewhere on the edge of the Nineteen’s territory for Perlim forces to find after a tip-off.

  By that time, she would be dead.

  She could easily guess the rough characteristics of her execution area. It would be in the biggest space Drel could find, so as many as possible could watch. A town’s public square would be the logical choice, surrounded by buildings that the people could melt into should they be prematurely discovered.

  Even in the dark, Cheloi could imagine the heat beating down on her head. The ground would be sharp and hot beneath her bare feet. Between the pain and the afternoon sun, she knew she would feel like she was on fire even before the first killing beam reached her body. Or maybe Drel would go for something a little more low-tech and theatrical? Impaling? Beheading? She hoped whatever method Drel chose would be quick, although she was sure it wouldn’t be.

  And what of Lith? Cheloi had the feeling she had somehow broken a sacred trust, a charge to protect the other woman. There wasn’t a thing she could have done to change the outcome, but she couldn’t help the guilt eating away at her. The realisation that she had somehow led her aide—her lover—to her death.

  If I wasn’t the Butcher, I might have been able to negotiate a prisoner exchange.

  But she was, and every association of hers seemed tainted by the same dark blemish.

  And wasn’t that the story of her life? That every person she ached for was destined to die. The only consolation was that she wouldn’t need to put the pieces of her heart back together again. There was something to be said for oblivion.

  Now, near the end, her mind was blank when it should have been full to overflowing. She had regrets, but none that she could do anything about lying injured and wheezing on the sharp stone floor.

  She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, one that didn’t put so much pressure on her ribs. They had tied her hands in front of her body but she had them resting high, near her throat. It hurt too much getting them down past her chest. Her backside felt on fire.

  Between the sharp ache travelling down her back and legs, and the grim prospect of the following day’s trial, she almost hoped some vengeful relative would take matters into his or her own hands, storm the cell and end matters once and for all.

  Then, as if in answer to her prayers, Cheloi heard some scuffling outside and the muted sizzle of an energy weapon on a low setting. She took a deep breath, trying to compose her body into some form of dignity, trying to ignore her injuries.

  The door opened. Just that one movement gave her pause. The door didn’t slam open in one vengeful burst. It swung inwards quietly and cautiously.

  Not a survivor then, bent on revenge. An assassin?

  It was too dark to see the colour or particulars of the hand that gripped the door’s edge. The figure slipped in and Cheloi held her breath.

  She would know that posture from anywhere. But what was she doing here?

  “Get,” Cheloi wanted to whisper but the word came out as a barely intelligible single sound. Didn’t she have enough to worry about without adding Lith into the mix? She could barely save herself. How could she also save her driver?

  Lith crouched down next to Cheloi’s reclining figure and switched on a small light. Cheloi heard her gasp and saw the horrified expression on her face before she firmly looked down to a large satchel she carried into the cell with her.

  Cheloi felt like hell. Judging by Lith’s reaction, she must look it too.

  “What hurts?” Lith asked urgently, digging around in the bag.

  Cheloi tilted her head to one side, ignoring the question, and a small smile curved the side of her mouth that wasn’t swollen and bleeding. Against the dim blue light, she watched Lith’s profile, her expressive face frowning as she searched for something. Was this the universe giving her one last chance to say good-bye? To give her something that had been denied with Eys? Lith wasn’t even dressed as a Perlim officer any more but an anonymous Menon woman. Where had she got her clothes from? Where had she been for the past two days?

  Lith pulled out an analgesic spray and set to work on Cheloi’s face, touching her with light sure fingers. Through the broken skin, Cheloi could only feel pressure and not the intimate signature that identified Lith’s touch as her own.

  “Too late,” Cheloi rasped quietly. “You go.”

  “No.” Lith finished with her face and ran her gaze down her superior’s figure, tightening her lips as she saw the outward signs of ill treatment. “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “Lith–”

  “Do you have any bones broken?”

  “Ribs. Fingers.” She tried again. “Lith–”

  “Barbarians,” she muttered. “Everyone’s a fucking barbarian.” She raised her gaze, shooting Cheloi a look that was almost hateful. “Even you.”

  “Time,” Cheloi said, because her throat didn’t seem to be functioning and she couldn’t think of any other way to convey the urgency of the moment. They were still being held in Drel’s cellars, with an undefined number of enemies between the cell and the surface. And that wasn’t counting the people and obstacles they might further encounter before reaching safety.

  If that’s what Lith had planned.

  “Just shut up,” she was told. “Not another fucking word.”

  That was one request Cheloi could carry out. She relaxed and watched Lith, admiring the quick play of emotions over her features and the deft touch of her hands and fingers as she ripped the undervest upwards from the bottom hem and sprayed quick-set over the bare torso underneath.

  Cheloi hissed in a breath at the sensations. There was quick pain at the biting cold of the alcohol in the medicated quick-set. Lith didn’t seem to notice. She replaced the torn fabric and cut the tie off a pair of boots that hung behind the satchel’s strap.

  They must have been banging against her legs during her entire trip to the cell, Cheloi thought. How annoying.

  “Here,” Lith said, cutting Cheloi’s restraints with a sharp blade and shoving the footwear at her. “You’ll have to stand and walk. If you can’t keep up, I’ll leave you behind.”

  Cheloi couldn’t believe the feeling of wry tenderness that welled in her as she listened to Lith’s words. By themselves, they weren’t very encouraging. But if love and hate were two sides of the same coin, then Lith’s words meant that she felt more than indifference toward her. That the heat that simmered between them was more mutual than even Cheloi suspected. Her driver needn’t have come looking for her. But she had.

  Cheloi knew she still had traces of a stupid smile on her face as Lith shoved the boots on and helped her to her feet, until pressure against her back caused her to twitch and wince.

  Lith swore quietly, an impressive and eclectic litany, as she swung a faded rebel jacket over her superior’s body.

  “I’ve seen some wheelers on the surface,” she said, “and I’ve got a map of the area. If we can get some transport going, we should be able to get to a Perlim-held village in a day or two.”

  Cheloi tried to take a deeper breath, to sustain a more meaningful exchange, but her ribs still hurt, forcing her to breathe in shallow gulps. “Guards?”

  “Busy. They’re on light shift tonight because there’s a big dinner on and, besides the catering, a number of soldiers have been assigned the job of looking after visiting rebel leaders.” Her voice faltered. “For your trial tomo
rrow.”

  Lith might not have been aware of it, but her brief explanation threw up several questions in Cheloi’s mind. Was Drel really so confident that he could afford to downgrade security of his territory? Considering how careful and precise he appeared to her, that move didn’t make much sense. Maybe it was a show of prestige on his part, a way of reassuring the other leaders that they were safe. That he had things totally under control, especially with the Butcher in captivity. Maybe his intelligence sources had passed on information about something happening at Nineteen’s HQ.

  Cheloi had no doubt that Rumis would have mobilised the entire territory looking for her, but he was outgunned and in a vulnerable position. He could count on Vanqill, and perhaps Prola. The other senior sub-Colonels had been fixtures from Samnett’s command and knew Koul well. They weren’t about to contradict a colleague they had worked with for longer than they’d known her. As for Koul himself, Cheloi had no doubt he would have moved swiftly to take command. He wouldn’t be very interested in finding his missing commanding officer, not when he had finally managed to achieve his goal.

  No, she was on her own and Drel probably knew it.

  And where had Lith been? She looked in much better condition but what had happened to her? Had she been beaten? Tortured? Had she managed to escape and only now snuck back into Drel’s base to rescue her? Cheloi longed to launch into a barrage of questions but her vocal chords refused to cooperate. She had to use every gram of her will to put one foot in front of another.

  They slipped out of the makeshift cell and, for the first time, Cheloi was able to examine the tunnel complex where she had been held prisoner. She knew from the echoing sounds and texture of cold that it was underground. It was also old, judging by the rough chip marks that scored the sloping walls and the uneven illumination. Energy lamps were awkwardly positioned, as if by whim, some in a cluster high up along the arched ceiling, others strung out many metres apart, tacked to the walls. She and Lith hurried past them, clinging to the wells of darkness in between, while trying not to make it obvious that they were doing so.