by R J Theodore
He’d been naive.
He paced outside the interview room, in the subbasement of the royal palace, waiting for the Representative of Culture and Integration to present xist-self. Within, what remained of the alien traitor, Scrimshaw, waited for the day’s interrogation to begin.
He hated that he had returned. That he had no other choice if he wanted to save the Cutter Empire from itself.
When he’d had a chance to meet with Patron Demir, Hankirk had realized his mistake. There were no engaged minds to be changed in Diadem’s elite class. He’d taken his fears to the emperor, empress, and their court. The emprices had taken his warning seriously, but unfortunately, they’d proceeded along all legal channels, challenging the bureaucracy directly in their next congress. And now they were dead.
As Hankirk judged it, whether people had the best or worst intentions, anyone willing to go about things through proper methods was a waste of his time.
Hrrin’ru’taetin, the pompous, condescending Yu’Nyun Representative of Culture and Integration, glided down the staircase at the far end of the corridor. Xist high cranium, tinkling jewelry, and flowing veils made xin look like a phantom in the flickering light of the subbasement candles. Hankirk steeled himself, refusing to let the alien know how intimidated he was.
It wasn’t the foreign appearance. Hankirk was more than accustomed to that after two years of these meetings. It was what was about to happen, behind the heavy doors of the interview chamber.
“Solicitations, Mister Hankirk,” said the alien. One didn’t become that adept at speaking the local language of Diadem without picking up the finer points of context and politics to know how to address him, and who xe could get away with insulting. Hankirk was here because no one else wanted to be present. That he had requested it did not dilute the insult that he had been granted the task.
Hankirk suppressed the urge to twist his mouth. That he still had the council’s trust meant he could remain in Diadem to do what good he was able with the tools he had in hand. “Representative. I hope you are well rested. Our friend has been quite stubborn.”
The alien tilted xist head, considering Hankirk’s phrasing. “Your friend, perhaps, Mister Hankirk. Not ours.”
He didn’t reply. Banter with an alien grew more complex and subtle the longer it went on. He preferred to back down while it could still pass as disinterest instead of defeat.
“Shall we begin?”
Hankirk stood a moment longer, defiant.
“Would you kindly open the door, Mister Hankirk.”
It wasn’t a ‘please,’ but he enjoyed how it pained the alien to ask politely. He gripped the heavy iron latch with his reconstructed hand and pushed the door open. It was almost as thick as the stone walls built around its frame, to keep any sounds within from troubling the dreams of the privileged living above.
Hankirk lit the candles in the five recesses around the room, pushing back the darkness to light the slab of stone in the center. The form secured atop it shifted, making small, pitiful noises. To one side of the room was a shining white chest, provided by the aliens in the first session, containing everything necessary for the representative’s pet project.
Scrimshaw looked like a grotesque porcelain carving, pale body gleaming in the candlelight. New layers of chitin were forming, smooth and clean and partially translucent, pearlescent blue over the raw sapphire flesh beneath.
“Xe seems to be healing slower,” Hankirk commented.
“Ghi seems to be healing slower, if you please. Transitional non-class pronouns while the subject is without embellishment.”
Yu’Nyun society, as Hrrin’ru’taetin had explained, measured a person differently after molting their—ghist—exoskeleton. The designs carved by the individual over a Yu’Nyun’s entire body would determine their social class. The more ornate the etchings, in a society concerned with and constructed upon beauty and aesthetics, the higher the perceived value of the individual. The alien pronouns for a person between carvings were meant to imply the greatest honor—just in case ghi created some truly remarkable design in ghist next iteration—but what Hrrin’ru’taetin was about to do to Scrimshaw could hardly imply any such respect. Still, the Yu’Nyun adhered fervently to their social standards.
Hankirk normally remembered the pronouns before he spoke, his pronunciation being the usual offense. But today, he was distracted.
“Ghi, then. Do you not see it?”
Scrimshaw had been denied the exposure to daylight that would complete the curing process for each layer of exoskeleton. The latest layer was as hard as it could become in the darkness of the subbasement—still supple to the touch, unable to support the alien’s weight upright.
“Perhaps there is an immune response slowing the body’s natural healing process. When you clean up, be sure to be thorough.”
Scrimshaw’s arching head had become misshapen from resting against the slab. The right leg was missing from a spot above the knee—an older wound, Hankirk’s doing—and no matter how many times Scrimshaw molted, whether naturally or forced, it would never grow back. The large scar across ghist torso, courtesy of the Bone priestesses on Fall Island, was deep into the bed of ghist growth plate, and was also permanent.
But worse than anything the Peridot locals had done to Scrimshaw were the insults to ghist body under Hrrin’ru’taetin’s administrations.
Hankirk stared straight ahead and steeled himself as the representative produced a rolled tool pouch, made from the aliens’ leather-like synthetic material. Placing it near Scrimshaw’s foot, xe unrolled it in a slow, deliberate motion. The gleaming instruments inside clinked merrily against each other, and Scrimshaw made a feeble attempt to curl away from the source of the sound.
“Tell me what we wish to know, and I will grant you the death you seek.”
Xe made the same promise at the beginning of every interview. Hankirk had witnessed torture, knew eventually a painless death was the only hope a victim had, but this offer had been made even before the first cut. Something to do with Yu’Nyun honor or societal expectations. He was not so convinced Scrimshaw still sought such things.
Once, Scrimshaw had asked Talis for death on Fall Island, but she had given ghin some kind of pep talk that broke the alien’s slide toward suicide. She had that effect on people. Perhaps if Hankirk had not brought Scrimshaw to Diadem, Talis might have talked ghin out of ghist residual depression.
Scrimshaw was a being without a people, which Hankirk could empathize with more than Scrimshaw would ever know. The surviving Yu’Nyun delegation had paraded Scrimshaw in front of the crowds in the capital as a victim of the gods’ unjustifiable wrath, granted no interviews, and then reported that ‘xe’ had succumbed to ‘xist’ wounds.
In reality, they had hidden Scrimshaw away beneath the palace and gone to work making ghin as miserable as possible.
The representative administered something from a vial, angling the needle up into Scrimshaw’s chest cavity from below. As always, Scrimshaw keened as the plunger forced the stimulant through ghist body. There would be no passing out from the pain. No calming ghist-self in the presence of the impending assault.
Hrrin’ru’taetin displayed a long, thin knife with a hooked, serrated tip. Made sure it was within Scrimshaw’s field of vision before speaking. “You will tell me where we can find the other rings.”
Scrimshaw closed ghist jaw with a weak, wet, clacking sound. So far, the exchange was following the script, word for word.
Hankirk clenched his teeth. He had some sympathy for Scrimshaw.
The aliens might have lost their ships, and their tech, but the next time their shipwrecks passed into Cutter skies, a fleet of Imperial salvage crews would be waiting at the border. The aliens were months away from having their power returned to them.
Add the remaining four rings to that? Even Meran, who had stolen the power of o
ne ring and two gods, wouldn’t be able to stop them.
So Hankirk kept the location of Silus Cutter’s ring to himself. He’d be cursed five times before he gave it to the aliens. That would be commensurate with handing over the entire planet. On some level, the Veritors knew the nature of the beast they had bedded. Enough to keep one secret from them.
“The mixture, Mister Hankirk.”
He took a deep breath, then stepped to the representative’s side and took up the long, slender tube from the hook at the foot of the table. A foot pedal on the side of the reservoir pumped a special Yu’Nyun formula of enzymes and saline through a long, flexible hose. Hankirk held it ready and nodded. Hrrin’ru’taetin made the first incision, starting at the tips of Scrimshaw’s long toes.
The interrogation was methodical, slow, and dispassionate. As xe pried the edges of xist cuts apart, Hankirk flushed liquid beneath the top layer of Scrimshaw’s exoskeleton to force its separation from the undeveloped tissue below, setting his jaw and trying to ignore the alien’s protesting whimpers. He collected the small, iridescent pieces into a steel tray as the representative cut them away, one long thin piece at a time.
It was done with such skill that xe was able to completely remove each layer of each segment of Scrimshaw’s body without spilling a single drop of ghist blood. The ministrations were all the more cruel for it.
No surprise to anyone, Scrimshaw said nothing. Ghi made the weak noises of a body barely withstanding torment, but it was Hrrin’ru’taetin who did all the talking. In the Cutter dialect, for Hankirk’s benefit.
As xe peeled away the material over Scrimshaw’s three-toed foot: “Your ship did not send its complete reports to the fleet. How long had you planned to betray us?”
Scrimshaw did not answer.
As xe sliced away strips over Scrimshaw’s inner thigh: “Silus Cutter’s ring was not where your initial report said it would be. Where was it? Who has it?”
Scrimshaw did not answer. Hankirk tried to let his mind go blank, keep his breath from changing speed or depth.
As xe removed diamond-shaped segments of Scrimshaw’s pelvic structure: “What did Onaya Bone reveal to you in the temple’s audience chamber?”
Scrimshaw did not answer.
As xe dropped pieces of Scrimshaw’s abdomen into the waiting tray: “Where is Onaya Bone’s ring?”
Scrimshaw did not answer.
As xe removed the film of Scrimshaw’s arms: “Where is Helsim Breaker’s ring?”
Scrimshaw did not answer. Hankirk steadied himself as he held the tray out again.
As xe sliced up the front of Scrimshaw’s neck, from collar to ear: “Where is Arthel Rak’s ring?”
Scrimshaw did not answer.
As xe opened the long arch of Scrimshaw’s cranial crest: “Where is the crew of Wind Sabre?”
Scrimshaw did not answer. Hankirk felt his heartbeat pounding at the base of his throat.
As xe removed Scrimshaw’s face plating in two pieces, a copy of ghist features that topped the pile as a translucent, haunting mask: “What became of Lindent Vein’s ring when its power transferred to the simula?”
Scrimshaw did not answer.
Hankirk kept his vision focused on the end of the hose, looking at no more than a few square measures at a time. He listened to the words, tried to develop his own theories. The aliens’ goal was the same as his, and if there was anything to be learned in these sessions, he would be glad to participate in them.
To the questions, Scrimshaw must have some answers. Any information could have ended ghist torment, but ghi remained silent. Either because ghi was in a realm of pain beyond conscious thought—though Hankirk suspected Hrrin’ru’taetin knew precisely what xe was doing—or because ghi had a fortitude of which Hankirk could not conceive.
Hankirk was not given enough credit by the Yu’Nyun to know anything about the rings’ locations, and he thanked his fortunes for that. He tried not to imagine what it would take to survive the representative’s questioning, or whether the Cutter body was up to the challenge. No doubt the Yu’Nyun had studied Peridot’s people as much as its history and would have species-appropriate methods. Best not to think on it.
At the end of their session, Scrimshaw lay, chest heaving, on the slab. Ghist exposed flesh was a deep shade of blue, almost black, that shone under the flickering lights. The latest layer of carapace curled in the tray as it dried. Scrimshaw was immobile though ghist bonds had been removed to allow the exoskeleton to reform so they could begin the process once more.
Without comment, Hrrin’ru’taetin wiped xist hooked blade with a silk cloth, replaced it, and tied the roll closed again. Xe folded xist arms behind xist back and exited the chamber without a word.
It was left for Hankirk to make sure Scrimshaw was fed, ghist body cleaned, and ghist bonds replaced when the new carapace could withstand them. He retrieved the supports from the gleaming alien container and propped Scrimshaw up so ghist body would not be further malformed as ghi underwent the slow process of healing. Ghist body was cool, damp, and slightly sticky, and ghist limbs were too flexible, as though they were made of dense gelatin.
Before exiting, Hankirk turned back and spoke softly. “A few weeks longer.”
Scrimshaw watched him, jaw slack. Ghi had nothing to say to Hankirk, either. Hankirk, who had presented Scrimshaw to the Veritors of the Lost Codex like a gift. More like an admission ticket. Hankirk got his old, useless position back among the elite of Diadem. And Scrimshaw had been condemned to years of this.
Hrrin’ru’taetin waited for Hankirk outside the chamber.
“That’s one stubborn bastard.” Hankirk wasn’t sure why he said it. Why would today’s interview have gone differently, after two years of the same?
“No more stubborn than I, Mister Hankirk. We will have our answers. And this is not the only means by which we will retrieve them.”
Hankirk and the representative exited the subbasement like strangers departing a train. While Scrimshaw’s body healed, they would pretend not to share their sinister hobby, only speaking politely at Imperial functions or in passing.
As he often did following their sessions, Hankirk wandered to a small gallery near the emprices’ private wing, checking his hands for blue Yu’Nyun blood, though Scrimshaw had not lost a drop. The guard standing to one side of the entrance nodded as he entered. The room was clean, quiet, and orderly, a civilized balm for the unsettled feeling in his stomach. And it contained the object that gave him the most hope, that gave him focus and resolve. He found his usual destination, a locked glass case. Inside, cradled on a velvet cloth, was the ancient ring of Silus Cutter.
“Still intent on seeing the collection finished?”
Hankirk looked up at the familiar voice. Patron Demir stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame and loading a tobacco pipe with a practiced hand. His suit, as it always did, bore fresh ironed creases and perfect draping, as though he had spent the entire morning lounging—while Hankirk attended his foul duties—and only roused himself to dress for afternoon tea. Hankirk resisted the urge to look at his hands again. Demir watched him like a hawk on the wing, looking for any such signs of weakness.
“I like to come here to think, sir. It’s quiet.” That, and looking at the ring made him feel better, knowing the aliens were so close to something they wanted, and had no idea.
“Not what I asked you.”
“You know I am, sir.”
Demir nodded, lit his pipe, then strolled to Hankirk’s side. He tucked his free left hand into his pocket, all casual grace, no insult implied.
Hankirk tried not to think of his own empty sleeve upon his return to Diadem, stuffed into the pocket of a third-hand coat. He should have been welcomed, celebrated, and elevated to a patron himself. Would have, if he had brought the ring he’d promised them. And here he was again, staring at another rin
g. Imagining another triumph.
“We must play carefully with these new friends of ours, you understand.”
Demir should mind his own advice. The Veritors thought this was a game of balanced alliances, the same old political dance. But this was nothing Peridot had ever known before. This game had no rules. The aliens would destroy them. And Peridot.
But Hankirk had given up arguing with Demir and the other patrons. He nodded, the silent acquiescence Demir wanted.
“Once Emeranth is crowned, we will have the hearts of the people, and the strength to cast off the aliens.”
With the right guidance, Emeranth would be the perfect ruler. Her parents raised her to be kind and fair, her tutors had made her thoughtful, and her own curiosity made her sharp as a whipsnap. But she was still too young. She could tell when someone was lying, but didn’t yet know how to calculate the truth from what she knew of their motives.
Hankirk turned, trying to keep little Em far from his thoughts lest his concern show on his face. “We should be acting now, before the Yu’Nyun do.”
“Nonsense. They need us and assume themselves our allies. We have the time to take measured action. No more sailing headlong into messes, I should think.”
Hankirk twitched. The Veritors held him as the reason their machinations failed at Nexus. Even though everything Hankirk had told them bore examination, and the warnings he had given them proved true.
The power of the ring was more than legend, the remaining four a critical component of rebalancing Peridot. And still, he was relegated by his peers to spokesperson, political figurehead, and assistant to a viper. The Veritors still would not believe those fangs were poised over their throats, dripping venom in the scant moments before the strike would come.
“We should use the ring.” Hankirk resisted the urge to clench his teeth and growl the words. “Salvage the alien wrecks as you plan, but don’t hand the technology back to them. Use the ring on a simula. Find the other rings and do the same with those. We don’t need the aliens.”
“Use the ring? Nonsense. Our chymists are still studying it. We must do this thing properly!” Demir patted him on the shoulder. “Come now, lunch is set out. You’ll be missed.”
