Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel) (29 page)

His throat tightened and he felt the tears of self-pity begin to well. He’d cried those once in Milan as a boy of five or six. At least, that was the last and only time he remembered crying. He’d been hiding in a box after having fled the orphanage. Older boys had found him weeping. They had beaten him for it. Well, more like slapped him around, calling him a crybaby. From that moment, Cyrus had refused to snivel.

I’m not going to start now, either. I’m going to beat these aliens. Screw them. Screw all of them and their entire system. I’m going to
—

The soldiers performed a quick maneuver. The one on his left moved faster and both turned toward a wall. He heard a beep from the machinist behind him. The wall before them vanished.

I wish I knew how they did that. Perhaps the device the machinist has in his hand?

The soldiers stepped into a spacious room and performed their maneuver again, facing a large desk with a globe on the right end. The continents looked all wrong, as did the globe’s oceans. Behind the desk sat a long-faced humanoid in a blue robe. A tall collar hid part of the man’s chin.

The psi-master lacked a
baan
, and maybe that meant he wasn’t a psi-master. He had a messy mop of hair at the top of his elongated head and green eyes. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed too small for his long face and was scrunched in the lower third. The forehead took up more than half of the head. His body was lanky, or appeared so under the billowing blue robe.

“What do you call yourself?” the blue-robed man asked.

“Ah… Cyrus Gant. What should I call you?”

With one of his long fingers, the man switched something on or off on his desk. “You will refrain from asking me anything,” the man said. “I am your superior and in this instance I am your inquisitor. I belong to Chengal Ras and he is Ranked 109th. More you do not need to know.”

The inquisitor clicked the switch again. “If you fail to answer my questions or I feel you are evasive, the Vomags will administer punitive hurts.”

Cyrus wanted to massage his forehead. He wasn’t sure his brain filtered the language properly. Some things sounded off. One thing he was surprised to realize was that he knew who the Vomags were: the two soldiers holding his arms.

“I’ll answer to the best of my ability,” Cyrus said.

The inquisitor stared at him, and a sense of loathing emanated from the man. Cyrus had no idea why.

“Were you a regular particle of the spaceship’s crew?” the inquisitor asked.

“Ah… Yes, I guess so.” Did the man mean
particle
or was that an error in his mind, the language program not quite working to full capacity yet?

“What function did you play among the crew?” the inquisitor asked.

“Ah…”

“Continued hesitation indicates an attempt at subterfuge. You are perilously near a punitive hurt.”

“Your words or the way you ask your questions are strange to me,” Cyrus said. “I’m not trying to lie.”

“You are the stranger to Fenris and your presence curdles my stomach,” the inquisitor said. “Chengal Ras has graciously gifted you with the civilized tongue. Do not attempt to cast aspersion upon his marvelous present.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“You will immediately cease with these unasked-for clarifications,” the inquisitor said. “You are in my presence to answer direct questions, not to make idle comments or to equivocate.”

Cyrus held his tongue, deciding to play the slow witted alien.

“I sense mulish hostility from you,” the inquisitor said. “Pain him. Teach the alien better manners.”

While clutching Cyrus’s left arm with one hand, a Vomag soldier pulled out a small round device with the other and pressed it against Cyrus’s neck. It felt as if someone pinched the skin and twisted hard.

Cyrus cried out, and would have bent over, but the soldiers held him in place.

“You will radiate love toward me,” the inquisitor said, “or at the very least accepting obedience. Do not stare mulishly at me or mutter your answers. I am superior. Therefore, you must cast your gaze down. Your pretense at being able to meet my excellence on an equal level is insulting. Chengal Ras would never approve and I honor my master by applying his standards rigorously.”

Cyrus quit staring the inquisitor in the eyes and looked down at the man’s hands. They were smooth, fastidiously clean. Then, deciding that might not do, either, he looked down at the edge of the desk. It was some kind of metal.

“That is barely tolerable,” the inquisitor said. “I still fail to sense any love from you, but you are an invader so allowances will be made—at least for the moment. Now, I asked about your status aboard the invasion vessel. Quickly, tell me your rank.”

“I am a first sergeant,” Cyrus said.

“Your words are meaningless. Elaborate your function.”

“I was to repel boarders.”

“You are a fighting creature? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I am.”

The inquisitor laughed. “A scrawny and obviously weak creature like you was supposed to fight? I cannot believe it. Apply pain.”

For a second time, Cyrus twisted in the grip of the Vomags touching him with the pain device.

“For the third hurt, the Vomags will escort you to the punitive box,” the inquisitor said.

Cyrus barely kept himself from saying he understood. What was wrong with these people?

“Do you persist in the notion that you are a fighting creature?” the inquisitor asked.

“I am… sad that you do not believe me,” Cyrus said. “My function is fighting. What I lack in strength I make up for in speed and agility.”

“Chengal Ras may decide to test the quality of your fighting powers. He is curious at your abilities. This is the second time your Imperium has seen fit to send vessels to Fenris. Why were the crew components so different from the original assault?”

“I…”

“You hesitate, and yet you have received two punitive pains. This is interesting.”

Cyrus hesitated because he wondered what kind of “Imperium” had attacked New Eden. What did it imply? Many things, but maybe most importantly, he could possibly mask Sol’s existence by pretending to belong to this Imperium. That might be risky, though. He’d have to feel out the inquisitor first.

“I hesitate to answer because I’m unsure how to reply,” Cyrus said.

“You are a poor dissembler,” the inquisitor said. “Do you think I am unskilled at my task? Do you believe you are the first of your inferior species I’ve grilled?”

“The Imperium has… ah…”

The inquisitor clicked the switch. “Look up at me.”

Cyrus complied.

“You have received pain twice. I cannot apply pain again except to kill you. You are inferior to me, but I sense a hidden agenda upon you. There is a stink of subterfuge in your words and possibly in your thoughts. You might be near to me in rank upon your strange vessel. It is why I allow you to look into my eyes. But this I know: You are no fighting creature. Chengal Ras marked you, and yet
he allowed you to remain with the common ruck. Do you understand any of what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I don’t think so,” Cyrus admitted.

The inquisitor drummed his long fingers on the desk. “The Imperium—” He shook his elongated head. “Look down, invasion creature.”

Cyrus hurried to obey.

The inquisitor clicked the switch again. Cyrus was certain the man turned a recording device on and off. He wondered why the alien bothered.

“What is the source of your illumination?” the inquisitor asked.

Cyrus had no idea how to answer because he didn’t know what the man asked. He didn’t know if he shouldn’t ask for clarifications, either. So he said, “Captain Nagasaki ran the ship.”

“You foolish creature, I am not asking about your commanding officers. Who gave direction? Who propounded the directives to give ultimate guidance?”

“Oh, I see what you’re asking. Premier Lang—”

“Go on, finish your thought.”

Cyrus recognized his mistake even as he made it. He spoke about Premier Lang, Sol’s ruler. He needed to switch topics or at least make certain to leave out any mention of Sol. He mustn’t ever give the aliens the route home.

“Premier Lang is our ruler,” Cyrus said.

“What manner of being is he?”

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

“The question is simple and direct. Is he a Web-Mind of the Imperium or—”

“What did you say?” Cyrus whispered. Web-Minds were cyborgs. Or Web-Minds had run the cyborgs a hundred years ago. Cyrus hadn’t studied the Cyborg War like Captain Nagasaki, but everyone in Sol knew about Web-Minds. Could the alien’s use of the word be a mistake?

The inquisitor stiffened and his skin darkened with mottled patches appearing unevenly on his face. “He has dared to query me,” the man said to no one in particular. “I am a Rarified of the Third Order and he addresses me like a lackey of the Pits. I am soiled and he has profaned Chengal Ras. This insult cannot stand. He must undergo rehabilitation.”

The inquisitor focused on the two soldiers.

Cyrus wasn’t sure how to carry on, but he had to change tactics. The inquisitor was arrogant and unrelenting. Instead of being submissive to the man, maybe he should be arrogant in return. Yes, Cyrus decided to take a risk because the inquisitor had told him two pains were the maximum. Alien rehabilitation sounded bad, so what did he have to lose?

“I find your language tiresome and oddly constructed,” Cyrus said, trying to talk like Dr. Wexx.

The inquisitor’s attention snapped back onto him. “You profane Chengal Ras’s gift?”

“Hardly,” Cyrus said. “Is the tongue his native language?”

The inquisitor stared at Cyrus, and his skin darkened worse than before, increasing the spotted appearance of his features.

“I will be blunt,” Cyrus said, thrusting his words like a knife, seeing an opening and taking it. “My rank aboard
Discovery
placed me high above the ordinary run of affairs. Earlier, you indicated I was near you in rank. I held my words in check because my shock forbade me from pointing out your gross error.”

The inquisitor switched off the recording device. His words escaped as from a limp balloon. “You may be beyond rehabilitation.”

Cyrus forced himself to laugh and shake his head. “How you strive to understand me. Your attempts are quite amusing.”

One of the soldiers glanced at Cyrus. It was a momentary thing. Then the soldier became an automaton again, looking forward and awaiting orders.

The inquisitor’s eyebrows twitched. Clearly, he noticed the Vomag’s reaction. He clicked the switch back on and leaned minutely forward.

“The subterfuge in your brain whirls away in attempts to baffle our Illustrious One and the Glorious One Hundred. It is futile, as the Kresh are superior to all forms of human resistance. The defeat of your abnormal vessel proves the truth of my statement.”

“The defeat was nothing more than an application of numbers,” Cyrus said. “Ours was clearly the superior vessel.”

The inquisitor’s eyes seemed to glitter with malice as he narrowed them. “You will not hinder the investigation with your subterfuge. You will tell me what source gives you illumination or I will have no option but to send you away.”

“Your phrases are like gongs and clashing cymbals in my mind,” Cyrus said, wondering if he was laying it on too thickly. “They make noise, but it is difficult to decipher your meaning. If you would receive my answer, I need clarification.”

The bleakest of smiles twitched at the corners of the inquisitor’s lips. “You strive to compose your utterances. I am not deceived. There is something you hide but I have determined to root it from you despite your feeble trickery.”

“Okay,” Cyrus said. Trying to talk like Dr. Wexx was giving him a headache. “You win. I don’t know how to talk like you and I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“The sun provides brilliance,” the inquisitor said. “It illuminates existence. You understand that, yes? In a similar way the Kresh provide the Races with guidance.”

“Who are the Kresh?”

The inquisitor blinked rapidly and his features mottled with dark splotches again. It appeared as if he would explode with rage, but slowly, he hooded his anger and whispered, “Chengal Ras is Kresh.”

Cyrus shook his head.

“You doubt my words?” the inquisitor asked in obvious disbelief.

“No. I don’t understand you.”

The inquisitor put both palms on the desk. “I cannot tolerate any more of this deviousness and disrespect. It is beyond the pale and unacceptable. You will enter rehabilitation. I am marking you down for a full scope—”

The inquisitor stopped speaking and his eyes widened in shock. Then he looked down and bowed his head. At the same time, a soft sound occurred behind Cyrus.

He twisted his neck, looking back.

The wall had disappeared and a dry, musky odor almost made Cyrus gag. His eyes widened. The raptor-like alien towered in the spacious hall. The creature was huge but graceful. It was poised on the two large legs, each ending in curved talons. It wore metallic streamers from its waist and neck, and wore smaller streamers from its two arms. The arms ended in smaller talons like large fingers, three of them. The alien—the Kresh, Cyrus assumed—wore a belt around its dinosaur-like waist. A weapon one would presume was holstered on the belt, along with other devices.

“You speak of rehabilitation?” the Kresh hissed in an odd, snakelike manner.

Cyrus shuddered.

The crocodilian snout, teeth and the thick pick tongue—they moved and formulated words that he understood. The effect was much like seeing a crocodile rise from a lagoon and begin to speak intelligibly. It was horrifying and yet fascinating all at once.

The words transformed the inquisitor. He collapsed onto the desk, casting his arms and head on the metal.

“I am illuminated by your presence, Illustrious One,” the inquisitor said in abject humility.

The soldiers no longer held Cyrus, but lay on the floor, covering their heads with their long, muscular arms.

In the high Gs, Cyrus shuffled around to regard the alien, the Illustrious One, the Kresh, he would suppose.

“You are intolerably vain,” it said. “And you reek of defeat and stupidity.” The Kresh turned its head. A small cylinder attached to its scaled neck sprayed a pink-colored mist. It inhaled with its nostrils on the end of its snout. The nine-foot frame shivered, with delight perhaps. The long tail swished, hitting the bulkheads of the corridor.