The Phoenix Darkness (27 page)

“What kind of monarchy has led this great
nation since the beginning, up until Hisato’s death?” asked
Caerwyn.

“Kings,” said Lord Wightman.

“Kings, exactly. Kings are what the people
are used to, not queens regnant! Kings are stronger. Kings
represent power and stability. Queens are merely interim rulers,
they connote weakness and frailty and raise questions of how the
kingdom shall be run in the event of a marriage, and so on. Queens
are meant to be regents; kings are meant to rule. And I think that,
deep down, our people know that. In the entire history of the
Empire, up until King Hisato’s death, there has never been a
reigning queen of the Empire. Why should there be one?”

“I see,” said the Minister of State. “So you
believe the people need a monarch and they would prefer a
king.”

“I say the people are demanding a king,” said
Caerwyn with enthusiasm. “And if they want a king, I say, let’s
give them one!”

“And you would be this king, I presume,” said
Lord Wightman. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that one of the
rest of us noble houses could have a go at it.”

Caerwyn knew the man to be only half jesting.
“Yes, I would be this man. As Steward, I have the experience and
have carried the responsibilities. I have acted as king in all
things save name alone. It is time the Assembly elect a proper
king. And then that king can be a symbol which the people may flock
to.”

“The Assembly has repeatedly failed to elect
a monarch,” pointed out Lord Wightman. “Trust me, I know.”

“Yes, the
old
Assembly had such a
failure,” said Caerwyn. “But now there have been deaths and
disappearances, sure most of that has been of the unimportant
common representatives. But at least three lords and a lady have
abandoned the Assembly in favor of Kalila’s anti-Assembly. That
leaves us with more loyal supporters, ones who, I’m quite certain,
will vote the correct way, so long as the wheels are appropriately
greased.” Caerwyn looked from the Minister of Finance to Lord
Wightman, a man with access to funds and another whose expertise
with bribes knew no peer.

“I’ll shift some money around and see what I
can do,” said the Minister of Finance.

“And if I do this,” asked Mr. Wightman.
“What’s in it for me?”

“Why the new king is going to need a
right-hand man, of course! Why not a member of the most honorable
Wightman family?”

***

Calvin had never seen the inside of a Rotham
Extraction Chamber before, a tradition he’d hoped to keep his
entire life. The room was small and circular shaped, with a
dome-like roof and various hanging, swinging lights which could be
moved about at the behest of the interrogation team. The ambient
hue of the lighting was a dull, uncomfortable red. In the center of
the room was a bed with several restraints on it. Attached to the
bed were long metal arms with a variety of tools and instruments
whose function Calvin could only guess at, but none of them looked
very nice. The setup reminded him of medieval dentistry.

Before they’d gotten him to the chair, he was
shaking. And, when he was but a foot away, he started to resist
them, pushing back against the many arms grabbing him, pulling him
down. He felt like he was wrestling backwards against a squid, but
he would
not
allow them to put him in that chair!

“I won’t, I won’t do it!” he said.

He heard a loud crack, accompanied by
spontaneous pain in the back of his head. His eyes blacked over for
a second and he stumbled forward. Before he could get hold of his
senses they’d turned him face up and locked him in the chair. The
restraints were cinched tight, much tighter than necessary, and a
Rotham with golden eyes who didn’t look very kind, leaned over him.
He positioned a lamp directly above Calvin’s eyes and switched it
on.

It was blinding; even at a squint it was too
bright. His neck had been forced into a brace so he couldn’t turn
his head away; all he could do was close his eyes. But he didn’t
dare, for fear of what they might do to him and him not know
it.

“I’m going to start this out very easily,”
said the Rotham. He spoke the human tongue, but did so with an
unusual accent. It reminded Calvin of dealing with the Khans, and
he wondered if this Rotham had spent some time working for the
cruelest criminal outfit this side of the galaxy.

“Easy is good,” said Calvin, not sure they
shared the same definition for easy.

“You will first tell me who you are.”

Calvin hesitated for a moment. Up until that
point, he hadn’t decided how cooperative he was going to be. And,
if it was true the Rotham usually interrogated their prisoners
until death, or else executed them shortly afterwards, then the
logical thing would be for him to be uncooperative, despite the
agony they threatened him with. Then again, telling them his name,
did that do much for them? Other than it being an admission he was
a spy on the wrong side of the border for which the Republic
probably had a statute mandating death?

“Too slow,” said the interrogator. He reached
out and was handed a short whip with several tails. He clicked his
fingers and his colleagues ripped Calvin’s shirt off of him,
leaving his chest bare.

“
Wait
,” said Calvin, knowing what was
coming.

It did nothing to help him. The interrogator
swung the short whip hard and it connected with Calvin’s chest,
instantly knocking the wind out of him and leaving half a dozen
fine bloody lacerations all across his chest. He yelped in
pain.

“Now, shall we try again?” asked the
interrogator.

“Ask me whatever you want,” said Calvin,
eager to avoid another such blow. He felt small tributaries of
blood stream their way down his sides.
What the hell did he hit
me with?

“What is your name?”

“My name is Captain Jason Pellew,” said
Calvin instinctively, not wanting to admit he was a spy, for fear
it would mean the end of him. “I’m a commander in His…
Her
Majesty’s Special Forces, sir.”

“A lie,” said the interrogator.

How does he know it’s a lie?
Calvin
wondered, as he strained to see what was next in store for him.

“For silence you may have the whip,” said the
interrogator. “But for lies…lies deserve something else.”

Calvin didn’t like the sound of that. He
couldn’t see what was coming until one of the interrogator’s
assistants was standing above him, holding some kind of jar. Calvin
tried to guess what it was based on its pungent smell, but it was
unlike anything he’d ever smelled before.

“Now you will see what happens when you tell
us a basic lie,” said the interrogator. He manipulated the arms
attached to the chair, which locked Calvin’s head into place
rigidly, then forcefully, but gently, peeled open his eyelids and
kept him from closing them.

“No,
not
my eyes,” he said.

He was forced to watch as the assistant
turned the jar upside-down and poured a stream of unknown orange
liquid directly onto Calvin’s eyes. It stung like the bite of a
jellyfish, except in his
eyes
, and he screamed despite his
every effort not to.

When the jar was empty the pain remained and,
after a few seconds, his eyesight disappeared.

“I can’t see, I can’t see!” he said,
wriggling in the chair in a futile attempt to break free.

“Do not worry,” said the interrogator from
somewhere on his right. “The pain will pass. And it takes much more
than four-hundred milliliters to cause permanent blindness. Your
eyesight should return to you in a few minutes, good as new. But
lie to us again and…I can make no promises.”

“I won’t,
I won’t
,” he said. Realizing
they must have known he wasn’t Pellew because Alex, that traitorous
lizard shit, must have already given them all the info he knew
about them, including their identities and current mission. So
lying about those things, much as Calvin wanted to keep these
bastards in the dark, would avail him nothing.

“Very good, then let us try again. Who are
you?”

“My name is Calvin Cross.”

“And who are you working for?”

“I am an officer of Intel Wing, but I am
working for Queen Kalila Akira.”

He felt the small whip crash down on his
chest again, this time more painful as new lacerations mixed with
old ones.

“What was
that
for?” demanded Calvin.
“I told you the truth!”

“And the truth can hurt too,” said the
interrogator, who seemed to be actually enjoying this. His blurry
golden eyes had the hint of a sparkle in them. “But remember, the
lies always, always, always hurt worse.”

“Now tell me, what is your mission?”

It took Calvin a moment to reply, because he
had to catch his breath. “We’re here to spy on the Rahajiim fleet,”
he said. Then, in a bluff he thought was reasonably likely, he
added, “We’re on the same side as you.”

The interrogator apparently didn’t like that,
so he ordered another of his assistants to bring over some new
instrument of pain. This one looked like something that used
electricity.
Oh great
, thought Calvin,
something that can
stop my heart
.

“I know you’re Advent,” Calvin said quickly,
while they charged the electric prod. “Neither of us wants to see
the Rahajiim attack the Empire. We’re both trying to stop them.
That means we’re on the same side!”

They jabbed him in the ribs with the electric
prod and he felt all his muscles convulse and contract
simultaneously. It was like an instant, powerful shock of pain like
nothing he’d ever experienced before, and then it was gone, though
he still felt as if his hair had become electrified.

As the experience continued, his mind drifted
to Rain and he wondered what terrible things she must be enduring.
And for what must have been the millionth time, he remembered how
much he hated himself for choosing to bring her along, indifferent
to the risks.
Maybe I deserve this
, he thought.
But she
deserves better
.

***

They shocked him. They whipped him. They
stung his eyes. Eventually, in desperation, they even cut him and
poured chemicals into the wounds, chemicals designed to enhance the
pain, to make even a mountain of a man scream like a small child.
But he gave them nothing.

No matter what they asked him, no matter what
they did to him, he remained silent. Not saying a word. Now and
again, they’d elicit a yelp of pain, once even a scream. But those
reactions couldn’t be helped. They were merely evidences of the
weakness of the flesh.
And I am, after all, a being of
flesh
, thought Rez’nac. No longer an heir to the Essence of
Khalahar, no longer a soul and body bound harmoniously in the
exploration of mortal life, but instead, now, only a body; a
mortal, his soul having abandoned him long ago.
No
, Rez’nac
corrected himself.
My soul did not abandon me, I abandoned
it
.

He had failed his Essence, he'd failed each
and every one who had belonged to him, and he had failed himself,
all because he had not completed the Arahn-Fi, because he’d allowed
his wayward son, Grimka, to live. Now those who had been his
belonged to Grimka and Rez’nac was alone in the galaxy. Polarians
were never meant to be alone, and those who were, outcasts, rebels,
dark ones…they all shared the same fate: to join the oblivion of
the mortals, to never live again, to never rejoin their Essence.
And to walk the rest of their days knowing each new rising sun they
see is one more than they deserve to see.
Our place is in the
blackest holes of the abyss
, he thought to himself, largely
ignoring the torture the Rotham subjected him to.
Inside the
very maw itself. Compared to that, this is nothing. This is a mere
reminder that I’m alive, that I have yet to face my
penance
.

“Tell us who you’re working for!” demanded
the interrogator for the umpteenth time. Apparently, he and his
staff of sadistic pain merchants had difficulty believing a
Polarian would be alone, travelling with humans, fighting for them
and their cause as if their First was his First, instead of
choosing to be with his own kind.

To be honest, sometimes Rez’nac had
difficulty believing it himself. And yet it was as certain as the
starlight, the summer songs of the sweet birds, or his own hopeless
doom.

They shocked him again, more power this time.
It was enough to make him buckle, his muscles aching and
compressing against the electricity, but he did not break. He would
give them nothing. He would tell them nothing.

If I am a dark one
, he thought.
I
shall be the lightest dark one of all
.
For I was of
Khalahar! Though that means nothing now, not to the Essences, to
the worlds, not to anyone else. It still means something to
me.

“If you are not careful, Polarian, you will
die upon this table.”

Rez’nac closed his eyes and resigned himself.
If that was what his fate was to be, then he had little choice but
to welcome it, for he could not stop it.
Should the darkness
take me now
, he thought,
it is a fine thing. Just let my son
become the honorable man I know he is inside
.

Chapter 10

Blackmoth piloted the agile
Hunter
Four
until it was right alongside the stealth frigate. By its
classification, he could tell the vessel was the
IWS
Nighthawk
. He remembered all he could about the vessel’s
configuration and reasoned, quite immediately, that in order to
bring an isotome weapon aboard such a ship, the likeliest mode of
entry would need to be the frigate’s hatch on deck four. Which
meant that was where the isotome weapon had to be.