“Like what?” Ethan did not intend to push his luck, but he couldn’t fathom what a Naldím could possibly offer him besides his freedom, which, if he understood correctly, had already been secured.
“Humans do not have the same beliefs regarding pain and death as the Naldím,” N’muhl’on said. “The other Naldím would have you suffer when you die, as is our custom. I would make sure it is quick and painless. It is sacrilege, but then, you are only human.” N’muhl’on waited to study Ethan’s reaction, as if expecting gratitude.
“I thought you said you were going to let me go!” Ethan exclaimed, his gut lurching horribly.
“Yes,” N’muhl’on answered, bewildered. “At the end of your stay here, we will let you go freely into oblivion.”
The Doctor
“I can practically smell the Human filth through the walls.”
“Retire to the Orbiter if you cannot stand the stench. The scum has a purpose aboard our ship.”
“Remind me, if you please. I cannot see any outcome that justifies this sacrilege.”
“He will draw them to us. They will stage a rescue operation if they believe he is still alive. I do not expect much, but such an excursion will cost them valuable resources, and when they fail, it will also cost them morale.”
“As long as this plan is carried out quickly... That Human is more than I can bear.”
A routine was quickly established between Ethan and N’muhl’on. Ethan was treated humanely, if not with respect, and every day he would submit to rigorous testing under N’muhl’on’s microscope. A guard was assigned to him, who was rather less objective than N’muhl’on, but ultimately understood Ethan was to be kept alive and unharmed.
There grew a mutual understanding between N’muhl’on and Ethan in the days following their meeting. Ethan revealed what little he knew about human anatomy, and explained aspects of human culture to N’muhl’on whenever a question arose. In return, N’muhl’on refrained from further mention of Ethan’s impending death, accepting – if not understanding – Ethan’s fear of it.
Regardless of the lack of enmity between them, every moment Ethan wasn’t busy, he spent devising escape plans. Despite the dozen or so plans he produced at night and between examination sessions, little progress resulted. He had no doubt some of his plans could have been carried out by Rebecca or Mason, but his inadequate knowledge of close-quarters combat limited him to trickery, and the Naldím were not as dense as he had originally hoped.
N’muhl’on did not trust Ethan by any stretch when it came to security. The guard set on Ethan was a constant shadow, and the only part of the ship Ethan was allowed through was the short passage between the medical bay and his cell.
“Many of the Naldím,” N’muhl’on said when Ethan expressed a desire to see the rest of the ship, “most of them, in fact, would rather discover the secrets of Human anatomy in a more violent way. Your path has been blocked as much for your protection as your confinement.”
Even if the doors hadn’t been locked, Ethan did not have time to explore. The only time Ethan did not spend in his cell – which he suspected was normally a broom closet – was when he was restrained atop N’muhl’on’s operating table, subjected to needles, lenses, and lasers.
After a day of excessive prodding, N’muhl’on came to Ethan with a proposal. “These veins of yours,” he said, bringing a small metal case with him to the operating table, “they prove very difficult to locate and extract blood. Another advantage we have over you, I suppose.”
Ethan remained silent, having grown apathetic toward the constant slights. “But I have devised a solution,” N’muhl’on continued, clearly pleased with himself. He opened the case, revealing a silvery-white wrist brace, identical to the ones every Naldím wore. Knowing what the brace was meant for, Ethan instantly objected.
“It will only hurt for a moment,” N’muhl’on insisted. “All Naldím have gone through the process, even children. It will not injure you. Not in any significant way, at least.”
“How do you know it will work on me?” Ethan asked, desperately searching for a way of excusing himself from the process.
“You will not be able to use your blood to power anything as we can,” N’muhl’on admitted, “but it will extract your blood the same way it would a Naldím’s. I can simply siphon off a sample whenever it is needed.”
“I can take it off, right?”
N’muhl’on cocked his head. “I do not see why you would want to,” he said, “In any case, no. The surface that makes contact with your skin is heated to a temperature that will cause it to meld with your skin. This ensures that the device is never jarred out of place, and never becomes loose.”
Ethan’s stomach lurched violently. He started to move away from N’muhl’on, but the doctor was quick, reaching forward and grabbing Ethan’s arm with a vise-like grip. Within a second he had Ethan’s left arm pinned the table. The guard moved forward to assist N’muhl’on, grabbing Ethan by the throat with vicious pleasure in his eyes.
“Keep still,” N’muhl’on hissed, activating the brace. “It will only take a moment.”
The moment seemed to last an eternity.
*
It took Ethan several days to grow accustomed to the new bionic addition to his arm. As N’muhl’on had promised, it was no longer painful, and proved not to be much bother at all. But the implications continued to disturb Ethan. He now had Naldím technology grafted onto his skin, making him feel ever more bound to a fate aboard the alien ship. N’muhl’on had, at one point, made the mistake of reminding Ethan he would not have to deal with the brace for long. That comment, more than any of the testing or insults, proved only to strengthen Ethan’s resolve to find an escape. Until he could do so, he was forced to play along, enduring N’muhl’on’s experimentation for days on end.
“I am surprised; your dexterity is remarkably high for a creature with only one thumb per hand,” N’muhl’on observed one day as he examined an x-ray of Ethan’s hand, “Although it is still limited. Your alphabetical characters, for instance, are extremely crude.”
“What do thumbs have to do with it?” Ethan wondered aloud.
“Look at my hand,” N’muhl’on instructed. He splayed his hand out, palm down, on the table next to Ethan. A thumb protruded from each side of his appendage, symmetrical and strikingly human. The two fingers between them were also human in appearance, although significantly larger and stronger.
“Say, for instance, you are holding a writing utensil of some sort. What do you call them?” N’muhl’on asked, pausing.
“Pens,” Ethan answered.
“Suppose you were holding a pen. Your one thumb grants you certain mobility in moving the pen across the surface of your…”
“Paper,” Ethan supplied irritably.
“Of your paper. With two opposing thumbs, however, you gain a new dimension of manipulation that allows for more complex, precise movements. Our kaffeka, what you call alphabet, is made up of symbols that require such movements. There are other things you could not do without two thumbs. Take our fighter craft, for example. The primary control surface is a sphere that can be squeezed at certain points to activate different functions. Without fingers in the proper places, you could not, for instance, activate the autopilot.”
An idea suddenly sprang into Ethan’s mind. It was improbable, but a new plan was forming in Ethan’s head. “Does the sphere control pitch and yaw?” he asked innocently.
“That is irrelevant,” N’muhl’on said simply. He turned back to the x-ray.
“You answer my question,” Ethan pressed, “And I’ll answer one for you.” It felt odd to make this offer to a Naldím – an enemy – especially after he had taken part in the same activity with Rebecca. It felt somehow like betrayal.
N’muhl’on considered the offer. “Very well,” he said finally, “Yes, the central control sphere manipulates pitch and yaw. And as I said, its pressure points dictate most primary functions, such as fire
control, engine startup… But I believe you owe me an answer now.”
“Shoot.”
“Shoot who?” N’muhl’on looked confused, then slowly comprehended Ethan’s meaning. “A human expression?” he supposed.
Ethan nodded. “It means proceed.”
N’muhl’on thought for a moment. “Why is it the human race does what it does?”
Ethan cracked an uncomfortable smirk. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Do you know why this ship has come here with orders to exterminate your kind?” N’muhl’on asked. “It is because you have been deemed a plague, a blight, upon this galaxy. We are the cure.”
“What did we do wrong?” Ethan asked nervously. N’muhl’on’s tone was light and indifferent – as it always seemed to be – but his assertion that humans were a blight unnerved Ethan.
“You conquer and pillage countless star systems with no remorse, no consideration for what lasting and rippling effects your carelessness might cause. I want to know why.”
Ethan had to think hard. He had viewed Imperial colonization as a good and peaceful thing for all of his life. But under the context N’muhl’on put it in, Ethan was suddenly having doubts. “We never colonize a planet with sapient life on it,” he said defensively.
“Is that all that matters? Our shal’panton, those you call Bullhounds – they are mighty, graceful creatures. You slaughter them as if they are vermin.”
“They attacked us-”
“They were protecting their home. You would do the same, else your ship would not be so heavily armed. I do not begrudge you the right to defend your home, but humans do not afford other creatures the same right. You invade another being’s home simply because your people cannot keep your own population in check. It is disgusting.”
“What would you suggest?” Ethan snapped, anger swirling within him.
“We have a ceremony on our home world,” N’muhl’on said, “It is called the B’shahn’veravka – Bloodletting in your tongue – a ceremony to collect the blood required to power our space-faring vessels. A member of each family from all across the globe is sent to the B’shahn’ful – the Blood Pit – and give up all of their blood except that required to withstand the ceremony and recover. Many older sacrifices do not survive the process. Our population is nearly decimated at the time of this great ceremony.
“And we do not mourn – those who have died have suffered their trials, and are in the presence of the Great One. More than that, those who remain are few enough that we have no need to pillage and plunder to survive. We thrive on the natural gifts the Great One has bestowed upon our own world. Neither greed nor necessity drew us to the stars.”
“What did?”
“Duty. To rid the galaxy of scum like you. To return balance where others have insatiably sought control.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“That is none of your concern.” N’muhl’on paused. “I see now that I have answered my own question, Sergeant Ethan Walker: Humans do what they do because they lack control. They lack discipline. They lack a greater vision beyond their own selfish desires.” He rounded on Ethan. “Tell me now that you believe what the Humans do is just!” he demanded.
Ethan stared in silence, utterly terrified at the rage that now completely enveloped N’muhl’on. Their eyes locked for a painfully long moment as Ethan’s mind worked furiously to find a justification. What frightened him most was that everything N’muhl’on had said made sense. Humans were selfish, even childish. Ethan could not sustain eye contact with the doctor, and his eyes darted away, landing on the tanks in which the two Naldím corpses still resided. A glimmer of defiance crossed his face as a fiber of reason came to him. He lifted his head and faced the seething doctor.
“We’re not barbarians,” he said, his voice miniscule, but growing. “We don’t send our elderly to their deaths because we want to preserve balance. We never believe violence is the first and only answer. You say you’re protecting the galaxy – by mercilessly killing off an entire species, no less – but we’re as much a part of the universe as you are. You say we’re an infection, but sometimes the parasite is stronger than the host. It wins. That’s the way nature works. If there’s an unnatural part to this equation, it’s you, the so-called cure.”
N’muhl’on took a small step back from Ethan, genuinely astonished by his sudden resistance. He turned toward the door, fists clenched. “We are done for the day, van’va,” he hissed, locking the portal securely behind him.
The Captain
“Even the doctor is growing sick of his patient, and it was for him we kept the Human in such prime condition. Where is this rescue operation you anticipated?”
“I detect mutiny in your voice. Mind what you say in my presence.”
“I grow weary of this Human, and the Great One himself would - no doubt - find this an offense of the highest degree.”
“Now you offer up blasphemy. You seem to forget your place. Fortunately for you, I have more pressing matters to attend to. The prisoner must prove his usefulness. I will personally conduct an interrogation. Regardless of if he knows anything, the image of his mangled body will entice his comrades to run to his aid.”
N’muhl’on was far more aggressive in his procedures in the following days. Far more needles found their way into Ethan’s arms, and the doctor remained stubbornly silent whenever Ethan would make a remark. In truth, Ethan felt a vicious satisfaction at N’muhl’on’s newly adopted temperament; it meant that something he said had struck home.
Nevertheless, the doctor’s foul mood was not ideal for concocting a workable plan. N’muhl’on’s unwillingness to converse put a damper on Ethan’s best plan, marginal though it was.
On the flip side, Ethan had developed what could be loosely considered a professional relationship with his guard, who was more intrusive than ever. His lack of regard for Ethan’s personal space, however, was what sparked their interaction. Ethan had to explain to him and remind him on several occasions that he was uncomfortable being watched while he slept – as the guard was prone to do – and the guard’s great confusion on the matter led to a long, partly pantomimed discussion regarding preferences in living conditions. The guard’s grasp on Imperial Common was tenuous, but the more they spoke, the more in depth their conversations became. Before long they exchanged names – the guard training Ethan with remarkable patience on the pronunciation of Thar’o – and soon after they were exchanging vocabulary, culture, and more.
“Is good none see us talk,” Thar’o expressed after the day’s poking and prodding by N’muhl’on was done. “Group leader says is n’vovanka to be guard human.”
Ethan cocked his head. “I keep hearing the others saying that. N’vovanka. What does it mean?”
“I not know word… I think, no good in self. Bad thing. We have many words for. Shli’esy, van’va. I admit not think you are bad. Humans bad. Not you.” Ethan’s gut turned. To be on friendly terms with a Naldím made him feel filthy, though he knew the tactical advantage of Thar’o’s respect was invaluable. Not only did the Naldím keep his comrades from hurting Ethan too terribly, he was an unlimited well of information as long as the language barrier was not too impassable. With a great deal of miming, they managed to discuss history, technology, and eventually learned that they shared an occupation.
“So a group leader,” Ethan said during one of their nightly conversations, after Thar’o again mentioned his. “Is that like a squadron leader?”
“We follow group leader – we call thak’orotho – in battle. I do not know ‘squadron’.”
“It’s a battle group,” Ethan said, “when you’re flying, at least. On the ground, it’s just ‘squad’.” Thar’o drummed his fingers against his leg amp, a gesture Ethan had come to recognize as frustration. Finally, he comprehended Ethan’s meaning.
“Then I in squadron, not squad,” he said firmly.
“Me too,” Ethan said hesitantly.
&nb
sp; “I in group brought you to hangar. You ready to fight, die – I respect. But craft,” Thar’o buzzed lightly, searching for the Common word. “Weak. Small. You and ship die fast.”
“I was hoping you would ignore me,” Ethan said morosely. “I thought you were going to blow me away. I thought you were going to kill me,” he elaborated quickly, realizing that Thar’o’s tenuous grasp on Common meant such phraseology escaped him.
“Lord of ship have purpose for you. I follow command.”
“Do you know what his purpose is?”
Thar’o glanced at the door, as if expecting someone to come barreling in just as he revealed the plan. “Lord know plan. I only know bring you to hangar, and guard you now.”
“Oh.” Between the two acquaintances Ethan had made aboard the Naldím ship, neither knew what Ethan’s ultimate fate was. It made it difficult to plan an escape, if any such possibility still existed; there was no clock to work against, no way of knowing when he was out of time. Ethan could only hope the Naldím’s plans took a long time to come to fruition.
Before Thar’o could say more, the door to Ethan’s cell opened. Thar’o jumped to attention, exiting the closet and letting a new Naldím take his place within the cell. This one was ornately adorned, sporting a cascade of small bones running down his braid of iron hair and wearing opposing bandoleers marked with jewelry and carvings.
“Sergeant Ethan Walker,” the Naldím said, his accent more akin to N’muhl’on’s than Thar’o’s, “I am Shal’tha, Lord of this vessel and your captor.” He turned to Thar’o. “His strength?”
Thar’o hesitated, glancing at Ethan with an expression that could only be classified as nervousness. “Va brek,” he said mildly.
Shal’tha buzzed lightly, then lunged, sinking a fist into Ethan’s gut, sending him flying. Ethan smashed into the back wall. He gasped for several moments, trying to find his breath. There was a vague feeling of blood dripping down the back of his head, but he was in too much shock to comprehend it.
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