He wasn’t escaping the cell in this condition. Which meant he needed to improve his condition.
The health diagnostic routine completed, and he scanned the report in resignation. Grade III concussion; hairline fracture in a parietal skull bone; fractured right lateral scapula; multiple torn tendons in the right rotator cuff; torn right deltoid; infection of the epidermis and dermis tissue surrounding the wound; two broken ribs.
Without any external medical assistance, he was facing a long, slow process for his cybernetics to subdue the infection in his shoulder wound then begin mending bone and tissue back together. The concussion and skull injuries ought to take care of themselves in time so long as he didn’t do something stupid, but triage priorities demanded that the broken ribs stay broken until the shoulder wound was under control.
Movement beyond the force field drew his attention, and he steeled himself for the imminent encounter.
A Savrakath in military field attire stopped in front of his cell with a hiss. “You are awake. We thought you might die. A surprise that Humans are so frail and fragile.”
“I might still die if you don’t treat this wound. It’s infected.”
“Infection is good for the soul. It tests the body. Strengthens it, if it can pass the trial.”
“Well, I’m not Savrakath, so I’d as soon skip the trial. I’m also no good to you dead. A little antiseptic would go a long way toward keeping me alive.”
The Savrakath sniffed the air. “Prove your worth to us. Give us the name and location of a strategically important but soft Concord target, and we will treat your wounds.”
Prove your worth to us. They didn’t know who he was? Because he’d been on the assault team like a complete moron, they must have assumed he was just a ground-pounder.
His presence here, in their custody, gave them a more valuable bargaining chip in the conflict with Concord than any hordes of intel he could (but never would) provide, but they didn’t know what they had.
An image of Mia flashed through his mind, stunning in a white silk robe, her long hair whipping around her face on the balcony of the Atlantis resort suite they’d rented for their unofficial anniversary three months earlier. The urge to utter a meager few words overwhelmed him, and only his Marine training stilled his tongue. Provide his name and rank, and he’d become a high-stakes pawn—and also the best-treated prisoner housed in whatever gulag this was. His injuries would be treated post-haste, because the Savrakaths would no longer risk their star prisoner dying.
But Concord would need to weaken its position in the conflict to trade for him, and he couldn’t allow that to happen. Duty and honor before self. Semper fidelis.
So he would have to find another way to get medical treatment—to improve his condition so he could escape.
He swallowed past a dry and swollen throat. “Bring me a glass of water and a swab of alcohol for my shoulder, and I’ll wrack my brain trying to think of an appropriate target.”
The guard’s lips pulled back in a snarl. “You are even weaker than I expected. We will see.” He spun around, his tail narrowly missing the force field, and strode off into the darkness.
Malcolm had drifted off to sleep when his jailer returned two hours later. Sleep helped to speed healing, and the concussion was old enough that he didn’t need to worry about slipping into a coma.
He jerked awake at the sound of the guard barking an order at him. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I have brought the supplies you requested. The target, please.”
“So you can then turn around and walk away with those supplies? No, that’s not how this works.”
“You are in no position to tell anyone how this works.”
“Be that as it may, I’m not sharing any information until my shoulder wound’s been treated.”
The guard studied him for several seconds, then deactivated a small square area of the force field at the floor and shoved a tray through it. The tray skidded across the floor and bumped into Malcolm’s foot.
He gazed imploringly at the guard. “Thank you, but I can’t reach it. My right arm doesn’t work, and my left one….” He peered meaningfully up at the chain and manacle.
The Savrakath hissed in what seemed like disgust, but he deactivated the full force field, stepped inside and reactivated it, then came closer and nudged the tray up beside Malcolm’s limp arm. “There.”
Malcolm made a show of trying to pick up the container of water it held before sinking against the wall. “Please. Train a weapon on me if it will make you feel better, but you have to unlatch the manacle. My right arm is useless. I can’t lift it more than a few centimeters.”
The guard marched in a circle twice, spittle escaping through his teeth. “Fine.” He removed a long rifle from a holster on his back and pressed the barrel to Malcolm’s forehead. “Try anything, and your brains will decorate the wall.”
“I understand.”
The guard reached up to the manacle and placed a small module of some kind onto the lock. Malcolm’s arm dropped out of the restraint to fall limply at his side.
After days suspended from the manacle, his left arm barely worked better than his right one, but he managed to drag it over to the tray and grasp the water container. He leaned down and pressed it to his lips, praying it wasn’t hot and swampy.
Fresh, cool water splashed over his tongue, and he hurriedly slurped it down before stopping himself for a moment. Coughing it all back up would defeat the purpose of drinking it. After another few seconds, he judiciously finished off the water.
While the guard watched him from across the cell, long rifle raised, he opened the jar of what he hoped was an antiseptic solution and spilled some on the provided cloth. Then he pressed it to his open wound—and almost bit his tongue in agony as spasms shot out from his shoulder and into his chest. He breathed in through his nose and worked to compartmentalize the discomfort away; he had extensive training on how to keep functioning in such circumstances, dammit. Another breath, and he forced himself to wipe the entire wound with the cloth.
Now came the hard part. There was also an exit wound, and it was probably in worse shape than the entry one. He flipped the cloth over, spilled more antiseptic on it, and wrenched his left arm around over his right shoulder. He knew he’d found his mark when a fresh wave of searing pain punished his body. He wiped all the skin he could reach, until his arm gave out and fell away.
No. Not finished yet. His hand shook as he picked up the jar of antiseptic, brought it up to his shoulder, and dumped the rest of its contents into the wound.
The empty jar fell from his hand to roll across the floor. His vision swam and blurred. He’d instructed his eVi to dedicate all resources toward treatment and healing, at the expense of pain amelioration. He now profoundly regretted that choice.
The guard rushed forward, grabbed Malcolm’s left arm and yanked it upward to secure it in the manacle, then retrieved the tray, the empty jar and bottle and retreated beyond the force field. “We have provided. Now give us the location of a Concord soft target.”
He exhaled through gritted teeth, imagining the jagged edges of his broken ribs scraping at his fragile lung tissue as he did. “You know, I’ve been wracking my brain like I said I would…but I just can’t think of any.”
“Liar!” The guard deactivated the field once more and stormed into the cell, rifle raised. “You will talk—”
Malcolm’s eyes closed, and he succumbed to a dark oblivion.
10
* * *
CINT VESSEL 23A-X
Savrak Stellar System
Eren Savitas asi-Idoni paced in deliberate, measured circles around the tiny cabin of the CINT ship he’d claimed as his own. He’d injected the last dose of dialele half an hour earlier. His mind was sharp and his senses honed, but the clock was now ticking.
Delivering Torval elasson-Machim to Eren’s intended destination was going to require a grand, dramatic and, most crucially, rapid entranc
e. Ideally a rapid exit for him as well, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much one way or another about it.
He’d reviewed CINT’s voluminous files on General Jhountar one final time. The military leader spent most days at his office at Savrak Military Headquarters in Savradin, holding court with underlings, issuing orders and strutting through the hallways. Unless Jhountar had joined his fleet in their increasingly aggressive patrols, he ought to be in the building today.
However, Eren couldn’t exactly land his ship on the lawn of Military Headquarters and stroll in the front door with his prisoner in tow. An active if undeclared state of war now existed between the Savrakaths and Concord, which meant he and his prisoner were guaranteed to be instantly arrested, if not shot on sight.
No, he needed to get directly in front of Jhountar—if Jhountar was absent, he’d have to settle for his first lieutenant, Brigadier Ghorek—and present his case swiftly and succinctly.
He wasn’t a Prevo, so he couldn’t open a wormhole in the middle of Jhountar’s office on a whim. The CINT vessel did have a Caeles Prism generator installed, but the ship, while tiny, was too large to fit in any single room inside Military Headquarters. So he was back to the front lawn. It might work, if he defined ‘work’ as him staying alive long enough to explain to someone with power the nature of the trophy he was offering them. He didn’t care for the odds, though.
Which meant he was down to one last option. He readied himself, trying to remember how he’d be expected to act during the interaction, and sent a message.
Mesme, do you have twenty minutes to spare? I desperately need a favor.
I do not, but for you, I will create the time.
His brow furrowed in surprise at the offer of affection from the Kat. I’m touched. Thank you.
A few seconds later, a sparkle of lights filled the cabin then clustered together in front of him. I should express my sorrow for the loss of your friend. I wished to have done so earlier, but I have been otherwise occupied in the Asterion Dominion. I would attempt to ease your pain if I believed I could accomplish it, but my previous attempts to do so have not been successful, so I will refrain from making matters worse.
His…friend. The Kats didn’t appear to have romantic entanglements—though who could really say for certain—so perhaps the word encompassed the breadth of close relationships as Kats understood them. The condolences evoked only a dull ache in his chest, for the dialele silenced the raging anguish that briefly threatened to break free. Even Mesme’s oblique reference to the shitshow of a visit they’d paid to the Faneros’ transplanted homeworld wasn’t enough to overpower the stranglehold the dialele maintained on his emotions, and good thing for it.
“I appreciate the thought. But if you genuinely want to help me, you simply need to do me this one favor.”
Speak it.
“I have a prisoner secured in the cargo hold—”
I am aware.
No surprise that Mesme was cognizant of every atom within its range of perception. “Right. I need you to peek inside the Savrak Military Headquarters building and locate General Jhountar. This guy.” He flashed the Savrakath’s official military photo. “Then I need you to transport myself and my prisoner to wherever Jhountar is, wait while I give one of my famous speeches, then transport me back to this ship. That’s it.”
Why are you delivering an Anaden prisoner to the Savrakaths?
“He’s the man who killed Cosime. He also bombed their antimatter facility by way of murder weapon, so he’ll be a prize catch for them.”
The Kat vacillated in agitation. I see.
“Mesme, don’t go soft on me now. He’s an unrepentant murderer who wants to bring everything Concord has built crashing down at our feet.”
But this is not why you wish to deliver him to the Savrakaths.
“No. I’m delivering him to the Savrakaths because I want him to suffer unspeakable torture for years. Decades. Centuries. Both justifications can be true. Will you do it?”
Silence reigned in his mind for a weighty pause. I will.
“Thank you. Give me a minute to unshackle the prisoner from his cage below, then we’ll be ready.”
I will locate this General Jhountar. Summon me when preparations are complete. The lights accelerated through the port wall of the ship and vanished.
Eren retrieved a small bottle from the supply cabinet and loaded its contents into a projectile needle, then climbed down the ladder. Torval lay slumped against the wall inside the force field, but on sensing Eren’s arrival, he opened his eyes to glower through hooded lids. “I heard talking. Do we have a guest?”
Eren didn’t answer; instead he deactivated the force field long enough to fire the contents of the needle, a potent muscle relaxant, into Torval’s chest, then reactivated it until the drug took effect. He’d strongly considered knocking the man unconscious, but he wanted Torval to be cognizant enough to hear what he was planning to say to Jhountar.
The prisoner’s head lolled, chin bouncing off his chest, and a few incomprehensible words made it past Torval’s lips in a mumble. Eren waited thirty more seconds before deactivating the field again. He unlatched the chains securing the man’s ankles from the wall and locked them together. He did the same for the chains binding his wrists and dragged Torval to his feet. All the man’s weight sagged against Eren, and they both stumbled back into the wall. Damn, he was a big guy.
Mesme, I’m ready for you below.
Shimmering lights filled every centimeter of the cramped cargo hold. I have located this General Jhountar in the largest office on the top floor of Military Headquarters.
“Excellent. I was hoping he’d be there.” Eren adjusted his grip on Torval’s upper arm. “Let’s go.”
Mesme swirled tightly around him and his charge. Through the tiny gaps in the Kat’s whirlwind, the scene shifted.
SAVRAK
Military Headquarters
The stifling, humid air soaked through Mesme’s ethereal cocoon even before it dissipated to reveal a clean, shiny office decorated in gaudy ornamental furniture made of polished bronze.
General Jhountar was already leaping up from his oversized desk as his hand went to his sidearm. “Guards! We have intruders!”
“Wait.” Eren gathered Torval’s wrist restraints up and shoved the man forward. Thanks to the muscle relaxant, Torval promptly fell to the floor. As much as his prisoner surely wanted to fight and rage, he merely flopped around on the tile like a beached fish.
Eren lifted his hands in the air. “A present for you, General. This is the man who attacked your antimatter facility and killed your people who were working there.”
Jhountar kept his sidearm pointed at Eren. “Is Concord seeking capitulation in return for this ‘present’? They will not get it from us.”
“I don’t represent Concord. I’m fairly certain I don’t even work for them any longer. This is a personal present, from me to you.”
“Why?”
“Because this man is a monster, and I want to see him punished. Now, there is a catch.”
Jhountar snarled through razor-sharp teeth. “Savrakaths do not like catches.”
“You’ll be content with this one. Do whatever the hells you want to him. Torture him in new and inventive ways. Make him bleed. Make him scream.” Eren ground his jaw as emotions fought to rise up and break free. “Make him suffer. But don’t kill him. Not on purpose and not on accident. If you do, he wins. He wakes up in a cushy bed back in Concord and gets to resume living in comfort and splendor.”
“We know of your ‘regenesis.’ We do not think much of its alchemy.”
“Don’t care. Trust me, this man here thinks quite a lot of it. He will do everything in his power to trick you into killing him. Don’t fall for it. Follow this one rule, and you get to continue torturing him for years and years. Centuries if you want, which I deeply hope you do. Understand?”
“I do.” Jhountar waved his sidearm portentously at Eren. “Now, te
ll me, why should I not also take you into custody? Torture you for centuries as well?”
Eren forcefully choked off a maniacal laugh. The dialele was wearing thin, and the cracks in his pharmaceutical armor were deepening. He just had to power through for a few minutes more, then none of it would matter. “You absolutely should—after all, I was primed to blow up your antimatter facility when this man beat me to it—but you won’t get the privilege.”
Now, Mesme.
A tornado of lights surrounded him the same instant four guards rushed into the room, long rifles raised—and he was gone.
CINT VESSEL 23A-X
Savrak Stellar System
The walls of his little ship solidified around him, and his legs almost buckled from a wave of dizziness heralding an incoming tsunami of despair. Just a few minutes more. “Thank you, Mesme. That was all I needed. Go and see to the Asterions.”
What will you do now?
“Oh, you know. Probably wander about sulking for a while.” He felt behind him for the security of the cockpit chair and grabbed hold of the headrest. “Get drunk, then get high. Wallow in some tears. I’ll be fine.”
Will you?
He scratched at an itching spot on his head. His hair was starting to grow back in patchy spikes, and scratching it only made the itch worse. The side effects of the dialele were picking up a strong head of steam. “Eventually. But you flitting around me in overprotective concern isn’t apt to help me get there any sooner. Away you go!”
As you wish.
The lights dissipated, leaving him alone at last.
He crumpled to the floor. The urge to grab a blade and slice the flesh off his arms was overpowering. To drag his nails down his cheeks until they drew blood. The memory of Cosime’s ruined body draped lifelessly in his arms overwhelmed his mind as the dam broke free, and he willed for a black hole to open up beneath him and swallow him whole.
Inversion (Riven Worlds Book Two) Page 7