Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  Both soldiers facing Argon drew objects from their belts.

  Argon noticed their actions, stopping to face the soldiers, although he continued to track Roxie with his eyes. Maybe the soldiers thought he knew better, but the chief monitor had likely never been in this kind of situation before. He lunged at the nearest soldier, hitting the short man in the face, knocking him off his feet and hard onto the steel floor.

  Cyrus watched amazed. Argon was like Spartacus. The chief monitor refused to act like a slave even for a moment. It was electrifying. Cyrus found himself wanting to join Argon in his brave stand.

  The psi-master spoke harshly.

  The second soldier shuffled away from Argon, holstered the first object, and drew his gun. It made a sizzling sound and something odd moved through the air from it. The projectile looked like a clot or wave of heat. The thing struck Argon in the chest and knocked him brutally onto the metal floor. He groaned, and he didn’t attempt to rise.

  The courage of a moment ago wilted in Cyrus. That easily and that brutally the aliens ended Argon’s lone stand. That’s why a prisoner needed to wait, to study the situation. This was the wrong time and place to resist.

  The electric sound of the bubble-dome vehicle continued and Cyrus saw to his horror the psi-master looking at him and inching his vehicle closer. The humanoid clutched the pendant.

  Cyrus made an instantaneous decision. The psi-master seemed to be hunting Specials. He’d had Roxie taken elsewhere. From Cyrus’s experience, it was better if the enemy underestimated you.

  An oily telepathic thought struck his mind. Cyrus didn’t shield himself. He felt certain the difference of his thoughts from the psi-master would hide him for a time despite his talent. Maybe for once his small or inconspicuous talent would help. Wouldn’t it take time for the humanoids to understand how Earthlings thought? What Cyrus could do during that time to improve his situation, he had no idea. What he did now was to bring to mind images of his youth from Level 40.

  The psi-master stared at him. It was a pitiless gaze, soul-numbing here in such a hopeless situation.

  Cyrus thought about the time in the dark in the ducts when he’d knifed a hunting Red Blade.

  The psi-master released his pendant, although he continued to stare at Cyrus. They were the worst two seconds in Cyrus’s life. Would soldiers come for him and cart him away as one had Roxie? Where would they take him?

  The psi-master said nothing to the soldiers. Instead, he looked at another crewmember that showed signs of restive life.

  With a vast sense of relief, Cyrus laid his head on the cold steel and shut his eyes. This had to be the most miserable situation anyone had ever been caught in. He was a prisoner in an alien star system with no way home. Were these humanoids going to dissect them as Venice had seen in a clairvoyant dream? The way the soldier had ruthlessly shot Argon didn’t bode well for the rest of them.

  Watch and wait, Cyrus told himself. Bide your time until you get a chance.

  A chance for what? He didn’t know, but he hoped he did when he saw it. For now, he rested. Let someone else explore and find out what sort of punishment occurred. It wasn’t a heroic attitude, as the marines probably would have shown. He’d learned survival thinking in the slums as an orphan child and it had kept him alive then. Maybe it would help here. If it did, he would remember this awful day and make the aliens pay.

  The psi-master made the rounds, testing many. When soldiers grabbed a thawed out Captain Nagasaki, the man began to rave.

  “Cyborgs, these are creatures of the cyborgs!” Nagasaki shouted. “They’ll steal our souls and give us robotic bodies!”

  Nagasaki resisted as they hauled him to his feet.

  One of the soldiers slapped the silver-haired navy officer across the face, maybe to knock some sense into him. Nagasaki glared at the man as flecks of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. Nagasaki karate-kicked the soldier and knocked him sprawling onto the deck.

  Two more soldiers shuffled forward. Nagasaki launched himself at them. A soldier blocked a finger stab and punched the captain in the gut. It doubled Nagasaki over. The second soldier used the butt of his gun and clouted Nagasaki on the back of the head. The captain dropped to the steel floor, striking it with his chin. He groaned, twisting on the deck.

  The two soldiers began to stomp on Nagasaki, beginning with his hands. They had hard-heeled boots, and each heel smashed down in the middle of the man’s hand. Cracking bones told the story. Then they stomped and broke Nagasaki’s ankles.

  Many of Discovery’s crew groaned in horror. The rest watched in apathy. The groaners shrank back from the brutality. Cyrus watched grim-faced. He’d seen evil like this before in the slums. He would remember.

  Captain Nagasaki screamed, beginning to thrash. Each soldier took a side and kicked Nagasaki, one in the stomach and chest, the other along the back. Finally, the two soldiers took turns, brutally kicking him in the head, bouncing it in one direction and then another.

  The two soldiers kicked Nagasaki to death. The psi-master watched the process coldly, while Discovery’s crew looked on in abject horror.

  Finally, Argon couldn’t take it anymore. “Stop,” he said.

  The psi-master pointed at Argon and spoke.

  The chief monitor licked his lips. It was obvious that he was weighing the odds.

  Cyrus’s resolve broke. Watching them kill the captain while he did nothing… “Don’t do it,” he told Argon. “Wait and live.”

  The psi-master swiveled around in his seat, staring at Cyrus again.

  A chill worked up Cyrus’s back. He felt he’d just been marked in some manner.

  Right. I’ve shown initiative. They must have been hunting for this and I’ve played into their hands.

  Still, Cyrus felt good at doing something positive. Argon didn’t shout again, but watched helplessly. Cyrus might have just saved the chief monitor’s life. He acted like Spartacus, if only in a small way. No one could do anything now for Nagasaki. It was time to take whatever small victory one could.

  This was a brutal lesson, killing the captain. Likely, it was another thing the aliens wanted them to realize.

  We’re at their mercy and it looks like this society has no idea what that means.

  The psi-master touched his controls, shifting the vehicle. He scanned them carefully with his hard eyes. Was he judging expressions or did he use his psi-power to gauge their thoughts?

  The soldiers dragged Nagasaki’s corpse from the chamber.

  New humanoids entered, drawing several machines that hovered on sleds. These people were ordinary-looking and wore smocks reaching to their bare knees and tight-fitting skullcaps. Dressed differently and under different circumstances, they could have passed as Earthlings.

  The psi-master spoke. Several of the new humanoids nodded. The psi-master pointed at Chief Monitor Argon.

  Soldiers drew their guns and warily shuffled near. One group of smock-wearing humans followed, pulling a floating sled with them. The machinists, as Cyrus was beginning to think of them, quietly spoke among themselves.

  The psi-master made an imperious gesture. Three soldiers holstered their guns and surged at Argon, circling him and grabbing his arms. It was too much for the giant chief monitor. He struggled and flung one soldier to the floor. The other two released their grips and struck heavy blows. Argon grunted and swung his arm, catching a smaller soldier on the side of the head, dropping the man to the floor. Two more soldiers ran up to help.

  Cyrus’s chest tightened. This was too much. Was he really going to lay here doing nothing? If he helped, what would happen to him?

  Wait. This is just like the slums. Wait and learn. You can’t do anything else except die.

  The decision was hard and tears of frustration welled in Cyrus’s eyes. He felt worthless. He felt helpless doing nothing. Just a few more successful seconds in the tele-chamber and they could have been on their way back to Sol. Instead, failure brought bitterness. That in itself was a l
esson. Would he ever get to put the lesson to use, though?

  The stocky soldiers beat down Argon, pummeling him once he hit the floor, but they didn’t kill him. Instead, they dragged the battered chief monitor near the machinists. The one with the highest peaked cap commanded three others. They attached a metal contrivance to Argon’s head. First wiping blood off his face, they attached clamps to his ears and put sticky discs on his forehead. Shaving off hair, they put more discs onto the back of his skull.

  Was this torture? Cyrus had no idea.

  The primary machinist went to his machine. He used an instrument panel, adjusting controls. Finally, he glanced at the psi-master, although he didn’t meet the man’s eyes. The psi-master simply watched. The primary machinist tapped a switch and the machine began to hum.

  From on the floor, Argon stiffened and his eyes flew open. He made odd, croaking noises and little jerks. Then he began to moan. A moment later, his eyes rolled up into his head and he began thrashing on the floor. He shivered, but no one made any move to intervene.

  Finally, the machinist shut off the humming device. He instructed the others and they withdrew the metal contrivance and clamps from Argon’s head. He lay gasping on the floor, shuddering, until finally he curled into a fetal ball, shivering and moaning.

  At the psi-master’s orders, the machinists did the same thing to twelve other chosen people. Some sat dully during the process. Two died in convulsions, one died apparently swallowing his tongue.

  This didn’t seem to concern any of the aliens.

  Finally, the psi-master indicated Cyrus.

  The tightness in his chest… Cyrus moaned as soldiers and machinists approached. Should he try to short circuit the machine? Should he fight before he died?

  No. Some of the others had survived. He needed to relax and hope for the best. Everyone was watching him. The aliens had all the odds on their side, all the guns, and knew what was going on. He had to survive. Maybe he had to survive by luck. At this point, he simply had no hope and nothing to gain by resisting.

  Cyrus let them clamp the metal cap on his head and attach the leads to his ears, forehead, and the shaved part of the back of his head.

  A machinist near the machine glanced at him. The man had black pindots for eyes. Cyrus didn’t see any pity in those eyes, neither did he spy cruelty. The man was simply doing his job.

  The machinist tapped his instrument panel.

  Cyrus stiffened. What did it do? What would happen?

  The machine thrummed with power. In a second, the cap hummed on his head. Electricity flowed through the cap and to the leads on his skin. He heard a whine begin in his head. It turned into a roar, a rushing sound, and Cyrus began to twitch and shake. The rushing roaring sound was like a hurricane and it smashed thoughts and twisted around and around inside his head. Suddenly, it screeched and Cyrus stiffened, perhaps his eyes rolled up inside his head. He didn’t know. There was blackness, nothing… until he became aware of machinists plucking the leads off his skin and removing the cap.

  Cyrus shivered on the floor of the alien ship. He stared the chief machinist. “What did you do to me?”

  The man paused, glanced at the psi-master, then looked at Cyrus. “It should be obvious. We gave you our language. Now it’s time to rest so your brain can sort out…”

  The rest of the words were gibberish, but Cyrus thought he understood. In some fashion, the machine had reordered his brain patterns or given him new impulses so he could understand the alien tongue.

  He yawned. He was so tired and his head hurt. Cyrus shut his eyes. As he tried to figure out his next step, he fell asleep.

  3

  The crushing acceleration didn’t change, but Cyrus’s quarters did. He awoke in a tiny cell. It had a cot, a sink and a place to defecate. He was alone and there was no door or hatch to see out. How had they gotten him in here? He tapped on the walls, all four of them, and he tapped on the floor and ceiling. No one ever tapped back.

  Beside the sink was a steel cabinet. Inside were organic clots the size of his hand, apparently food. When hunger compelled him, Cyrus chewed a clot. It was bland, gritty against his teeth, and unfulfilling. But after a time, his sense of hunger dwindled. He drank metallic-tasting water from a tap above the sink.

  To pass the time, he exercised by standing and squatting slowly. The excessive Gs made it a grueling workout. He did pushups and sit-ups and slept drenched in sweat. He dreamed of choking to death or having soldiers kick him in the kidneys and neck.

  Time crawled and he debated using his telekinesis to open the cell. Yet how could he do that when there wasn’t a hatch?

  Besides, what would I do then? Can I take over the ship?

  He didn’t see how. Why did they give him a new language? Why had it killed some of Discovery’s crew?

  He had questions but no answers. He endured. He daydreamed of many things and continued to do his exercises and eat the gritty, organic capsules.

  An interminable time later, something changed. A section of cell disappeared and two soldiers regarded him, with a machinist in his smock behind them. The machinist held a flat device.

  “Come,” the machinist said.

  Cyrus licked his lips. He sat on the cot, still stunned that the wall had disappeared. “Where are you taking me?”

  “You must obey.”

  Cyrus decided the machinist was right. He rose and stepped out of the room. Each soldier grabbed an arm. They marched him along a narrower passageway than what would have been on Discovery. The air had a dry, desert-like feel, with a hint of burnt sand in it. Was that bad or was it good? Was it normal or strange?

  Watch and wait. Your time will come. It had to come. When it did, he would act, but not until then.

  The acceleration made everything physical a chore. He began to sweat and soon wheeze. Why did the soldiers bother grabbing his arms? He wasn’t in any condition to escape. Maybe they held his arms in order to help him. Cyrus didn’t want anything from the soldiers, not after he’d witnessed their brutality.

  Finally, the passageway broadened to be more spacious than aboard Discovery. This passageway could easily accommodate the raptor-like alien. What part did it play? Had it been an alien marine?

  What is Jasper doing, I wonder?

  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.