by Jo Zebedee
“Sit down,” Lichio said, “and think. At least he doesn’t look hurt.”
Silom snorted his derision. “Look again, Lich; it isn’t always obvious.”
Lichio looked a little closer and he could see, now, the tight set of Kare’s jaw, the red marks on his neck and the darkening bruise on his jaw line. Kare cast exhausted eyes around the room, as if searching for someone, and stopped when he saw Silom. He paled even further.
“I’m going over,” Silom said. “He should know. If they want to beat me for telling him, then so be it.”
“It might not be you they punish. This isn’t the moment, Silom.”
Silom settled back, grudgingly, and the guard led Kare to the front of the room dominated by a pair of huge cargo doors. As they walked away, Lichio could see how tightly his arms were shackled, and the strain on his shoulders. The Banned men fell back as Kare passed, forming an unplanned honour guard for him.
“Why isn’t he fighting?” asked Silom. “They’d have to kill me before I’d submit.”
“And that’s going to help us, how? He knows this is about him, and he’s not going to fight; not your way, anyway.”
“So what will he do?” His eyes were focused on Kare, all his earlier composure gone. He looked the way he’d been when he first realised Kym wasn’t on board, like he was ready to crack. Lichio touched his arm, clumsy in his shackles. Silom nodded.
Lichio dropped his hands. “He’ll do his best, Silom.”
The guards unshackled the restrained prisoners and called the others forward. The cargo doors opened, dwarfing Kare, who stood at their mouth, swaying. Lichio nodded at Silom and together they walked forward and stood either side of their colonel. What was left of the Banned army formed up. His brother had done this. He still couldn’t quite believe it.
When the cargo doors opened fully, Lichio stepped onto a raised walkway which stretched across to the palace of Abendau. He glanced over its low parapet, at a crowd gathered in the gardens below. Another crowd waited where the walkway opened out at the palace. Quite the event. The guards pushed him forward but he held back for a moment, not wanting to face the shouts and goading. A firmer push made him walk forwards.
Lichio didn’t look at the crowd, but focused on the entrance ahead, noticing how it was formed from a blend of old and new stone. It seemed to him a sign, telling them her empire was ageless. She was right: without Kare, there was no one else who could face her.
They reached the end of the walkway, and he shrank back from the crowd, glad of the guards’ protection. The crowd's spit still reached him, stinging his face. He reached to wipe it away, but stopped. Kare can’t. He looked again at his friend, saw how he faced the crowd, his face unmoving, his eyes looking ahead. I’m a le Payne and need to be proud of it. His dad would want him to be. Still, he trembled as he passed, and cast his eyes down against their hatred.
He stepped into the entrance hall and his breath quickened when he saw the archway opposite, knowing it held the ancient castle of Abendau, around which she’d built her palace, and the path to Omendegon. He imagined himself being taken into its dark portal, and had an urge to run or fight. He glanced first at Silom, standing with his fists clenched, and then at Kare, who must be more frightened than anyone. Briefly, their eyes met and Kare visibly took a deep breath. With a nod, Lichio turned to face the archway, ready to be pushed into it. Instead, his focus was taken by the soft noise of the crowd sinking to their knees as if an invisible wave had swept over them. Kare’s guard forced a hiss of pain as he pulled on his arms and brought him to his knees.
“Give the order,” said the guard, “or I’ll lengthen the list of your people visiting Omendegon.”
“Kneel.” Kare’s voice was hoarse, but loud enough to carry through the hall. Lichio hesitated, everything in him wanting to resist, until Kare glared at him and he sank to his knees.
As he did, a weight smothered his thoughts. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and he struggled to draw breath. He lifted his eyes to the balcony and saw, regal and imperious, the Empress, her face hard, untouchable. His fear turned to terror. Beside him, Kare gave a low moan and the Empress smiled as she swept her son’s mind. How bad must it feel: to know how to fight her, to have had the power to, but be unable.
Kare slumped forwards and the room waited in silence as they watched her dominance. His head stayed down, and Lichio held his breath, willing Kare to find his power and face her with it. A moment later, Kare pulled himself up and focused on her again, but he was pale and sweating, drawing on every strand of strength within him. Lichio switched his attention to the Empress, and his terror returned. He’d been a bloody fool to try and fight against this. She looked directly at him, and it was like she was seeing the very soul of him– everything that made him Lichio. He shook his head and turned back to Kare, his fear easing a little as he did.
“General Phelps,” said the Empress, and the man who had led her army stepped forward and kneeled. “You have brought me my prize, as you said you would. I congratulate you.”
The man visibly swelled with pride. “My Empress, I thank you.”
The Empress turned back to where her prisoners were waiting.
“Kare Varnon,” the Empress said. “Son of the famous rebel Ealyn.”
“Empress,” he acknowledged, his voice low and hoarse. Sweat ran down his forehead, into his eyes, and he was trembling under her stare but he was still, somehow, facing her.
“We've managed to remove you from your pseudo-kingdom, I see. Without your famous psyche, too. I command your fealty and if it’s given, and given honestly, I will grant clemency.”
Kare took his time. His breathing was heavy and loud in the quiet room, but he glared at his mother.
“No,” he said, his voice low, but steady. “I won’t.”
A sharp sound resonated through the room. Lichio closed his eyes, knowing what would– must– happen next.
“Omendegon,” the Empress said, and Lichio opened his eyes to see her turn and leave. The word echoed in his head, circling.
Kare was trailed roughly to his feet, a scream hastily bitten off, and pulled to the doorway of the castle. If he tried to delay, it wasn’t obvious; if he pulled back at all, it made no difference. Numbly, Lichio was lifted from his knees and pushed through the door, Silom behind him. He stumbled down the twisting corridor, the cold stonework surrounding him. As the light from the entrance hall faded, Lichio le Payne struggled to remember any of the ancients’ prayers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Kare was pushed through the arch, his head buzzing from his mother’s invasion. She’d tried to take the information she needed, right there and then. The base, the spies, everything, but when she’d touched the block, her invasion had stopped, no matter how she'd tried to force it. Without it, he'd have no defence against her. With it... he hardly dared to face what that meant.
He stumbled, his hands behind him, not able to save himself, and yelled out, sure he was going to fall. Somehow, he got his right foot down and managed to stay upright, but his cramped muscles twisted. A huge hand caught his shoulder– familiar already– and Beck spun him against the wall. His cheek banged off the rock. There was the sound of a lash and he screamed at a new pain– fresh, different– across his shoulders. Another crack and a second blossom of agony pierced him as his skin parted.
“Not another sound.”
He stayed where he was, his cheek against the hot rock, and tried to nod. He bit down, hard, holding back a moan as Beck pushed him down the corridor, its slight incline making him lose his footing. This time he was sure he would fall. He didn’t, but he had to grind his teeth together to stay silent. Sadist. His blood ran cold.
Ahead, an iron door stood, and above it a sign, old and faded, but he didn’t need to be able to read the ancient Abendauii to know where he was: Omendegon, the place of pain. He tried to slow down, but another hard shove kept him moving. If anyone cares about me, please stop this happening. The
door opened and he was forced through.
It stank. The iron tang of blood, a dark undertone of filth. Cages lined each side of the corridor, but he was marched past them. Behind, he heard one open, and then another: Lichio and Silom were staying here, for now. Beck took his arm, yanking it back, and he didn’t cry out.
“Scared yet?” Beck’s voice was close to his ear, menacing. Gods, yes. He nodded, sure if he tried to answer he’d start begging to be taken somewhere else. Anywhere else. A second iron door stood at the end of the corridor, and it opened into a different section, this one modern, with silvered doors lining each side, stretching to a distant, red stone wall.
Beck opened one of the doors and pushed Kare in. Inside there was a small desk with a chair either side. Sitting at the desk was an old man, his shoulders rounded as if permanently hunched, his skin sun-darkened. His soft, brown eyes met Kare’s, and swept over him, appraising him. Kare swallowed, but said nothing.
The old man nodded to Beck. “Release his arms.”
Beck undid the shackles holding Kare’s arms. As his stretched muscles moved, he screamed, long, wrenched from him. Cramps ran across his back and shoulders.
“Sit down.”
Kare did, forcing himself to concentrate on the old man. He looked kind: like someone you’d tell anything to.
“You’re wondering who I am?”
Kare nodded.
“In here, I’m the Great Master. That’s my only name to you. There are other masters here, but it’s to me you’ll tell your secrets. Now, let’s get an idea of how cooperative you’ll be. What’s your name?”
There would be time later to hold back, but they knew who he was. “Kare Varnon.”
“Good. You’re a member of the Banned?”
“Yes.”
“Rank?”
Kare opened his mouth, but when he tried to say his rank, nothing came out.
“Rank?” the man said again.
“I can’t tell you,” Kare said. “I have a block–”
The old man held his hand up. “I am aware of your block. We’ll see what we can do to get round it.” He nodded to Beck. “Room one.”
Beck pulled Kare to his feet and led him back down the corridor to another of the doors. He opened it, and Kare walked in. The room was clinical, the only furniture a metal table with a single chair next to it. It wasn't unlike where he'd had his implant removed, back on the base.
“Strip.” Beck waited, his expression bland. Kare didn’t move. “Strip or I’ll lash them off you.”
He would; the stinging heat across his shoulders confirmed it. Kare unbuttoned his shirt and pulled off his boots and trousers until he stood, just his shorts left. It was horribly exposed. Fear gripped him, holding him, and there was no way out. The block was in place just as he’d planned, no way around it, no chink in it. He met Beck’s eyes, saw the satisfaction within them.
“I said strip, Dog.”
Kare swallowed, and pulled off his shorts, straightening and fighting the urge to hide. Beck openly assessed him, the disparity between owned and owner pronounced. He circled Kare, making him aware of his bare skin, how easily it had parted under the whip. Kare looked at the table, refusing to watch Beck, and another surge of fear coursed through him, stronger than before. He had to know what lay ahead; knowing had to be easier than this blind fear. “What does it do?”
“Lie on it.”
Kare stood his ground, not moving. He couldn't keep obeying, or there'd be no end to the bastard's demands. Beck laughed and cuffed him lightly on the ear.
“What does it do?” asked Kare again. He took in a lever beside the table, straps on each corner, and his blood ran to ice.
“What does it do, Master.” Beck reached out, his hands covering Kare’s shoulders, and slammed him back against the table, jarring his spine so that he had to bite down against a yell. “You will learn.”
He pushed Kare onto the table, holding him easily as he tried to twist. Each wrist was forced into a strap, followed by his ankles, stretching him, leaving him open and vulnerable. A wave of panic rose and he tried to count his breaths– in and out, in and out, steady and slow. At the sound of the door he opened his eyes and found himself looking at the kind face of the Great Master. Now the man was closer to him– so close he could smell his sour breath– there was something in his eyes, a sense of enjoyment, that wiped away any trace of kindness. Kare licked his dry lips.
“It does no good.” The Great Master checked the straps. “Deep breathing. Meditation. Nothing you can do will stop the pain, unless you tell me what I need to know.”
Kare swallowed, hard. Had his dad lain here, looking into those eyes? A click from where the old man sat took his attention, and then another. He tensed in anticipation. With the next soft click, his ankles and wrists pulled against their straps. His eyes met the old man's in horrified realisation.
“Tell me your rank, and I’ll let you off,” the Great Master said. “That’s all I want to know today.”
Kare opened his mouth. Say it: you’re a colonel. His subconscious held stubbornly to the knowledge, refusing to let it out. He couldn’t even feel the block, let alone find any way of opening it, without his psyche. And with Stitt dead, even with his powers he could do nothing.
“I can’t." He put everything he had into the words; he needed these men to believe him. "I really can’t.”
“A pity,” said the old man, and there was another click. Kare steeled himself as his body stretched, his already tender muscles aching. The skin where Beck had lashed him parted, cold metal burning the wound. He bit down.
Dimly, he heard the Great Master’s voice. “You see how even the smallest stretch hurts; you did your job on the ship well, Beck.”
Another click, and this time pain ripped through Kare, down his arms and legs, through his torso. A scream tore from his throat. His rib cage barely tolerated the shuddering gulp of air he took as it faded to a moan. The block was the only thing stopping him screaming the answer to their question; he’d been right to do it, to save his people from this. He had to hang on to that.
“Already,” the Great Master continued, “he’s wondering how far I’ll go, how long it will go on for. Come, leave him to think.”
His tormentors left and the pain wracked through him. He had no idea how long he lay there, time measured only by agonised breaths, but when he heard the sound of the door he let out a sob of fear. There was an injection, and then the old man moved back to where he could see him.
“It’s difficult,” he confided. “My Empress has made it clear she wants you to show remorse. She tells me not to allow you the release of oblivion. You understand?”
Kare didn’t answer– there was no answer– and the Great Master pursed his lips in disappointment.
“Confirm your rank to me, Colonel Varnon,” he said. “See, I already know it, all you have to do is nod, and I stop now.”
Kare attempted to nod, but couldn’t. He tried to think of anything to appease this man, something which might stop him, and finally thought of a word.
“Please,” he whispered. The face of the Great Master was coming and going, blurred through the pain. He had a sense of something being shown to him, shining and long, but couldn’t tell what it was.
“Where should I put it?” asked the Great Master. Kare shook his head, but something cold and metallic touched his chest. He tensed, causing needles of sharp agony. They faded and he stared at the Great Master, waiting, trying not to remember his father crying for the release of death, and yet he could think of nothing else.
A shock of pain seared into his chest muscles. He thrashed against it, pulling on his bonds. He was sure he’d be ripped apart, he fought so much. His tormentor waited until his screams faded to gulping sobs.
“I’m a patient man,” he whispered, his mouth close to Kare’s ear, like a lover. “I can wait for you to tell me your secrets. While I wait, this body of yours…”
Kare moaned as the metal point ra
n down his body, knowing where it was meant for. He began to shake.
“No,” he pleaded, his voice hitching. When the probe touched his balls there was a hot spurt of piss. Beck laughed, loud and mocking. Kare waited, knowing what must come, his breaths shallow against the pain, his eyes closed, mouthing the same words over and over again. “Please, no.”
At last it came, the pain enveloping him, spreading through every nerve he had. His scream was the howl of an animal. It stopped, refusing him the oblivion of passing out, and then the probe moved. The old man waited so he knew what was to come, enjoying his torment, and when the next shock came, Kare sank into the pain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sam sat in the quiet church, looking, as intently as it was possible to, at the statue of his lady. He liked this particular chapel, cut from the red stone of the Belaudii desert: it reminded him of the churches of his childhood on Ligne. There, they worshipped a different God– only his Lady was allowed on Belaudii– but the sense of place was the same. He closed his eyes and prayed to his own God to give him the strength he needed.
The sound of a lash, Beck’s grunt as he put all his weight into it. It was as vivid as when he’d been in the cell, watching. He could smell piss and old shit, see the healer being called forward from the shadows, the miracle of skin healing.
He drew in a breath and tried to clear his mind, focusing on the statue of the Empress. It wore a soft smile, not at all the hard one when she’d invaded the prisoner’s mind, ignoring his last words of defiance, the look of undiluted hatred he’d fixed on her. His eyes– that brilliant green, impossible to ignore– had cast around the room, finding Sam, for a moment, counting the doctor as one of them. Another shock had torn his face skywards, brought a shriek that filled the room, even as his block had held. Sam’s palms were sweating. He needed to stop this memory, to forget about what had happened, but still it ran on: the fury of the Empress as the prisoner had held against her; his pleas as she invaded him again; the final round of shocks that had left Varnon hanging, unmoving, his secrets screamed through the room, the block collapsed under her power.