Perhaps that was an unwise approach, he supposed. But right now it seemed to be the only way he could keep his own sanity while trying to convince the rest of the galaxy of the rebel queen’s insanity.
It was like his Minister of State had quipped to him one day. “It seems the people want a monarch, even a batty one.”
Caerwyn had laughed at that and, at first, gave it little other thought. But the words rolled around in his head and he thought about how overwhelmingly true they seemed, the people really did miss and need the monarchy, when it became obvious what he had to do.
“My fellow lords, gentlemen, and dear advisors,” he said, in the privacy of his council chambers. With him were each of his ministers, along with high ranking members of the Assembly, the ones whom Caerwyn most trusted. “It has come to my realization that the reason why the rebel queen has been successful at rallying the neutral worlds to her banner—”
“And don’t forget, some of our own worlds,” added the Minister of State.
Caerwyn did not approve of the interruption, and the reminder he’d been losing some of his own was a slap in the face, but he shrugged it off gently. “Yes, some of our own worlds as well,” he continued. “Is because the people have lived for such a long time under a system of monarchy, where power is ultimately held and exercised by a king or a queen, an individual ruler to whom the people may look to for safekeeping and pledge their loyalties, their fortunes, and even their very lives.”
“Well, technically, the ultimate power is vested in the Assembly,” said the Minister of Law. “Minor point of order, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps in the Imperial Charter it is so,” said Caerwyn. “But that is not how it is in the minds of the people. And that is the battlefield where this war is won or lost,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect. “It isn’t in the courts, or the legal texts, or even in the blood-soaked stars; it is the opinion of the people that will decide this contest.”
The Minister of Strategy objected. “My Lord, pardon my interruption, but it is fleets which win wars.”
“Fleets may win battles,” corrected Caerwyn, “but it is sentiment that wins wars.”
His advisors looked perplexed. “So, let me get this straight, Mr. Steward,” said Lord Wightman. “You’d have us believe this has nothing to do with ships, soldiers, or Q, and that with a few wet eyes, some tissues, and a few moving speeches we can win this thing?”
“Close enough,” said Caerwyn, much to the surprise of those assembled who knew Lord Wightman had been mocking him. “Think about it, my friends. What wins wars are numbers, and what are numbers? People. What brings people to your cause? Stirring their emotions to favor you above your enemies. The reason why the rebel queen has been recently successful at winning allies to her cause, despite our best efforts to discredit her, is because she is a symbol. She is the last Akira; she’s put on a crown and calls herself queen. She is an idea, and ideas are powerful. The masses do not rally around logic, they aren't moved by well-debated arguments or the finer technicalities of law; people are moved by emotions. They rally to symbols. And Kalila has given them that.”
Most of his ministers nodded, now understanding. A few remained quiet; perhaps he hadn’t persuaded them all, but none chose to argue the matter.
“Then what would you have us do?” asked the Minister of Strategy. “If she has made herself into a symbol, I don’t believe we can unmake her, somehow tear that symbol down.”
“You’re right, we can’t,” said Caerwyn. “But we can make a symbol of our own, a better one. Something to which the people can rally even more strongly towards which would take away her advantage and give us the upper hand.”
“And just how do you suppose we do that?” asked the Minister of Finance.
“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 i
s 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.
The Phoenix Darkness Page 20