Purge of Prometheus

by Jon Messenger

  “Maybe I could use a break,” Horace replied. As he pulled away from Yen’s hand, Yen retracted the blue energy that had pierced the Security Officer’s arm. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said as he walked out the door.

  “More than enough time,” Yen called to him as the psychic walked into the hallway and stopped in front of the interrogation room door. Waiting until the Oterian was around the corner, Yen entered the sterile, metal room. He closed the door behind him, leaning heavily on the thick door. Vangore didn’t raise his head as Yen entered, instead continuing to cry softly, his tears rolling down onto his chest.

  “Hello, Vangore,” Yen said, reaching up and throwing a switch on the room’s video camera. The camera stopped recording as Yen moved toward the table and pulled out the metal chair across from Vangore.

  “Please,” Vangore mumbled through hitched sobs. “Please, no more.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Yen replied. “I really do.”

  Yen paused as the air around him began to waver. The hairs on Vangore’s neck stood on end, as the room built an electrical charge. Blue sparks arced between the table legs, reaching out probingly toward the metal cuffs on Vangore’s wrist. As the charge built, small puffs of smoke rose throughout the room. The more apparent microphones as well as the concealed recording devices simultaneously shorted out, casting the room into digital silence. There was nothing left to record the next conversation between Yen and the prisoner.

  “I wish I could leave you be,” Yen continued. “You’ve certainly suffered enough. But the guilty story I gave you last time has too many holes in it to be plausible.”

  Blue tendrils began to spread from Yen’s body, wrapping themselves around the chair, the table legs, and reaching toward Vangore. The blue psychic energy continued to spread until the wavering tendrils had filled the room, their tips hovering precariously around Vangore’s head and torso.

  “I can’t be implicated, you have to understand. I’m too important to the success of the Alliance to get in trouble over something as simple as murder.” Yen leaned closer, though he knew no one was listening to their conversation. “Horace wants a conspiracy, and I have every intention of giving him one. And he is going to be stunned when this one is revealed!”

  “I can’t,” Vangore begged, his chocked words thick with emotion. “Please, I can’t take any more.”

  “It’s much too late for that now,” Yen replied as the tendrils crashed down on Vangore, slipping seamlessly through his scalp and skull; they reached out like hungry leeches, yearning to feed on the memories and emotions stored within Vangore’s mind.

  Yen closed his eyes, letting his mind pass through the tendrils. Within his mind’s eye, Yen saw Vangore’s thoughts played out before him. With surgical precision, Yen began trimming away the memories he wished to modify, letting them fall forgotten into Vangore’s void of subconscious. In their place, he began creating fragments of memory: first a face, then a background, then dialogue. Piecing the fragments together like a puzzle, they began to take form. First one scene, then another, the entire time building an intricate conspiracy that would implicate numerous other Officers and Crewmen on board the Revolution. Like a movie, Yen told a story, one with an innocuous enough beginning, but one which snowballed wildly out of control until Vangore became wrapped up in a creation of his own making that he was no longer able to control. Yen was proud of his work, surprising himself with its complexities and far reaching implications should this story ever be told. His work, however, was far from done.

  Next, Yen changed his tendrils from scalpels to the hands of laborers. Around the filmstrip of memories, Yen crafted an intricate puzzle box, the entrance to which was unknown even to Vangore. Layer after layer of walls were built, hiding and obscuring the implanted memories. Yen knew that the chemicals of the Crown would slowly chip away at the box, making all the complexities of its lock unnecessary. But the puzzle box would serve its purpose, resulting in days if not weeks of hard interrogation on Horace’s part before any “evidence” would begin to reveal itself to Vangore’s shattered mind.

  As he began to remove the tendrils, one at a time, Yen was confident that Vangore now remembered nothing beyond the story he had now been told. Though his true memories were buried deep within his own mind, the psychic blades had left them so fractured that they would slip through his mind like sand; images would arise that were unattached to any context that would help him remember. Strange senses of déjà vu would permeate Vangore’s mind, always with the real memory just out of reach. Yes, Yen was proud of his work.

  Smiling as the last of the tendrils retracted into his body, Yen leaned back in the chair and Vangore slumped against his restraints. He watched as the prisoner slipped into unconsciousness, the psychic tendrils doing what the chemicals wouldn’t allow. It was a small consolation on Yen’s part; a minor gift after such a brutal intrusion.

  “Good talk,” Yen said as he stood, walking toward the door to the interrogation room. He paused long enough to turn the camera back on, though he knew there was no hope in repairing the microphones.

  Exiting the room, Yen saw Horace lumber down the hall. He raised his hand in a half-hearted salute.

  “Did you get anything?” Horace asked as he neared.

  “No, he didn’t talk at all.”

  “Did you really expect any results from your touchy-feely approach to interrogation?” Horace asked, mockingly.

  Yen frowned. “You’d be surprised how powerful the mind can be. Being able to shape it to your will is an art form that everyone would do well to learn.”

  Horace glowered at the psychic as Yen walked by, turning the corner at the far end, no longer interested in any results from impending interrogation. Though Horace had no proof, he couldn’t help but feel that there was some devious message hidden behind Yen’s last comment.

  CHAPTER 23:

  Their preparations passed in a blur and, by the time all was said and done, Keryn and Adam were thoroughly exhausted. During the day, the were forced to keep up the pretense of slaving in the fields, though they were approached more and more often by strangers, probing them for answers about the upcoming revolt. At night, they snuck out of House 12 and gathered with the rest of their forces in the squat stone building which warehoused their munitions. With nearly four dozen heavily armed Terrans, Uligarts, Oterians, Wyndgaarts, Avalons, and other assorted races sitting and leaning on crates, Keryn split their forces into three main groups: the assault team, the ambush team, and the saboteurs, each with clearly defined roles in the upcoming battle. She pulled out the same tattered map that had served them well since the invasion and explained at great length their strategy. They spent hours each night discussing the plan and tactics, getting little sleep before having to return to the fields to work the next day. Though many of the revolutionaries, as they came to think of themselves, were not soldiers originally, they complained little and spent significant amounts of time conducting marksmanship training with the weapons in the soundproofed building. On the second night, when Keryn and Alcent were confident that their forces were ready, she broached a difficult subject that had, thus far, been avoided.

  “What are we going to do about the Lithids?” she asked as the rest of the revolutionaries split into their groups to discuss individual responsibilities.

  “What choices do we really have?” Alcent replied. “They’re tracked everywhere they go. I never thought I’d say this, but right now the Lithids are more of a liability than a help.”

  Keryn lowered her voice to a soft hush. “Is there no way to remove the bracelets? You all can reprogram computer operated turret guns, but you can’t take off a band of explosives from their wrists?”

  Alcent flushed, clearly irritated with his own answer. “No, we cannot. Believe me, we tried, but with terrible results. The bracelets are coded to each individual Lithid’s DNA. It constantly scans for specific DNA patterns via the small metal probes that slice into the Lithid’s skin. I
f the scan does not find that specific DNA strand during one of its searches, the bracelet is programmed to detonate.” Alcent sighed heavily. “The Terrans are light years ahead of us when it comes to genetic research. I wouldn’t even know where to begin in order to bypass their technology. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what we can do with them.”

  Keryn rubbed her forehead in frustration. “What’s to stop the Terran’s from just blowing all the bracelets remotely once we start the revolution? We could be condemning every Lithid on the planet by doing this.”

  “Keryn, I’m sorry,” Alcent replied, his voice soft and apologetic. “I know your friend is a Lithid, but there’s nothing we can do. Either we stop this revolt because of our personal feelings for our friends, which I won’t allow, or we drive forward and accept their deaths as collateral damage.”

  She grimaced at Alcent’s word choices. “Collateral damage” sounded so incredibly impersonal for someone as close to her as Penchant. She pictured in her mind the hundreds of different faces he had assumed during their time together and couldn’t imagine him being gone from her life.

  “I have to let him know,” she said finally, her own voice full of emotion. “Even if I can’t warn them all, I owe it to him to let him know.”

  Alcent nodded, understanding. “Just be careful. We’re going to be striking in less than five hours. We can’t take the chance of being exposed now.”

  Keryn and Adam collected their gear for the assault, sliding on their combat vests, collecting ammunition, and stowing their modified assault rifles beneath their jackets. Glancing over her shoulder as they approached the exit to the building, Keryn lifted a hand to wave farewell. In one of her many meaningless prayers to Gods she didn’t follow, she prayed that everything would go as planned in the morning.

  The walk back to House 12 was slow. Neither Keryn nor Adam said much, both lost in the thought of condemning their friend to death. They paused outside the door, Keryn’s emotions a turmoil of both jubilation for the assault, remorse for their friend, and fear of failure. Adam slid his hand into hers, his presence giving her strength. Together, they opened the door and slipped into the interior darkness. As he had been for the past two nights, Penchant stood stoic watch near the door, eager to hear the latest news.

  With sorrow filled eyes, Keryn looked at the blank black oval of his face. “Penchant, we need to talk.”

  “No good news has ever come when a woman utters those words,” Penchant joked, his humor masking his own nervousness.

  Keryn swallowed hard, trying to force down the emotion that threatened to spill forth. During their walk to the house, she had practiced over and over again what she would say. But now standing before him, she found it difficult to tell him that he was going to die.

  Penchant nodded, as though reading her mind. “Alcent can’t remove the bracelet, can he?”

  “No,” Adam replied firmly behind her. She was glad to have him there, since she wasn’t sure she could have spoken without betraying her own sadness.

  “Which means that in four hours, no matter how successful your assault, the Terrans are going to remotely detonate all the Lithid’s bracelets and I’m going to die,” Penchant stated matter-of-factly. He slammed his fist into his palm, a rare display of emotion.

  Silence stretched between the trio; Keryn felt unsure of what words she could speak that wouldn’t sound completely hollow in light of Penchant dying.

  “It’s just so senseless,” Penchant finally said, his anger rumbling through his gravelly voice. “After all our training, all our fighting, this is it for me? No blaze of glory? No remarkable last words? Nothing. Tomorrow morning, I wake up and die.”

  “I’m truly sorry,” Keryn whispered.

  “Spare me,” Penchant said angrily, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “Go to bed. I’m sure you both will need your rest before your big day tomorrow.” Penchant slid down the wall until he was sitting, his knees pulled into his chest. He turned his head away from them, effectively ending the conversation.

  Moving away from the Lithid, Keryn and Adam moved gingerly over the rest of the sleeping forms until they had reached their area. Adam placed his supplies cautiously on the ground, covering them from prying eyes with his long jacket and remaining clothes. He gestured for Keryn to join him underneath the warm blanket, but she shook her head. Instead, she assumed a seated pose similar to Penchant’s, her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting on her knees. Though she knew she needed rest, she found that between anticipation of battle and a yearning to console Penchant, sleep just wouldn’t come.

  In the morning, the loudspeakers roared to life, announcing that it was time to report to the work groups. Survivors shuffled from the houses, their eyes bleary and bodies exhausted from daily labor. Keryn tried to catch up to Penchant as he left the house, but she couldn’t break through the sea of people. Shortly thereafter, he disappeared from her view. Both she and Adam kept their heads low as they moved to their designated position near one of the houses with a clear view of the awaiting Terran supervisors.

  Spotlights flooded the street where the survivors gathered, awaiting their segregation into individual work groups and their daily march into the rubble fields. Feeling her own nervousness, Keryn placed a comforting hand on the assault rifle under her long jacket and, closing her eyes, took a deep breath, willing her body to relax.

  Get control of yourself, the Voice growled in her ear. If you’re going to be leading this revolution, you need to have a clear mind.

  From in front of the gathered people, a Terran lifted a microphone to the thick black faceplate. “Gather into your assigned groups and follow your designated supervisor to you work areas,” the Terran said, his muffled voice coming from behind the faceplate boomed over the loudspeakers. The survivors had heard the similar speech every day for the past three weeks. “Any deviation from your assigned group will result in summarized execution. Any disobedience of the orders given by your supervisor will result in summarized execution. Any one not working to their fullest capability while in their work area will result in…”

  His speech was cut short as another booming voice roared through the crowd, interrupting the oft-rehearsed presentation. The crowd turned in search of the new speaker as he began.

  “Listen to me,” came a gravelly yell, the voice carrying clearly through the quiet crowd. “I have lived under the yoke of Terran occupation for three weeks and I have no intention of doing so any longer!”

  The Terran squad commander motioned for his men to move forward, and they began pushing through the crowd in search of the speaker.

  “They killed us when they dropped bombs,” the voice continued. “Those who died in the explosion were lucky, for they died as free men and women. For the rest of us, the Terrans figured they would kill us a little slower. Many succumbed and died in the fields. But I ask you to look around at one another. Look into the faces of the man or woman standing next to you. Their eyes are already dead. Your soul has already died, though your body is not smart enough to follow suit and collapse into the snow. If you’re content to live as a zombie, shuffling and slaving for masters that want nothing more than your spirit eternally crushed, then save them the time and build yourself a casket within these pristine fields of white snow. Dig it deep. Bury yourself beneath the white powder and let the freezing cold finally do what you don’t have the courage to do yourself.”

  “Ignore him,” the Terran squad commander announced over the loudspeaker. “Spreading propaganda will result in summarized execution.”

  The guards angrily shoved through the throngs of people, hunting crazily for the speaker, who remained elusive. The Terrans spread out, hoping to canvas the entire crowd in case the speaker continued. And continue he did.

  “For some of us, however, we don’t have the same chance that you all do. For some of us, we are constantly reminded of our impending death by the bracelet callously strapped to our wrists. Our deaths are not our own, but are c
ontrolled at the whim of a Terran.” The voice said the word with venom. “We Lithids are proud, and we will not succumb to your tyranny!”

  A scream erupted from the center of the crowd. The survivors parted in a circle around two figures. One, a Terran guard, slid slowly to the ground, carefully trying to hold entrails that poured from his abdomen. Beside him, a Lithid stood proudly, his hand dripping with the red blood and gore that he ripped from the guard’s stomach.

  “My name is Penchant,” the Lithid cried from the center of the circle, “and I am proud! And if I’m going to die today, I’ll do it by my terms. Join me my brethren. Stand against the Terran occupation and let us not die as slaves, but die in a blaze of glory!”

  Keryn watched in stunned silence, much like the rest of the crowd. Penchant’s skin rippled and wavered as he grew to monstrous proportions. His skin grew metallic spikes as his claws elongated. As his body stretched taller, growing over eight feet, a snout elongated from his face. Snarling, Penchant revealed multiple rows of razor sharp teeth. Howling into the illuminated street, the Lithid stood like a nightmare brought to life, snarling and frothing as it searched for another Terran to kill.

  “Kill… kill that creature,” the Terran squad commander screamed into the microphone, the fear evident in his voice. Reaching to his waist, he fumbled with a device. Finally pulling it free, he held aloft a detonator, the red button on top glowing madly.

  Keryn dropped into a crouch, pulling her rifle free and aiming through her scope toward the Terran holding the detonator. The sights danced as she tried to brace the rifle with hands that shook with both surprise and excitement.

  Please, the Voice cooed, allow me.

  Taking a deep breath, she squeezed the trigger. As the single gunshot echoed through the crowd, everyone turned to locate the shooter. The loudspeakers echoed the Terran’s scream as his hand disappeared in a spray of blood, the detonator falling harmlessly to the ground.