War Against the White Knights

by Tim C. Taylor

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll never talk, monkey brain.”

  The Hardit regarded him coolly without speaking. Was the torturer dismayed by this human resilience? If so, then she had never encountered a Marine before. Arun leered back. Didn’t look like he was going to escape from this, but he wasn’t planning on going easily. His body had understood his situation and activated his pain shunts. The burn in his shoulders had already numbed, and the more this veck hurt him, the less Arun would feel it.

  Arun began to feel unnerved with the syringe. He tried to look away, but trying to look away only made him think of that needle and its tip that looked unnecessarily broad.

  He shut his eyes, but the needle was still there in his thoughts. Only now it was larger, and its content bubbling and fuming like an evil wizard’s potion.

  His eyes flicked open and his gaze locked onto the needle’s tip.

  “What’s that?” he heard himself ask, and then cursed himself for betraying his fears to the torturer. How could he be so frakking weak?

  The Hardit stood on a step in front of Arun. Close enough to kick.

  She was larger than the Hardits he had known on Tranquility – as he was larger than the humans of Earth – but that still left her no higher than his shoulders. A motor sounded and the step the torturer stood upon rose out of the floor, presumably because she wanted to look her captive in the eye.

  Even better.

  Arun tried to give the impression of shying away from the torturer while really gathering his strength. Just before she reached his height, he snapped into action, channeling all his loathing for Hardits into a kick aimed at the hairy veck’s throat.

  His hips twisted and his thigh moved up to snap out the strike, but after that his attack collapsed and his sight popped with explosions of pain that burst in his head. His body shuddered with such hurt that it seemed he had imploded, shrinking around a ball of burning agony that seared every fiber of his being.

  As he hung there, the brightness of the overloaded sensations dulled, forming a single, aching word that resonated in his head. Pain. Pain. Pain?

  What happened to my pain shunts?

  He heard a growl from the Hardit, and remembered the torturer standing before him, examining her latest project. The skangat was laughing at him. “Yes, you feel pain, human Marine. Pain and paranoia. As I said, I know how to drag dogs like you through worlds of agony of my own creation, begging me for the release of death almost from the very first step.”

  The torturer blew over Arun’s face, forcing him to breathe in her stink of rotting meat and loamy mud. “I have broken stronger humans than you, Number 106.”

  That number… Arun’s thighs trembled. Number 106 had been his designation in that mercifully brief time when he’d been a Hardit slave.

  The torturer brought the syringe in front of Arun’s face and depressed the plunger with the endmost tip of its tail until the sludgy liquid dribbled out of the needle’s tip.

  Arun’s mind shot hatred at his tormentor, but his body betrayed him. His gasps were accompanied by a pitiful mewling at the back of his throat.

  As the pain in his shoulders returned and began growing into agony, he watched, mesmerized by the needle as the Hardit pushed more fluid out of its tip… until the syringe barrel had emptied its contents onto the deck.

  “I have no need to inject you,” she said. “The hood has already delivered its payload into your bloodstream. Did you feel a prick in your neck a little earlier? Yes, I see from your eyes that you did. Soon the merest touch will be agonizing, and yet, sadly for you, the stimulant will prevent the pain shock from driving you into the refuge of unconsciousness. You will feel every agony I will upon you. And I shall never grant you release.”

  The torturer then stepped forward and stabbed at Arun with the syringe.

  He was screaming even before the needle hit home. Then it speared his groin, sinking through his flesh until it scraped the bone of his pelvis and drew out howls of agony. The needle broke off inside him, leaving a thumb’s-width on the outside. Arun went beyond screams into streams of tears and moans.

  “I didn’t need to do that,” said the Hardit, the artificial voice making her explanation sound perfectly reasonable, “but I wanted to.”

  The torturer jerked in surprise before drawing out from her pocket what looked like a communicator. Whoever had called was important judging by the way she drew her body erect when she put the device to her ear.

  The conversation of growls and grunts lasted half a minute. Then the torturer threw one arm up in a salute and barked out words that were translated through her collar speaker: “One galaxy! One race! One scent!”

  Arun watched intently as his tormentor replaced the communicator in her pocket and returned to her trolley. She burst into a sudden blur of fury, grabbing the hammer and rushing back at Arun.

  He’d never felt so exposed. His arms were spread wide as if welcoming the attack. After the agonizing lesson of his failed attempt to kick his tormentor, he didn’t even twist out of the way.

  With a snarl of rage, the torturer smashed the hammer against Arun’s side.

  A noise like a pistol shot filled the room as his rib cracked, followed by a tsunami of artificially boosted waves of nausea mixed with despair.

  A part of him still dared to hope, drawing unexpected comfort from the hammer blow. The pain was a challenge but there was an artificial quality to it. If he could only control the way he perceived the torturer’s blows then he could escape her hold over his mind. Pain was a form of information. Nothing more. He’d taken worse punishment than cracked bones before and lived, and that was the important thing here. If the torturer wanted to wring secrets from him then she would not kill him. All he had to do was ride the waves of intense sensation and wait for rescue and the revenge that would surely follow.

  He could do that.

  “Pity,” said the torturer, replacing the hammer on her rack. “I would have liked to play with you for longer. But I defer to our Supreme Commander.”

  “What did you say?” Arun asked, trying to keep the pain from his voice.

  “Your worst nightmare, Number 106. Supreme Commander Tawfiq Woomer-Calix is displeased with you. You may pray to whatever human deity watches over you that you will be granted swift release. Your prayers will be wasted, though, because I shall ensure the spark of life persists in your body until such time as the Supreme Commander gives you permission to die.

  The hatch opened and a Hardit marched through in a uniform shot through with gold.

  Instantly, the torturer fell to her knees and kissed the deck, not daring to raise her head.

  Tawfiq, if that were truly her, ignored her inferior’s groveling and drew a pistol on Arun.

  She shot him.

  Twice.

  Arun ground his teeth together but refused to give Tawfiq the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. He wouldn’t even close his eyes.

  “I know it hurts,” she said, and shot him again.

  Arun screamed.

  “Two shots to the gut and one in your chest.” Her translated words sounded a whole lot calmer than Arun felt. “I don’t seem to have hit anything too vital. Shall we try again?”

  Arun took a deep breath.

  “I wasn’t speaking rhetorically,” said Tawfiq. “Shall I shoot you again?”

  “No!” Arun calmed his voice. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Your request is noted… and I shall accede to it for now. The ammunition for this weapon is low-velocity, and the padded bulkheads mean there is little chance of ricochet damage. I can shoot you many more times before you die. But special pleasures, such as killing you, are so much more satisfying when I draw them out a little. Let us talk a while instead.”

  “What about? Your surrender?”

  “Your defiance bodes well for my immediate future. And talking of the future, I wish to share mine.”

  The pain was so all-consuming that Arun didn’t dare try to speak. All
that would emerge would be agonizing groans. Instead, he imagined a future in his head. One where Tawfiq was hanging here and Arun held the pistol.

  “I have heard you Human Legion commanders prattle away for many years now. Freedom will be yours, apparently. Ingratiate your human selves with allies with a few brain cells – such as your mysterious mudsuckers – and you can win a few battles against the White Knight forces. Bravo. It is like watching two children fighting with paper swords. Pathetic! None of you would stand a chance against the full strength of the Hardit New Order.”

  “We’ll beat the imperials,” growled Arun in a voice drenched in pain. “And then we’ll come after you.”

  “Yes, I’m counting on your precious Legion coming after us, as you put it. It’s a shame you won’t be around to lead them. And I do mean that sincerely, because with your imminent demise your Legion cannot fail to pick a more competent leader.”

  His shattered ribs made every breath an agony, but Arun wasn’t about to let Tawfiq’s jibes go unanswered. “The Legion is not about leaders. It’s an idea, a rallying cry for those denied their freedom. That’s why we’ll win. No matter how many defeats we suffer, we will win in the end.”

  Tawfiq shook her snout from side to side, a gesture Arun recognized as mocking laughter. “You have it wrong. You have been deceived. Freedom will be won, but not freedom for the humans. It is the Hardit destiny to win our freedom from you lesser races. To be fair to you, your limited powers of perception did manage to correctly sense one aspect of the future. Your mistrust of the Night Hummers is well founded.”

  “What do you mean? The Hummers are our allies.”

  “No, 106. They are ours. They have led you here to the stronghold of the White Knights so you can wipe yourselves out, leaving this part of the galaxy free for the New Order to claim what is rightfully ours. One race! One scent! We shall permit the Hummers to live their peaceful and pointless existences floating in their gas giants because they have proved their worth and their loyalty. The future for all other species is extermination.”

  “Words,” spat Arun. “Lies are your strength.” And yet the claim struck a chord; he’d always been suspicious of the Hummers, and had thought that by installing them on Legion ships he had been using them in a way they hadn’t anticipated, but what if they were using him all along?

  While that thought distracted him, Tawfiq shot him in the foot, shattering bones and showering him with bolts of agony.

  He screamed despite himself and couldn’t help but look down, squinting through the pain at the damage. His foot was a bloodied mess. A detached part of him realized that it would have to be amputated.

  “Lies are my strength? No, 106. My strength is that I can crush all opposition. I can destroy your precious warfleet as easily as I can shoot your disgusting human body. Shall I demonstrate again?”

  Arun shook his head.

  “No? Soon, 106. But we shall delay your destruction a little longer. I have a task for you to perform. A decision I need you to help me make. You see, the Hummers tell me that the futures that lead to the ultimate victory of the New Order require our fleet to withdraw, so that your Legion can wipe out your Imperial adversaries – those you call the New Empire. But your Legion is so weak that you could not possibly hope to overcome the New Empire defenses. Either you would disperse or you would wait here, cracking your bone heads against impregnable defenses until you starve or are crushed by the New Empire relief force that is on the way. Oh, yes, you have been lured here. And now you need help. You need a key to victory. And I possess that key.”

  “We don’t need your help to win, Hardit.”

  “I do enjoy the stupidity that drips from everything you say. Of course the Legion requires my help.”

  “Why would you ever help humans?”

  “Not through choice. However, there is a truism so obvious it is ubiquitous even across non-Hardit species. The enemies of my enemies are my friends. I have many enemies, Number 106. Old Empire. New Empire. Human Legion. Muryani Accord, and above all the Amilxi. We hate you all. We will crush you all. You are our enemies and yet that means you must also be our friends. I could help you – perhaps – because my erstwhile allies of the New Empire would extract a heavy price before you defeated them. You will leave this star system weaker than if you flee now.”

  Arun knew that Tawfiq was the Queen of Lies and didn’t believe this for a moment; the Hardit was messing with his head, trying to torture him mentally as well as physically while puffing up her own grandiose sense of importance. “Could? Why so weasel-worded?” he said, calling her bluff. “Why don’t you make a decision and help us, rather than talk about it?”

  “Because the thought of helping you is too unpalatable. I need you to sweeten it with your begging. Your death is inevitable. Nothing you could say will lessen my pleasure at torturing you first. But if you beg for my help as your master–”

  “Master? I thought you preferred mistress. We have several Legion species with fluid genders, good soldiers all, but I always thought monkeys were more static.”

  “Dolt. Master, mistress… the confusion is but a failing of your language. I am not male any more than I remain female. We of the New Order have transcended the weakness of gender. One race. One scent. Gender divided us. It was a weakness that I have eradicated.”

  “How about compassion? Or all emotions? Aren’t they all weaknesses? For that matter, death. You Hardits are so damned clever at technology, so ready to tinker with your biology. Are you telling me you cannot conquer death?”

  Tawfiq seemed to consider the idea seriously.

  “Got you thinking, hasn’t it?” Arun taunted. “Only one problem. If you create a species of post-Hardit super-beings, why would they take orders from a serial loser like you?”

  Tawfiq growled and raised her pistol. She played its aim over Arun’s body without firing.

  Arun shook with the anticipation.

  And then the gun was firing, pumping bullet after bullet into his legs, shattering his knees and shins, gouging bloody chunks from his thighs, Arun twitched and jerked, which only brought fresh explosions of agony until it the pain blurred into a single overwhelming force.

  The firing ceased.

  The pain did not go away as such, but the torturer had been wrong. His nerves had shredded so badly that they were no longer able to convey the message of pain.

  As soon as he could muster his reserve of fortitude, Arun spoke back. “That’s right…” He groaned. “You’re a loser, Tawfiq. Can’t… can’t even control your temper tantrums, can you?”

  “Beg for the key, 106! Beg me for the sake of your friends! They will live longer if you do. Maybe I miscalculate and they do have a chance of defeating the Hardit New Order. Beg! Now!”

  Arun took deep breaths to gather the last of his strength. “Here’s what I think, Tawfiq-Loser-Catnip. That key you’re talking about… you’ve already sent it… Or you haven’t and nothing I say will make the slightest difference. Either way, you can take your generous offer and shove it up whatever shriveled old passage you have left after you eradicated gender.”

  “Curse you, human.”

  Arun laughed through the pain. “All these years, Tawfiq, and you still haven’t invented a decent translator. Curse you! Is that really the best you have? Well, I’ve been around spacers and their foul holes for decades. Translate this, loser: your turd-wrangling New Order are a pig-licking slurry of… of bakri chod chod… wixers. You’re… you’re…”

  But the burst of defiance had deserted him, and with his strength spent, Arun’s head sank. When he recovered enough to look up, he expected to see Tawfiq so incensed with rage that her three sulfurous eyes would be spinning on separate tracks. He laughed, remembering when he’d had that effect before by ramming an exploding flash-bomb in her face.

  He slowly sobered when he realized Tawfiq was no longer there. The guards had left too.

  When had they done that?

  He had the sens
e of time draining away.

  The expanding red stain on the deck told of something else draining away.

  The torturer’s drugs kept his guttering consciousness from snuffing out, but he had the barest presence, an existence drained of the dynamics of bodily sensations. He could sense nothing more than a dull, extended ache as he watched his blood pool beneath him on the deck.

  He imagined he heard an explosion. Gunfire. Voices. Human voices, but far away and drifting farther.

  Despite making one last effort to call for help, he no longer had the strength to raise his head.

  He hung there, too tired to even close his eyes, and waited for the last of his blood to drain away.

  — CHAPTER 20 —

  “Report!” commanded Admiral Indiya, annoyed that she’d been summoned from her preparations for the critical, pre-battle conference with only the flimsiest of explanations.

  “We’re getting strange reports from Lance of Freedom, sir,” answered Captain Lorcaen.

  “Don’t give me ‘strange reports’, give me somebody who knows what’s going on!”

  Lorcaen patched through Captain Cythien, commander of the Lance, who had clearly been waiting on standby.

  “Cythien here. My ship has been infiltrated by Hardit commandos. They slaughtered General McEwan’s bodyguard. My guess is that they have snatched him and already left the ship, but considering they boarded the Lance undetected and scrambled half of my ship systems, they could be anywhere, and on any ship. This happened several minutes ago. We’ve only just been able to reestablish comms.”

  Old feelings of guilt threatened to overwhelm Indiya. Irrational as she knew the idea to be, her gut told her that she didn’t deserve to win; that somehow this was her fault.

  “Former Squadron leader Romulus is missing too,” continued Cythien, “as is Deputy Ambassador Tremayne. And about Tremayne…” Captain Cythien rarely hesitated, and like most Jotuns her reports were so stripped down to their essentials that they sounded bland. Hesitation meant Cythien was resorting to hunches and guesswork. “The Khallenes contacted me directly to enquire as to Tremayne’s well-being. This is highly uncharacteristic. They know something, but I can’t extract a rational answer from them. I regret I find communication with aliens extremely difficult, though my long experience dealing with humans might obscure this from you.”