by Brandon Hill
Now he was certain. Indeed, Isibar knew this man very well.
“Jean-Pierre Mokomba. You told me that you’d be retiring to Beauvoir III. Instead, I find you here.”
The man froze, his back becoming rigid as if someone had poured ice down the back of his shirt. Slowly, he turned towards Isibar, eyes wide and bright, almost comically so on his dark face.
“Beavoir’s pretty boring, after all. Guess you couldn’t stand all the peace and quiet,” Isibar spoke with calculated nonchalance. “Lemme guess: You went back to home, sweet home on Mandela I, and couldn’t get away when the Imperium started getting greedy, right? And now, you’re working for them?”
“C’est impossible!” Mokomba stuttered. He backed clumsily into the opposite wall of the urinal stall. His free hand fumbled with the loose buckles of his pants. “What are you doing here?”
“What I’m paid to do,” Isibar answered. “And as a bonus to myself, I find you. You know you’re still at the top of the Alliance’s ‘most wanted’ lists. Tell me, is it that old habits die hard, or did you just one day decide to cast your lot back in with the bad guys?”
“It’s not what you think,” Mokomba said, seeming to have found his words. He glanced furtively towards the door and back, but Isibar followed his gaze with exacting accuracy. He was a professional among professionals; Mokomba wouldn’t get any more than three steps in his escape attempt, maybe four. He could neither run nor fight; before he knew it, he’d be on his way to Siberna for trial, and then to Zade to live the rest of his life in the mines ... or maybe even the gulags of Zynj, to slowly suffocate in that world’s toxic environment, scrapping the remnants of its ruined surface cities.
“What am I supposed to think it is?” Isibar rounded the urinal stall, cutting Mokomba off. “After the crap you pulled on Tantagel IX, There are too many reasons for you to sell out your own mother for me to name.”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong!” Mokomba pleaded. Isibar had no weapons drawn, but he knew how to make his presence intimidating, and this was all that was needed to make the cowardly scientist compliant. “I’m not experimenting on dragons anymore. I’m not hurting anyone this time; I swear! I learned my lesson. This time I’m helping! Honest!”
Isibar fixed him with a disbelieving look. “Interesting choice of words for someone who always seems to be on the devil’s side, no matter where you throw him.”
“This isn’t about devils or angels,” Mokomba sneered at the analogy. “It’s about the survival of the human race.”
“Isibar narrowed his eyes. “So you are working with the Imperium?”
“Mon dieu, but you have a one-track mind!” Mokomba said, tempering his exasperation with something that was akin to fear. “Fine, then. If you wish, I can show you.”
Isibar considered his situation and the interesting turn of events. He was in the heart of enemy territory, and needed a swift way to his objective. At the moment, the only one who could do this was a wanted bioterrorist who was working for the enemy. It would be almost funny if it weren’t so depressing. But the more morbid portion of his sense of humor made a compromise.
“Breathe wrong, and I’ll give you some extra holes to make it right,” Isibar warned him. He gestured towards the exit.
“Sans doute,” Mokomba said with resolute misery, tucking his white shirt back into his slacks. “But do you mind if I wash my hands first?”
“Yes.”
***
Isibar noticed that the sub-basement light came on after Mokomba pressed his thumb to the panel in the elevator.
“So this lab’s underground?” He said.
“For safety,” Mokomba answered with a curt nod.
“Yours?” Isibar asked, and then pointed upwards, “or theirs?”
Mokomba snorted. “You have not changed at all. Still impatient, non?”
“I wouldn’t get too loose-tongued if I were you,” Isibar said. “Your sorry ass has still got a bounty, you know.”
“You already made that abundantly clear,” Mokomba said flatly. “I’m not a fool, either. Your showing up is, in a way, fortuitous, I think. There is something more important for you to do here, and it would be too much trouble to force me along for the ride, I think. You’re in the dragon’s den, mon ami, and you reek of an egg thief.”
“Interesting analogy,” Isibar said dryly. But the point behind it was something that he could not deny. Mokomba was right. They both held the gun to each other’s respective head, but it would be unwise to stir up trouble this deep in enemy territory. Even here, he could still make the little man disappear if he wanted to, but to say that it would be foolish would be the understatement to end all. Besides, the explanation Mokomba gave him on their way to the elevator sounded almost too strange to be believable.
“You still doubt my words?” Mokomba said, reading Isibar’s expression. “C’est d’accord. You will see soon enough.”
A minute passed, and the elevator stopped. The door opened to a wide catwalk that traversed a high-roofed, circular room. Exposed pipes led downwards along solid concrete walls from the uncomfortably bright track lights above.
“This way,” Mokomba said getting off of the elevator first.
From the catwalk, Isibar could see several men and women in lab frocks moving to and fro in front of a series of large vats lined up against the walls, the reflected glare from the lights obscuring their contents from his vantage angle.
Several other forms were moving quickly to and fro among the scientists. They seemed to be animals at first glance, having red-brown hair with patterns of black stripes and moving on all fours, a human-sized blur between cat and dog. It was only when they reared up on their hind legs that Isibar fully knew that they were neither.
“Felyans?” He said. “Hara’kya Felyans? What are they doing here?”
Mokomba’s protests faded into white noise as Isibar ran the rest of the way across the catwalk and down the spiral staircase.
On the floor level landing, he froze, as the scientists were waiting for him with pistols drawn. The laser points of their targeting scopes were trained respectively upon his head and heart, while two rested steadily at his crotch.
“Okay,” Isibar murmured, realizing with withering chagrin the idiocy of his haste, “that was my bad idea for the day.”
“Wait! Please! Don’t shoot!” He heard Mokomba shout as bumbled down the staircase towards him, and gripped the banister hard to stop his near-tumbling descent when he hit the floor. His body jerking forward, he held his free hand out while he caught his breath. “It’s okay. He’s with me.”
By now, several Felyans had come to the front and stood to their full, imposing height. Each was laden with tool belts around their waists, each of which contained a stiletto-like knife sheathed within easy hand reach. They sniffed the air in front of him, their keen, intelligent eyes narrowing in suspicion. They snarled before lowering themselves back to quadruped level and ambling off. The other scientists followed suit with the same level of suspicion, returning to their business.
“You should have waited for me,” Mokomba said, annoyed and flustered. “This is a secure facility; even the workers are armed.” He then beckoned for Isibar to follow and led him towards the rows of vats, the curve of their glass walls still obscuring their contents.
“What are you doing here?” Isibar said, returning his attention briefly to Mokomba. “What are you studying? And why are Felyans working for you? Aren’t they supposed to be neutral in this-”
He looked ahead, and all words were stolen from him.
“The answer surrounds you,” Mokomba said, indicating the rows of vats in the midst of which they now stood. They formed a long, high-walled corridor, and workstation consoles were set in front of each. The scientists flitted to and from each like hummingbirds to flowers, checking readouts, and recording information with the styluses on the holographic displays of tablet frames.
In each vat, there was a child. Whether dead or ali
ve, he could not tell. They looked to be between the ages of nine and twelve, and were suspended in the midst of a greenish fluid. A series of black tubes fed into their skin, and their eyes sat half-lidded.
All of them were Felyan, but not like those that worked with the scientists. They at first appeared to be An’Kya Felyans: the more human subspecies of the race, like his wife, but the occasional mottling of their stripes on some and the more subdued animal-like features on others were a dead giveaway. These were actually hybrids: children of humans and Felyans.
“What did you do?” When Isibar found his voice, it was distant, dry, and hollow. “How …? Why …?”
At once, before Mokomba could reply, Isibar grabbed him violently by the lapels of his lab coat. “You monster! For the love of God, they’re children! What the hell are you doing to them? What are you-”
Something touched the back of his neck. He expected some kind of shock or pain, but the only shock was that of the coldness of its surface, before his body ceased to obey him. He felt limp, like a wet dishrag, and heavy as a lead weight as he crumpled to the ground ... which felt oddly soft.
In fact, it felt just like falling into bed.
***
A sort of bed was where Isibar awoke with a start, free of grogginess, fully conscious and alert …
… and unable to rise for being strapped down. His thick leather bonds, though they held his feet fast, allowed some freedom of movement for his hands, though not enough for one to reach the other. The fluorescent lights above were softer than those of the lab, and his surroundings were white and featureless.
Two people hovered above him. One was Mokomba, dressed in a medical frock, and looking unusually contrite beside his colleague, a short, thin, almost waifish man with large glasses. His features were delicate and the shape of his eyes suggested that he was perhaps from Xiao or Hana IV. His hair was a feathery mix of brown and silver, even though he seemed to still be quite young.
He stared at Isibar as if he were sizing up an opponent, and then his thin face stretched into a congenial smile.
“Even someone as base as yourself should appreciate the peaceful way you were subdued,” he said. He pronounced his words carefully, as if English was not his native tongue, though he had no accent that he was aware of. “Notice the lack of a headache or any disorientation. It was a device of my own design –alters alpha patterns in your brain.”
“Come again?” Isibar said. His mouth was very dry.
“It puts you to sleep,” he replied. His voice was softer than most men’s, and with a slight rasp. “It’s best to keep you as healthy as possible, especially for what I have planned for you.”
“Plans?” Isibar, for once, found himself out of tongue, despite his situation. Mokomba was silent, and uncharacteristically humble beside this man; did he lead him here? Had he been detected and simply herded to a quiet trap? Question after question, but no answers for them … and no words from his mouth.
“You should be proud,” the man said with another smile, albeit fainter than the previous one. “You, as well as my children, will stop a terrible atrocity from being committed.”
“Dr. Hayashibara, I don’t think that telling him this is wise-” Mokomba began.
“Know your place,” the doctor said, cutting him off. His tone was gentle, almost singsong, but each word carried the sharpness of someone who wielded considerable power. Mokomba was instantly cowed.
“You were saying?” Isibar said. This Dr. Hayashibara liked to talk, it seemed, and so he would keep him talking for as long as possible. The more the doctor sang, the more he’d know.
“So you’re interested?” the doctor said, clearly pleased. “Of course you are; it’s only natural, as you’re from the Alliance. But where are my manners? As you probably heard from my assistant, I am Dr. Hayashibara, chief researcher here.” His expression became earnest. “You know, I wish to see an end to this crisis as soon as possible. The Imperium took Xiao, my home, over a year ago, and you see, I have decided that they must pay.”
“So you’re a double agent?” Isibar asked. “You work for the Alliance?”
“Not exactly,” the doctor answered with a thoughtful look. “It would be better to say that I’m a guerilla warrior.”
“Aren’t you worried that the military might storm the place?” Isibar said. “From what I’ve heard, there’s not a building on Icona that isn’t monitored.”
“The buildings are indeed monitored, yes,” the doctor said, “but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my line of work, it’s that there is always a way to beat the system. Even Iconian surveillance systems can be fooled. I’ve done my own special alterations to this lab, and especially this room. No one but myself and Jean-Pierre here, knows about it.” He gestured to Mokomba. “It’s well hidden and completely private; let me assure you. It even runs on a separate power source from the rest of Bistran. As far as the Emperor knows, this place doesn’t exist. And no one goes in or out but our staff.”
“And so this is where you stage your little one-man rebellion?”
“My experiments are absolutely necessary for it,” the doctor said, and then surprised him with a question of his own. “Tell me, my dear Isibar, how much do you know about Felyan physiology?”
“No more than my brother told me,” Isibar said, keeping his own deck tightly in his hand. “And probably no more than the next guy.”
“Mmmm…” the doctor made the type of disapproving frown that one would expect from a teacher or mother. “I hate lies, you know; I really do.” He then removed a small white card from his lab coat pocket. “Most would use pain as a punishment, and I’m certain you would expect that from me, being in your situation, but I am not so ... base. I learned long ago that pleasure can be just as torturous, if administered properly.”
“What did you do to me?” Isibar said, reading the doctor’s not-so-subtle intent. He could easily project an air of calm, even when faced with torture; he was trained for such things, but initial reactions were difficult to suppress. He could suddenly feel his own heartbeat in his ears.
“Nothing too ghastly, let me assure you. You see, among other things, while you were sleeping, I had a special chip installed in the base of your neck.”
Instinctively, Isibar tried to rub the area he described, but the restraints prevented him.
“It relays signals directly to the pleasure center of your brain through this card,” the doctor explained, presenting the device in full view. “Allow me to demonstrate.”
Isibar didn’t even see the doctor’s finger move. His eyes suddenly watered as a shock of the most utterly profound elation lashed his body. He felt his back arch as the intensity of the pleasure burst through every nerve ending. It was the rush of a million hits of coke; the bliss of a thousand orgasms, as if a small copies of Cala had found a way to make love to him beneath his very skin, from head to toe.
He couldn’t stand it. It was too much. It was the closest any human mind had come to heaven, and yet he wanted it to stop. His mind begged for it to end. Distantly, he heard himself scream.
He awoke in the bed, his skin itching and burning simultaneously, his wrists and ankles raw, even though the restraints were cushioned. He didn’t even want to imagine the condition of his underwear. The doctor was at his side, rubbing a fragrant salve onto the area where his arms were bound. Mokomba was nowhere to be found.
“You strained against your restraints very hard,” he said. “Even I wasn’t prepared for how strongly you’d react. Trust me; I took no pleasure in this.”
“No… I took it all,” Isibar said, his voice hoarse from a now very dry mouth.
“No more lies, then,” The doctor warned while he tightened his treated arm to the table and rubbed the salve into the other wrist.
“Well, you seem to know more about me than I told you,” Isibar said as strength returned to his limbs.
“I know you mated with a Felyan at least once, and quite recently,” the doctor
said. “Her DNA is all over your skin, and in your blood.”
“How …?” Isibar was astonished. He’d taken great pains to remove his medical history from every official record, save those on Rhoma and King's Knight. Save Icona, only those two worlds had the most powerful and well-encrypted computer systems.
“I ran several tests on you while you were out,” the doctor explained, moving on to his ankles. “It seems you may have been telling the truth about not knowing much about Felyans.”
“I just might be offended by that,” Isibar said.
“Don’t be,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “Not many know the things I know. For instance, did you know that Felyans produce pheromones to attract the opposite sex?”
“I’d heard of that,” Isibar said, partly tipping his hand.
“The truth is indeed refreshing,” the doctor’s voice sounded relieved, almost patronizing. “And as for pheromone attraction, you experienced it. Or else, I wager you, like most humans, would have never let an alien entice you into her bed. But herein is something interesting. Statistically, seventy-eight percent of all humans have an aversion to mating with an alien, even those as attractive and human-like as the An’Kya subspecies of Felyan. But humans who visit the Felyan homeworld often choose to remain there, and take Felyan husbands or wives. The secret is their pheromones.”
“They clearly work on humans, then,” Isibar remarked blandly.
“As a matter of fact,” the doctor corrected, “they work better on humans than they do on other Felyans.” He paused and studied Isibar’s surprised expression. “Not only that, but when they mate, they leave an imprint of their genes on, and within, their mates.”
“I should’ve known that it wasn’t just love at first sight then,” Isibar said in a low voice. He loved Cala dearly, but he always suspected something had been fishy about how they first met. She was awfully flirtatious with him, and those kinds of girls, let alone Felyans, had never been very attractive to him.
“You’re hiding something from me again,” the doctor said. He had finished anointing his wounds with the salve, and now his hands gripped the white card again.