by Rob Rowntree
Behind Alan one of the Expediters chirped loudly. Pickering said, “The translator says the Expediter wants an answer.”
Alan retaliated with: “Tell him we are discussing the Dark Ones’ gift’s whereabouts. And while you are at it, Pickering, tell your translator to ask the Expediters why they killed our brothers.”
Pickering said, “He’s not my translator.”
Ignoring Pickering, Alan addressed the others. “I think they’ve mistaken us for the returned crew of the Peterson. They aren’t going to be too impressed when they discover the truth.”
Stowe said, “Can we lie? Maybe tell them that Conway is an expert on this gift and that we will have it back once we find the Peterson.”
Alan couldn’t hold back, “Avram, that isn’t so far from the truth.” He stared at his employer. “Is it Conway?”
“I told you Alan, this isn’t the place for this. There’s much you don’t understand.”
“I know that a lot of people lost their lives over it and that’s not including Rames, Rosie Black, Gibson and Shepperd. That once the Peterson had the artefact in its cargo hold, it vanished. Add to that the fact I also know that you, Woodland and Pickering knew about the Peterson’s cargo. It’s the reason why we’re dying. The bloody cargo.”
Alan stopped then, he’d said enough. He made them feel uncomfortable. Disturbed by a shift in air currents, Alan turned towards Pickering, “Well?”
“It appears, Alan,” Pickering sounded hesitant, “that the Expediter is well versed in the accounts of what happened—”
“Stop dithering.” Alan barked.
“He said, ‘We tired of their bleating. They became dull and uninteresting; the turning of their flesh became a chore.’”
Stowe turned away, more than aware of a subtle shift in the dynamics of the group. Perhaps at last they were beginning to understand the full extent of their predicament.
“Okay,” Alan spoke softly, reassuringly, “We are not the Peterson’s crew and we have more of the facts. We aren’t dead and I intend to make sure it stays that way. Now, Conway you were saying?”
“What? No, not now.”
Stowe and Kiki each wore puzzled expressions, Alan said, “Conway, are you going to enlighten us to your great discovery?”
Before it could be addressed further Alan, in fact all of them heard claw-toed feet skitter across the polished floor.
Conway smirked and said, “There’s no time now.”
Alan almost felt the blow that sent him sprawling to the floor. Gnarled hands grabbed him and dragged him away. The others fared no better. The translator signed at Pickering who told the others:
“He says they are preparing us for the Hands of the Free. Tomorrow there will be answers.”
Chapter Twenty Six
Interrogations and Maslov’s Gift
The tunnel blocked much of the outside light. Dragged along the floor, upside down, Alan discovered that for now at least the shadowing of his world was a welcome balm.
The tunnel branched into a cul-de-sac of cells.
Hurled into a cell with Pickering and Kiki, Alan’s first impression came via the scent in the room. It stank of rotten fish and beer. He heard Stowe, Conway and Woodland complain to their guard that their cell’s floor dipped into a stagnant pool. Yes he cared, cared about better sanitation, about freedom and escape, but overcome by a sudden sense of welcome-respite; he quickly drifted off to sleep.
Something dripped on his face. In the half-aware moments between sleep and wakefulness Alan saw the winged alien, watched as it crawled up his body, as it sealed its wings about his head. It dribbled again, saliva splashing against his forehead. What the...
Alan lurched from the stinking floor, breathing hard to expel the nightmare.
Pickering said, “Welcome back. You’ve been out for quite a time.”
“Exhaustion,” Alan relayed. Rubbing his eyes, he said, “Have there been any developments while I’ve been out?”
Pickering said, “Nothing. A few natives came by to gawp, but nothing of any import.”
Kiki slept, curled against the far wall of the cell. Looking at her lying there, Alan wondered how something so demure could cause so much trouble. If only he’d been stronger he might have saved the situation.
Pickering heard it first. “Do you hear that? Sounds like chains being dragged across a stone floor.”
Alan heard nothing. “Sorry, I can’t. Are you sure...”
It crept into his hearing like a distant rustle of leaves shifting along pavements in breezes. It grew harder, more brittle. Standing, he moved to join Pickering at the cells bars’. Across the small cave, Conway, Stowe and Woodland crowded against their cell door.
The sound became overwhelming, an insistent grating and tinkling of glass on concrete, intermingled with another, shriller note, like chalk on board. It reverberated through the air and bored into Alan’s flesh.
Suddenly it stopped.
Alan waited. His breathing sounded loud. Stowe and Conway’s their faces pale, filled with expectant fear and loathing. Turning to face the cave’s exit, Alan heard a restrained gasp escape Stowe’s lips.
Four of the Bound aliens slowly entered the cave. Across their misshapen shoulders they supported a set of poles. They progressed slowly. As they came closer it became apparent that they were supporting something heavy. A flat platform extended from the poles and as this platform edged into the room Alan stepped back from the bars.
Seated, or maybe sprawled atop the platform, sat a repugnant mass of leathery flesh. It had wings and clawed hands and feet, but unlike any other Unbound he’d met, this creature possessed a huge girth.
The scraping sound they’d heard came from the creature’s claws. Long and twisted they grew away from its hands like ivory saplings from a fleshy forest. So long in fact, that both sets of claws, hands and feet, dragged across the floor.
“Look at its eyes,” Woodland shouted.
Alan looked into white orbs with no discernable pupils. Could it be blind?
Pickering gesticulated beside him. Entering behind the behemoth, Alan saw the translator and said, “Ask him how this one is able to hunt and eat.”
Pickering did and reported: “It is the Hand of the Free and our duty is to maintain his good health. He seeks for the Free.”
Alan caught the creature’s scent, a corpulent stench of rot and decay. “Why is it here?”
The translator made a couple of short gestures and Pickering said, “Two will feel the rapture of the Free’s hand.”
A commotion behind the translator indicated many more of the Unbound crowded in and advanced towards the cells. Alan backed further into the cell, seeking psychological space, space needed to fight, determined he wouldn’t go down easily. He would make sure of that. In the end though, it didn’t matter. The Unbound simply pressed forward filling the cell with their stinking winged bodies.
The space to fight no longer available, Alan relented to the clutching, grabbing hands; lifted from the ground and passed bodily from the cell he saw Pickering cowering in the corner and a dazed and slow awakening Kiki looked stunned.
They moved fast, holding him high, Alan’s journey a travelogue of stalactites and fissures, domed cave ceilings and lava tubes.
Almost ready to accept defeat and allow despair to take hold, Alan attempted one last effort to dispel burgeoning gloom. Jimmy crossed his mind, Jimmy locked in his personal caves, forever wandering, not quite able to find an exit. Yet Jimmy remained optimistically hopeful, showed a sunny disposition. How could he do that? How?
It took courage, that’s how. Courage and will-power.
Alan flew through the air as his captors flung him to the floor. Stunned he didn’t resist as they picked him up and sat him on an uncomfortable block of stone.
In the flickering light of oil burners and some unknown light source from above, Alan saw the distended form of the Hand of The Free slumped across a flat rock shelf jutting from the cave wall. The
repulsive body rippled with muscle spasms. Alan took a moment to realise that near the repugnant creature Conway lay spread-eagle against a rock. Tied, Alan guessed, because the man’s arms and legs pulled taught.
“Conway?” Alan’s voice echoed around the chamber.
The large creature clicked and wheezed.
“Alan. I—”
The creature stuck a hooked clawed into Conway’s shoulder. Conway’s screams rang about the cavern like a screeching child.
It withdrew its claw. Breathing hard, Conway managed to say, “Talk to Woodland, Pickering—”
The creature stuck its claw into Conway’s ear, twisting and turning, it apparently had the uncanny knack of knowing when to stop, not push too far. Conway howled, attempting to twist his head away from the foul intrusion.
Out of the shadows the translator and Pickering shuffled in. Pickering was crying. Alan said, “It’s okay Pickering. Just concentrate on the translating. Focus on that. Nothing else, just that.”
The torturer clicked rapidly at the translator. After a moment Pickering said, “It...it wants to know why we are here. Where do we come from and if the Dark Ones’ gift is in use.”
Conway’s deep breathing caused him to shudder. “I haven’t—”
The creature’s blow, though not hard, stopped Conway cold. It chattered and whistled and pointed at Alan.
Pickering said, “It wants you to answer. The turning of the flesh is for your benefit.”
Alan’s heart sank. So this is how they are going to play it – torture the majority, hold him to ransom with his emotions. They surely learned a lot all those years ago; easy to manipulate humans with emotional attachments. Alan stared at Conway, their gazes locked and in that moment, Alan knew what he had to do. “Conway,” he said, choking, “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Conway closed his eyes.
“No Alan, you can’t. Answer the thing, tell it anything.” Tears coursed down Pickering’s cheeks.
Alan held back mounting rage, “Pickering, if I give in now it won’t stop. These creatures don’t share our compassion, our sense of fair play. You heard it yourself, when they tired of the Peterson’s crew they killed them. No matter what I tell these creatures they won’t stop. We need to hang on until an opportunity comes our way.”
“Opportunity. To do what exactly?”
As the creature clicked another question, Alan knew Pickering had a point – just what would those that remained do with any freedom they obtained?
Pickering slumped to floor, placing his hands over his ears as the creature probed at Conway’s knee. Alan thought Pickering’s anguish self evident as the Doctor rocked amidst the terrible screams, his hands only coming away when Conway’s screams became weak whimpers of striped humanity.
They dragged Conway’s limp body away.
A while later they forced Alan to a low slab of fallen rock. Placing him face down on the cold stone, they strapped his arms out sideways and his legs together. Pickering and the translator stood near his head. He couldn’t see them.
He trembled as a hard coldness brushed his back, penetrated his body. Sweat trickled into his eyes as adrenalin roared through his system. Something clamped his head from behind. This is it, he thought, and steeled himself for the end. The killing blow or at least some unbearable pain failed to materialise; instead he felt a gentle touch around his spore ports.
Of course, none of the others had these, which meant the aliens would be naturally curious. But he didn’t want these clumsy, pre-industrial bastards anywhere near his ports. He wriggled and twisted to no avail, his head still firmly imprisoned against the rock.
Pickering said, “They want to know why you have... openings.”
“Tell them they are scars from a boating accident.” No, no, don’t play the hero. Tell them something sensible.
“It says, it will investigate.”
Alan felt a claw slide across one of the port’s tricuspid valves, seeking access. Coldness slid in and under. The act forced a safety mechanism in Alan’s wetware to open the ports protecting the valves. Alan’s optic neural-fibre bundles waved about, playing red light into the cavern seeking the nano spores they were expecting.
Alan saw only rock. But he heard excited chattering and clicking.
Suddenly the restraints holding his head vanished. Gnarled hands undid his bonds without delay.
Alan lay motionless. What had just happened?
Sitting, he looked around the cavern. Pickering and the translator stood over by the torturer engaged in a rapid three-way conversation. Other Unbound backed up against the wall.
Moments later, Pickering came over and said, “He wants to know if you are the Dark Ones’ emissary. I have tried to dissuade him of that notion, but it’s apparent he wants you to discuss it with him directly.”
The big creature rippled with reflected light as its body settled. Via Pickering it said, “What are you?”
Alan said, “I am a human being. You know this.”
“You wear the mark of a Dark One.”
“These?” Alan said, pointing to his spore ports.
“Tales of such things are known, understood, be Dark Ones. You Dark One.”
Alan found strength in the exchange. The dynamics here had subtly changed and doubts were creeping into the Unbound’s thoughts. It inadvertently revealed knowledge about The Free and their level of technology. At the last meeting between the two races, the Free had been technologically advanced.
Alan said, “We are not Dark Ones. However, we have come a long way to commune with them. Can you afford us an opportunity to do so?”
The creature shrieked a whistle and chattered its razor teeth, writhing about on its shelf. More Unbound arrived and dragged Alan away. Heartened by what had just transpired, he experienced a glimmer of a plan forming, and for that at least he let it allay worrying doubts. He needed an edge and wished to find one before his next encounter with the Hand of The Free...
***
The Expediter hunched outside Alan’s cell; tattoos and braids rich in the flickering oil light. It cocked its head. Alan responded in the same fashion cocking his head in the opposite direction.
Kiki, now awake, said, “It’s not your pet dog. The creature’s playing with you, making a fool of you.”
Pickering rounded on Kiki, “That’s enough. Alan’s making inroads; we need to grasp opportunities when we can. Any concessions we gain will help us survive. That’s us with you included. Give the man a break. You got that?”
“Pickering,” Kiki sounded bored. “I really don’t give a...”
Alan tuned them out. The creature before him had entered the cell-cavern almost an hour ago by Alan’s reckoning. It clearly wanted something, some understanding, or insight.
Some short distance away Pickering’s translator waited patiently. “Pickering,” Alan said, “signal your pet over there to come over. I have a question for Expediter.”
“Now?”
“Yes, naturally. Why wouldn’t now be a good?
“Sorry, I... I haven’t any idea why I asked that. Tired maybe.”
Pitiful moans reached them from Conway’s cell. Earlier Woodland had relayed that Conway’s knee bled freely and that they were having trouble staunching the flow. While Alan waited for the translator to ready itself, he shouted, “Woodland, is he awake? I will need to talk to him soon.”
“Conway’s out cold. Talking and moaning are courtesy of his sleeping mind. The bleeding’s slowing but tissue surrounding the joint looks inflamed and angry. Not sure I can do anything else.”
“Keep watching, I guess,” Alan said.
Pickering drew nearer, “We are ready.”
“Good,” Alan indulged in a little smile, “Then I want to ask it a simple question; ‘What do you want?’”
Pickering hesitated before relaying the question.
The Expediter shuffled on its haunches before chattering back to the translator, “Many generations have passed since we commu
ned with our benefactors, the Free. They promised to return. The last Dark One—”
“No, stop.” Alan interrupted.” Please clarify, are The Free a separate and distinct race from the Dark Ones?”
“No.”
“They are the same?”
“Yes.”
Silence followed. Time eased away. Alan said, “You can continue.” To him it felt like the creature viewed him differently.
“They taught us of emptiness and loneliness, of noisy worlds without thought, of ruined histories and lost hope. Of silence. Yet your kind came.”
Emptiness. Loneliness. Between the stars? Speculation, concentrate Abrams. Think. “We too search for the answers to such things. The great silence. I have stood upon those noisy worlds you mention and seen the wildlife, the beasts of the grasslands, yet nowhere did I find thought.”
“We are aware of such things.”
“I must ask you again, what do you want?”
“Communion. A release of our burden. We wish to account for ourselves. You have some of the Dark Ones’ magic. You will contact them and arrange a meeting.”
Laughing, Alan said between gulps for air, “No, never going to happen.”
The creature shuffled and said, “Are we not seeking the same?”
“Yes, I suppose that is true. However, I’m not going to help you. You have mutilated one of my shipmates and terrified the rest of us. You don’t deserve our help.”
Suddenly the creature raged forward smashing into the cage bars, its jaws flexing, blade teeth champing. Rust and rock fell about the cave. Momentarily shocked, Alan struggled to recover a composure he’d fought hard to maintain. “A few more of those and we’ll be out of here.”
It raged again, rising to its full height, its wings spread. Turning it stalked to the entrance to remain just outside, its wing tips poking into the cave like curved fingers. A rapid flood of high-pitched chattering and whistling ensued.
“Pickering, get your translator on the job.” Alan felt certain they were discussing something important.
Pickering relayed what the translator said, “They are talking about the hot-stone out at the old human settlement. They wonder if you can use it.”