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The room was spinning, or at least he thought it was. Dane fought back nausea and closed his eyes against the blurry light invading his consciousness. A pounding rush went through his head as he squeezed his eyes shut against the invading light. The sensation of swirling like water down a drain was impossible for him to stop so he chose not to fight it and let the wave wash over him.
Slowly he became aware of other sensations; a cold dampness on his face; gentle tingling in his limbs; the low hum of a generator. As these sensations became more acute, the spinning began to fade. With that greater stability, unfortunately, also came more unpleasant realities; the hardness of the floor, soreness in his ribcage, a light from above too bright for him to bear, even with his eyes closed.
Inevitably full consciousness came to him. He was lying on a cold, hard, and rough floor, face down in a small pool of water, his arms and legs spread wide. He was prone and vulnerable to another attack, and to the men his reactivated memory told him must surely be lurking nearby.
He tested himself, moving his fingers, then arms, and finally his legs in such an infinitesimal way that only a trained military observer would have noticed the movements. Each tiny twitch sent a cascade of fire up his frayed nerve endings to register in the pain centers of his brain. He recognized the effects of a stungun, designed in this way to provoke a minimal ability to resist and a maximum desire to comply with one’s captors. He had used them himself at the Academy, and been on the receiving end of one before as well, as part of his training.
He returned his useless muscles to a state of calmness and focused on his other senses in turn, proceeding to go through his training litany; sight, sound, smell. Though he was yet unable to open his eyes, he was aware of light shining down on his head from above. He focused on his audible sense next; a strange combination of almost organic sounds like rainfall and mechanical ones like the baffles of a great steam engine filtered through. The only scent he could detect was a slight odor of lubrication oil, as if he were in some sort of industrial area of the Starliner, if he indeed was still on the ship at all.
Having run through his training regimen, there were now few options left to him. Should he move in any way, he might subject himself to further attack. But lying prone on the floor he was virtually defenseless. Deciding he could put it off no longer, he sat back on his haunches to steady himself, hands on knees, and then opened his eyes.
His vision was blurred and confused, a wash of colors mixing unpleasantly. As the room began to crystallize around him he found that he was in a prison cell of a particularly drab and damp variety. He looked to each corner in turn. There was no chair, bed, or any other comfort in the cell, only three gray concrete walls and a line of black metal bars facing directly ahead of him. All that was visible beyond the bars were two huge metal pipes against the near wall, probably for venting. The rest of the area was dark and shrouded in a thick mist, illuminated only by the light of his cell. Dane surmised that he was deep within the bowels of the mammoth Starliner, near the hyperdrive coolant cells which would account for the humidity in the air.
The cell appeared to have been manufactured in a makeshift manner long after the original commissioning of the vessel, and was obviously not part of any standard Imperial security facilities. A single light panel that had been crudely bolted to the ceiling was the only light source. The users of these dubious facilities definitely operated outside of normal Imperial channels and clearly had no intent of losing their captive. Then Dane remembered the uniforms his abductors had worn:
PKI.
That thought was enough to prompt him to action. He took three deep cleansing breaths and then slowly rose to his feet. He steadied himself against the back wall with one hand as he put the other to his aching rib cage, still sore from the impact of the stungun. He rubbed at his ribs absently as he replayed the abduction in his mind. The intruders had entered the room through secret doors in the closet. They were obviously well prepared. They knew when and where they were going to take us...
“Calinda,” he said her name aloud, taking a step away from the wall and towards the bars. His last memory was of her being cut down by the blinding flash of a stungun. He searched through the thick white mist, trying locate her, but the ambient light from his own cell reflected off of the mist and he could see no more than a meter from the bars. Calling out to her was simply too risky in his current plight.
Dane circled away from the bars as his thoughts turned to his female companion. Her attitude had been oddly antagonistic during dinner, and she had said insulting things about his family, but the evening had ended sweetly between them. Dane mulled this over, pacing around the cell, suddenly oblivious to his surroundings and his predicament. The next thought fully thundered unabated into his consciousness; could she be working for the PKI?
Before these thoughts had a chance to grow further he found himself spinning around towards the bars, military training kicking in automatically, his attention drawn to sounds coming from the darkness.
Footsteps.
Dane surveyed the bleak cell again for any means of defending himself. Finding none, he went to the near corner of the cell and closed his eyes, listening intently to the footsteps as they approached, trying to discern the number of people and their distance from him. He concluded that there were three separate and distinctive pairs of feet, approaching from ten meters or so, directly in front of his cell. He crouched defensively, the tension growing within him as the footsteps came deliberately, then stopped. After a moment of silence, a familiar voice pierced the darkness.
“Come, come, Sire Cochrane. No need to be so apprehensive. I assure you no harm will come to you while you are in that cell,” Dane opened his eyes and saw Arimel, the supposed maitre d’, standing a few meters outside the bars with two other men a step behind him. The two men held coil pistols, leveled and aimed at Dane. Arimel’s weapon was confidently holstered at his hip, and all three wore the public uniform of the PKI; black tunic with gold inlaid eye crest at the breast. Dane’s own dinner clothes were now ripped in several places with stains and a large burn mark across the chest, compliments of the stungun. Arimel stood facing Dane a few meters from the cell bars, hands clasped behind his back and a very annoying smile on his face.
Dane straightened himself to full posture, tugging his tunic at the waist and pulling his shirt sleeves properly through the jacket arms. Then he stepped forward, seeking to close the distance between them, asserting his royal rank over the commoner as much as possible from behind the cell bars. As he got closer to Arimel the he sensed the tingle of a low-energy stun field emanating from the bars. He stopped only be centimeters from the stun field and looked down on the smaller PKI man. He spoke plainly and without emotion.
“Arimel, why am I in this cell? Do you have any idea what will become of you when word gets out of the unlawful detention of a royal heir?” He took another half step, as close as he dared go to the stunfield, to add emphasis. “I demand you release me immediately,” he said flatly.
Arimel let out an affected sigh. “Oh dear, I was afraid you’d ask that.” He stepped forward into the light of Dane’s cell, a clear challenge to the young royal. “I am sorry that I can’t grant your request, Sire,” he continued. “I would so like to help you, but I do have my orders.”
Dane paused for a moment before responding, gathering his thoughts and emotions. He needed more information.
“What orders, Arimel?”
The response came quick and thick with sarcasm. “I’m afraid that part of my orders are that I can’t tell you what my orders are. I am truly sorry,” he smiled at Dane, looking much like the put-out civil servant he had so effectively pretended to be. Dane decided to change tactics.
“Arimel, I am the heir to the Directorship of Quantar. The Cochrane’s are well known as friends of the Emperor. Surely this is a misunderstanding.”
Arimel cocked his head to one side. “I am aware of your very fine breeding, Sire. But I’m afraid my orders were quite specific and they really leave no room for, ah, ‘misunderstanding’.”
Dane clenched his fists in frustration and his voice grew staccato and unstable with stress. “Damn it, you impudent cuss, just tell me what you want!”
“Oh, shut up!” The sharp voice came through the mist from Dane’s right. He turned his head and was surprised to see an adjoining cell containing the lovely figure and angry face of his former dinner companion, the Lady Calinda. She was still in her formal dinner gown, although it looked more than a bit rough for wear.
Dane’s protective instincts, drilled into him through countless sessions of court etiquette at the academy, kicked in immediately upon seeing her again and his first thought was of her welfare. “Lady Calinda, have they harmed you?,” he shouted out. Her voice was resigned in response.
“Oh, just shut up,” she turned away from him in resignation.
Dane was confused. “Lady, what did you say?”
“I said shut up, you ignoramus!” she shouted, turning back on him with sudden venom. Her words stung him worse than the stun gun had.
“I don’t understand,” he said, returning his attention to Arimel.
“No, of course you don’t,” Arimel smiled the snake-smile. “This young woman you know as Lady Calinda was merely deceiving you, which isn’t too difficult judging from your obvious lack of intelligence. I wonder, Lady Calinda, if you would be so kind as to tell us who you really are?”
She remained silent.
“Ah, well, what a shame that you’ll die a mystery, then.” His voice took on a gloating tone. “Perhaps Sire Cochrane would be interested to know that the real Lady Calinda is alive and well on Beta Sorel this very instant. Whoever this imposter is, it is certain her death will not be widely reported. Except, perhaps, amongst her fellow assassins.”
Dane was incredulous. “Assassins?”
Arimel continued to smile at him. “Oh yes. We found a poison lance under her fingernail. It appears she intended to use it on you.”
“Me?” He took a step towards her cell. “Why?”
She locked eyes with him yet again. “Because of your father, and your detestable family,” she said, not bothering to hide the disgust of him in her voice. “Because of murder, torture, and atrocities against the people of Quantar. Because of an oppression the likes of which have not been seen on a civilized world in centuries!”
Dane considered her words. “You’re one of the rebels,” he said evenly, regaining some composure.
“No!” she challenged. “I am a freedom fighter!” She gestured towards the PKI men. “My only regret in trying to end your miserable life is that these scum will get the pleasure of killing you instead!”
Dane looked to Arimel, who was obviously enjoying the exchange. Unfortunately the Imperial agent was now the only source of information Dane had, and he couldn’t let him get away without asking the critical question.
“So tell me, Arimel, what does the Police Konstabulars Imperialus have to do with all this?”
Arimel took a step closer to Dane’s cell, eyes steel cold. “You will never know. You’ll die as you’ve lived your petty life, Cochrane, in utter ignorance. And were it not for my damnable orders, I would reach in through these bars and choke your pointless life away myself.”
Dane hesitated only a moment before responding, probing his captor’s level of discipline. “You’ll find that difficult to do through an active stunfield.” The barb had its desired effect as Arimel snapped back at Dane, angry with being shown up in front of his men.
“We will dispense with that currently,” Arimel replied. Before Dane could respond the deck beneath him began to vibrate violently and he fell to his knees until it stopped. He rose slowly, taking care as he steadied himself against the wall with one hand. The deck rolled a second time beneath him. This time a sound - like distant thunder – followed.
“Get your pistols out!” shouted Arimel. “We’ll kill them now!” Dane shot into action without thinking, rolling into the far corner of the cell and rising to a defensive crouch. He ran his hands over his tunic, looking for anything that he might use as a weapon. He felt the prick of his prized valedictorian pin and snapped it from his uniform, scraping it against the rough wall of the cell. After a few short strokes it made a satisfyingly sharp edge. He palmed the pin as Arimel and his men spread out to execute their leader’s orders.
One of the PKI agents went toward Dane’s cell to deactivate the stunfield, the second to Calinda’s cell for the same purpose. All three held their coil pistols at the ready. Arimel was visibly apprehensive.
“Set the field for wide dispersal. I don’t want you to miss them,” shouted Arimel. The deck vibrated again, stronger. The underling nearest Dane turned to his master in protest. ”We can’t guarantee complete incineration with a wide field dispersal!” he said.
“I don’t care! We’ll get rid of the bodies later. Just kill them now!” He waved a hand to signal his men to deactivate both stun fields simultaneously. At a silent count of three the stun field in his cell, both prison and protection, went dead.
The agent stepped up and leveled his coil pistol directly at Dane, adjusting the dispersal range via a knob on the handle. In a moment of frozen time, Dane looked firmly down the metal barrel of his own extinction. His breath came sharp and cutting in his chest as adrenaline coursed through him. Every muscle in his body tensed. Primal survival instincts were in play now, combined with five years worth of intensive military training.
The operative set his weapon and took aim a final time.
“Fire!”
In an instant of decisiveness, milliseconds before the flash, Dane sprung from the corner in a low controlled tumble, shooting diagonally away from the gun as the burning red flame of the coil pistol filled the cell with light. He felt the heat of the laser singe his back as he rolled up to his haunches near the other end of his cell. Half the cell bars had been burned away in an instant.
Clean miss.
“Idiot!” screamed Arimel. He shoved his deputy to the floor and aimed his pistol at Dane in increasing desperation as the room shook with the heavy rattle of what Dane now perceived could only be explosives. The third PKI man stood in front of Calinda’s cell, frozen in place by the fury of confusion around him. Arimel fumbled with his pistol, trying to set the charge for maximum. As the decrepit man raised his weapon to aim it, Dane fingered the sharp edged pin hidden in the palm of his hand. He took his chance.
“Arimel!” he shouted, in the same moment flinging the valedictorian pin through the open bars. The flying blade stayed true as it flashed through the ionized air, light glinting off sharp golden edges. Arimel looked up just as it scraped across his open left eye, ripping tender flesh as it went, blood spurting from the wound. Arimel let out a feminine shriek and clutched at his eye, dropping his pistol. The third underling broke from his position facing Calinda to rush to his master’s aid.
Dane had but precious seconds to enjoy his success. The far wall in front of his cell exploded in a cascade of broken stonework and concrete. He hit the cell floor instinctively at the sound of the explosion.
A dark figure emerged from a sizeable new hole in the wall. Two quick flashes of seething light from a coil pistol and the PKI were cut down, dead before they hit the floor. In nearly the same motion the man threw a silver cylinder down hard onto the floor. The object burst into light as an incendiary fuse lit and smoke poured out, engulfing Arimel in a rising cloud of yellow vapor. He stumbled and fell to the ground without a word of protest.
Stungas!
Dane held his hand over his mouth and nose as he retreated away from the cloud, buying precious seconds as the vapor spread rapidly to fill his cell. He looked up and saw Calinda slouched on the floor of her cell, unconscious. Despite his efforts his lungs began to fill, burning like sulfur as he coughed sharply, letting more of the crippling gas in. He fell onto his back, his whole body going numb from the inside out. With his last ounce of strength he willed his eyes to stay open long enough to see a dark figure looming over him, coil pistol steaming in the mist, the face partially covered by a gas mask but still recognizable.
The face of Dr. Christian Rijkard.