With Osterly gone, the cell seemed much more spacious, cavernous. Aside from the many-legged rat-roaches that skittered in the shadows and hid in holes in the walls, Arc was alone. After the interrogation, if Osterly’s murder could be called that, Arc had spent what felt like a whole day lying on his cot, eyes shut firmly against the memories. They emerged from the darkness beneath his lids anyway, visions of Osterly’s mutilated features accompanied by the half-remembered faces of opponents he’d fought and killed as a youth. He had never known guilt in those days, but now it was downright oppressive. He was plagued by nightmares when he slept, gruesome battles he might have fought, with the taste of blood on his tongue and the shadows of death all around him. He lashed out, killing indiscriminately, casting bodies aside in search of some undefined goal. Marissa—where was Marissa? He cast his eyes over the arena, illuminated in black and red, and felt a shudder of horror in his soul when he found her among the corpses.
He awoke, that awful shock subsiding. Marissa was alive, safe at home. It was Osterly who was dead, and Ahn Delse, maybe Dae Trem, and probably Arc himself, soon. Without some form of timepiece, it was impossible to tell how long he’d been sleeping, but he felt like he’d been fighting for years. He pushed off the cot, stretching as far as the confines of the cell would allow. Through the membrane, he could see that the corridor was empty, and across the way Alis sat cross-legged on her cot, head bowed. Arc stepped closer, pressing his hands against the rubbery wall.
“Alis, you all right?” he asked, urgently.
Very slowly, Alis lifted her head and put a finger to her lips, her face contorted with pain. “Please,” she said, almost whispering. “Noise—hurts.”
“Is this OK?” he asked, dropping his voice to match hers. When Alis didn’t respond, he risked speaking again. “Osterly’s dead.”
“Mmh,” Alis groaned, her eyes clenched shut. “Felt it. Awful. Screaming in my head—both of you.”
It took Arc a moment to understand what she meant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know your abilities were that sensitive.”
Alis scowled, although it didn’t seem to be directed at Arc. “Can’t block it out anymore. It all spills into my head.” She suddenly clutched the sides of her head and groaned loudly, throwing herself down on her cot.
“Hold on—we’ll both get through this,” Arc said, hesitantly.
“Lying,” Alis mumbled. A minute later and she fell still, her groans replaced by a light snoring.
Arc took a seat; it would be best to let Alis have her rest. She was alive, at least, and now it was just a matter of getting her up and moving. The Zulkar had been injecting her regularly, once every couple of hours, and she barely put up a struggle now. They must’ve been using something powerful if they could weaken her like that, but the frequency of injections must mean it didn’t last long. Or maybe Shodus didn’t want to take any chances with a Rashani on board. Either way, Arc needed to think of a way for Alis to miss a dose.
He brooded on how he might do that from his cell for a few hours, but nothing came to him. The word “hopeless” came to mind, but he ignored it. Marissa hated that word. There was always something to be done, she’d insist, and while it might not turn out great, at least you’d done something. Naive, maybe, but Arc thought it was quite inspiring. Yet everyone said he was the brains of the couple.
A clatter of footsteps signalled someone approaching from down the corridor. Another injection already? Arc couldn’t be sure, but the visit seemed early. He remained seated, but kept a keen eye on Alis’s cell. Watch the process, find a weakness; a basic fighting tactic.
He realized his mistake when, instead of a pair of armoured soldiers, Shodus himself appeared before Arc’s cell, unescorted. The Zulkar turned his back to Alis, as if he couldn’t care less about her, and he peered into Arc’s cell with a meditative expression.
Arc shot him a glare. “Have you come to kill me next? Or was that your first interrogation? You’re supposed to ask a question before you stick the knives in.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Shodus said. “Now, on your feet. Didn’t your master teach you to stand in the presence of a lord?”
Arc shook his head, taking some small joy from Shodus’ irritation. “Uqom was half-blind and drunk most of the time—he could hardly stand himself. The money I brought in was more important than my manners.”
Shodus flashed a needle-ly smile. “A pity—that will make it so much harder for you when you return to the Empire.”
“Why did you kill Osterly?” Arc asked.
Shodus shrugged. “I wanted to see how you’d react. Right now, you seem to be holding up well—I suppose you didn’t like him very much.”
The answer surprised Arc; he hadn’t really expected Shodus to tell him anything. “Osterly wasn’t a man who’d want to be cried over. Why the hell do you care what I feel?”
Shodus glanced down the corridor, as if worried someone might overhear. “Because I am curious. About you, about our nations, about the very nature of our universe. For now, I must settle with you. I hate you, slave, for what you’ve done, but at the same time I am fascinated by what you’ve become. From lowly urchin to gladiator to free man to diplomat. Such an evolution is inexplicable—unbelievable! Your existence proves the failings of the Empire, and for that I must know what you really are.”
As he spoke, he’d been working himself into a state, his skin purpling in anger as his words neared complete babble. Arc slid further down the bench uneasily. Was this for real? It had to be some kind of trick, but he couldn’t see the point. This unhinged creature couldn’t be the man who’d orchestrated the attack on the Consortium.
“Are you not part of the Empire?” Arc asked, catching the end of Shodus’ rant.
Shodus’ tongue flicked at the corner of his mouth, and his skin regained its pale shade. “The Empire is all, the Empire is order. Without the Empire, there is no civilization, only chaos. To be a citizen of the Empire is a great honour and a greater responsibility, as I must ensure it remains forever great.”
Spoken like a true patriot, Arc thought. “So you’re saying it’s no longer great?”
Shodus’ face purpled again. “When a slave can slip through the cracks and become a voice for the Empire’s enemies, something must be rotten. Our Emperor has sat on the throne for nearly two hundred years, yet has been dying for fifty, reduced to a frail remnant dependent on machinery to sustain him. I think you’ll agree that’s long enough for a single ruler. The Bythos dynasty may have founded our nation, but it is clear the Empire’s greatness has outgrown them. Bythos’ heirs are inbred fools, likely to die of old age before he does. I plan to solve that, to put someone truly great on the throne.”
“You, I assume.” Arc couldn’t help but roll his eyes. No doubt every lord thought things would be better if only they were wearing the crown.
Shodus smiled. “You catch on fast. That’s good—a slave should always be quick to answer.”
Arc ignored the jibe, trying to piece all this information together. “And how do the other prisoners and I tie into this grand plan of yours?”
“You hardly do at all,” said Shodus, exchanging purple for a reddish tinge around his head crest. “Your part in all this was to disappear in the attack. Dead or alive, it doesn’t really matter, so long as you weren’t found on the Consortium. As far as the Aquila are concerned, you are the prime suspect in the murder of Ahn Delse. All I must do now is produce a witness, and the Alliance will be clamouring for war.”
It had been as Arc had feared; the attack used as a spark for war. The Empire could only benefit by pitting its two enemies against each other. “This witness—who?” he demanded.
“Dae Trem, of course,” Shodus answered, casually looking over his claws. “I can guess what you’re thinking: ‘Why would an Aquilan diplomat lie about such a thing?’ The answer is that he won’t be lying. You see, the truth is a malleable thing. Truth is just how one perceives the world, and my men have gotten quite good at altering perceptions. We need only break down Trem’s mental resistance, and we can convince him of our truth. We’ve already started—did you know he was in the interrogation room with you? Muzzled, of course, but he was fighting to get free just as hard as you were.”
Trapped in that chair in the dark, consumed by fear, Arc hadn’t noticed at all. The revelation only filled him with dismay. Dae Trem was alive, but Arc could only guess at what tortures he was being subjected to. He could do nothing for him, and that inability would destroy whatever hope there was of a partnership between the two powers; being framed for the murder honestly seemed minor by comparison. The H-word had already snuck back into Arc’s thoughts. Hopeless.
“Why bother telling me all this?” Thinking about it, what reason did Shodus have for revealing his plans like this? He’d always thought villainous gloating was a film cliché.
“I’ve already told you,” Shodus replied. “A slave who tries to rise above his station needs to have that wilfulness removed. Back home, we used to beat it out of them, but I’ve since realized that breaking the body does not always break the mind. You must attack their rebellious thoughts, destroy their spirit, and align their beliefs to your own.”
“Even that won’t work on me,” Arc replied. “You’re better off killing me.”
“That’s probably true, and I probably will,” said Shodus. “But before it comes to that, I’d like to know how you became you.”
“I’ve told all my stories before—they’ve been broadcast all over the Kinship,” Arc said, frustrated. “If you’re looking for who freed me, you’re out of luck—the Rhapsody was decommissioned years ago, and I haven’t been in contact with the group since.”
Shodus made a clicking noise in his throat, seemingly uninterested. “Catching slaves and traitors is a secondary—no, tertiary concern. What I want to know is what you haven’t mentioned in your stories—the truth. I have found only a few recordings of your time as a gladiator, but I have examined those few thoroughly. You were an animal, lacking anything but basic survival instincts and a rudimentary understanding of language. You downplay that aspect in your speeches to the masses. I think it’s because if they knew what you really were and had seen your brutality, they wouldn’t see you as a victim. No one in the Empire does. I had only a general hatred of you until I saw those recordings and began to wonder how that became a peacemaker for the Kinship. When was the moment the beast became a man, when he picked up a stick and found he held a tool?”
Arc looked into the Zulkar’s yellow eyes, trying to read into them, to understand. There was more to this than simple class-hatred; it actually seemed personal. “I’m sure you have your own theories.”
Shodus turned aside and walked a few paces back the way he’d come from. “In your stories, your wife just seems to appear. You make no mention of your meeting—some might think you didn’t find it important.”
Arc looked away. He didn’t like how close Shodus was. “It’s personal. Not everything needs to be shared with the public.”
Shodus returned to Arc, leaning forward. “Nonsense. I don’t really care about the details, because I see the results before me. I don’t believe there’s anything really remarkable about you, not inherently. It’s her—she inspired this change in you, shaped you into a decent imitation of a human being.”
Arc felt a chill run through him, but maintained a calm disposition. “I’ve always said I wouldn’t have made it out of the Empire without her. Are all your theories just rewordings of things I’ve said?”
Shodus pressed his palm flat against the membrane between them. Zulkar hands are unique among intelligent species; they don’t have opposable thumbs in the usual sense. Instead, they had four highly dexterous digits, arranged in a similar position to a chameleon’s foot. Arc had heard that where humans could be right-handed or left-handed, every Zulkar favoured an individual digit over the others. “You couldn’t understand. I’ve seen Marissa Rhapsody fight, and I see that certain quality our kind shares. She’s like me.”
Arc met his eyes again, incredulous. “Like you? Marissa’s nothing like you!”
Shodus shook his head, cruel amusement lighting his eyes. “She is. Even in the recordings, I see it. That strength, toeing the line between human and superhuman.” He clenched his fist, digging the knuckles into the membrane. Like a bolt of lightning, Arc was struck by a memory of those fingers around his neck, lifting him off his feet. Unbelievable strength, beyond a normal Zulkar. The membrane was certainly no protection from this man.
“Are you saying you and Marissa share some kind of mutation?” Arc asked. “What kind of mutation crosses species?”
“Godhood,” Shodus answered.
Arc laughed. How could he not? After all the fear of what might happen to him, guilt over the death of Delse and Osterly, it felt good to let out a loud, unrestrained laugh. Shodus was mad—that was the answer to everything he’d done, everything he said. His atrocities were just another expression of that madness.
“Don’t laugh!” Shodus shouted, baring his pointed teeth. “You of all people should understand what I’m talking about. Haven’t you ever wondered what makes her so special? Why you were drawn to her, changed by her? She carries the blood of gods in her veins.”
Arc tried to keep a serious face, but it was a losing battle. Yes, Marissa was unique in a way that current medical science couldn’t explain, but a god? Marissa was a wonderful woman, but she wasn’t divine. Shodus certainly wasn’t.
Shodus hissed loudly. “You doubt me because you are but a simple slave. I am proof enough—my mother lay with a god, and I was born of that union, with strength and senses unmatched!”
Realization dawned on Arc like a glorious summer sun. “You really are a bastard!”
Shodus turned away, purpling down to his collar. “I must be going. Fool that I am, I waste time talking with slaves instead of attending to important matters.”
He strode off, but Arc leapt up to watch him go. This would probably be the last time he would be genuinely amused for some time, and he wanted to savour it.
* * *
The soldiers brought in dinner, or maybe it was breakfast, a few hours later. They opened a hole in the bottom of the membrane and slid the metal tray across the floor to Arc’s feet, while a gun remained trained on his chest through a second hole. The ‘meal’ was a pink-brown block of protein—the sort of rations Kinship soldiers were issued a hundred years ago during wartime. Arc somehow doubted Shodus and his crew were eating the same.
He put the tray on his lap, using his hand in place of utensils. The block squished between his fingers and dissolved into a runny mess, so he gathered clumps of it in his hands and crammed them into his mouth. The taste was bland, like cardboard, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been cold as well. Still, Arc was hungry, and not eating would only leave him weaker.
Alis needed assistance with her meal; one soldier shovelled the slop into her mouth while the other gave her an injection. She coughed, probably choking on the stuff, but the soldiers seemed more concerned with cleaning up what she spat up than her well-being. Their task complete, the Zulkar left her lying on her cot as she gasped for air. Arc remained standing, hands and face pressed up against the membrane, until he was sure she was breathing normally.
The earlier conversation with Shodus still dominated Arc’s thoughts. Imperials took lineage as a serious matter, so Shodus being a bastard child might explain why he was working in this sort of job instead of living the leisurely life of a lord. But what really got Arc was that nonsense about godhood. Arc rarely considered religious matters, but he had an idea of what a god might be like, and Shodus fell quite short of the mark.
What Shodus had said about Marissa was worrisome; had it been some veiled threat? If his intention really was to break Arc’s spirit, then he’d gone about it the wrong way. Threatening his wife would only make him fight harder. It was an empty threat anyway; Marissa was on Aegis, out of Shodus’s reach.
Footsteps in the corridor; Arc raised his head. “Forgot something?” he jeered.
The Zulkar stepped into view, head bowed beneath the low ceiling. He walked with an unusual gait, lifting his knees almost to his chest with every step, while his arms dangled limply at his sides. It could be said there was a certain grace in the way the gangly Zulkar species moved, but this one was just comical. Armoured like most of the soldiers, his face was hidden beneath a dark visor. He came to an awkward and abrupt stop, his limbs jerking in towards his body all at once as he leaned forward, maybe too far forward, and pressed his helmet up against the membrane of the cell. He held that position for what felt like minutes, and Arc began to wonder if the soldier had fallen asleep.
At last, the Zulkar stepped back, bumping his helmet against the ceiling. He lifted his hands, clutching a tablet in one and a stylus in the other. “Auuutooogrrraaph?” He spoke in the Kinship tongue, but his accent was unlike any Arc had ever heard.
Arc stared at the tablet, struggling to grasp what turn of fate could have contrived this event. Why did the Zulkar want an autograph? To the Empire, Arc was a hated enemy, not a celebrity. He hadn’t been that notable a gladiator anyway, but maybe that didn’t matter to this one. Arc was admittedly still a Name, one people would recognize.
“Autograph?” The Zulkar repeated. The hand with the stylus did a little flick, and a hole opened in the middle of the membrane. He thrust his hands through, holding the implements out to Arc. There was no sign of the small remotes the other soldiers used to open the cells.
Arc took the tablet, very confused. A white screen glowed in his hand, a blank canvas. He glanced at the stylus, still in the Zulkar’s claw. This one wasn’t being cautious; Arc could easily grab the hand and hold him half-trapped inside the cell. And then…
What? The Zulkar didn’t appear to have any weapons to take, so Arc couldn’t fight his way out. He could try holding the Zulkar hostage in exchange for his release, but these were Imperials he was dealing with, who wouldn’t blink over the loss of a single crew member if it meant maintaining the commander’s will. Shodus would never negotiate, and might even kill the crewman himself if it would resolve things.
He took the stylus and scrawled his signature across the screen. The tablet was an unfamiliar model, and he couldn’t see an obvious way to activate its other functions, so he handed it back. The Zulkar withdrew his hands, eagerly inspecting the tablet as the membrane slid closed. He bowed, bumping his helmet on the membrane again, then turned and strutted away.
Arc watched the Zulkar stride jerkily out of sight before returning to the bench. He had no idea what to make of that. Maybe nothing; it could simply be a meaningless, random event. Or maybe he had just found a potential ally.