| |
Decker slowly opened his eyes and closed them again when pain lanced through his brain. It hurt enough that he decided he was still in this universe, and not in some mythical hell.
He remained still for a few heartbeats and took stock of his situation. For one thing, he was alive, still wearing his own clothes and lying on a bunk. A quick test proved that he had the use of his limbs though any movement made his head pound. He sensed an all too familiar subliminal vibration —hyperdrives pushing a ship in its own FTL bubble.
Zack remained still and kept his eyes shut as he reconstructed his last memories. He saw the pursuit in Deveaux station's commercial district, the wrong turn into the night-time terrarium, a woman popping out of the shadows in front of him, barring his way, and dozens of pinpricks as she, and the man behind him, emptied their needlers. Not poison but sedatives. His last memory was of falling on the cultured grass.
He opened his eyes again and sat up, wincing in pain. After a few heartbeats, he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, simultaneously wishing he hadn't done so. Nausea rushed up his throat, making him retch. His breathing became labored as he fought the sickness. Whatever sedative they had used, it left nasty after-effects.
In time, the compartment stopped spinning, and his stomach settled down in an uneasy truce with his brain. The cabin was small, bare and not unlike the one Avril Ducote had given him on Demetria. A small ship then, perhaps a space yacht or a courier. Squinting against the glare, he looked around and quickly spotted the video pickup in one corner.
Next question, how long had he been out? Zack glanced at his wrist, but it was bare: they had taken his timepiece.
Standard procedure. Never give a prisoner something that could help him order his life. Zack absently rubbed his chin and encountered stubble. His last shave had been four or five hours before docking, and this seemed like a full day's growth. That meant he'd been out fifteen to eighteen hours. Time enough to leave orbit and jump. His bladder suddenly sent him urgent signals and confirmed his estimate.
He stood on unsteady legs and staggered to the small toilet, sighing as he relieved himself. That business taken care of, the beginnings of hunger gnawed at his insides. He grinned again. Zachary T. Decker didn't stay down for long. He glanced up at the surveillance module on the ceiling and waved.
“If it isn't too much trouble, guys, I wouldn't mind a bit of grub and some water.”
Then, he settled on the bunk again and put his hands behind his head. A few minutes later, the cabin door vanished with a whisper, and a mean looking blaster filled the opening. Behind the blaster, Zack recognized the male part of the deadly duo that had netted him like a rookie. He looked as bland and unassuming as before, someone you wouldn't notice in a crowd, as long as he wasn't pointing a gun at you. Come to think of it, he and the inspector on Santa Theresa had that blandness in common. Maybe it was a requirement to join the Sécurité Spéciale. Two small objects sailed into the cabin and landed with a thunk on the deck beside the bunk.
“Enjoy, Mister Decker.” His Anglic was accent-free, his voice unremarkable. The door closed again before the gunner could ask any of the questions burning on his lips.
Sitting up slowly this time, Zack leaned down and picked up the two packages: a military-issue emergency ratpack and a zero-gee water skin. He couldn't repress an automatic grimace at the sight of the ratpack. Nourishing and life sustaining, but unappetizing, the slab of protein, vitamins and minerals tasted salty-sweet and gooey. It was the subject of more jokes and put-downs among ground pounders than any other matter, including the General Staff. But right now, it was food for a big man who hadn't eaten in almost a standard day.
Zack unwrapped the bar and sniffed, nodding. It smelled just the same whether hidden in a cave on Hispaniola or on an assault shuttle skimming the treetops on Ganesh. He briefly considered the possibility that it had been adulterated or poisoned. There were ways of doing it without leaving traces on the vacuum-tight wrapper. He knew of at least a dozen and had tried several himself, giving hungry guerrillas a bad case of gastroenteritis on New-Tasman. The results hadn't been fun to watch, but it had worked.
On the other hand, if his hosts had wanted to poison him, they could just as well have killed him on Deveaux and dumped his body into the garbage compactor. It didn't take a genius with four years at the Academy to figure that one out. He took a bite of the ratpack and chewed as he considered his situation.
First, he was on his way back to Pacifica, to Amali's hideaway. That was so sure a bet, he was willing to use his left nut as collateral. Second, the reason they were taking him back instead of just killing him was that they wanted to find out how much he knew, and who he had told. Third, once they'd squeezed the information out of him, Zack Decker would vanish forever.
He had no illusions that he'd resist interrogation. Everyone talked, eventually. The only ones who didn't were those with conditioning, and they died instead. But while he was alive, he had a chance. Never count a Pathfinder as dead until you've seen the body, and even then make damn sure.
Another thought occurred to him, and he almost choked on his last bite. One way or the other, they'd find out Avril knew, and that meant she would die too if it wasn't already too late. Nothing kept another team of Sécurité Spéciale agents from snatching her off Demetria.
He emptied the water skin and stretched out on the bunk again. The hours passed, but he felt no ill effects from the food. Which either meant it wasn't tainted, or they had given him something slow acting, like tailored biologicals, that would kill him at a predetermined time when he least expected it. Nothing inconvenient happened to him either, like artificially induced diarrhea or nausea, just for fun and games. Perhaps the Sécurité Spéciale didn't go for laughs.
The trip, judging by his beard growth, took four ratpack-filled days with no chance at a shave and a shower. By the time the usual, momentary emergence nausea overcame him, he was going out of his skull with boredom and strongly suspected he smelled like a goat.
Ratpacks, with their highly concentrated proteins, gave a human body flavoring and aroma than would repel a hungry tiger. Only man-eating Tasman targos found it appetizing and used to home-in on Marines who'd been eating the stuff for days. New-Tasman was the one campaign where the brass had given them decent food to eat, and that only after a few troopers had become late-night ratpack-flavored snacks.
He sensed rather than heard the changeover from sublight drives to atmospheric thrusters and somehow knew they hadn't spent the usual time in orbit waiting for a landing window. When you're working for the Amalis, who owned Pacifica as if they were medieval dukes, you didn't have to go through the same procedures as ordinary mortals.
His fight-or-flight adrenaline dispenser keyed up his system to prepare for whatever lay ahead, quite uselessly, a more rational part of his mind remarked. The guards he'd seen the last time would not let him simply walk away from the ship. Not that he'd have anywhere to go. Amali's island was thousands of kilometers from the nearest mainland. And even that probably belonged to the motherless shit.
Zack Decker, though having no particular religious beliefs, seriously contemplated the need for a miracle, like the ability to walk on water, or be raised to the heavens on a beam of divine light. The thought made him grin, but to any observer, it would have looked more like a rictus.
The pressure of gravity increased as the yacht decelerated through the final hundred meters of descent. He felt as if someone had placed a heavy slab of plascrete on his chest. Then with a muffled thump, the downwards motion stopped, and the pressure lifted. They had arrived.
He listened to the ship's groaning and pinging as the superheated hull cooled down after re-entry. Another low hum signaled the opening of the belly ramp. Zack stood, straightened his clothes, hand absently brushing the spot where he'd worn the duplicate Master Gunner badge before his abduction. They'd taken that from him, along with everything in his pockets, before he woke.
The door whooshed open again, as it had every day since leaving Dordogne, and the same blaster, held by the same face, replaced it.
“The trip is over, Mister Decker. I recommend that you avoid doing anything stupid. Mister Amali's mercenary guards are good shots and have orders to kill you the moment you try to escape. Not that you'll get past me, of course. Come.”
The barrel of the gun pointed aft and Zack had no choice but to comply. He gave the man one of his patented grins, satisfied at the brief look of distaste on the other's face as he wrinkled his nose, courtesy of Zack's five days without washing. They walked down the steep ramp into the Pacifica sunshine.
The heat and light of the tropical sun hit him hard after weeks in an artificial environment, and he stopped, momentarily blinded. An impatient prod from the blaster had him moving again.
As his eyes adjusted to the glare, he saw that they had indeed landed on Amali's island and that the same competent looking guards patrolled the property, carbines carried at the ready. A six-man patrol met them halfway across the tarmac and formed a box around Decker. Amali wasn't taking any chances, and Zack didn't know whether to be flattered.
The gunner perspired freely, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead before they could run into his eyes. Dense, sweet flower smells assaulted his nose and reminded him of jungle patrols on a dozen planets. The path they followed was familiar. It branched off towards the manicured lawn richly planted with flowery shrubs fronting the black, opulent mansion.
“Off to see the head man himself, eh?” Zack asked, turning his head towards the agent with the blaster.
“If I were you, Mister Decker, and thankfully I am not, I would find nothing to smile about.”
“Hey, isn't that great? You can speak in full sentences.”
The sarcasm earned him a painful jab in the ribs with the blaster, but the man's face didn't lose its blank expression.
“Mister Amali has asked to see you. He did not specify whether you should get there on your own two feet.”
“No sense of humor, eh?”
“No.” But this time, the agent grinned, a cruel grin that did more to worry Decker than anything else so far. Throughout the exchange, the six guards had remained stone-faced and alert, ignoring the tense banter. They might have been mercs, but that didn't mean they were stupid. Not with the sort of money Amali could pay.
They took him to Amali's manor and through the plush hallway to the enclosed patio. As they approached the gurgling fountain in the center, Walker Amali, looking as urbane and polished as ever, stood. The attractive peroxide blonde who'd been climbing all over him moments earlier rose at a flick of his fingers and walked away, bare breasts bouncing. She glanced back at the new arrivals before vanishing and Zack gave her his best Marine leer, just for form's sake. After all, old Pathfinder noncoms had a reputation to uphold.
“Mister Decker. What a pleasure to see you so soon again. You will forgive me if I don't offer you any refreshments, but...” Amali raised his manicured hands, palms upwards, in apology. His nose twitched when he caught a whiff of Zack's aroma.
Decker felt lightheaded, like a man who had nothing to lose by a little defiance.
“Can't say the pleasure is mutual, Amali, but then, you're a slimy bastard, and I don't like those. Though I wouldn't mind getting to know that bimbo of yours. Does she give good head?”
The magnate's eyes tightened. He took a step forward and slapped Decker across the face.
“Uncouth and impolite to the last. The flower of Fleet Intelligence.”
Two of the guards pinned Decker's arms back before he could return the blow. Instead, the gunner laughed with open contempt.
“Is that the best you can do? A five-year-old old has more strength, and for your information, I'm not Intelligence. Never was. You have the wrong guy.”
“Mister Decker,” Amali replied, a dangerous tone in his voice, “as they say, you can fool some people some of the time, but you can't fool all people all the time. I must admit you had me fooled during your last visit. But only just. As the leopard cannot shed its spots, a Marine cannot change his loyalties.”
Zack snorted. “There's all kinds in the Corps, asshole. If I had you fooled, as you say, that's because you're one of the biggest fucking congenital idiots in the known galaxy. Especially if you think you’ll get away with whatever you're planning.”
Amali laughed.
“Brave words, Mister Decker. I must say that I find your courage admirable. You are the first agent who penetrated my organization so deeply.”
“Would that be the Sécurité Spéciale, by any chance?”
“No, Mister Decker. It belongs to the SecGen, as you well know. I have their use in matters involving the Coalition's interests. I handle my commercial interests with other, more direct means. But come, let us drop the charade. You are a Fleet operative as the delightful Miss Kiani established.”
Zack snorted.
“If your mind's made up, Amali, then believe I work for the Fleet. Wouldn't be the first time someone's mistaken me for something I'm not. But if I'm a hotshot spy, then why hasn’t the Navy dropped in on you yet? I had four weeks to pass the information to my supposed employers. While we're at it, why would I let myself be captured so easily? You'd think a trained spook is good enough to ruin Smiley's day.” He jerked his head towards the agent who caught him. Smiley didn't like his new nickname and jabbed Decker hard in the ribs with his blaster.
Amali clasped his hands in the small of his back and stared up at the deep blue sky. Zack didn't think for even a second that he believed him. Not faced with the evidence he had left in his wake.
“Hmm, be that as it may,” Amali shrugged, making a small moue of languid disinterest. The aristocratic, disdainful expression on his smooth face made Zack want to wipe it on hard concrete. “I do know that you are much too familiar with my affairs. Your recordings show an interest that does not correspond to your supposed status as merchant ship gunner. Yes, Mister Decker. I have had occasion to read your findings and deductions. Fantastic. Miss Kiani brought them to my attention the evening after your departure from my little island. By the way where is she? We have not been able to contact her since her last report when she transmitted the contents of your data chip.”
“Dead, Amali. Her body disintegrated by my hands.” Zack chuckled. “A shame too. She was one hell of a good lay. Probably better than your bimbo, even if her tits weren't as big, or as artificial.
Amali raised his eyebrows and tsked, refusing to be baited again.
“Pity. But she has served her purpose admirably. I suppose you also killed her partner that same evening?”
“Yeah.” Zack let a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “Your fucking Sécurité Spéciale isn't worth crap if a retired Marine noncom can wipe 'em off the face of the universe that easily.” He received another painful jab in the kidneys from Smiley's blaster.
“I'll take care of you too, sonny,” the gunner muttered over his shoulder, “just mark my words.”
“Ah, but you see,” Amali replied, ignoring the exchange between agent and prisoner, “I don't believe you are a retired Marine noncom. The Navy placed you aboard Shokoten to replace their dead officer, Lokis. But this time, they succeeded. Good cover story. It took Nihao Kiani nearly half a year to figure it out though she suspected you from the outset. I didn't approve of her attempts to kill you without proof, but it would have saved us much trouble had she succeeded when you first joined the ship.”
Zack barked out an incredulous laugh.
“You trying to make me believe you have scruples? I might not be the brightest guy to come out of the Corp's Command School, but I'm not that fucking dumb.”
“Believe what you will, Mister Decker. Your opinion matters less to me than bird shit on the hood of my speeder,” Amali replied. “I did not bring you here to trade insults, though a non-entity like you can scarcely touch me, but before you join your unfortunate predecessor in whatever hell is reserved for failed spies, I wish to know how much you found out, and whom you told. Then, I have a very special finale for you.”
The magnate's languid, bored tone managed to wear down Decker's self-control. If the mercs weren't holding him in a grip of steel, he'd have slammed the heel of his palm into Amali's nose, driving the cartilage into the brain and killing him.
“One last thing before you go, Mister Decker.” Amali reached over and pinned something to his jacket, patting it into place. “Your Master Gunner's badge. A beautiful piece of miniature script work. I like that. Unfortunately, the sappy words Duty, Loyalty, Honor, will be of cold comfort to you in a few hours. We wondered whether it was a special device. You see, Miss Kiani noticed that you did not have it when you first came aboard Shokoten. I can only assume that it was a reminder from your friends in Naval Intelligence as it is nothing more than an unusual alloy. Maybe it will bring you luck, though where you are going, you will need more than just luck.” He chuckled. “Take him away, but make sure he can still play his part.”
Before the guards roughly turned him around, Decker spat at Amali, landing a thick gob of saliva on his cheek. The magnate flushed in anger.
“You will regret that, Decker. You will beg me for mercy.”
As they took him away, Zack laughed. In the end, he had made the goddamn creep lose his temper. But at what price? The man who controlled ComCorp had nothing to fear from the law and could make him suffer any torment he desired, and if Walker Amali was half as cruel as his father Peterson was rumored to have been...
The mercs led him to half-buried, windowless building near the tarmac. A short flight of stairs brought them down to an armored door that opened on a sterile, white corridor.
They shoved him into the first room on the right. It was equipped like a dentist's surgery but with a few refinements. Now real fear wormed its way through Zack’s gut. He recognized the sophisticated interrogation equipment and knew he would tell them everything. No training could help him now.
The guards strapped him down in the reclining chair and took up position along the wall, silent as ever. A technician appeared from another doorway and deftly shaved Zack's head. As soon as he was done, he vanished again.
A few minutes later, a wizened, white-haired man appeared. He wore a light green medical smock and looked for all the world like a kind cleric, with a wrinkled, red face, bulbous nose, and twinkling eyes.
“Good day, good day, Mister Decker,” his head bobbed as he smiled absently at the prisoner, displaying crooked, yellowed teeth. “I'm Doctor Hans Cantos. We will get to know each other intimately over the next hour.”
Cantos broke off and giggled, bobbing his head again.
“At least, I will get to know you intimately, so you will understand if I drop all formality and call you Zachary. In return, you may call me Doctor.” He giggled even harder at his little joke.
“Do you know what this equipment is, Zachary?”
The gunner inhaled a whiff of the doctor's bitter, cloying scent, like that of orchids and burning tealeaves. Cantos was a shimmer addict. Zack knew enough about the drug to know that Cantos was hooked without hope of ever shaking it. The only way shimmerheads escaped the weed's grasp was through death. And that came soon enough for heavy users as the active ingredients slowly burned away their nerve endings.
“Yeah, Doctor Shithead. A mind probe.” Zack felt a small measure of pride that his voice was steady and his tone insolent although he his fear was mounting.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. So impolite. I dislike rudeness.”
Cantos shook his white mane as he placed the shining dome of the probe on Decker's head. Long, needle-like tendrils formed on the inside of the hemisphere as its surface prepared to establish a direct link with the gunner's brain. Tendrils crawled across his bare scalp as they moved into position and he shuddered with horror.
Then pain exploded from a dozen spots on his skull as the probes drilled through skin and bone to touch his very being. He screamed. Cantos merely continued to smile, bobbing his head, as he manipulated the probe's controls.
“Pay attention now, Zachary,” he leaned towards the gunner, his fetid breath warm and sickening on Zack's face. He sounded like a benevolent schoolmaster.
“F-fuck y-you.”
Cantos tasked. “I've already told you I dislike rudeness. Now, I shall have to make you suffer for it. You see, the probe can also directly stimulate the brain's pain centers. Quite marvelous, I think.”
He touched a button on the control panel, and a surge of incredible pain lanced through Zack’s body. It was as if all his nerve endings were on fire. He screamed with enough force to bruise his vocal cords. All of his muscles twitched in a single, unified contraction, making his body arch against the chair, pulling painfully at the restraints
The pain suddenly vanished, but its phantom remained as a lingering memory, a tingling that would never die and would always promise to flare up in agony again.
“How do you like my little nerve inducer?”
Decker gasped. It had shot through him for only a second or two, but it had seemed like an eternity.
“I-I'll k-kill y-you, runt.”
Pain surged again, drawing out his last reserves of strength. He no longer heard his own screams, but his mind refused to shut down, to drown out the agony in unconsciousness or death. The probe kept him awake, making him endure every microsecond of soul-searing hell.
When it stopped, Zack's muscles relaxed their tetanic spasm, and he slumped into the chair, sobbing, only half-aware of his surroundings. Cantos's stinking breath brought him back to a semblance of rational thought.
“If you insist on being impolite, I'm afraid I shall have to insist on using the inducer again. Believe me, I dislike causing so much suffering.”
“Now,” he said with a sickening smile, “I shall ask you a few simple questions, to calibrate this delicate machinery. Please answer truthfully. I will know if you are lying and shall use the inducer again. If you hope to make me hurt you enough to send you into a coma, disabuse yourself of the notion. The machine knows your exact tolerance at each moment, and will make sure you stay conscious. Now, what is your full name?”
“Walker Amali. Ahhh!” Zack's voice filled the room with an unearthly wail that made even the merc guards shudder in horror.
“Let us try again.” Cantos sounded resigned, even sad at his lack of cooperation. Decker knew he was only delaying the inevitable, but he couldn't give in without a fight, even though it hurt like crazy.
“What is your full name?”
“Z-Zachary T-Thomas D-Decker.”
“Excellent. What is your planet of birth?”
“Mykonos Colony.” Zack's voice was weak and hoarse, his vocal chords badly bruised by his screaming.
“Thank you. What unit did you last serve with?”
“The 902nd Pathfinder Squadron.”
“Excellent, Mister Decker. You see how easy it is.” Cantos beamed at him, like a proud father. “You will be pleased to know that I have calibrated the probe to your brain patterns, and you have nothing more to fear from the inducer. Just sit back and relax.”
Intrusive, incorporeal fingers began to sift through his mind, reaching out from the probe's metallic spikes. They caressed his thoughts, his memories, and his soul like the fingers of an obscene lover, exploring, sifting through his memories, revealing Decker's innermost being. He tried to fight the horror but in vain. Nothing could stop the tendrils.
Part of him screamed in rage and terror though his throat remained silent. Through open, staring eyes, he saw Cantos smirk and bob in front of his screen, seeing in full color and detail that which made up Zachary Decker's being — his experiences, his loves, and losses. His life. Cantos was a voyeur of the soul.
Instead of merely homing in on the memories Amali wanted, the doctor spent a long time in his degenerate pursuit of titillation. All of Decker's sex life paraded on the mind screen: his wife, Raisa, Kiani and the others. Then, his moments of deep pain joined the good memories: Darhad's death, his forced retirement, and the many miseries of a long life on the frontier. Nothing remained hidden.
Finally, to his ultimate horror, Zack felt Cantos extract all he knew about Amali's operation, and the memory of telling Avril Ducote everything, condemning her to death. Suddenly, as if Cantos had tired of the peepshow, the insubstantial fingers vanished, leaving the cold metal spikes behind.
“There we go, Mister Decker. That wasn't very difficult. And you'll be glad to hear that I've done it without damaging your psyche. Unfortunately, most of my customers do experience permanent damage.” He sounded almost comically wistful. But Zack wasn't in a position to appreciate the humor. He was trembling with anguish and self-loathing, his soul violated and dirty.
“You appear to have led a fascinating life. So varied.” Now, the dwarfish doctor sounded envious.
“Jealous, y-you f-fucking eunuch? Sh-shiimmer already robbed you of your balls?” Zack's voice held so much agony that the few guards who hadn't looked away a long time ago now turned their eyes upwards and studied the ceiling, wondering how they ever came to serve here.
“Oh Mister Decker, and just when I thought we had established such a good working relationship.”
An eternity of nerve-fire hit Zack again, but no sounds came from his abused throat. It was as if the violation of the soul had robbed him of any connection with his flesh.
When the last twinges from the inducer subsided to a dull ache, Cantos apologized. But looking at his crazy eyes, Decker knew he wasn't sorry at all. He enjoyed his job very much. Too much. He was very near the edge of permanent drug-induced insanity. The gunner knew that if Amali hadn't ordered he be kept in working condition, the doctor would have slowly twisted his whole being into a single mass of endless pain.
At a command from Cantos, the metallic tendrils of the probe slipped out of his skull and merged with the helmet's shiny inner surface. Moments later, the helmet itself lifted, leaving a dozen tiny blood spots behind. Cantos, with a tenderness that surprised even the brutalized and half-conscious gunner, applied medical paste to fill the holes in his skull. When he was done, he smiled at Zack.
“Goodbye, Mister Decker. Maybe we shall meet again. But I doubt it.”
When the guards untied him and pulled him to his feet, Zack found that his legs no longer obeyed the commands of his brain. The brawny mercenaries had to drag him through an underground passage before throwing him into a bare cell.
They brought him food, trays of real food, not ratpacks or reconstituted stuff but the guards didn't speak, and Zack didn't have the energy to try, though he ate with appetite.
He had no idea how long they left him there. The meals came regularly, and his strength returned as the last physical traces of the pain inducer faded into an indelible memory, but the agony of the mental rape would not go. That soiled, hateful sensation remained vivid and unyielding, and would stay for a long time. Perhaps forever. Nightmares haunted him mercilessly, ensuring the experience remained engraved on his neurons.
*
After nine meals or three days by Zack's reckoning, the same six guards returned and escorted him to a cold, clean lavatory, ordering him to shave and wash. They gave him nondescript coveralls to wear once he was clean, disposing of his old clothes, including his beloved leather jacket. One of the mercs, his face twisted by an expression of cruel irony, pinned his Master Gunner's badge to the coveralls' right breast and patted Zack on the head, to the laughter of his friends.
“There you go, little Marine cocksucker. Now you can keep on impressing us peasants.”
Decker joined in the laughter but when they were distracted, he belted the merc who'd patted him on the head, sending him crashing in a shower booth, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Zack's fist hurt like hell, but he had heard a satisfying crunch and knew he'd broken the other man's jaw. He would be eating through a straw for a good while.
Two of the guards grabbed him as the others went to pick up their stunned comrade, muttering angrily, but Amali's orders were that Decker be presented in good health, freshly washed, and shaved.
They took him through yet another underground tunnel. The hum of environmental machinery filled the silence as they neared their destination while a dry, acrid scent, faint but unmistakable grew along with the hum. His memory twitched at the odor, but his broken synapses weren’t making the connection.
The mercs stopped at a smooth, white door set in the right-hand corridor wall, a few meters short of a pair of armored hatches. It whooshed aside with a faint sigh.
They dragged him inside and shoved him into a metal chair. Restraints slapped over his wrists and ankles, pinning him down. Then, the hired guns backed off and took a position against the walls of the lounge.
The room was plush, as Decker expected from anything surrounding Amali. It was the size of a typical citizen's living room, about ten meters by ten meters. Three of the four walls were a muted beige, while the fourth, the one Zack faced, was the milky opaque of a polarized window, currently shut.
Smooth blue carpeting covered the floor, complementing the exquisite period furniture with its tones of turquoise and lavender. Several loungers were grouped around table hewn from a single crystal. Abstract paintings from old Earth Masters covered the three solid walls.
They waited in silence as the minutes ticked by. Zack wished he could work off his rising anxiety by throwing wisecracks at the mercs, but he fought to keep silent. The last thing his pride would let him do was to show those rent-a-troopers that an old Marine noncom was scared. This was obviously the start to the promised finale.
After almost half an hour, the doors sighed again, and Zack caught a whiff of Walker Amali's expensive scent.
“Good morning, Mister Decker. I trust you've recovered from your little session with Doctor Cantos. An exceptional scientist, our doctor, do you not think so?” Amali came into Decker's field of view and smiled at his captive. He wore an expensive white tropical suit of shimmering silk, which absorbed perspiration without a trace. A platinum chain glittered around his neck, nestled below a strong chin.
Zack, for want of anything better, smiled back, peeling his lips from his teeth in imitation of an Arkanna challenge. The gesture was lost on the human.
“A pity he is slowly sinking into madness,” Amali continued, “but he does good work for me, and I must reward him as he wishes, with the finest quality shimmer.”
He sat down on the sofa, his gestures elegant and restrained.
“Somehow I feel I must thank you for having provided me with such a wealth of information, Mister Decker. Shame that you were telling the truth about not being a Naval Intelligence agent. Had you kept your nose in your own affairs, you would have had a pleasing career on my ships. I can always use Fleet-trained material. A pity too that your meddling has cost a competent first officer her life. Darhad was destined for her own command in one of my shipping firms.” He smiled sadly at Zack.
“Bastard,” Decker spat. “You won't put the blame for her death on me. She was an honorable woman, who did what she believed was right. It was your whore who killed her!”
Amali's sad smile broadened into a delighted grin. Zack could read the 'gotcha' spelled out in large letters on his face, and to his surprise, the realization calmed him.
“You know, Amali, I can't figure why I let a sniveling little coward like you get my goat,” he said, voice low and even, though it remained hoarse. “You wouldn't last a minute in a man-to-man fight. But then, I forget. You're not really a man, are you? Tell me, was that bleached blonde of the other day actually a woman, or was she just for show?”
Walker Amali's grin froze, and his nostrils flared minutely, but he did not otherwise react.
“Insult me all you want, Decker. You can prove what a man you are very soon.” He snapped his fingers at his attendant, whom Zack hadn't noticed until now. The woman, a small, pale-skinned, and thin creature of indeterminate age and pinched countenance scuttled forward.
“Yes, Walker?” Her voice was soft, weak, and her use of Amali's first name sounded stilted, uncomfortable. She wore a white lab smock over a tan pantsuit and kept her agitated hands in the coat's pockets.
“Sit, Ellenah.” As she complied, Amali turned his attention back towards Zack. “This is Professor Ellenah Rocheford, late of the Pacifica Institute of xenomedical research. Among her many degrees and accomplishments, she is an expert in alien neurosciences. Ellenah, meet Mister Zachary Thomas Decker, late of the merchant vessel Demetria, which, you'll be interested to know, Decker, we are actively hunting down.” Again that cruel grin flashed across the magnate's face.
But Zack felt an inner jubilation. They hadn't found Avril yet. By all appearances, she had escaped and Amali had made a mistake telling him. Now, the gunner could let himself relax.
“Mister Decker will assist us by acting as a test subject,” the aristocrat continued. “I think it is appropriate that he receive a full briefing before we begin the experiment, purely in the interests of fairness.”
Yeah, I'll bet, Zack thought disgustedly. You want to be fair to me like a reiver wants to tango with a fully armed Pathfinder commando. More like enjoy a bit of psych torture before you let me have it.
“Ellenah will be pleased to explain everything and answer all your questions.” He nodded at the woman. “You may begin.”
“Yes, Walker. Mister Decker, have you ever heard of a planet called Ventos Prime?”
“Yeah. Been there, seen the nuke strike craters, scanned the eggs on board Shokoten and the stasis boxes that contained, no doubt, a couple of mature ones. Now you want to surprise me by announcing that you have a matched set of Quas on this island.”
“Ah, so you know. Good, that will make my explanations much simpler.” She seemed to take Decker's familiarity in stride.
“Sure Ellenah, but you’ll tell me why, aren't you?” Zack smiled his patented Decker smile at her, but the old charm was gone. Or the Professor was immune.
“Why not start from the beginning.” Amali's silky voice intervened.
As if Zack had suddenly inherited Raisa's empathic talent, he knew this briefing was important to Amali, that the gunner was the first outsider to see the extent of his plans and accomplishments.
“Yes, Walker. A Navy survey ship discovered and charted Ventos Prime twenty years ago. They found a remarkable example of dual evolution that produced two quite distinct species, constantly at war with each other. The Qwallor, six-limbed reptilians, developed on one of the two largest continents and attained sentience approximately thirty thousand standard years ago. They evolved rapidly and have reached the rough equivalent of Earth's early atomic age. The other species, the Quas, are six-limbed insectoids who evolved on the other main continent, in total isolation from the Qwallor. A hive society, the Quas are at best semi-sentient and in the estimate of the Commonwealth's best xenologists, will likely remain so. However, the Quas are very prolific, highly aggressive, and very, very expansionistic. Their soldier subspecies has terrifying strength, speed, and endurance. The expanse of ocean between the two species has kept them apart for millions of years, until sometime recently, within the last millennia, a storm washed a young queen and a few drones across the water on a natural raft. Or at least that's what Qwallor scientists believe. The newcomers immediately tried to establish a colony, starting an interspecies struggle that still goes on.”
“The Qwallor soon found that the only weapon in their inventory that could destroy a hive was a nuclear device. They wiped out the abortive colonies on their continent and then built long-range bombers in an attempt to bring genocide to the Quas lands, with very limited success. Under ideal conditions, a single surviving queen can spawn as many as fifty new hives in the space of a hundred standard years. That, Mister Decker, can mean up to fifty million adult Quas, consuming everything organic in sight, even each other when nothing else remains.”
“Shit,” Zack interrupted, laughing. “You want to seed Outworlds with these bugs and watch 'em eat up whole colonies? It won’t work, Amali!”
“Silence, Decker,” the magnate snapped. “And listen.”
“You are correct. Such a project would not be viable. Though incredibly resilient individuals, the Quas' reproductive cycle slows in conditions too different from their home world. They would not spread fast enough on Earth-norm planets to achieve critical mass and overwhelm them. It would take very long to breed them to adapt to Earth-norm, however, in a controlled environment, the queens will thrive.”
“Then what are you doing with the things?”
“Patience, Mister Decker. The Qwallor have the Quas under control on their world though they're slowly poisoning it with radioactive fallout. After discovering the Quas, the Navy interdicted Ventos Prime, correctly deducing that the insectoid species represented a grave danger if taken off-planet, a disease that could devastate any life-bearing world. They continued their studies under strict secrecy, however, recording a significant amount of valuable information. Nevertheless, importation of Quas eggs or queens is a serious offense. Walker,” she motioned to her boss, “found out about the Quas and immediately saw the potential in them. He hired me to study his plans and develop a way to turn these semi-sentient beings into something humans could control.”
“You wouldn't,” Zack gasped, suddenly realizing where the Professor's monolog was headed.
“We already have, Mister Decker,” she continued, unemotional as ever. “We have implanted control circuits into Quas brain stems and can control their actions through neuroelectric impulses.”
“Think about it, Decker,” Amali chimed in, unable to resist crowing at the climax of Rocheford's story. “A hive of Quas, with a queen at the center, a queen producing eggs like a munitions factory produces artillery shells, and every two out of three shells, soldiers, almost two meters tall, bodies covered with their own natural armor, fearless, ruthless, and unstoppable. A private army under my control.”
“And the bugs just let you do it?”
“No,” Rocheford shook her head. “They're semi-sentient and don't recognize such concepts as cooperating with other species. For Quas, there is either their own hive, or prey, but we found that short of killing them, one thing will incapacitate Quas without harm: a particular ultrasound frequency. We disable them with the sound and while they're stunned, bore into the chitin at the base of the neck, connect the box, and close the opening. It will be easier with the hatchlings, which we will implant at the pupa stage while the exoskeleton is still forming. So far, we have harnessed the adults that came from Ventos Prime, except the queen, of course.”
“Just an idle question, Prof. How come the Qwallor obtained bugs for you? I thought you said they nuked 'em on sight.”
“I shall answer that, Ellenah,” Amali's smooth, cultured voice stayed the Professor's reply. “You see Mister Decker, we offered them an irresistible price for their cooperation: the disabling ultrasound frequency. It will not do them much good, as they don't yet have the technology to produce it at a sufficient energy level to do more than simply repel the creatures. Nor, do I think, will they ever attain that level. I fear their world is doomed to perish under the weight of environmental poisoning. The Qwallor part of their world that is. Quas can absorb radiation and other poisons without problems. They can survive where no human can. Who knows, maybe they will mutate into something even fiercer.”
Amali rose and approached the milky polarized window. With a sweep of the arm, he gestured towards the impenetrable barrier.
“Mister Decker, prepare to meet the future terror of the Marine Corps. An army of soldiers who don't question orders but execute them, even if it means their own lives; soldiers who take six months to hatch and six more to reach adulthood, with all the fighting instincts built-in. Compare that to the eighteen years or so it takes to make a Marine from a single ovum and spermatozoid. With my one queen, the good Professor assures me I can have a regiment within two years, even under the less than ideal conditions we have here. A regiment that will renew itself completely every twelve months, a regiment that needs no logistics tail because it will live off the land. A cheap, renewable, and highly efficient resource.” There was a light of madness in Amali's eyes as he spoke.
“The Quas soldier can be taught to use suitably modified plasma weaponry, simple to be sure, but deadly enough. And failing that, he can tear a human of your size and strength in two with his forelimbs just as easily as you can pass wind. His exoskeleton is equal to the armor your Marine friends wear, and a simple plasma rifle will not be enough to stop the soldiers. Not by a far cry. Consider them six-limbed, single seated tanks if you will. Tanks that will overwhelm even the bravest Marine regiment in the blink of an eye.”
“You're fucking insane, Amali.” If Zack wasn't scared before, he was now.
“No, Mister Decker, I’m merely desirous to solve the Commonwealth's endless bickering and problems for good. Since Grand Admiral Kowalski's day, the Fleet has been a law unto itself, flouting the rightful authority of the SecGen and the Senate, often in favor of the upstart colonies who style themselves the Outworlds. My army, which I will place at the SecGen's disposal, will sweep away anybody foolish enough to stand in the Coalition's way. If your Grand Admiral Connor fights our rightful leadership of the Commonwealth, millions of Outworlders will suffer. You cannot reason with Quas soldiers. They eat the ones they defeat in battle.”
“You're mad,” Decker whispered. But his words died stillborn as the window opened to reveal a nightmare world.
An embryonic Quas hive, in the heart of the Commonwealth.
