William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

He knew the questioning would come next. They’d be offered yet more torture or a quick release from the pain if they talked.

He looked over again at Sean and saw the terror in his eyes. He wondered if Sean, in turn, could sense the fear within his own soul as well.

“Listen to me,” he gasped, pausing to lick his split and bloodied lips. He swallowed to clear his throat. “Lie to them. We’ll have to talk, but we can lie.” He whispered softly, suspecting that just behind the half closed shutter and porthole a guard was listening. That’s why he spoke in English, doubting that any of their captors knew the language.

“Our ship, the Gettysburg , its an old ship. We have ships three, four times as big. Let’s say, twenty of them. We saw them pulling the wreckage of our flyer in, so tell them the truth about that, but say it’s our smallest aerosteamer. Tell them our army has half a million men under arms and can call up another half million. We have to agree on this now. They most likely will separate us soon.”

Sean, eyes glazed, stared at Richard. “Why?” Sean whispered.

Why? He was so incredulous, he couldn’t respond for a moment.

“It’s our duty, that’s why,” he finally replied.

“Duty? Duty got us into this. I joined because I had to. I was the son of damnable Senator O’Donald. Now look at us.”

A shuddering sob escaped him, and he lowered his head.

“Damn it, Sean, we have to agree on this. It will make it easier for both of us.”

“Easier?”

“I know how these creatures think. They respect strength. Show weakness, and they’ll drag out the agony for their own amusement.

“When they start in again, try to hang on as long as possible. When you simply can’t take it anymore, act as if you’re breaking, then spill it out quickly.”

He looked over at the table where the implements of torture were neatly lined up.

“They get careless sometimes. If you have a chance, throw yourself on one of their blades.”

He had seen that done often enough, and though it was easy to say, he wondered if he would have the courage to do so if the chance should arise.

“Then what?”

If we’re lucky, they just might cut our throats, Richard thought, but looking at Sean, he realized he’d better not say it.

“The moon feast. That’s what they are planning for us, isn’t it?”

Richard shook his head. “They only do that to fresh victims.”

Sean groaned as another wave rolled the boat, swinging them back against the bulkhead.

A burst of light flooded into the room, and, startled, he looked up. The door was open. Two of them were standing there, both in white robes, unlike their tormentors of earlier, who were stripped to the waist and wore black trousers.

The two entered, the second one far taller than normal for one of the Horde, head inclined low even though the ceiling was over eight feet from the deck.

Richard gazed at him warily. He was thin, almost cadaverous for a Bantag, eyes a strange pale blue, a rarity amongst that race. His gaze was penetrating, cutting directly into the soul.

Richard knew that some were able to do this. The terrifying Tamuka, the fallen Qar Qarth of the Merki, had been one, although those with the power usually stood behind a Qarth or even the Qar Qarth as their adviser.

This one, he sensed, had cultivated the ability to see within beyond anything the Hordes of the north knew or comprehended.

As the blue-eyed one gazed at him, Richard fought to show indifference; the look of a slave who was beyond caring and beyond fear.

There was the flicker of a smile, and then he turned to look at Sean.

Richard watched the silent interplay. Sean gasped for breath, eyes drooping. Again the flicker of a smile.

The blue-eyed one said something unintelligible, and his companion pulled a drinking flask out from under his robe, uncorked it, and held it so that Richard could drink.

He gulped it down. The taste was strange, tinged with a slight bitterness, like a strong herb. The flask was withdrawn and offered to Sean, who drank as well.

The second one drew back and then left the cabin. At first Richard felt some of his strength returning, but then he sensed something else, a strange drifting. The pain was still there, but somehow he felt as if he were floating.

The blue-eyed one smiled.

“Yes, it was drugged.”

Richard was startled. The words were in English.

“I seek answers to a few questions. That is all, and then this will end.”

Richard wanted to make a defiant reply, but decided that silence was still the best path.

“Just end it,” Sean cried, his voice near to breaking.

“It will end.” His attention turned to focus on Sean. “Tell me, are you the son of Senator O’Donald of the Republic.”

Richard could not help but betray his shock. The blueeyed one smiled. “We know quite a bit about you.” As he spoke he snapped his fingers.

A man came through the door, a human wearing a white robe, the same as the blue-eyed one. And yet something about him made Richard uneasy, even frightened. The man was tall, matching Richard’s height, but beneath the robe he could sense a physique that was perfection. The man moved catlike. There seemed to be a coiled and deadly power to him, his gaze cool, almost mocking.

“Years ago I sent a dozen like Machu here north, to learn a few things. Your Yankee language was one of the things he returned with. My Shiv learn such things quickly.”

“Shiv?” Sean asked.

He smiled. “My name is Hazin, and you, Sean O’Donald, will learn soon enough who the Shiv truly are.”

“I doubt that,” Richard snapped.

The gaze turned, fixing on him. Yet again he felt the sense of uncovering, of staring within.

At a subtle gesture, Machu stepped forward. The back-handed blow was delivered in almost a casual manner, but the force of it stunned Richard. For a moment he thought his jaw had been shattered, and he gagged on the blood, which nearly choked him.

The man turned on Sean, and the beating began. Within less than a minute O’Donald was sobbing, begging for it to stop. The whole time Hazin ignored Sean, all attention focused on Richard.

He could feel the drug taking hold, the strange floating, the sudden awareness of the finest nuances of the narrow universe of the cabin, the way motes of dust floated, the scent of salt air drifting in, such a pleasant relief washing away the fetid stench.

He heard the sharp rasping snick of a knife being drawn, and the Shiv held it up before Sean’s eyes. As Sean rocked back and forth, suspended from his chains, the Shiv remained motionless, the point of the blade raised so that with each forward swing it barely touched Sean’s skin, drawing blood from his arms and chest.

Hazin, meanwhile, continued to stare at Richard.

Not you, he seemed to whisper. The other one is the one I know will break.

“What is it you want?” Richard gasped.

“You know,” Hazin whispered.

“No, I don’t.”

Sean was crying, beginning to beg. Richard froze, closing his eyes, trying to block out the sound, and yet still he felt as if Hazin was looking at him, probing within, seeking for something that could not be described by words.

“No, not that, God no.”

Richard opened his eyes and saw with horror that the Shiv had lowered his blade and was preparing to make the most cruel of cuts with it.

Sean was shaking his head back and forth, feebly kicking, his cries drawn out into a long pitiful moan.

Richard looked back at Hazin. “Stop it,” he gasped. “I’ll tell you what you want, just leave him alone.”

“No, you would lie, Cromwell. You would try to save your friend, but still you would lie.”