William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

“I’ll tell you anything,” Sean begged, “just not that.”

Richard lowered his head, and in spite of himself tears welled up. He had never had room for pity in his life. There was no room for pity in slavery, it could only lead to death. Yet now he felt it for a comrade who had been pushed beyond the limits of endurance. He wondered as well if he would have broken with such a threat. He wondered if Hazin, who somehow seemed to be inside his very thoughts, knew the answer to that question.

He heard the snick of a lock opening. The Shiv had unsnapped one of the manacles holding Sean and then unlocked the other. O’Donald fell to the deck, sagging down onto his knees. The Shiv effortlessly picked him up and carried him out of the room.

But Hazin did not follow. Another Shiv came in, this one almost identical to the first. He had the same muscular build, the same sharklike eyes devoid of emotion. Richard wondered if the torture was to continue.

Instead there was a blessed relief as the manacles around his wrists were unfastened. He tried to remain on his feet as he dropped to the deck, but his knees gave way. The Shiv pulled him back up and roughly tossed a cloak over his shoulders, covering his nakedness, then pointed at the door.

Legs wobbly, Richard did as ordered. It was difficult to walk. The pain was beginning to float away, replaced by a strange warmth, and yet his mind still seemed focused on his awareness of Hazin.

Stepping into the sunlight, he breathed deeply. The ship was strange, its lines sleeker than the Gettysburg , no masts; its deck painted a dull gray and scorched here and there with battle damage. Part of the deck forward had been split apart.

The ocean was a vast expanse of a deep, lush blue, sparkling with whitecaps driven before a warm, tropical breeze. He felt, at that moment, as if it were the most beautiful experience he had ever known-the ocean, the scent of the wind, the rocking of the ship beneath his feet as it plowed through the gently rolling sea.

Hazin stepped past him, motioning to him to follow, and Richard went up a ladder and through an open door. The light inside was muted. What appeared to be an altar of black stone rose at the far end of the room, which was filled with the sweet scent of incense.

Silk curtains over the portholes were drawn shut, but a soft, diffused light filtered through, giving the room a gentle, comfortable feel Hazin motioned to a chair set by a table. On it was an open decanter and a single crystal goblet beside it.

“Have something to drink. Cromwell.”

“Is it drugged as well?”

Hazin smiled. “Of course. You can refuse, but in the end thirst will compel you, and you will drink. So why endure the wait?”

Richard looked at the decanter and hesitated.

“Your friend is drinking even now.”

Richard looked bitterly over at Hazin. But his back was turned, facing the altar, holding a burning taper to light a candle.

“Cromwell, we can play this game for the rest of the day. You can even try and kill yourself by not drinking. But I can assure you that you will be forced to drink.”

Hazin turned and smiled. “O’Donald is telling us everything-the size of your fleet, your army, types of weapons, he’ll tell us all.”

“Your spies told you already, so why torture him?” Richard snapped.

“Interesting. You seem more worried about him than yourself.”

“I know what to expect.”

“I understand your body was covered with lash scars even before the current unpleasant treatment. Were you a slave of the Bantag?”

“The Merki.”

“Even crueler. A primitive people, the Merki. It shows a certain toughness on your part.”

Richard continued to eye the decanter. It contained a swirl of color, a rainbow sparkle of light that was infinitely pleasing.

“The information we have on your Republic is old. Half a dozen or more years. After the treaty we of course sent spies in, but recent events caused my order to shift its attention elsewhere. Frankly, the appearance of your ship was a bit of a surprise for me, but in the web of things I feel there might be a use for it-and you.”

Hazin drew closer, and, pulling out a chair on the other side of the table, he sat down. Richard looked at him warily, gaze flickering to his belt, hoping to see a knife. Though all of this race had an overwhelming physical strength, they were usually slower, even a bit clumsy, and a human moving quickly could at times snatch a blade or weapon.

“I’m not armed, at least not with the type of weapons you seek,” Hazin announced dryly, as if bored with Richard’s intentions.

“What the hell do you want, then?” Richard snapped. “If poor Sean is breaking, you have what you need. I’ll just lie, and you know that. So finish it, damn you.”

Hazin chuckled softly. “Spirit. That’s why you are sitting here with me while ‘poor Sean,’ as you call him, is being questioned in a slightly different manner.”

Richard bristled, and Hazin held up his hand.

“No. The torture is finished. That was just a way of making one of the two of you pliable. You intrigue me, Cromwell. I just want to talk.”

“How did you know our names?”

“Foolish question. I expected better. Your names were written on the seams of your clothing, and both of you had your commission papers in your wallets. Poor security, flyers should never be allowed out like that. One of my Shiv recognized the name O’Donald, and I of course had heard of your father.”

Richard stiffened and lowered his eyes.

“Yes, the traitor of your Great War, Did you know him?”

“No. My mother was a Merki slave. He died when I was an infant.”

“Yet you kept his name. A certain pride there. I approve of that in anyone, of my race or of yours.”

“The Shiv?” Richard asked.

Hazin stood up and returned to the altar, then leaned against it, looking back at Richard. “The future for this world.”

“The Republic is the future. If you come after us, you will never win.”

“A loyal answer, but then, you only know of your Republic. You know nothing of us, of what we are and shall be.” Richard thought of the ship he was now on, how easily it had smashed the Gettysburg , of the man with the cold eyes who Richard sensed could kill with effortless efficiency.

“The Shiv are your future, Cromwell. Across ten generations we of my Order have been breeding humans, seeking the traits desired: physical strength, intellect, and cunning. Those who pass such traits on to the next generation are allowed to continue to breed. The others,” and he smiled, “well, they have their uses as well.”

Richard looked at him, incredulous. He knew he should feel outrage and disgust, but the damnable drug was making itself felt. The room was drifting, floating. The way the light shone through the porthole, catching Hazin’s strange blue eyes, held his attention.

“Imagine what fifty thousand such warriors could do to your army. But there does not have to be a fight. It could instead be a compromise, an understanding without needless bloodshed.”

“The Republic will never surrender, as long as Keane and those who think like him are alive.”

Hazin nodded. “Yes, I know. Just a dream of mine.” He sighed.

Strangely, Richard felt a sympathy, almost a desire to somehow please, to understand. He fought against it, trying to stay focused, to find something, anything in the room that he could fight with, to kill, to go down fighting.

“You have a remarkable strength, Cromwell. I admire that. Everyone else is far too transparent and malleable. It is actually rather boring at times.”

Hazin drew closer and remained standing, looking down at Richard.

“I could force you, I want you to know that. The Shiv are bred to the needs of my order. At five they are taken from their mothers, who offer them up gladly, and for the next fifteen years are trained mainly by those of their own race. Half die in that training for war, or for other work, or for our special purposes.”