Peter David - Out of the Darkness

“Ask him who killed my son,” Milifa demanded. “Was he himself responsible? Someone else?”

“Is your mind clear enough that you can answer the question?” Durla asked. Lanas glared up at him. “You see, we’ve figured out that when you lose control over your ability to keep information secret, you have some sort of… what was the word, Caso? Failsafe. A failsafe in your mind that prevents you from being forthcoming. It is my assumption that if you have possession of your faculties, then your free will holds sway once more. Employ that free will now. Save yourself.”

“Tell me who killed my son,” demanded Milifa.

Lanas seemed to notice him for the first time. “Who is your son?”

“Throk of the House Milifa.”

“Oh. Him.”

“Yes, him.”

“He was the first.”

“The first what?” Durla said. “The first victim of your organization?”

Rem Lanas took in a slow, deep breath. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“You are Rem Lanas.”

“Beyond that, I mean.” The pain in his voice appeared to be subsiding. And then, before Durla could reply, Lanas did it for him. “I am nothing beyond that. I am a nobody. A no one. I drifted… from one thing in life to the next. Used by this person, by that person. I have been a victim for as long as I can remember. No pride in myself, in my heritage, in my people. But I have been a part of something… that has made me proud… for the first time in my meager existence.”

“So you admit you are part of an organization!” Durla said triumphantly.

“Freely,” said Lanas. He looked like nothing. He looked like a weakling. But his voice was of iron. “And if you think that I am going to turn over those people who have helped to elevate me, for the first time in my life, to a creature of worth… then you can think again. And you, Durla… you think… you think you are in charge. You think you know everything. You know nothing. And by the time you do… it will be too late for you. It’s already too late.”

Durla suddenly felt a chill in the air. He brushed it off as he said, “If you know so much about me, why don’t you tell me?”

“Because you would not believe. You are not ready. You likely never will be.”

“Enough of this!” Milifa said, fury bubbling over. “Tell me who killed my son!”

“Your son…”

“Yes! Throk of the—”

“House of Milifa, yes. Your son…” He grinned lopsidedly. “Your son walked into his little hideout with a bomb in his hair. My understanding is that he realized itat the last moment and died screaming ‘Get it out, get it out!’ Very womanish, from what I’ve been told…”

Milifa let out a howl of agonized fury and grabbed the lash from Durla’s hand. Durla yelped in protest and tried to grab it back, but Milifa was far bigger than he and utterly uncaring, at that moment, of Durla’s high rank. He stiff—armed the prime minister, shoving him back. Caso caught Durla before he could hit the ground.

Milifa’s arm snapped around, and he brought the lash crashing down on Rem Lanas. Lanas made no attempt to hold back the agony as the scream was ripped from his throat.

“Milord!” Caso shouted, trying to get the whip away from him, but Milifa, blind with fury, swept it around and drove Caso back. Any attempt to snatch it from Milifa’s hand would simply have met with violence.

“Tell me—who!” And the whip snaked out.

“Who’s on first!” shrieked Lanas, and the words were now pouring out of him, running together, bereft of any meaning. “What’s on second, I don’t know, third base…”

“Tell me! Tell me!”

“Get the guards!” Durla ordered Caso, and the young Prime Candidate did as he was instructed. Milifa was paying no attention. Four years’ worth of anger, of rage, poured from him all at once, focused entirely on the helpless individual before him. Over and over he struck, and each time he demanded to know who was responsible for his son’s death, and each time Rem Lanas cried out nonsensical comments about third base. Except he did so with progressively less volume each time, even the screams having less force.

The door burst open and half a dozen guards poured in, Caso bringing up the rear. They converged on Milifa, and he swung the lash to try to keep them back. But they were armored, and although they proceeded with caution, proceed they still did. Within moments they had Milifa pinned to the ground, the lash torn from his grasp. His chest was heaving, his face flushed, his eyes wild. “Tell me!” he was still shouting, as if he had lost track of the fact that he was no longer beating his victim.

Lanas’ head was slumped forward. Durla went to him, placed his thumb and forefinger under Rem Lanas’ chin. The head fell back. And he immediately knew what Caso confirmed only a moment later: Lanas was dead.

“Idiot,” he murmured, and then his voice grew along with his frustration. “Idiot!” This time he turned to Milifa, who was being held on the floor by the guards, and kicked him savagely in the side. Milifa let out a roar of indignation, but Durla spoke right over it. “Idiot! He was our first, best lead in years! Years! And because of you, he’s dead!”

“Less… than forty lashes…” Milifa started to say.

“It didn’t matter! The threshold of pain isn’t an exact science! Forty was the maximum! But look at him! He wasn’t particularly robust! What in the world made you think hecould endure that sort of sustained punishment!

“But no, you didn’t think!” and he kicked Milifa again. “You just cared about your pathetic son!”

“How dare you!” Milifa managed to get out.

“How dare you interfere with an official interrogation! How dare you think that you can withstand my anger! Get him out of here… no! No, on second thought, shove him over there!” and he pointed to a corner of the cell. The guards obediently tossed him over into the indicated corner and stepped back. “You can stay here and rot… along with the corpse of your new best friend!” and he indicated the still—suspended body of Rem Lanas. “I hope you two will be very happy together!”

He stormed out, allowing the guards to follow and close the door behind him. The last thing the angry prime minister heard was Milifa’s enraged shout of protest, before it was cut off by the slamming of the cell door.

Durla was impressed to see that Castig Lione had made it to his office suite before he arrived there. “Tell me it’s not true,” Lione, trembling with suppressed rage, said immediately.

Durla considered it mildly amusing that the conversation echoed the one he’d had with Milifa, so very recently. “That depends,” he said calmly. With Milifa locked away and his fury at Lanas passed, Durla was actually able to handle himself with a considerable amount of sangfroid. “What are you referring to, precisely?”

“Do not fence with me—”

“And do not forget your station, Lione!” Durla warned. He was still calm, but there was definite menace in his tone. “Do not forget who is the power on Centauri Prime.”

“Oh, I have known that for quite some time,” Lione shot back.

Durla’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

“You have put Milifa into prison! Do you have any idea how many friends the House Milifa has? How powerful he is! You need the support of the main Houses…”

“I have the support of the military, Minister Lione,” Durla said. “The generals respect my roots. And they respect my long—term vision. They have helped to execute my inspirations, developing the technologies that will lead us to bury the Alliance. They have as little patience for effete, mincing heads of Houses as I do. They know that conquest comes from military might, and they know that only I have the strength of will to bring Centauri Prime to its true destiny.”