Chapter 17
[<<] [<] [>] [>>] [Table of Contents]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:            The Sith Lord Korriban roused himself from meditations with a furious snarl. Despite his most intense concentrations he had not been able to uncover anything else about the voice he had heard on the winds of the Force. All he knew was what he had known when he had first heard that fearful song come to him from the abyss; it was the one child of the Jedi whom he had been tasked to dispose of by his old masters, and it had been the one task at which he had dismally failed.

            Locked behind the thick durasteel hull of the EREBUS, Lanna Tigris was only dimly aware of the jungle cat on the other side of the compartment. As he stepped forward, looming over her, she attempted to pull away; a reminder of her injuries came in the form of a paralyzing bolt of pain. Though some of her injuries had been attended to, she was still in no condition to walk—and if she had been, she could not have, for she was still imprisoned in the crimson bonds the Sith Lord had tied her in.

It was all she could to do crane her head to glance around the interior of the ship. It was dark and unfamiliar; a few diffuse lights gave the cabin somewhat of a surreal glow, and for a moment Lanna wondered if she were still unconscious. She turned her gaze to Korriban and met his eyes for a moment with a cold but distant stare.

            “Easy,” Korriban craned over her slightly and supported her head with his hand. “Don’t move too much, the bacta will take time to heal your wounds.”

            Lanna tried to pull her head away, but she knew the gesture would be futile. She contented herself to glare at him, her eyes burning with the wrath and disgust they had shown when she first met the enigmatic Sith Lord. A deep growl rumbled from her throat; had she the strength, she would have broken his arm for the trouble.

            But Korriban shook his head, a hint of dismay written across his dark feline features. “Hold still.” He held out his palm and placed it on the side of her ribcage, where a bruise had darkened her skin.

            Lanna hissed at him and moved her arms weakly to push him away.

            Korriban held steadfast however, and after a moment closed his hand into a fist before drawing it away, opening his hand into the air as if releasing something.

The tigress started, because the pain she had felt had suddenly vanished. Protectively, she clasped her hands over her side but paused when she realized she felt no pain.

When she looked up to Korriban for an explanation, he turned away and walked into the shadows of the other side of the cabin, fading into the darkness.

As he withdrew, his mind returned to the voice he had heard; the fact that he could not make headway, or even sense a direction of where the voice had come from unsettled him. Korriban was considered by some to be as a wizard with his eclectic knowledge of the Force; the thought that he could come upon something of it which he could not understand was unnerving.

The Sith considered calling out to his master for guidance; Yoda was as wise as he was devious, but this was a source of great shame for Korriban, and the risk of being dishonored in the eyes of his master was unpalatable. If the Emperor had heard the voice too, he would do as he wished; if he had not, then Korriban would keep the mystery to himself until he had captured or killed his prey.

He returned to Lanna’s side with a small syringe filled with tranquilizers. He would be due for another “session” with the other prisoners soon enough.

For a moment, the tigress looked up at Korriban witheringly, unsure of his intentions and unaware that he had a syringe. Before she even realized what was happening, she began to lose feeling in her limbs and the world around her spiraled quickly into night. The last sounds she heard before slipping from consciousness were the clicking of the Sith Lord’s boots against the deck as he left her alone in the ship.

————————————

            “Speak, and it ends.”

            Commander Fuhrer writhed in pain, his cries of agony echoing through the thick-walled chamber as the Darth Korriban held his crumpled form suspended in the air with his power of the Force.

Like Lanna, Deano had not been susceptive to the standard mind probe techniques, giving Tarvik little more information than a confirmation that they, indeed, had come from the alien fleet as the governor had suspected.

The commander’s shouts of pain were of no deterrence to the Sith Lord, who stood in complete silence, his hand outstretched toward him, twisting ever so slightly to increase the officer’s torment.

            But Deano had already resisted to the bitter end of this ordeal, his face had been bruised and his left eye blackened from the first few minutes of the interview. All at once, though, the pain became to great, and Deano’s mind finally let go of consciousness, seeking refuge from the purgatorial assault that Korriban had laid upon it.

            At once the Sith let out a bitter roar of frustration and thrust Deano against the wall. Like Lanna had, he hit the floor with a deadening thud and Korriban stepped over to him, peering down upon his latest victim.

            Governor Tarvik clapped his hands once, and two storm troopers quickly gathered the commander into their arms and hauled him back to the detention area. The metal cell doors ground open and the two carelessly tossed his wilted body into the chamber.

Jamarr Moore crawled across the floor and timidly checked for his pulse. His heartbeat was slow and weak, but steady. The young officer took in a deep breath and did his best to purge the fear from his face as he glared up at his captors. Jamarr had only read history book stories about how in less civilized times governments would use torture as a means of information extraction; he had never seriously expected to come across a group of individuals perverse and backwards enough to use it in the present day. But the truth was right before him; he had heard the shouts of torment from his comrades and it had chilled him to the core of his being.

From the bruises on Deano's neck and back it looked as if they had nearly beaten him to death. And Lanna, for all he knew, had met a worse fate. As the two troopers motioned for him, he stood steadfast at Deano's side.

            "Come on, you're next." One of them said.

            Jamarr refused to move, so the troopers came in after him and dragged him—kicking and struggling—to the interrogation center, leaving Deano unconscious and face-down on the cold metal floor.

————————————

            Once the young officer had been properly restrained, Tarvik arrived in the room and surveyed the situation as one of the troopers flicked a series of control switches on the side of the mind probe device.

            Korriban stood in a far corner, observing the proceedings in silence.

            "I'm going to ask you the same questions I asked your comrades." The governor said stolidly, "the degree of unpleasantness of this inquiry is up to you. You cooperate and you will be treated well. You refuse to cooperate and you will end up like the rest of your friends."

            Jamarr shuddered slightly but remained quiet. By now, he was doing the best that he could to hide his increasing terror at the situation. He suspected the fiendishly crafted device he had been strapped to was designed to pummel him into submission; the presence of several large syringes and sharp edges did little to alleviate the tension.

            Tarvik nodded and turned a control knob; one of the large syringes lowered itself to the side of his arm and began to seek out his vein. Once it located the blood vessel, a tiny extension shot out of the nozzle and pressed through his skin. The young officer squirmed in a futile effort to prevent the device from injecting him, but soon could feel the burning sensation of the searing liquid traveling through his arm.

            The feeling which assaulted the officer nearly drove him mad; it was as if a thousand tiny spiders had been released under his skin, quickly spreading and invading over him. Jamarr jarred violently, trying to tear free; the machine shook with the fury of his effort but refused to release him.

"Now, then,” The grand Moff paced, “what were you doing here? Why did you try to sabotage us?"

The Lieutenant shuddered as he spoke, barely being able to articulate, "Moore, Jamarr.” He paused and swallowed hard, suddenly realizing his brow was damp with sweat, “StarFleet Registration Q19893671 . . ."

Tarvik frowned, “as I have said, this can be done one of two ways, my young friend. The choice is yours; answer my questions and you will not be harmed. Do not cooperate, and my assistant Mr. Korriban will ensure that you leave this arena properly injured.”

The shadow figure stepped forth and nodded at Jamarr with a feral grin. Convincing as it was, it was simply a practiced show for the specific purpose of striking fear into his victims. As capable of rage and cruelty as the Sith Lord was, Korriban’s mind was truly not on the squirming prisoner whom had been brought before him, but on other things more troubling to him.

Nonetheless, when Jamarr looked into Korriban’s slanted amber eyes, he knew at once who had been responsible for those horrible screams he heard through the bulkhead. Fear began to overtake reason like a tidal wave, and the rookie lieutenant cracked.

“All right, I’ll tell you—“ he said, not believing his own words, but too terrified to stop them, “just don’t—don’t hurt me . . . please . . .”

————————————

The TENSHII floated silently in space; an eloquently beautiful vessel with sweeping curves and tapering edges which made it look as much like a piece of art as a space cruiser. The Yuufusions seemed to value aesthetics as much as usability of their vessels, and Empress Vortex’s flagship stood as a testament of that tradition.

            The dining facilities aboard the TENSHII were, to say the least, extravagant. The ceiling of her regal dining hall was painted with a series of motifs, each depicting the receding generations of Violet’s lineage to the beginning of her family’s dynasty. At the beginning of the long line of ancestors stood Otrera, the one regarded as the mother of all Yuufusion culture. The entire fresco bound together by a picture of one of the many jungle vistas on the Amazon homeworld.

The hall, too, was similar to a jungle in some aspects. Hundreds of varieties of tropical plants were scattered about; green-thorn vines clung to the mirrored walls and their leaves reached out toward the domed painting. Somewhere in the mass of foliage, running water could be heard and the quiet chirp of tropical birds echoed throughout the room.

The entire chamber was filled with the sweet smells of the flora. In a few spots of less dense plant cover, the black sparkling starfield seeped in through the windows. To crown the effect, a fountain could be seen in a clearing; the tiny white points of starlight reflecting through the water.

But what at first appeared to be only a spring gradually began to take shape and mold into the form of a person. It was an image of a young woman, whose figure seemed to be continually forming and collapsing with the motion of the water. As the dinner guests looked over the food laid before them, she began to sing in soft and perfectly tuned notes that echoed lightly throughout the hall.

The main dining table was a long ovular shape, covered in a white linen cloth and situated in the center of the room. Flowers and candles dotted the table in-between the lavish feast that was spread across its surface. The Empress sat at the head of the table, opposite Sonchu Ackbar. Several other men and women were seated as well, all staring at the seemingly endless ocean of food before them.

Sam Stone poked at some of the food on his plate and grimaced at it. Across from him, Kithain Tiharr was feverishly pouring provisions onto his plate despite several disapproving glances from the Amazon women.

A peach-furred vixen with golden blonde hair leaned over and whispered something to the woman next to her in her language, "Look at the way he eats."

Aris furrowed her brow. "I know." she replied in kind with an amused smirk, "He's acting like a half-starved pig."

Both Lais and her sister chuckled, but the Empress shot the pair a warning glance and they soon quieted.

Arthur Sunrider was too caught up in his plate to pay Kithain or the others any mind. But the diminutive professor seemed more interested in arranging his food into trigonometric functions rather than actually eating it. As the rest of the table began to feast, Sunrider was pouring through his equations, trying to figure out if he could isolate the one variable that had caused his dimensional gateway to overload. He paused a moment with a perplexed expression on his face. This was the fourth time he'd gone through everything and he could still find no error. All the numbers added up. "That doesn’t make any sense." he mumbled to himself.

Kithain, who was sitting beside him, looked up with a mouth full of food. "Whafth did yough sahy?" he asked.

Sunrider snapped up and looked at General Tiharr absent-mindedly. "Hmm?" he paused, "Oh—nothing, sir. Just . . . thinking aloud."

Sage, sitting at a far end of the table, paused and glanced down at the Empress, “Your highness,” he called, "I believe I must apologize."

Violet eyed him thoughtfully. "What for?"

"Earlier, when I was first informed of our alliance, I must admit I had less than an . . . ecstatic reaction.” His small goat-like ears drooped slightly, underscoring the sincerity of his sentiment. “Any people who could create such refined beauty and elegance can in no way be considered barbarians."

Lais and Aris paused eating their food.

The Empress' brow furrowed at the thought. There were many within the Imperium who considered the outside galaxy to be nothing more than a cauldron of anarchy, greed, and barbarism—a world which should be carefully avoided. But she had known for some time that the stereotype simply was not true; most of the people she had come into contact with from outside Yuufusion territory she had found to be quite friendly and civilized. It had been for this, among other reasons that she had decided to begin to change the Imperium’s policy of isolation and even consider Sonchu Ackbar’s entreaty for assistance in their struggle against the oppressive and hateful Empire. “Thank you, “she nodded politely, thinking the old man cute for making such an apology, when it obviously meant humbling himself.

Aris, however, was not amused and muttered something under her breath as Sage returned his attention to his food. Lais nodded at her and there was silence at the table for several moments.

Sonchu Ackbar let out an audible "ahh" and looked up from his cleared plate. "I must say, Empress, this food excellent."

The Empress glanced to either side, set her utensils down, looked across the table at the large-eyed Sonchu and nodded. "I'm glad you approve. It was difficult to find information on Mon Calamari dishes since—" she paused suddenly, realizing how casually she had managed to stumble onto such a touchy subject. “My apologies, Sonchu.”

The Calamari swallowed a gulp of water. “No, it’s all right.”

Violet felt guilty; she imagined it must be quite a horrible feeling to lose one’s home so violently. She looked down at her plate.

Kithain glanced around and tried to say something to prevent another awkward silence from falling over the table. "Send magh comphliments to thegh coohks!" He nodded, before shoving another giant chunk of food into his mouth.

That brought on a wave of polite chuckling from all in attendance. The Empress only turned her head slightly and nodded at him, thankfully.

Sam Stone pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. He still hadn’t touched any of it.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Stone?" Violet asked.

Sam frowned and shook his head. "No, nothing wrong."

Kithain stopped chewing and looked across the table. "But you've hardly touched your plate."

Sam made another face. "Not my taste of stuff."

The Amazons each exchanged glances for a moment.

Kithain blinked. "So—you're not going to eat that?"

Sam shook his head.

Tiharr smiled, reached for Sam's plate and dumped the food onto his own. "No sense in letting it go to waste . . ."

Lais and Aris chuckled quietly.

Arthur looked around the table blankly and then returned his attention to his food.

The Empress opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it.

"Your highness." A female voice rang over the speakers.

"What is it, Fatima?" Violet asked.

"We've just read a hyperspace signal on the edge of the system. Incoming ships."

"Imperial?"

"We can't tell at this range, Empress."

Violet paused a moment and then stood from her chair. "I apologize, gentlemen," she nodded, "But it appears that we will have to cut this dinner party short. We may have trouble."

————————————

            Lieutenant Commander Deano Fuhrer cracked his eyes open, lifted his head an inch and peered about the detention cell. For a few agonizing seconds he looked around blankly, not remembering where he was, who he was, or what was going on. He spotted Lieutenant Jamarr Moore huddled in a far corner, and the memories came back to him in a rush.

            The Lieutenant was hugging his legs and shaking slightly; it took him a few seconds to realize Deano was awake. From where he lay, Fuhrer could see a large scar across Moore's face and his left cheek was slightly bruised. When Moore did notice Deano’s faint movements, he crawled over and steadied him.

"Don’t try to move." he warned, "You've been out for at least three hours."

Deano shook his head disbelieving. "How can that be?"

Jamarr gritted his teeth. "You must have taken quite a beating." he shuddered, "I'm no doctor, but I'd say you're suffering from shock."

Deano groaned painfully using what little strength he could to keep his face off of the deck. "I can't feel my legs." His voice was a whisper, "There's just a dull sensation. Wha—what does that mean?!"

"Hey, easy there, sir." Jamarr steadied him again, glancing at his back. Even though he wore a thin undershirt, it was pretty clear to see what looked like a small bulge on his spine. "You may have a bad spinal injury and you don’t want to aggravate something like that."

"You mean I could be paralyzed?" Deano wheezed. In a hasty moment a thousand different images flooded past his eyes, threatening to drown him. He imagined himself confined to a hoverchair for the rest of his life and suddenly began to wonder if he would be replaced as the FELIX’s chief of security; obviously they would have no such use for an invalid. But before his mind could further contemplate the possibility, Jamarr’s voice jarred him from the split second rush of fear and uncertainty.

"I—I don’t know." The lieutenant said, "I’m sure it’s not that bad. But just keep still . . ."

Deano nodded and did his best to calm down, allowing his cheek to settle on the cold steel floor. In a few moments, his ability to reason returned and he thought aloud, “where’s Lanna?”

The younger man frowned, “I don’t know,” he sighed, regretful he could give him no good news, “I haven’t seen her since she was first taken.”

“Oh,” Deano paled a little under his fur, “So . . ." he forced a halfway smile, ". . . you look a little beat up, but all right. They couldn’t get you to crack either, eh?"

Jamarr blinked at him, unsure of what to say. He had indeed cracked, and given the Imperials enough information to potentially put many others in danger to save his own hide. He hated himself for it, and Deano would soon hate him for it too. But he could not stand to drop another piece of bad information on him; it would only make the situation seem that much more hopeless. “No,” he made a nervous smile, “not a word.”

But something in Jamarr’s eyes told Deano otherwise. He closed his own and recalled for a moment the last memories he had before he had blacked out. It had to have been some kind of nightmare; some of the things just simply didn’t make sense. Agonizing pain coming from everywhere; being held floating in the air without even the comfort of the floor to reassure him that he had not completely lost touch with reality. Cold amber eyes watching, without remorse or pity; a disembodied voice demanding information from him just to stop the agony—and then silence.

Deano sighed and opened his eyes again, staring at Jamarr, "You should have seen the look on their faces," he inhaled and twitched his nose. "Even after all that, they still couldn’t get me to spill the beans. That old guy couldn’t stand that I wasn’t going to crack for him. I thought they would kill me . . . I think they nearly did." Fuhrer searched his face, noting the bruise and the scar, but beyond that, nothing else. No sign of serious injury or trauma; Deano all at once was sure that Jamarr had avoided the tormenting abyss that he had been subjected to.

“It’s okay si—“

“You talked, didn’t you?”

Jamarr started, “No . . .”

"You're lying," Deano said. "I can see it in your eyes."

The lieutenant looked away, "I—I didn’t—"

Deano sighed and tried to roll over without thinking, "What did you tell the—" He demanded. His words were cut short by a hiss of pain and he let his body settle back into his stomach. He spoke through strained breaths, gritting his teeth every moment or two to fight against the bolts of fire running through his back. "Do you realize how many lives you've put in danger to save your own sorry ass?"

Jamarr remained silent.

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Every StarFleet officer knows that. Did you forget the oath you took when you put on that uniform?"

"Sir—I—"

But Deano cut him off, "Our suffering was in vain because of you, lieutenant. Lanna’s death may have been in vain because of it."

"I only wished to—"

"—save your own life!" Deano roared and then began to writhe in pain again, "AGH!!!"

"Sir!" Jamarr leaned forward.

Deano cursed and ordered him away, "don’t touch me," he warned, letting out an aggravated sigh, "I—If we survive this, I expect your letter of resignation on the captain's desk within the hour we return."

"But—"

"That is all, lieutenant." Deano growled and closed his eyes, sighing heavily.

Jamarr paused with a helpless look on his face. He knelt beside him for several moments, trying to think of something to say which could help. But he knew that was impossible; the damage had been done. When it came down to it, all the training StarFleet had given him and all the oaths he had taken, all the morals and values he had purported to keep through his career meant nothing when faced with the possibility of his own death.

It made him ashamed; made him realize what a selfish creature he was, despite the dogma the Federation had taught him. He nodded, accepting, and turned around to settle back in the corner he’d been curled up in. Hopefully this would be over soon, and he would be back with StarFleet; or even better, they would all be dead.

————————————

The transparent elevator doors leading to the command deck of the TENSHII parted, admitting a decidedly concerned Empress through them. The sound of their motion was non-existent, and doors themselves almost invisible; had it not been for the decorative symbols cut into the crystal an unsuspecting person may have very well stumbled into them unaware.

The atmosphere of the bridge of the TENSHII was markedly different than its other areas. The walls were finished in a silvery-purple glaze and every work station was alive with the soft glow of a holographic interface, projecting images and touchscreens into imaginary planes in the air.

Violet’s entrance brought a momentary pause from the hive of activity and a soft unanimous murmur of sonno joi. Sonchu and Kithain exited after her, marveling at the complexity of the Amazon equipment, which was totally unlike any they had ever seen.

But the fascination only lasted a moment, when Violet took her place in command and asked for an update of the situation. The other Amazons in the transport-shaft pushed by them and immediately went to their posts on the bridge.

One of the female officers sitting at a station near the rear of the bridge ran her hands through her holoconsole, sending a report of the situation to the Empress. As she did so, another, smaller hologram appeared in front of Violet’s face, accompanied by a sea of scrolling symbols in the Yuufusion written language. Once she had finished reading through the data, she waved it away with a motion of her hand and it obediently vanished.

Sonchu found himself at a bit of a loss in the flurry of operation. He was more used to bridge officers shouting reports from their stations over the din of a loud battle, but the Empress’ command center was oddly quiet, and the only hint of what the Yuufusions were doing was in the flurry of holograms appearing and disappearing all around the bridge in a spectacularly colorful lightshow. “Uh—Empress,” he finally ventured, “forgive me, but what is going on?”

Violet looked up at him blankly for a moment, not understanding Sonchu’s confusion. In the last thirty seconds, enough information had been fed to her to know the general size, speed, range, and estimated threat classification of each of the vessels that were quickly coming into range of her ship. It had not occurred to her that Sonchu and the others would be at a total loss, not being familiar with how things operated aboard a Yuufusion starship. She blushed a moment and apologized, “Forgive me, Admiral,” she said, “I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark. We’re currently tracking a small fleet of ships on an intercept vector.”

“Hostile?”

The Empress shook her head, “We’re not sure; we’re not too familiar with how things are handled out . . . here.” She ran her hand through a column of light beside her armrest and a large hologram appeared at the center of the bridge; the rotating frame of an Imperator Star Destroyer. Violet gave Sonchu a curious look, “Familiar?”

The Calamari blinked wide, “That’s an Imperial Star Destroyer, milady!”

Violet cocked her head slightly, “Ooohh, I’ve heard of those, I think. Those are those pointy ships, ne?”

Sonchu blinked and wondered momentarily if the Empress was stupid. “Strike now, your highness,” he said, “either that or retreat. Quickly, before you lose your chance . . .”

The Empress was unconvinced, “they have not made any hostile moves toward—“

“Trust me. If you do not—”

The Admiral’s entreaty was interrupted by the appearance of a small red globe above the Empress’ right hand-rest. She tapped the ball of light softly and suddenly the bridge speakers crackled to life. When the interference quieted, a disembodied voice spoke one word which echoed through the chamber. "Konichu."

Sonchu glanced at Violet, genuinely perplexed. "What is that?"

"It's Amazon." Aris mumbled placidly from behind him.

Violet shifted in her chair, "It means, 'alliance.'"

Chapter 17
[<<] [<] [>] [>>] [Table of Contents]