Out of the Darkness

chapter 3

Milifa, of the house of Milifa, burst into Durla’s office, unable to contain his excitement. “Is it true?” he asked before Durla could open his mouth. “Is what I’ve heard true?”

Durla leaned back and smiled. Milifa was a man who virtually radiated strength. Remarkably charismatic, powerfully built, he was the head of one of the most influential houses in all the Centaurum. Even his excitement was carefully channeled, his dark eyes crackling with intensity as he said again, “Is it true?”

“Are you going to give me breathing space to tell you, my friend? Or will you simply keep asking?”

Milifa took a step back and a deep breath. “Do not toy with me on this, Durla. I warn you.”

Virtually any other person who spoke the words “I warn you” to Durla would have been subject to harsh treatment. But from Milifa, Durla was willing to take it. “Yes. It is true,” he responded.

Milifa sagged with visible relief. Durla had never seen the robust aristocrat so emotionally vulnerable. Even on the day that Milifa’s son, Throk, had been killed, Milifa had managed to keep his rawest emotions in careful check.

“Four… years,” he said incredulously. “Four years since the safe house of the Prime Candidates was destroyed. Four years since my son and his friends died at the hands of those… those…” He trembled with barely contained fury.

“I cannot apologize enough, old friend,” said Durla, “for the length of time it has taken us to apprehend one of these subversives. It is, frankly, an embarrassment. I do not know any other way to put it.”

“An embarrassment, yes. Perhaps,” Milifa said sourly, “your duties as prime minister have atrophied the skills you so adroitly displayed when you were minister of Internal Security.”

“That is neither here nor there,” Durla told him. He rose from behind his desk and came around it, clapping Milifa on the back. “He is being questioned even as we speak. Do you wish to come and see?”

“Absolutely,” Milifa said. “After waiting four years to see the face of one of these bastards, I have no intention of waiting a moment longer.”

Durla was pleased to see that the questioning was already under way. He was not, however, pleased to witness its lack of success.

The subject was strapped into an oversize chair, his feet dangling a few inches above the floor. He was rail thin, narrow—shouldered, and unlike most other Centauri of Durla’s acquaintance, his hair was something of a mess. His head was lolling from one side to the other, as if attached to his shoulders by only the slimmest of supports.

Several members of the Prime Candidates were there, as well, looking particularly grim. Durla recognized one of them as Caso, a close friend of Throk’s. Caso had suffered, to some degree, from survivor’s guilt. A lung illness had kept him home in bed the day that the other Prime Candidates died in the explosion; had Caso not been bedridden, he would have died with the others.

“What is the vermin’s name?” Milifa asked, standing just behind Durla.

“Lanas. Rem Lanas,” Durla told him grimly. “He was found trespassing in one of our…” He paused, and then said, “… medical facilities, on Tumbor 2. He had counterfeit clearance identification on him. Quite well crafted, I might add. He was in the midst of endeavoring to rewire certain circuits that… if left unchecked… would have caused the facility to blow up. Fortunately, all he managed to do was trip an alarm. Our security systems have become increasingly sophisticated over the years.”

“That is a fortunate state of affairs,” Milifa said, “considering the alternative is leaving yourself open to being continually preyed upon by slime like… like this.” His voice dropped lower on the last several words. He stepped forward and practically stuck his face into Lanas’. “Are you the one, slime? Are you the one who was responsible for killing my son?” Lanas looked up at him without really seeing him. “What’s wrong with him?” demanded Milifa. “Truth drugs, no doubt. Sometimes they take a while to reach full effect.” Durla looked to Caso for confirmation. Caso, over the years, had apprenticed with some of the best interrogators in the Centaurum and had become quite skilled. He had personally requested the opportunity to handle the questioning of this latest subject, in the name of his departed friend. “How much longer, Caso?”

But Caso looked surprisingly uncomfortable. “Actually, Prime Minister, they should be at full effect by now. Before now, in fact. But he has been resisting all of our initial questions.”

“Resisting?” Durla was astonished. “Are you certain you have administered them properly?”

“Positive, Prime Minister,” Caso answered stiffly. “And yet he resists? Increase the dosage.”

“That may not be wise…” Durla, feeling the quiet smoldering of Milifa next to him, said tightly, “On my authority. Do it.”

Caso bowed deeply and put together another dosage. Moments later there was enough truth drug pumping through Lanas’ veins to send a dozen Centauri pouring out every secret they’d ever held, all the way back to childhood.

Rem Lanas’ eyes remained glazed. It was as if he was withdrawing completely into himself.

“I checked the records on this man,” Caso said. “He was a worker on K0643.”

“Was he now,” Durla said. The excavation on K0643 had proven to be one of Durla’s only unqualified disasters. He had been certain that there was some great source of weaponry there, but the entire excavation had been destroyed. There were wild rumors that technomages had somehow been involved… fleeting glimpses of them, but accounts of their numbers ranged from three to thirty. No one seemed sure of anything. He wondered if Lanas had beenone of the workers who had been questioned. He leaned forward, and said, “What is your name?”

“Lanas. Rem Lanas.” His voice was thick and distant. “And are you part of an organization?”

Lanas’ head teetered in affirmation.

“And what,” Durla said with clear urgency, “is that organization? Tell me about it. Who is the head?”

“Minister… Durla.”

A confused look passed among the Centauri in the room. Durla could feel Milifa’s gaze boring through him, and he felt a faint buzz of danger. “Yes, I am Prime Minister Durla,” he said, trying to discern whether the confused Lanas might simply be addressing him directly. “Who is the head of your organization?”

“Minister Durla,” Rem Lanas said, this time with more conviction.

The blood drained from Durla’s face.

But Caso looked suspicious, and said, “What is the nature of this organization?”

“Employment… workers… for excavation purposes…”

Durla put his face in his hands, partly out of frustrationand partly to hide his relief. Such an absurd misunderstanding could have led to a world of trouble if left unchecked. “The Committee for Centauri Advancement,” he said.

“Yes… organization…” Rem Lanas told them. He was half smiling, but it was such a disassociated look that it was clear he was thinking about something else completely.

Durla looked to Milifa, who seemed less than amused. “It’s the association I created for the purpose of organizing Centauri workers for—”

“I do not care,” Milifa said flatly. “I want to know about the bastards who killed my son. If he’s one of them, I want all their names.”

Durla nodded and turned back to Rem Lanas. “I am speaking of a terrorist organization. An organization created for sabotage. You are part of such a group, yes?”

Lanas nodded his head.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Durla said, smirking. Caso nodded approvingly. “How many people are in it?”

“All of them,” Lanas told him.

“Don’t spar with me, Lanas,” Durla warned, becoming increasingly annoyed. He glanced up at Caso. “How is he able to do this?”

“I’m not sure,” Caso said, looking a bit worried. “He should be unable to hold back anything. It should just all be spilling out of him.”

“Lanas… who is the head of the organization?” Durla asked, “The head?”

“Yes.”

“The head… is our leader.”

“Yes. His name. What is the name of the head of the organization?”

And his reply made no sense at all. “No. What is the name of the man on second base.”

“Who?” Durla said, utterly flummoxed.

“No. Who is on first.”

“What?”

“What is on second.”

Durla felt as if he were losing his mind. In a harsh whisper he demanded of Caso, “This is gibberish. What is he saying?”

“I don’t know!” Caso replied loudly.

“Third base,” Rem Lanas intoned, as if by rote.

Durla was up off his chair with such force that he knocked it over. Caso was about to speak when an angry prime minister grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him back up against the wall. “This is idiocy!” he said tightly. “What sort of game is this?”

“It’s n-not a game!” Caso stammered, his veneer of Prime Candidate indifference wavering under the infuriated onslaught of the most powerful man on Centauri Prime. “It… it must be a failsafe…”

“Failsafe? What sort of—”

“Something planted in his mind. Imprinted. So that if he’s being questioned or probed, instead of breaking through to the core of what we want to know, his mind automatically reverts to this nonsense. It becomes a loop that we can’t get past.”

“That’s impossible!”

“No. It’s not. I’ve…” He licked his lips nervously. “I’ve heard technomages can accomplish such things…”

“Now it’s technomages!” Milifa bellowed. “Drugs! Children’s stories about technomages! What sort of government are you running here, Durla!”

Durla rounded on him, suddenly not caring just how powerful a house Milifa ran. He pointed a trembling finger at Milifa, and said, “The kind of government that could strip you of name, rank, and property with a snap of my fingers! So watch yourself, Milifa, and show some respect for who and what I am, before I make you less than who and what you are!”

Milifa, wisely, said nothing, but the set of his face made it clear he was not happy.

Durla, for his part, felt shamed. And the notion that this scrawny no one was playing games with him and shaming him in front of a long—standing ally infuriated him beyond reason. “Forget the drugs,” he told Caso. “Now… now we chat with him in the way we used to do these things.”

Minutes later, Rem Lanas was upright and spread-eagled, his arms tied to the walls on either side of the cell. Durla stood several feet away, the lash in his hand crackling with energy.

“Prime Minister.” Caso sounded respectful but nervous. “The drugs in his system may impede his understanding if another element, such as extreme pain, is introduced into—”

“Then we shall give his system a chance to work the drugs out.” He saw Milifa nod slightly in approval, took a step back and swung his arm around expertly. The lash slammed across Rem Lanas’ back, shredding his shirt in a second. Lanas screamed, his eyes going wide, his body spasming.

“You felt that, didn’t you,” Durla said in a low voice. “Didn’t you, Lanas?”

“Y-yes,” he managed to say.

“No one can endure more than forty lashes of that nature,” Durla continued. “I do not suggest you be the first person to try.”

“I… don’t want to die…”

“At last, truth,” Durla noted with satisfaction. “We don’t care about you, Lanas. We want those in charge.”

“In charge… of what?”

Durla did not hesitate. He swung the lash again, and again. Ten cracks of the lash crashed across Lanas’ back, and each time the prisoner howled, until it seemed to Durla he could not remember a time when screams were not ringing in his ears.

“That,” he said, “is eleven.”

But Lanas didn’t hear him, because he had lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Bring him around,” Durla said to Caso.

Caso did so with brisk efficiency. Durla could see it in Lanas’ eyes: When he came to, for a moment he didn’t realize where he was. Perhaps he thought that what he had experienced was some sort of tortured dream. When he looked around, however, he realized the all-too-real nature of his predicament.

“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.