At first, Aaen was dizzy—as he came to he could feel some parts of the left and right side of his face was warm despite some otherwise noticeable, intermittent numbness—a sensation that he quickly realized extended to his neck. He was still getting his bearings as he felt fatigue from the back of his eyes. The sensation made him feel tired in the back of his head, but at the same time, he felt somewhat wired and unable to act on the sensation. Wherever he was now, it was pitch black. . .and the smell. . .it made him wince as he was regaining consciousness—is that mold. .did something die in here? He wondered. Or both? Part of him didn’t want to know as he tried looking around. He realized from a straining force pulling against the bottom of his wrists that his hands were spread above his head and bound in metal that he could tell were hanging from chains from however far above him. He couldn’t tell exactly how far. His feet were on solid ground. His uniform was fully intact. He quickly noted the headgear was missing—and he wondered what those clicking sounds were coming from in front of him about twenty feet or so away?. . . That was, at best, a guess as he heard footsteps from directly ahead, getting closer, and then Aaen felt something bluntly slam the left side of his face, then from the right, and then a blow to his gut. His head tossed both ways, and then he couldn’t help but drop his head, dazed from the blows, and he felt like he had to throw up while his gut sensation alternated like his face, but his gut hurt, now, and he started grumbling, coughing, and gagged a few times rapidly.
He could feel fluid beginning to run down his left nostril as he lifted his head.
More clicking sounds. . .“English, then?” a low, grizzly voice asked. Aaen couldn’t see a face, or discern the shape of the source of the voice—the only detail he could perceive was that the source of the voice was a few feet in front of him, and he suspected the speaker is male.
“Where am I?” Aaen asked though suspected he might already know. The answer came as subtle ominous laughter.
“Argus!” a second male voice called from farther away and to the left.
“What?” he responded darkly.
“We got word that The Union is sending ships to try to cut us off. They’re almost here,”
“What about the rest of those terrans? Where are they?” They disappeared, that was the only obvious detail. The last that Aaen knew was that the away team was right next to him when they were attacked—
“We don’t know. Our people are working on finding out. In any case, the boss sent us new orders. We’re changing course—effective immediately. He wants to see the terran,” Aaen realized virtually instantly, with a sinking stomach and a surge of anxiety, that they were talking about him. His gut told him he wasn’t going to enjoy finding out who ‘the boss’ is. He didn’t want to.
“What about the plan?”
“He said it stands. Things are going as he expected.”
“Do you think those Union ships will be able to catch us?”
“I doubt it. But even if they did, they’d be idiots to engage us. We have one of theirs onboard. They won’t risk endangering one of their own.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I used to be one of them, remember?” he scoffed. “I was the one who tipped off boss about the Olyphium, then I stole a shuttle—” They both laughed. Aaen couldn’t understand why anyone would turn traitor against a benevolent interstellar government. He wanted to give him a piece of his mind, but was subconsciously decidedly worried about his own immediate situation, and told himself they would get theirs. Someday.
There was a pause, and then the second voice said, “Chevron wants us on the bridge.”
*****
Steve H. told Jordan Foutin, "You are the next Tom Clancy. You really are a gifted writer."
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