But these days Merthon woke up alone, ate alone, worked the tanks alone. He knew that Jamis was toiling away in the B-wing, doing the same things that he was doing. They’d split the tanks into two halves. Each Vellosian would work their half and if any of the children died, then they would both be put to death. Or so they were told.
To pass the time Merthon would hum songs his mother had taught him years ago. Songs he’d thought he forgot. He’d also have imaginary conversations with Jamis.
Merthon: No. Don’t ask. The human side of him is obviously immune to the imprint.
Jamis: Perhaps the human side has lost the battle?
Merthon: No. The desire within him is strong. No human can defeat it.
Jamis: You are overconfident in your abilities.
Merthon: I am Merthon!
Jamis: My point exactly.
Merthon: Do you remember the song Three-Catch-Fiddler-Fly?
Jamis: Now you are changing the subject.
And Merthon did not care his overseers could hear his conversation with himself. He sang the song and was pleased.
One morning Merthon awoke and instantly felt something was wrong. He was cold, even in his tank. His morning meal, a mix of biomass and plant-based nutrients: wormfood, tasted even worse than usual, and his overseer, an older warrior whose black metal parts were dented and chipped, never came. Merthon put on his robe and waited, but the overseer did not show, so he sat, alone and cold.
Suddenly, two of the newer, younger warriors burst into the room, one grabbed him by the arm and dragged him down the corridor, in the opposite direction of the tanks. The old warrior would wait patiently for Merthon to come and did not touch him, but these two dragged him down the hall, then down several flights of stairs, another long walk, then down again until the air got moist and earthy. Wormlike.
The guards threw him down into a dimly lit room in the bowels of the facility—a place he decided must have been made by the BG. The Vellosians would never go this deep into the soil. He lay there on the dirt floor breathing short, fast breaths, wondering why he was afraid. Suddenly his legs didn’t work so well and when his eyes adjusted he could see chains on the walls and hooks hanging from the ceiling. And the smell: earth and mold, but something else, something rotten. It was the smell of death. And for the first time ever, he longed for his monotonous job tending the tanks. Frog, worm or human, it didn’t matter, he decided, once brought down to this dark place you’d never see the light again.
He lay there for some time, alone, long enough for his eyes to completely adjust. There was a pile of rags in the corner, but when he sat up he noticed a bit of bone poking through. After that horrible discovery every undulation, every bit of loose dirt he imagined was the remains of some poor creature. So he did the best he could. Jamis said the Vellosians were tougher than they appeared, but Merthon thought he was just talking. Though his mother had said the same. But Merthon, until recently, had never truly been tested. I guess I am now, he thought. I am still here.
So he closed his eyes and imagined the bright Vellosian sun shining down on his homeworld: green grass and blue pools. And slowly, his breathing grew steady and his mind cleared. The Emperor would be a fool to kill us, he thought. Right now. Before they’ve awoken. It’s still too early. And then a tiny thread of hope filled his heart: He’s coming. But he quickly put that thought out of his mind.
Soon he heard the distinctive metallic CHUNK, CHUNK of a BG warrior heading his way. A large, robed BG entered through a corridor on the other side of the room. His staff was lit, the only bit of light in the dank hole. He was dragging a wire-thin humanoid, but Merthon could not see clearly. The BG held its staff up and Merthon could see that it was the Emperor himself. He let go the pitiful creature he’d dragged in and it fell like a pile of rags onto the floor and did not move.
“Where is Jamis?” Merthon asked.
“Your only concern is the children,” said the Emperor. He stepped closer and Merthon could see his alacyte toes sinking into the dirt under his massive weight. And here, the Emperor paused as if considering something. Merthon started to speak again but the staff came down on the side of his head and he sprawled backwards near the bone that was sticking up. He was stunned and rolled with both hands on his head. He opened his eyes and could see he’d been struck with the unlit end of the staff. Several moments passed and Merthon remained quiet.
Finally, the Emperor spoke. “Now, I am going to give you something you haven’t had for quite some time. A gift.” Merthon sat up, noticed the pile of bones that the Emperor had dropped suddenly move, then go quiet again.
“What could you possibly give me? You’ve taken everything. There’s nothing I want from you,” said Merthon.
“Ah, dear Frog, that is where you are wrong.” And then he pointed his staff to the wall. “Screen on,” he said.
Merthon turned, and there on the screen was a video of a small group of Vellosians. He instinctively moved towards the wall to get a better look. These were his people. They did not have their usual Vellosian style mud huts, instead were in wooden structures, but they were near a pool and they looked healthy. Where
