“It won’t hurt much longer.”
“They said you worked for Admiral Maxtin. Why would you betray Reynard?”
“You detest the Osirian, maybe not as much as I do, but deep down you know he won’t return you to your home world, Princess.”
“He will. He said when it was safe.”
“The Mokarran occupy your planet. It will never be safe.”
Michelle lowers her eyes unable to meet the gaze of the man who stole her. “Why not just kill me?”
“A viable option, fastest solution, but killing gives a quick reprieve. Not what I want. I desire Reynard to suffer. He must agonize for the pain he inflicted upon me. I require you living to assist in my strategy.”
“You joined his crew. What insult could he possibly have inflicted on you?”
“You’ve been locked away in your room. You know nothing, your highness.” Ki-Ton checks the rifles secured in racks lining what little of a cargo area the shuttle has.
None of her courtly training included weapons. She was expected to retain personal body guards for security. Diplomatic preparations allow her to recognize an IMC brand on each stock carrying with it a respectable quality and price tag. “I know he has saved the lives of everyone else on the Dragon...even mine.”
“You’ve lost your disgust for him.” Ki-Ton checks her shoulder straps to ensure they are tight. “Makes your usefulness as a hostage limited.”
“I’ve great wealth.”
“The part of your Osirian blood bleeds like all the others. Greed—an Osirian motive. I care nothing for monitory—or even lustful—companions.”
“My fortune’s enough to purchase a solar system.”
“No, Princess, I’m above such minuscule pandering. My people need no shiny gems.”
“What are you?”
“You want me to tell you the story of my life?”
“I want to know what kind of evil monster you are.”
“Evil’s merely a point of view. Invented by simple-minded Osirians.”
“Then why are you getting angry?”
“Because you lack understanding. You have not fallen. I—was—a god. Now. I’m nothing because of Admiral Reynard.”
Michelle’s mind contemplates many questions she could ask the normally calm creature. Somehow she has frazzled him. Unsure how to proceed, her next—and possibly last—question has to be the correct one.
Reynard’s not an admiral?
How does a simple Osirian like Reynard retain the power to subjugate a god? A viable question but not one she should ask—yet.
Her mind drifts to what she shouldn’t ask. “What makes you a god?”
“I won’t play the games of an unspoiled girl-child.”
“You took me—to force me.”
“I’ll metamorphosis a suitable appendage to satisfy an Osirian, but I have no such desires. I’ve no urge for fornication. My species doesn’t procreate.”
“Then how does your species continue to exist?”
“It doesn’t—anymore.”
BEEP. THE SCANNER chirps.
Nytalyan inspects the chamber for listening devices.
“I’ve checked. The Mokarran aren’t monitoring us,” Saltāl assures her.
“My success in translating the language demands we proceed with caution.”
“You know what they are doing?” Saltāl smiles at her.
“If this was strictly academic it would be cause for celebration and your smile. Even the common Mokarran citizens would appreciate what I’ve begun to understand, if they weren’t forbidden to learn of their own religious teaching.”
“The strategy of regulation fails to effectively control the masses when they have access to so much off-world resources.”
“But the Mokarran are taught as pups they are the superior species of the galaxy. Why would you listen to the teachings of lesser species? Plus Mokarran aren’t allowed to interact with the masses.”
“The masters in power have thought this through.”
Nytalyan nods. “The species crave order. They were given it. Who cares if a few thousand people disappear as long as you are promoted and your lifestyle improves.”
“The Mokarran still need other species,” Saltāl says.
“For now. Purging all of us at once will deplete the economic system, but clearly with each new graduating class of Mokarran they are eliminating the need for so many other humanoids.”
“What did you uncover?” Saltāl asks.
Nytalyan slips a small hand-held computer from her belt. “I used a self-contained computer.”
It creates a holographic blackboard before the pair. “I’m going to make this extremely simple…” to protect you. Her mind completes her sentence. She does trust him, because at this point they would both be executed after days of torture if they are discovered.
She scrawls several symbols on the blackboard. The blackboard enables her to write with her finger as if it were a pen. “Here’s my concern. Take this symbol.” She points to the first mark she made. “It means ‘apple’ by itself. If I add this symbol before ‘apple’ it becomes ‘bad apple.’ You add this back grave accent and both symbols become ‘conquest.’ If the symbols are drawn together like in cursive writing, they take on a different meaning based on the grave mark at the onset of the scrawl.”
“How do you undertake translating this?” Saltāl asks.
“Those chosen to be priests do nothing but study from birth to understand the text.”
“The devout Mokarran have to trust their priests aren’t lying to them.”
She shakes her head. “If you miss reading one of those back graves the sentence means something entirely different,” Nytalyan adds.
“Wouldn’t the sentence just be gibberish if you miss the mark?”
“Makes this language more dangerous. Much of the texts tell one story, a completely different story, if you miss the mark. It’s almost as if it was written with two stories in mind to tell.”
“It was written in code?”
“Why? It’s highly complex to do, and if you don’t allow the masses access at all, then why bother?”
“Let’s forget about the why. I doubt it has significance on the translation,” Saltāl says.
“Everything has significance in this language.”
REYNARD SLAMS MARK against the wall.
The cadet squirms. Even his advanced combat training never prepared him for the Calthos maneuver now forcing his lungs to beg.
“Designated assignment?”
“Train Commander Reynard in Mecat combat tactics,” Mark spits when his windpipe’s allowed to open.
“You’re assigned to my crew. We don’t have time for
