“Lesson learned—don’t cut into the sex organ. Most species have major blood vessels working through them, especially those relying on engorged appendages to procreate.” Maxtin remains stationary as he speaks.
Malquaz squirms, tugging harder against his bonds.
Gibson places each new sharp surgical implement side by side in a line on the tray.
Beads of sweat drip from Malquaz’s scalp.
“I didn’t think lizards had sweat glands?” Gibson dabs a tissue against Malquaz’s forehead.
“Depends on planetary environment in which the species was first developed.” Maxtin does not turn around. “Have you started yet?”
“After this interrogation, I’ll need to replace these blades. They aren’t as sharp as they used to be.” Gibson admires her reflection in a curved blade she rubbed to a shine.
“You’re bluffing.” Malquaz attempts to rise from the chair. The restraints keep him pinned. “You’ve UCP rules to protect prisoners.”
Maxtin never moves from his view. “You’re correct. The UCP’s rules for the incarcerated require humane treatment. The Cameron Treaty forbids the mistreatment of prisoners of war.”
Malquaz releases a breath, confident. “That’s right. You can’t hurt me.”
“Admiral, this humanoid’s not a POW. We aren’t at war with anyone, so the Cameron Treaty does not apply here.”
“Is he a UCP citizen?” Maxtin asks.
“No.”
Malquaz contorts himself, failing to escape. “Wait. Wait! You haven’t asked me any questions.”
Gibson slips a plastic smock over her uniform. “Maybe we just like to torture. The Admiral is a Zayar.” She selects a curved knife with a barbed hook designed for skinning.
“What do you want to know?” Malquaz panics.
Maxtin spins on his heel. “You were caught smuggling IMC weapons. Only they weren’t made by the IMC. The serial numbers are not registered. After three shots the cheap metal becomes superheated and explodes.”
“I just load the crates.”
“Malquaz, you need…how much daily exposure to direct sunlight to remain healthy?” Maxtin inquires.
Quick breaths pump Malquaz’s chest. “What are you going to do?”
“Cutting you may not produce the answers I want. I wonder how many days in dark—solitary confinement—before you answer my questions.”
“I need natural sunlight to metabolize food,” Malquaz protests.
“Not feeding him should extend the time he spends in the dark,” Gibson offers.
“Secure him in confinement. I have a meeting.”
••••••
MEDICAL TECHNICIANS INSPECT the cancer-treating apparatus connected to the wheelchair. They replace cylinders of bubbling brown liquid with crystal clear ones. Once all the lights on the control board flash green, they unbutton Admiral Wendy Easter’s shirt and listen to her breathing.
In gentleman fashion, Maxtin averts his eyes from her emaciated frame.
Purple bruises dot her abdomen. The aged skin shrunken and pulled so every rib can be outlined. One sore bleeds over a simple, fading red tattoo. The vertical bars and dashes are similar to those of the ancient Osirian philosophy the Chinese I-Ching consulted to find treasured wisdom, but this glyph—not quite one of the symbols.
Easter’s tattoo placement seems to have been hidden below her navel, a sacred place on the body for many females. Knowing her as he does, Maxtin speculates she has chosen this spot for other reasons than being the location of conception. Instinctively, Maxtin rubs the back of his left triceps. The mark’s location bears no significance to its meaning—never to be discussed among the unworthy.
During his last few visits with his fellow VP admiral, her treatment filters have needed constant maintenance and replacement. The medical techs pack up their gear and leave.
“I’m nearly seventy.” Complexly obstinate, she rants, “I’m one of the five rulers of this Confederation and I shouldn’t have to listen to those lowly non-ranking medical techs!”
Maxtin admires the cornucopia of wall ornaments depicting the many aspects of Easter’s long career. A large painting of a Coalition Battle Cruiser decorates the center. Maxtin knows the significance of this ship. He touches the inauguration picture of him, Easter and the other three Vice Presidential Admirals who still rule the UCP.
“They only care for your best interest.”
“My best interest would be to die—quickly.” She fights to bring air into her lungs. The bubbles in the tubes behind her chair gurgle. “Technology extends a flame thirty years after it was snuffed.” She takes in as much air as possible as she prepares herself to speak. “You don’t make social calls, Maxtin. What do you want?”
Maxtin polishes the bit of dust from the top of the frame with his thumb and forefinger. “I need you to get better.”
“Impossible. Osirians don’t deal with radiation, even the mild exposure I received when the ship exploded.” She points with her frail hand. Maxtin glances back at the painting. Her hand drops. The bubbles increase.
“Had any medical frigate survived the battle, we could have cured—”
“It was such a mild exposure. No reason to even get examined.” Easter swallows her contempt. “Should’ve gone a lot differently. But you’re not here to relive history.” Easter glares at him as if she can see his thoughts. “I know you don’t want Admiral Kantian to succeed me.”
“His desire of direct conflict with the Mokarran will bring about our destruction.”
“I read the same reports as you. The Tri-Star Federation, or rather the Mokarran government, will collapse soon under the weight of its own tyranny. We would just help it along.”
“It’s not war with Mokarran—it’s the Throgen Empire,” Maxtin says.
“The Mokarran do make the perfect buffer.” Easter no longer keeps up the air consumption to continue the conversation. She waves her hand to offer Maxtin a chair. She needs a minute of uncomplicated inhalation.
Maxtin waits until her breathing loses the labored sound. “They are. How does Kantian not understand the importance? Give your deathbed endorsement to someone who will.”
“The picture of the five of us. You haven’t aged.” Easter takes in a deep breath. “Not a day. Not like the others involved in the founding.”
“Zayars never do. We always appear old by Osirian standards. Even our children.”
“I think too many like-minds stagnate the government.” Easter wheezes, “Too many different minds prevent action. Holding power too long debases the values which sent us into politics in the first place. It was a mistake
