Page 30 of Torn from the Alien Commander

A tinge of sadness for the simple giant compels me to add, “After we rescue Xandor, we’ll all have a big hug. How about that?”

Quad nods, beaming once again, flexing his massive arms and cracking his thick, knobby knuckles. “Just waiting for these two,then?” Felixus questions with a gesture towards Job and Mod, who are still frozen, locked by their antennae.

Then, as if having heard Felixus’ words or sensing our attentions, the two Glaseroid brothers snap to focus, their antennae now disentangled. “We gamble. No?” Mod intones.

“You won’t regret this!” I exclaim, casting my eyes over the entire crew filled with a fierce respect for them I never knew existed. “When do we leave?” I ask, turning towards Felixus as my chest flutters with a heady mix of excitement and anxiety—on the verge of attempting the almost impossible.

“Within the hour, as soon as we all go over the plan,” Felixus intones with folded arms.

Good, Xandor won’t have to wait much longer.

Chapter 10

Xandor

Red

Iawaken from troubleddreams with a start, groaning as I realize my treacherous body betrays me once again—I’m unable to move. The white collar around my neck glows orange, the color of submission perhaps worse than the torturous red. At least with red, movement is possible.

Scanning the small, sterile room fills me with ominous dread. A windowed section looms above, housing some sort of observation station. In the corner stands a towering robot, its attachments confirming my worst suspicions. Each of its limbs carries a multitude of surgical devices, saws, knives, and other unknown tools of various shapes and sizes. Enough to make Mob jealous with envy.

The sight of it fuels my desperate rage. My eyes stoke with Rush, refusing to succumb to the imminent, horrific torture. I roar in defiance, straining with all my might, as wisps of gold leak from my eyes. But there is no resistance to overcome, just an absence of movement, as if my muscles have been completely disabled.

I snarl at this affront to the Gods, lamenting the bitter fate I must endure—not even a proud warrior’s death. My honor is not to die valiantly fighting overwhelming odds, but to resist breaking against unending torments.

I draw my eyes to my body, which despite the disabling collar has metal straps bound around my ankles and wrist, attached to a standing table. Straps instead fasten the ruined remnants of my left arm. To my chagrin, I am stripped of all my armor and clothes, leaving me naked and exposed.

Bright orange lights emit a low hum, creating an eerie silence in the tense room. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I resign myself to my fate, praying I possess the strength to not bring dishonor to myself or my ancestors.

This room could be mistaken for a medical lab with its observational equipment and surgical robot. But my nose wrinkles with the faint, almost imperceptible smell of sweat and blood. It clings to this room like wispy spirits of suffering, a sinister promise of my fate.

Will they seek to interrogate me or inflict impotent revenge upon my flesh?The questions swirl in my mind, fueling my anxiety. The waiting, the not knowing, is almost unbearable. I force myself to delve into deep meditation, seeking refuge in the fortress of my mind.

My eyes flick open at the sound of a door swooshing above. In the observation area, two Nebians enter. One is the Praetorian Prefect, still wearing his golden segmented armor but now without his purple cloak. The other a short, bloated Nebian withshifty eyes, wearing a translucent polymer floor-length coat with a mechanical device over one eye.

Our eyes lock, and I see no trace of a soul in those dead eyes. I resist the urge to speak, knowing the likely result will be the same as last time. The Prefect wastes no time, taking a seat with his legs crossed. “I am Horaxus Domna, Prefect of the Praetorian Guard,” he states with a quick, level tone. “My colleague here is Decimux Sulla, Magister Scientiarum,” he gestures to the squat, brown-haired and bearded Nebian.

The scientist makes no acknowledgement, busying himself with a terminal console I can’t see. “Now, why don’t you begin by telling us who you are and what your purpose is?” The Prefect asks, tapping his boot against the floor.

“Xandor, Second to Clan Draxxus,” I rasp, keeping my words brief due to the singed state of my throat and lungs from yesterday’s events. “I came to forge an alliance between our peoples.” The words seem absurd now, given my treatment by these supposedallies.

The Prefect frowns. My collar switches to red, and the familiar flaming torment emits from within, twisting my guts with useless rage and agony. Snarls of suffering leave me as I attempt to recoil, to escape the inescapable pain, but the restraints hold me solid. The Prefect taps his foot, watching with cold indifference.

“Yet you came with the fallen Scythians, hoping to slip past our defenses.” The Prefect glares with hollow eyes. “Now I ask again, what were your orders? Who were your targets?”

The collar switches to orange, bringing a merciful release from the agony. I take gulping breaths, recovering from the shocking pain, my mind fumbling for a response. “I came to forge an alliance—”

Roaring agony cuts me off in an instant as the Prefect tuts, somehow setting the collar to red with a mere thought. “I seeyou’re a stubborn one, but you will tell me what I wish to know,” he declares, inspecting his stubby fingernails. “Everyone does,” he promises with a flicker of a smile.

The truth condemns me to a torturous end.

But between bared fangs, wracked by an internal inferno of suffering, I choose to speak the truth. “The Scythians attacked us, too. That’s why our ship was so heavily damaged,” I manage to squeeze out in a rush of pain.

“A likely ruse.” The Prefect waves a dismissive hand, “Your masters underestimate us. They always have. But we adapt and overcome because we are superior to them.” The collar switches to orange, allowing me to catch my breath and my muscles to loosen from the rupturing strain. “So, where are your terms for this... alliance?” he lingers on the last word as if it’s foreign.

My eyes dart to my ruined arm, a sense of hopelessness washing over me. “Seems I’ve misplaced my wrist console, but the others—”

“How convenient,” the Prefect interrupts, as the collar shifts to agonizing red, stiffening my spine with murderous torment. “Let’s keep this brief. What were your orders? Who were your targets?” The repeated questions already grate like claws on rock.

---