Page 49 of Alien Engineer's Mate

Silence answered him. The four warriors maintaining their bruising hold didn't even look at him. Their faces remained impassive masks as they marched him deeper into the security wing, past rows of identical doors.

His heart thundered against his ribs. This made no sense. One moment he'd been saying goodbye to Eira after their evening together; the next, he was surrounded by warriors. No warning. No explanation. Just rough hands and accusations of resistance being futile.

Another warrior fell into step beside them, this one wearing the insignia of command. Hope flared in Maax's chest. Someone who might actually answer his questions...

"I need to speak with Security Chief Z'yan," Maax said, trying to keep his voice steady. "He can verify my?—"

A savage backhand cut off his words. Stars burst behind his eyes as his head snapped sideways. His mouth filled with blood again.

"Purist scum don't get to speak unless spoken to," a warrior growled. "And you won't be speaking to Z'yan or anyone else who might help you escape justice."

Purist? What the draanth... They thought he was... No. That was impossible. He'd never had any connection to the purist movement. His record was clean. Absolutely clean.

They rounded a corner, and the blood froze in his veins. The corridor ahead was different... darker, with fewer doors spaced further apart. He knewexactlywhere he was now. Places like this were never listed on the deck plan. Interrogation. Fear clawed up his throat.

"Please," he tried again, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Check my records. I'm not?—"

A punch to the kidney doubled him over, driving the air from his lungs in an agonized whoosh. Without them holding him upright, he would have collapsed. They didn't pause, dragging his stumbling form toward one of the heavy doors.

The cell beyond was a nightmare made real. Harsh white light bounced off bare walls, centering on a raised dais in the middle of the floor. Thick restraints hung from the shadows of the ceiling above. Dark stains marked the metal of the dais… old blood that hadn't quite been cleaned away.

"No." The word escaped before he could stop it. He dug in his heels, but it was useless against four warriors. They lifted him bodily, his boots leaving the ground as they carried him to the center of the room.

They grabbed his wrists, forcing them above his head. The restraints bit into his flesh as they pulled them tight. More hands secured his ankles, his feet wide apart.

"Wait," he gasped, pulling on his bonds. The metal edges carved into his skin. "Just wait. This is a mistake. I'm not who you think I am."

The warrior in charge stepped into view, his face cast in shadow by the overhead light. "That's where you're wrong,Maax." He spat the name like it was poison. "We know exactly who you are. And you're going to tell us everything about your purist connections."

"I don't have any purist connections!" The words echoed off the walls, edged with desperation. "I serve the empire loyally. I always have!"

A cold smile spread across the command warrior's face. He nodded to one of his warriors, who produced a shock baton with a crackle of energy.

"We'll see about that." The warrior turned toward the door. "Make him talk. But keep him conscious. I want him aware when we expose every lie he's ever told."

The first blow caught Maax across the cheekbone, snapping his head to the side. Before he could recover, another fist slammed into his ribs. He tried to curl forward, to protect his core, but the chest strap held him brutally in place.

"We know all about your B'kaar grandmother," one warrior snarled, grabbing a fistful of Maax's hair and yanking his head back. "Was she the one who taught you to hide your purist ties?"

"My grandmother?" Maax wheezed through the pain in his ribs. "What does she have to do with?—"

A punch to the stomach silenced him. Blood sprayed from his split lip.

"Don't play innocent," another warrior stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "We know she was part of the originaluprising. Did she teach you the old ways? The pure blood mantras?"

Confusion warred with pain in Maax's mind. His grandmother had died when he was barely old enough to walk. He had no memories of her, only stories his father had told him of a quiet, traditional woman who'd kept to the old ways. She'd never had any purist leanings as far as he knew. No A'Taav had. Ever.

The shock baton fizzed to life. His muscles tensed at the sound. "I swear, I don't know what you're talking about. My grandmother?—"

Agony exploded, white-hot, through him as the baton connected with his thigh. His body convulsed in the restraints as a scream tore from his throat. The smell of burned flesh filled his nostrils.

"Still want to play dumb?" His tormentor snarled. "We can do this all night."

"Please," Maax gasped when he could form words again. His leg throbbed where the baton had touched him. "Just check the records. Call Z'yan. He knows me, knows my family?—"

Another shock cut him off, this time to his shoulder. His vision whited out as electricity coursed through him. He might have screamed again... he couldn't tell through the roaring in his ears.

Time lost meaning. There was only pain, questions he couldn't answer, and more pain. His throat was raw from holding back his screams, and blood trickled down his arms where the restraints had cut his wrists.

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