Chapter 9: Captive

“Wake up,” a gruff voice said, its rolling accent unfamiliar. Something hit Cooper in the shoulder, rousing him, and he slowly opened his eyes. He had a monster headache, and there was the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, his blurry vision gradually coming into focus as he blinked groggily. Where was he? He couldn’t remember what had happened. Most of his gear was gone, and his helmet had been removed.

He was sat on a bench in a dingy troop bay, surrounded by tall, shadowy figures. The rumble of an engine made the seat beneath him shake, the motion of the vehicle jostling him. It all came back to him in a flash. The battle in the dunes, the alien war beasts, the Rask.

A dozen pairs of reflective, yellow eyes peered back at him, their feline pupils dilated into dark circles. There was a whole squad of the aliens, all dressed in a blend of leather and ceramic armor, their long rifles stowed beside them as they bounced in their seats. One of them was cleaning a massive, crudely machined revolver with a rag, pausing to return Cooper’s stare.

He was in one of their outdated personnel carriers, had to be. The cab was to his left, the troop ramp to his right, the metal deck vibrating beneath his feet. The Rask had managed to make a retreat, and they had taken him with them. Why? Was he to be a bargaining chip? A hostage? Were they going to eat him?

When he tried to move his arms, he discovered that they were bound behind his back, a hairy rope burning the skin on his wrist as he struggled. How damaged was his prosthetic arm? He couldn’t see it, but it looked like his leg was still attached to him.

“I told you he would live,” the Rask who was sitting to his left said. She was a female, by the sound of her. Cooper was sandwiched between two of the aliens, there wasn’t much room in the bay, their leather-clad thighs pressing up against him.

“I still say you hit him too hard,” another hissed, this one sitting on the adjacent bench. He was a large male specimen, his shoulders twice as broad as any human’s, his posture hunched as he ducked beneath a low ceiling that hadn’t been designed for his stature. “These ones are fragile, slow to heal. It would not do to bring the Admiral a damaged prize.”

“Oi!” Cooper grunted, the aliens turning to look at him. Their round ears swiveled, tracking him like little radar dishes. “Where the fuck are you taking me?”

“He is more than fine,” the female chuckled, reaching over to mess up his hair with mock affection. “As lively as ever, this one.”

He shook his head angrily, warding her off, alien laughter filling the troop bay.

“You will find out soon enough,” another Rask replied. “For now, keep still and stay silent.”

Cooper felt the vehicle mount the crest of a dune, sending him bumping into the alien to his left, the creature hissing at him angrily as if he could help it with his hands tied. Where had the vehicles launched from? There was no way that they had driven so far across the desert in these poorly-maintained relics. This APC was probably fifty years old, it looked like it might shake itself apart at any moment. The lighting strips in the ceiling were off, likely because they didn’t work anymore, motes of dust dancing in the sunlight that bled in through the narrow windows in the cab. Cooper leaned forward to get a look out of them, but he couldn’t see much. The storm must still be raging outside.

“Where’s my crew?” he demanded, glaring around the bay.

“If you mean the two whelps who fled the battle, the only injuries they suffered were to their pride,” the female sneered.

“Aren’t you fleeing the battle too?” he said, giving her a smirk. “You idiots could barely scratch a half-dead Kodiak, no way you took out the whole column. Maybe try bringing anti-tank weapons to a tank fight next time, dickheads.”

The female snarled at him, her ears flattening against her straw-colored hair.

“Hold your tongue, ape, or I shall pluck it from your head.”

“Do it, then,” he said as he laughed in her face. “You went to a lot of trouble to take me alive, you’re not going to kill me now.”

“Kill, no,” she hissed as she brought her feline nose down to within an inch of his. She bared her sharp fangs, her pupils dilating like those of a cat watching a bird from a window. “Hurt, yes.”

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who just got sent running with their furry tail between their legs,” he whispered. “How about you give me my knife back, and we see who comes out on top?”

“Do not tempt me,” she muttered, sitting back on the bench. “I know better than to damage the Admiral’s property.”

They continued on for what must have been an hour or more, the silence punctuated only by the Rask conversing in their strange language of spits and hisses. Finally, he felt the troop carrier come to a jolting stop, the ramp at the rear beginning to open with a creak of aged pistons. Sand blew inside, Cooper turning his face away, unable to shield himself with his hands bound. He was pulled roughly to his feet by the female, who seemed to be the one in charge of him, her iron grip on his arm as she steered him out onto the hot sand. The aliens donned helmets and goggles, protecting themselves from the storm.

“Put his helmet back on him, or he’ll lose his eyes,” she muttered. One of her comrades dropped it unceremoniously onto his head, Cooper blinking through his faceplate, now cracked. He had expected to be traveling in a column with other vehicles, but the APC was alone save for a single technical that must be their escort. The Rask who was manning the gun on the back watched him as he was led around the troop carrier, their destination coming into sight.

They had parked in the shadow of a truly titanic vehicle. The four sets of dual caterpillar tracks upon which it rested were each larger than a Kodiak, every link in its heavy treads approaching the size of a dining table, the sprockets taller than a man. As he craned his neck to look up at it, he saw that the tracks were holding aloft a hull the length of a soccer field, rising at least fifteen meters off the ground. The platform was overengineered, industrial in its design, all support struts and reinforced beams. It was ringed by a gantry, and he could make out doors that must lead inside. It had been covered in riveted armor plating in places, painted over with crude desert camo, just like the other Rask vehicles in their hodgepodge fleet. Upon its hull, he could make out what looked like prefab buildings through the haze, as though the aliens had dropped a colonial settlement atop it.

There were CIWS turrets mounted above the tracks on each corner, their lenses reflecting the sun as they scanned the sky for threats, their long cannons at the ready. Could they even pick up anything in this storm? They had clearly been sourced from a UNN base, he had seen those same muffin-shaped radomes on previous deployments. Cupcakes, that was how the Marines affectionately referred to them.

It occurred to him that he had seen one of these giant contraptions before. These platforms were used to transport ultra-heavy cargo and spacecraft in planetside spaceports. What was this one doing here? How had the Rask gotten their hands on one? They must be using it as some kind of mobile base or command post.

His captors marched him towards a long set of stairs that reached from the hull to the sand, the aliens forcing him to climb it, its structure creaking worryingly under their combined weight. The steps were human-sized, confirming his suspicion that they hadn’t built this thing themselves. On his way up, he noted that there was writing on the side of the hull. It was a dark red that bordered on brown, the characters resembling claw marks, like they had been scratched into the metal by a giant hand. Was that what Rask text looked like?

They reached the gantry, the female giving him a shove as she forced him through one of the doors, ducking in after him. The noise of windblown sand pounding the hull was muffled as it closed behind them with a thud, the far-off hum of the vehicle’s engines and generators greeting them. It was stiflingly hot inside, they probably didn’t have any kind of climate control.

Before him was a corridor that resembled what one might expect to find on any UNN spaceship, dimly lit by naked bulbs that dangled from the ceiling, maybe seven feet above his head. This was a workplace, no attempt had been made to make it comfortable. It was all exposed metal and beams, all manner of electrical cables and pipes snaking their way across every available surface. The deck beneath his feet was a grate, more miscellaneous machinery glimpsed beyond it.

“Move,” the female growled, giving him another shove that made him stumble.

“Easy, sunshine,” he muttered. “I’m a disabled veteran, you know?”

As she marched him through the belly of the vehicle, they crossed paths with many more Rask. They were usually sparsely clothed, their tanned skin glistening with sweat. Working in the bowels of this place must be like working in the engine room in an old steam liner. They moved out of his way as the procession of soldiers approached, their feline eyes watching him curiously.

They eventually reached a ladder, which led up into one of the prefabs. As he had suspected, these were the same prefabricated buildings used on colony planets, normally dropped into place to form settlements on frontier worlds. They were reasonably spacious, and this area of the vehicle had been more comfortably furnished than the warrens below.

Purple seemed to be the color of choice for the Rask. Flowing drapes cascaded from the ceiling to cover up the bare walls, made from some kind of shiny fabric, maybe silk or velvet. Every corner of the room was strewn with large nests of throw pillows, their occupants pausing their conversations to watch him.

What parts of the original structure were still visible held either slatted windows or large tapestries. There was an oddly medieval style about them, beautifully embroidered in spite of their crude perspective, their woven threads depicting scenes of battle and hunting. The floor beneath his feet was strewn with animal skins and rugs in the same regal shade of purple. What sensation his prosthetic foot allowed him to feel told him that it was soft, like shag. What would have been no-frills, functional furniture had been replaced with wooden tables and chairs that were exquisitely carved, like the dark mahogany one might expect to find in an upscale office or study. Every table seemed to be laden with some kind of food or beverage, silver platters that were piled with unidentifiable meats reminding him of how long it had been since he last ate.

It all seemed out of place for a military vessel, there was too much luxury to be found here. He felt as though he had just been marched into a Roman banquet hall, or maybe a Moroccan hookah lounge. Could this be the home of the Admiral that they had mentioned back in the APC?

The female tugged Cooper’s arm, making him stand up straighter as another group of aliens entered through an automatic door at the far end of the prefab. There was an imposing male with fresh scars on his cheek, and a stout female wearing leather pants as tight as a latex glove. They were both wearing a purple sash over their ornate jackets, studded with little badges and pins that resembled medals. Those must be signs of status. They were followed by a shorter male who trailed after them like a beaten dog, his eyes constantly fixed on the carpet.

The female seemed to be the head honcho, the other two flanking her as she came to a stop in front of him. She had a commanding air about her. He could feel the tension that the other aliens exuded, as though her mere presence made them nervous.

“My Admiral,” his captor began, bowing her head as though she were addressing royalty. “Your order has been carried out. We have successfully apprehended a live human, plucked from the heat of battle.” She tore his helmet off, Cooper blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. “I now present him to you.”

The Admiral looked him up and down with her yellow eyes, scratching her chin with one of her curved, black claws.

“Of all the humans you could have chosen, why one so ... damaged?” the scarred male to her right asked. His voice was deep and gravelly, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

His captor began to speak, seeming flustered by the thought that her moment of triumph might be marred, but the Admiral raised a furry hand to dismiss her companion’s remark.

“No,” she said, narrowing her eyes at Cooper. “You have done well, soldier. Very well. This one’s injuries were earned in battle, they mark him as a seasoned warrior. He will make an admirable trophy for the Matriarch.”

“Excuse me,” Cooper said, clearing his throat. The aliens seemed shocked by his courage, all save for the Admiral. While they flattened their ears against their heads and bared their teeth, she merely smirked at him, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

His captor kicked the back of his good leg, forcing him to take a knee.

“You dare speak in the presence of-”

The Admiral cut off his captor’s comment with another wave of her furry hand.

“This one is human, child. He does not know how to submit, nor does he know how to be a prisoner. We shall teach him in time.”

“So, can one of you oversized tabbies tell me what the fuck is going on?” Cooper demanded.

“Is it not obvious?” the Admiral replied. “You are now a prisoner of the Matriarchy.”

“Why?” he continued. “If you think that you can use me as a bargaining chip, you’re stupider than you look, which is a fucking feat. The UNN doesn’t negotiate with hostage-takers.”

“Taking hostages for leverage would be dishonorable,” she replied, the accusation seeming to irk her. “No, you are to be delivered to the Matriarch once we return to the territory. As a pet,” she added with a sardonic smile.

“A pet?” he repeated, glancing at the aliens in confusion. “Are you taking the piss?”

“He asks if I am joking,” the Admiral clarified, noticing the confused expression of the burly male. “I assure you, human, that I am not. You shall be a trophy of our victory over your people.”

“This isn’t going to go down the way you think it will,” Cooper said, his tone serious now. The Admiral ignored him, turning to the cowed male who was lurking nearby.

“Vitza, you were trained in the maintenance of these prosthetics, were you not?”

“Yes, my Admiral,” he replied as he stepped forward. “I was to maintain those of our auxiliaries when they returned home.”

“Check him over, make sure that he is in working order. I want the arm removed, I know from personal experience how dangerous they can be. Confiscate any electronics that he still has, too.”

“Fuck you!” Cooper snarled, starting to struggle as he was lifted to his feet. “You’re not taking my arm off!”

“And check that he is ... intact,” the Admiral added. “He will provide the Matriarch with far less amusement if he has lost more than his limbs.

Cooper grunted as his captor planted her furry hand between his legs, copping a feel.

“He is fine,” she replied.

He took the opportunity to kick her in the shin with his prosthetic foot, the skid-like appendage catching her just above the heel of her digitigrade leg. She hissed as she hopped back, raising a hand with the intent to strike him, soon lowering it under the unflinching gaze of her superior.

“Do be gentle with him,” the Admiral warned. “They are fragile little things. Perhaps now, you better understand the plight of your comrades who were forced to undergo integration training.”

“I now have more respect for their restraint, Admiral,” she muttered as she glared at Cooper.

“Crewmaster,” the Admiral continued, addressing her male companion. “See to it that these warriors are rewarded appropriately for their efforts, and have the captive taken to the brig. Vitza, go with them.”

She turned her back to them and began to walk away, pausing when Cooper called out to her.

“Oi! Admiral, or whatever your bloody name is. I was at the ambush in the massif, killed a dozen of yours easy. Killed a dozen more when these stupid cunts attacked us in the desert, they walked straight into our gunfire. This war was lost the moment you decided to go up against the UNN, you’re only delaying the inevitable.”

“I like this one,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder at him. “He has fire. The Matriarch is going to enjoy him.”

Cooper was shoved into a cell in the depths of the crawler, little more than iron bars that had been spot-welded over what must have once been storage closets. There were three such cells situated side by side, wide enough that the Rask had been able to fit a cot in each one, along with a washbasin and a toilet. There was enough room for a Borealan, even if it was cramped by their standards.

He turned to face the aliens, his hands still tightly bound. The one called Vitza entered after him, the others standing guard behind the door, seeming remarkably uninterested in what was about to happen.

“I am to detach your prosthetic,” the Rask said, his tone more confident now that he was out of earshot of the Admiral.

“Then untie me,” Cooper suggested.

“Not before disabling the unit,” Vitza replied warily. “I am familiar with this technology. Weaponizing prosthetics is illegal in UNN space, but its strength and durability remain greater than that of your original limb. I must remove your pressure suit to access the socket.”

He reached out and began to remove Cooper’s flak jacket, laying it on the cot, then detached the rigid vambrace from his wrist that housed his onboard computer. Once that was done, he unzipped the pressure suit down to the waist, pulling it down past Cooper’s shoulder to expose the joint where his prosthetic met his body.

“The socket has been fused to the scapula,” Vitza muttered, examining the black polymer. “If I had to guess, I would say that more of your humerus survived your initial injury, but that they chose to amputate up to the shoulder to provide more leverage and stability.”

“You’d be correct,” Cooper replied, the alien beginning to unfasten the catches around his artificial bicep. “So ... Vitza, right? What’s your deal? The Rask don’t strike me as the engineering type. How is it that you know how to service a prosthetic limb?”

“The Matriarchy needs people who can maintain the prosthetics of our injured auxiliaries when they return from duty,” he explained. “Not to mention people who can service the weapons and other technologies that we have acquired.”

“So, what, you’re like the tech guy?”

“The Matriarch has named me Chief Engineer,” he replied.

“Did you make this ... vehicle?”

“The crawlers? I helped to assemble and outfit them, yes.”

Them? There were more than one of these things? Good to know...

Vitza disconnected Cooper’s arm at the shoulder, making him wince as what had once been simulated sensation was replaced with the fuzzy tingling of interrupted nerves. Beneath it was a simple ball joint that was connected to a soft, translucent gel, cushioning the scarred tissue beneath.

“And how does a Rask learn all this stuff?” Cooper asked.

“While the others were training to become Shock Troopers, I studied under your Warsmiths, along with a handful of others. Combat Engineers, you call them. Turn around.”

Cooper put his back to the alien, feeling him begin to untie the thick rope. He slid the prosthetic arm out of its sleeve, leaving the garment hanging loose. Cooper’s first instinct was to rub his wrist, where the skin was red and raw, but the nerve impulses now ended at the socket on his shoulder.

“I thought Borealans were all about slicing each other up?” he mused. “You’re a head shorter than the rest of them, I saw how you behaved around them back in the prefab. How can you be the chief of anything if a bigger dude can just come along and beat you up?”

“No society could function in that manner,” he replied, setting the limb on the cot. The forearm was all chewed up, the tooth marks from the Rask war beast’s teeth clearly visible where they had scored the polymer. It seemed functional, however. The housing was merely cosmetic, and there was no obvious damage to any of the machinery or electronics.

“I am named Chief Engineer by the Matriarch,” Vitza continued. “All those who obey her will recognize my authority or face her wrath.”

“I see, they obey you because she told them to, so it’s more like they’re obeying her?”

“In such a way, the skilled and knowledgeable can be given more authority than their status would usually afford them,” he replied.

“And the jocks don’t beat up the nerds,” Cooper added with a nod. “You have to be pretty bright to be an engineer,” he said, flexing his fingers. “Bright enough to know that this war is going to end very badly for your side.”

“It is not my place to question the will of the Matriarch,” Vitza muttered, crouching down to inspect his prosthetic leg.

“Maybe it should be,” Cooper continued, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Tell you what, mate. Leave my helmet in my cell, I can leave it broadcasting a distress signal over ad-hoc. Anyone who got into range would pick it up and come to investigate, and the rest of these morons won’t know anything’s wrong. When the UNN arrives, I tell them that you helped me out, and you’re home free. No more Admiral, no more Matriarch. Think about it.”

Vitza collected the prosthetic, the helmet, and the computer, pausing on his way to the cell door. His tail flicked back and forth in a way that seemed hesitant to Cooper, indecisive. He looked back over his shoulder, his expression neutral.

“To assume that our way of life has been somehow imposed on us against our will is a common human failing,” he said. “I have earned a position of authority and respect, even if it is only in a narrow domain, and my loyalty is to my Matriarch. You would do well to obey the Admiral, human. Give her what she wants.”