By Tim Cooper
A lance of distorted space through the thigh. Agony. Darkness. Silence.
Private Johan found himself in darkness, huddled in a cold brick-and-mortar corner. He awoke in confusion, his mind racing from the near-instantaneous change in situation. The expected questions sped through and left his consciousness without being answered. Where am I? What happened?
Trembling in a fetal position for an indeterminable time, his mind slowly regrouped and settled itself. Stretching himself into a more comfortable position, his body ached in protest, testifying the horrors it must have undergone. A quick self-examination brought two discoveries—one, that he was stripped to his insulation suit, and two, that his left thigh was crudely dressed in a gauzy bandage wholly unlike the streamlined affairs he was used to. Johan stumbled about a bit, each half-crawl shooting electricity through his wounded leg and stars before his eyes, and through the repeated bumping of his head learned that his enclosure was no more than two meters across on a side, probably less. He also failed to find his armor.
Maybe, if I can get to my feet… and he passed out from the pain.
His next sensation was being kicked in the ribs. Johan rolled in a parody of an arc until he stopped against the cold brickwork wall. He opened his eyes and saw a blinding shadow. The light behind it was not bright at all, but the contrast made it nearly unbearable. Johan coughed and shielded his eyes from the specter, which advanced into the room and shut the door softly.
Darkness, but a sound of heavy breathing. Johan guessed that it was his own.
A dull incandescent filament began to half-heartedly glow in the ceiling and steadily increased in brightness, revealing a two-meter-plus tall, muscular, cramped blue tripedal reptilian turning up a dimmer knob while carefully watching him.
Johan groaned. “Shit, a Warrior.” He closed his eyes and, while waiting for the nightmare to end, his pain-addled brain fit the pieces together—a battle, he was hit, and now a prisoner of the Reavers. He felt himself being propped up by hard, talon-like hands, his ribs being prodded with ironic gentleness, being searched for further wounds. He could feel the creature’s breath, seemingly charged with concentration, on his increasing clammy face. He wanted to cry, to scream, to flail his fists blindly, to vomit, but lacked the energy to do anything but submit.
His eyes opened (voluntarily or not is hard to say) and found himself staring at a two-hundred kilogram beast crouched over him. To his credit, he did not swoon again, although he would have preferred to at that moment. Even crouching down, the Warrior practically filled the small cell. In his fearful stupor, Johan felt oddly connected to the prey his cat used to hunt.
Finding nothing amiss, the creature sat on its haunches on the other side of the grey cement-brick room and still seemingly hovered over Johan. Johan tried to convince himself that this was a trick of perspective; that it was to be expected when sitting face to face (figuratively) with a three meter tall behemoth. He failed.
The Warrior took a device the size of a large fist from a pocket on his utility baldric. Following it with his eyes, Johan saw that it was a thick elastic band with a metal box attached to it. The Reaver put it over his head and wore it like a collar, with the box centered over his reptilian vocal chords. The Warrior then spoke to Johan in a deep bass profunda, using a surprisingly clean and light language free of the stereotypical sibilant hisses one would expect from such a thing.
“Chasokk gas’i’ko. Chashmm’miff’fee gaskongerr set.”
A metal grill piped, after the Warrior had finished, these two phrases.
“I see that you have awoken. I hope that you are feeling well.”
Johan blinked, and responded the only way he could think how:
“Private Second Class Altan Johan, WZMS-Echo Joker Two Five Delta Seven Ivan Bravo Six Charlie.”
After Johan had finished, the metal grille expressed the same idea with far different syllables and a relatively similar syntax. “Mikchangjon altan jo’han, erthkaithidvesh xon mik’liv hiv it jik uk mik’jok fib pol foe.”
The Warrior laughed in a friendly way—a communication that defied translation and almost caused Johan to soil himself at the unfamiliar sound—and replied, when translated: “You give me your name, your rank, and your serial number. That is very formal. Formality is unnecessary here. Let us be friends.”
Johan raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t going to grill me?”
This response puzzled the Reaver. Cocking his matte blue dinosaur head to one side, he questioned: “Why would I want to cook you?”
Johan, completely missing the humor inherent in the situation, explained his idiom. The Reaver listened to the translation intently, nodded in an attempt to convey the concept of understanding, and answered: “We doubt that you have any useful information. We wish only to admit you into our society.”
“Wait a moment. Admit me into your society?”
“Yes. We repulsed your forces from this planet. They are unable to rescue you, but you are still here. It is appropriate for us to accept you into this family of ours. You do not have any other available options.”
Johan gulped. He remembered the stories, the facts: the airborne thought-eating parasites, the aggregate blob on the base of your skull turning you into a vassal of some purple Mind Queen, who, with a wink, could toy with your emotions and tear away your identity. With a dry mouth he asked: “Do I have a choice in this?”
The Warrior seemed puzzled again. “What exists to choose between? Only one option exists. How can you choose between one option and one option? You can only do it.”
Johan sighed. “Could you just kill me instead?”
If the Reaver was puzzled before, he was baffled now. “Why? Killing you would be inappropriate.”
“And stealing my personality, my soul, isn’t?”
The Warrior rubbed its head. “I do not understand your anger. The process has begun. Do not worry.”
“Whaddyamean, ‘the process has begun?’”
The Reaver produced a bulky scanner from his baldric and handed it to Johan. “An aggregate has been forming.” He pointed a thick clawed finger at the screen, which indicated a bright orange mass slowly growing on a cross-section of Johan’s head. “It will be mature soon.”
Johan closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the brick wall. He felt every muscle in his body go numb. Through the vibration of his larynx he knew he was groaning, and by the cold moisture running down his cheeks he knew he was crying. He heard his own groaning as if from far away, and heard as these words, spoken in a soft, masculine, but pleasant voice with a pinch of commiseration in it, pushed through his cotton-balled ears and into his brain:
“Do not be
sad. You will be a brother soon. Then you will never be sad again.”