Tor’laen sat in an empty room, his hands bound behind his back. He was seated upon a Zakkili-sized chair, far too low for him to be comfortable, and it pressed on his tail, just hard enough to be annoying. The door was likely locked, and presumably under armed guard. Even his translator had been taken, stripped none too gently from his wrist after he had surrendered. He had no way to measure how long it had been, but it likely had been a few hours, at least.
So far, everything was happening about as well as he’d imagined a surrender would go.
It wasn’t like there was anything interesting to look at – the bare gray walls and floor didn’t offer much in the way of mental stimulation. So instead, he was going over the past few hours in his head, comparing it to what he had known about the Zakkili prior to that day.
He was relieved by the reliable performance of the Reaper Frames against the Citadel’s soldiers, though it hadn’t exactly been a fair battle. Small arms and submachine guns against suits designed to protect against hulking Cal’raz drone-forms. Talk about asymmetrical warfare. Still, it had enabled a bloodless boarding — bloodless, at least, in the only sense that mattered strategically. No corpses. That was exactly what High Command had theorized would be necessary for the Ydani’s larger strategy.
Then the capture of the bridge. Tor’laen still couldn’t believe his luck. The Star Citadel they encountered was one of the few that had a Crown Daughter acting as Royal Hand. The Queen’s own flesh and blood. A cruelly useful piece of bait to dangle in front of her, even if the action had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Had he been one of the Ydani of ages past, he would have offered a prayer of thanks to the First Light. Tor’laen was simply glad to be fortunate.
Now he only had to stay alive and sane long enough to be brought before the Queen. Then every piece would be on the board, and he would only have to play his part well enough to keep his people in the game.
Hopefully, his surrender and gesture of good faith would be enough to protect him.
Tor’laen looked up at the sound of the door unlocking. Perhaps today wouldn’t be as boring as he was expecting.
Three Zakkili entered the room, fanning out around him in a rough semi-circle. The Crown Daughter was there, unsurprisingly. He had already marked her down as someone to take matters into her own hands often. She stopped directly in front of him, now the one looking down on him, slightly. The chair was just that low. On her right was another of the officers from the bridge, wearing a crisp uniform, and cropped blonde hair. Someone important. Perhaps the equivalent of a Ydani Vice-captain?
The Zakkili on the Crown Daughter’s left was wearing some kind of robes, likely religious in nature. They were quite a faithful people, the Zakkili. The communications the Ydani had intercepted often spoke of some “Maker” the people of the Monarchy seemed endlessly fond of invoking. She had carefully pinned dark blue hair, and a deeply suspicious look in her green eyes.
Tor’laen’s eyes barely flicked to the two other women before settling back on the Crown Daughter. He waited for her to say something, but she seemed content to just stare at him for the moment. He didn’t mind. It was intriguing to have an opportunity to really examine a Zakkili outside of grainy photos, snatched from the security cameras of unsuspecting merchant vessels.
The woman in front of him – Nalyra, she had named herself – was about average height for her race, maybe a finger or so over four feet tall. It still surprised Tor’laen just how shapely these little aliens were – their feminine curves filled out their uniforms and clothes in a way that seemed designed to ensnare a man’s gaze. It wasn’t enough to unbalance him, but he could imagine a younger or less disciplined man being flustered at the very least. And the Crown Daughter clearly knew it. Her clothing was some hybrid of naval dress uniform and court gown, custom-tailored to flatter her figure and reveal just enough skin to be enticing without being overt.
That skin was a deeper green than either of the other women there, a rich emerald color. It complemented her hair well. It wasn’t quite as black as her mother, the Queen’s, hair, but it had a dark blue sheen when it caught the light. Curiously enough, there were things other than hair bundled in with it, tied up with the rest of her complicated hairstyle. They were fine, skin-covered tendrils of some kind, becoming almost translucent as they went, sprouting from the Zakkili’s scalp, temples, and nape of her neck, among other places. A quick glance confirmed that the other two women had them as well.
Some kind of psychic sensory organ, perhaps.
Zakkili had oversized ears for their stature, and the Crown Daughter was no exception. Clasps of gold, finely wrought and delicate-looking, sat upon her ears, glinting even in the somewhat dim light.
Perhaps the woman’s most fetching feature was her eyes. Her sclera were black as ink, but her irises were a luminous purple, a shade lighter than her mother’s. Those same eyes were now locked with his, meeting his stare. Her brow was furrowed the slightest bit, looking at him as if she were evaluating a problem and looking for a solution.
Not too far from the truth, really.
Suddenly, he felt the touch of a questing mind in his head. He hadn’t been sure what Zakkili psychic powers might feel like, but he had no doubt that this was it.
He reacted instinctively, filling his mind with a memory, the feeling of a piece of shrapnel embedding itself in his gut during a mission. The wet heat. The searing pain.
The standard, though untested, defense. It certainly appeared to be effective, as the robed woman immediately drew back, her hand flying to her stomach, her face stricken.
The Crown Daughter noticed the motion. Maybe she could even feel the psychic contact as it happened. Tor’laen wasn’t sure. Either way, she gave a bemused, cruel smile, looking at the robed Zakkili. She issued a stream of her native tongue, that strange kind of elegant, sharp language he had heard when negotiating.
“Ast vell wo lakk Velith niev, Uen Falah? Wan de-alix,” Nalyra said calmly, tut-tutting softly as she shook her head.
The robed woman looked away, her face flushing slightly, her expression sulky, at least as far as Tor’laen could tell.
The Crown Daughter smirked, then looked back at her captive. From behind her back, she brought out Tor’laen’s translator, still in one piece. She didn’t bother speaking, just let her eyes flick briefly to the device, then back to Tor’laen. The message was obvious: You want this back, yes?
He nodded, slightly.
Nalyra pointed at the device, then tapped her slender finger against her temple. Her purple eyes went to the robed Zakkili, then back to his. She shook her head slightly, smirking as if she was scolding a disobedient child. Again, Tor’laen understood what she was telling him: You’ll let me in. Don’t try that on me.
He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of letting the woman he had recently held at gunpoint into his mind, but he didn’t see another option. He needed that translator to complete his mission.
Tor’laen nodded once more, bracing himself both physically and mentally.
The Crown Daughter’s grin widened, and a moment later he felt the touch of her mind. He suppressed his instincts, and she slid inside.
Tor’laen had always assumed that letting a Zakkili into his mind would feel like worms burrowing their way through his gray matter. It was the reason he had always been so vigilant about practicing the theoretical mental defenses the intelligence branch had come up with.
But this was different.
The power of the Crown Daughter’s intrusion was on a completely different level than the robed woman’s. Tor’laen wasn’t sure he would even be able to keep her out, had he been trying.
Nalyra’s mind touch was not gentle, but it was firm, controlled. It was like she was sifting through his mind itself, memories and thoughts coming to the front of his head unbidden, then pushed back just as fast. She seemed to be looking for something — something hidden within his memories.
She reached a little farther into his mind and Tor’laen winced, as she pulled out buried memories from deep within.
Memories of war. Memories of death.
Her mental presence shivered, and the memories quickly sank back into his subconscious. The Crown Daughter seemed to change tactics, jumping on a very recent memory – Tor’laen recognizing his translator when she pulled it from behind her back. She pressed on this, and he suddenly realized what she wanted.
He thought back, remembering when he had been given the device. The sessions of using it for practice, and the lectures about its use and maintenance. Nalyra seized these, flying through memories faster than Tor’laen could even recall them, pulling dozens upon dozens of recollections, inspecting each.
She wants to know if it’s dangerous. If it has any other functions beyond simple translation, he realized.
The Crown Daughter snatched the stray thought, considered it, then discarded it. Perhaps she couldn't understand the words themselves, but she clearly understood the thought’s intention. A pulse of…confirmation radiated from her mind. Yes, that was what she was looking for.
Nalyra quickly sifted through another few clusters of connected recollections, finding nothing of note, then seemed satisfied with what she had seen. Suddenly, her mental presence vanished from his mind, and he reeled back, feeling as if someone had ransacked his memories and left them scattered across the floor.
Which, to be fair, was more or less what she had done.
His eye came back into focus a moment later, and he found the Crown Daughter staring at him once more. The normal smirk was gone from her face, replaced by a look of concentration, or maybe thoughtfulness. Maybe she was still sorting through his memories. Tor’laen still had no real idea how Zakkili psychic powers worked.
Nalyra glanced towards the blonde Zakkili, and said a single line of her elegant language.
Without hesitation, the uniformed woman moved behind Tor’laen. He felt a small hand grip his forearm, and a few seconds later, his restraints came off. She scooped up the magnetic cuffs and moved back a few steps, her eyes never leaving him.
Slowly, Tor’laen brought his hands back into his lap and rubbed at his wrists. The cuffs had obviously not been designed for someone of his size, and they had cut fairly deeply into his flesh, leaving dark red marks on his skin.
Nalyra caught his eye, then tossed the translator to him. He snatched it out of midair, wasting no time in jamming it onto his arm. His hand was trembling, just slightly. He hadn’t realized. Tor’laen clenched his fist, willing it to go away.
He switched on the translator. If she had tampered with the device, he had no way to know. He needed it anyway.
The Crown Daughter spoke again, and finally, he could read the words in his tongue once more.
It seems now we may [understand] each other, Ydani.
Tor’laen glanced up, and nodded. That smirk had returned to her face. Another sentence of Zakkili.
You’ll have to [forgive] my earlier [tSbNR]. I think it was worth the cost, correct?
He frowned down at the translator, staring at the broken word. Whatever she had done to his mind, it had a name in Zakkili, but not Ydanic.
He glanced up, and realized she was waiting for an answer.
“Yes. I appreciate the ability to…communicate again.”
Her purple eyes flicked down to his device, then returned to his face. The smirk melted away, replaced by a glint of steel in her gaze. She spoke once more.
Now, let us…talk.