The Dominion was after Orna, the true reasons for their interest still a bit unclear to Jarred, though their commitment to attaining her was not. They had gone to great lengths and killed more people than he cared to think about, though he had been less than successful in doing so. He had no delusions as to the ruthless nature of the Sect, though he still found himself stunned by their recent actions in Trycon. They had burned much of the city to the ground, erasing from existence, thousands of innocent lives in the process, in order to mask their own agenda while adding weight to the fabricated terrorist threat they were attributing the act to.
And for what? Jarred knew it would be easier not to ask the question at all. To simply not care and focus on himself as before. On his aimless wanderings. On his
own
escape for that matter. But, it was too late for that now. He had delved too deeply into all of this. He was right in the middle of it all, and could not ignore the fact that he bore at least
some
responsibility for the outcome. There
was
no going back. Not to his life before, or to the man that he was. Faced with his own probable demise, he supposed the change in perspective would be short lived, though he chose not to turn away from it anyhow, as he would have before.
More so than anything else, he feared for Elora and her brother, and what was beginning to seem like an inevitability. That they would be added to the Dominion’s growing tally of collateral damage. They had come here to rescue Elora’s brother and now found themselves in the same situation, though Ethan had managed to escape into the air ducts they had entered the facility through along with Mac and Tarik. He wondered if they had made it back out to Kern and Sierra. He hoped as much, but knew that it was a good possibility that they hadn’t and that even Kern and Sierra themselves had been captured . . . or killed.
He was brought out of his dark thoughts by what sounded like multiple doors sliding open, but coming from all around him, warm natural light pouring into the room. After a moment of silence, another door slid open, numerous sets of foot steps entering the room, Jarred unable to raise his head to see as it was also bound to the table. He quickly realized he wouldn’t have to as the table began to move, raising him into an almost upright position. To his surprise, he did not find himself staring into the angry eyes of the Sect military’s High Commander, but those of a Rai Chi warrior. Scanning the room, he counted an admin-mech, a Trill, a half dozen troops and seven other Rai Chi, including the scarred warrior he had faced on the hover tram in Trycon. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Jarred returned his gaze to the foremost of the warriors, who also happened to be the most hostile in appearance.
The warrior’s glare shifted away from Jarred to the Trill that lurked nearby. The same Trill that had been present during both the Wasteland Station and Trycon City raids. As he spoke to the smaller being, who clearly understood the dialect as well as Jarred did, the admin-mech rolled forward.
“Master Warrior Shu’ma Chi-Kem wishes to know why this human has been restrained in such a fashion,” it asked, obviously translating.
“To ensure your safety,” the Trill answered. “This human has already left a great deal of carnage in his wake, a number of your own warriors falling to him, I believe. I thought it only prudent to subdue him for your interrogation.”
The warrior’s outrage was obvious and he nearly spat his response, the look on his face causing Jarred to wonder who he would rather attack. Himself, or the Trill, for having made the suggestion.
“Shu’ma Chi-Kem is . . .” the admin-mech began to translate again, hesitating a moment while looking back and forth between the Trill and Shu’ma. “. . .
insulted
by your insinuation that he would require protection from the human. He feels no more threatened by him than he would his own . . . excrement.”
Jarred almost smirked, a bit amused by the comment, even under these particularly hostile circumstances. He thought he presented more of a threat than
that
.
The Trill spoke, giving a measured response. “Are you sure, Master Warrior? I would not wish any harm to come to you or your men do to a lack of sufficient precautions on my part.”
Jarred eyed the Trill, suspiciously. He was goading the warrior. Purposely trying to anger him, however veiled his attempts might be. But
why
and for
what
purpose? Whatever it was, it was working.
Shu’ma spat his angry response again, which the admin-mech proceeded to translate.
“Your concerns are unwarranted . . . and it would not be prudent to voice them any further. The human should be released from his bindings, without further delay, so that Shu’ma Chi-Kem may view him, as unworthy as he is, face to face.”
“Of course,” the Trill answered, glancing away from the Rai Chi to the troops that had taken up positions around the room, nodding an affirming gesture to one close by Jarred, his mouth curled up in the slightest of smirks as he did so. “My apologies for any offense.”
Jarred felt his bindings release and he slid the few inches down the table until his feet touched the floor. He considered the option of lunging forward into an immediate attack on whoever happened to be closest, an impossible escape attempt he knew, deciding to remain in place instead. He had no real bearing on where he was in the facility, if he was still in it at all, which would make finding and escaping with Elora difficult to say the least.
Shu’ma, obviously the lead warrior, stepped forward to stand directly in front of Jarred, close enough for either of them to strike out at the other, his eyes moving over him from head to toe. His look of distaste seemed to grow with every centimeter he took in until his gaze finally came back to meet Jarred’s. Then he spoke, a question, Jarred waiting for the mech to translate.
“Shu’ma wishes to know how it is that you managed to best his warriors and his first in combat.”
His
first
? Jarred glanced towards the scarred warrior behind Shu’ma, assuming that was the first he was referring to. His first lieutenant, perhaps.
“What trickery did you use?” the mech continued.
Jarred looked back to Shu’ma. “No trickery.”
The mech translated his words back in the harsh Rai Chi tongue and Shu’ma’s eyes narrowed and let out a dismissive hissing sound. He was obviously not satisfied by the answer. He spoke again.
“Impossible,” the mech began. “You are a mere human. A most pathetic life form, unworthy before the Gods to possess skill sufficient to survive in battle against even the lowest caste of Rai Chi warrior.”
“And yet here I stand,” Jarred answered.
Shu’ma’s glare conveyed his outrage. He thought himself superior, and the fact that Jarred had replied so bluntly would no doubt infuriate him. He knew that by angering the warrior he was pressing his own luck, but he had no delusions about the situation he was in. They would ask him about Orna, and when he did not give them the answers they wanted, they would probably torture and then most definitely kill him. The Trill was using a similar tactic against the warrior, however subtle, and for a reason Jarred wasn’t yet aware of, but in it he saw the possibility of stalling the inevitable. Buying himself more time. For what, he wasn’t sure, but anything was better than the alternative.
Jarred took a breath, bracing himself. “Maybe your Gods don’t favor you as highly as you might think.”
Shu’ma wasted no time once the mech had finished translating, lunging at Jarred, who braced himself to take what was a bone jarring backhand to the side of his head. The force of the strike was nearly enough to send him tumbling to the floor, but he willed himself to remain standing, and as unstirred as possible, recovering from the blow to face the warrior again.
He shrugged. “If that was your best, I can see why.”
The warrior lunged again, bringing some kind of wrist mounted retractable blade to Jarred’s throat. The movement was so quick, had his life not been the one being threatened, he would have actually been impressed. If
was
his life being threatened though, and for a moment he thought he may have taken things too far. Then the warrior laughed, which was definitely not the reaction Jarred had expected, and spoke again.
“Shu’ma believes there is much spirit in you,” the admin-mech translated. “Unlike that of most of your weak hearted species. Perhaps the Gods have sent you as a challenge, in the guise of something so unworthy. A cresche in the skin of a wonshu cub. If so, he would gladly spill your blood in contest here before them.”
Shu’ma motioned to one of his warriors who tossed a spear to him. He spun it in his hand and turned back to face Jarred again.
“This is a weapon wielded masterfully by all Rai Chi warriors,” the mech spoke, recycling Shu’ma’s own words as he paced slowly around Jarred. “To use it properly requires a skill Shu’ma highly doubts one of your kind could ever posses. Yet you have already exceeded the limits thought possible of your species. Perhaps you will surprise him again. He is doubtful.”
Shu’ma tossed the spear to Jarred. He caught it, turning the weapon over in his hands. The warrior wanted to battle it out right here, to reclaim some kind of lost honor he had served to them in Trycon. And if he fought him, what would happen? If he killed this warrior, what then? Would the rest descend on him, or would they set him free, or simply return him to his cell to be disposed of later by Durak?
“If I may beg pardon, Master Warrior,” Traug interrupted, stepping back into the mix. “Would it not be prudent to interrogate the human before . . . making contest with him? Should he fall, you will not be able to extract the information from him that you seek.”
Once the mech had translated, Shu’ma grinned at Jarred, a sinister expression. He understood no more of the warrior’s reply than he had any of his words before, though he instinctively grasped the meaning behind them. When the mech began to speak again, he already knew what it would say.
“Shu’ma indicates that if the human should fall, which he will, the information they seek can be extracted from the female.”
Jarred had to restrain himself, gripping the weapon in his hands, ignoring the powerful urge to strike the warrior down with it. Shu’ma was using his own tactic against him, he knew, and it was working. He spoke through clenched teeth. “She doesn’t know anything.”
“
We
will determine that,” the mech translated Shu’ma’s reply. “Through our own means.”
The comment was meant to provoke him, Jarred knew. But it was also a truth in itself. If he fell, Elora would become the sole subject of their interrogations. In truth, he knew that their focus would eventually fall to her anyway and that there was little he could do about it, especially if he was killed in some
warrior
contest
.
The room had fallen into complete silence, Shu’ma standing at the ready with his own spear drawn, welcoming Jarred to attack. A few days ago he would have happily obliged him. Not today. There was more at stake than just himself. His actions would determine Elora’s fate as well. Maybe there was still a way to get them both out of this mess. He had to try. Throwing his weapon to the floor, he left himself defenseless before the warrior. It was a risk, but he suspected Shu’ma would not strike. This was about his pride. His honor. There would be no honor in killing an unarmed, unwilling opponent.
For a moment, it seemed that he had misjudged the situation, the warrior looking as though he meant to attack anyway. He lunged, raising the sharp bladed end of his spear for a thrust that stopped just short of impaling Jarred’s throat. He shouted at him angrily. Questioningly.
“Why do you not fight, coward?” the admin-mech translated.
Jarred considered his reply. He needed to choose his words carefully. They could either save or doom him and the line between the two outcomes would be very fine. He approached it as he would any dangerous situation. Assess his opponent, identify points of weakness and exploit them. In this case, his opponent’s weakness was his pride. His need to prove himself superior. By denying Shu’ma the ability to do so, Jarred could manipulate him and the situation.
“I’ve already fought and beaten many of your warriors,” he returned, decidedly. “They posed little challenge. Perhaps it is
you
that is the . . .
wonshu cub
. Perhaps
you
are the one that is unworthy.”
He waited while the mech translated his words back to Shu’ma, reading the warrior’s reaction to them. When his eyes began to sear into Jarred with amplified hatred he knew he had struck the correct nerve. Now to push him over the precipice.
“Perhaps,” he continued, readying himself for the inevitable assault, “it is
I
your Gods favor now.”
Shu’ma acted as predicted, screaming what Jarred took to be a curse of some kind, preparing to thrust his weapon in for a killing strike. Jarred was about to sidestep the coming blow, when he heard one of the other warriors shout out. Whatever was said, it caused Shu’ma to hesitate and, reluctantly, he glanced away from Jarred to the one that had spoken. The scarred warrior. They exchanged words, Shu’ma’s angry, the scarred warrior’s assertive but calm. He seemed to be reasoning with his superior. After a long moment of them speaking loudly at one another, Shu’ma finally cut the other off, returning his attention to Jarred. His mind apparently made up, he stalked forward.