Enemy Lines II_ Rebel Stand - Aaron Allston [9]
“Are you still with us, Master Elgrin?”
“Um,” he said. “Yes.” He opened his eyes; the Mon Cal female was bending over him, her mouth slightly open, her eyes moving independently as she looked him over. He knew from experience that her expression suggested slight distress, though it would not have been obvious to someone who knew only human expressions. “It’s not ‘Master’ Elgrin. Just … Elgrin. Or Tam.”
“Tam, I am Cilghal. I will be working with you to overcome the lingering effects of what was done to you.” She cocked her head, a human mannerism, perhaps one she had learned from being among humans. “I am sad to have to tell you that your courage in resisting your conditioning was not a cure for you. You still suffer the effects of that conditioning. We will work together to erode those effects, to return you to normal.”
“If I’m still—why isn’t my head killing me right now?”
Cilghal took one of his hands in hers—a smooth, webbed hand much larger than his, but not cold, as he’d expected—and moved his hand up to his brow. There, he felt the device, helmetlike, covering the top of his head. “This apparatus,” she said, “senses the onset of your headaches. It interferes electronically with your pain receptors, reducing or eliminating the pain. Later, we can fit you with an implant to do the same thing without being noticeable. The implant will also allow you to reward yourself by initiating the release of endorphins whenever you do something you know to be in defiance of the will of the Yuuzhan Vong. It will, we think, gradually counter the conditioning you have received.”
“But what’s the point? I’m going to be tried. And executed. For treason.”
“I think not. This base is under military law, and General Wedge Antilles has said that you are to be commended, not punished. There will be no trial for you.”
Tam felt his eyes burn, then tears came. Whether they were tears of relief or shame for the forgiveness he’d received but had not earned, he could not say. He turned away from Cilghal so she would not see them.
“I will go now,” she said. “We will talk later. And you will get better.”
TWO
The tall man pounded on the black stone wall.
The wall stretched up as far as the eye could see—at least in these dimly lit reaches of the ruined undercity—and was angled back, not truly vertical. The stone from which it was made was glossy, with little gray stipple patterns throughout, lending it beauty and complexity. The wall did not seem to be made of blocks of the stone; the entire wall seemed to be one sheet, unmarked by lines or creases.
The stone held up against blows from his fist.
He found a block of ferrocrete nearby and swung it with all his considerable strength at the wall.
The ferrocrete shattered.
He ignited his weapon. It hummed with every move of his arm and cast its red glow on the stone. He drove it into the stone.
The stone did not warm, did not burn, did not melt away.
He withdrew his blade and touched the point where it had rested. It was warmer than the surrounding stone, but did not burn his flesh.
He shouted, the echoes of his anguish bouncing off the high ceiling and nearby walls of this chamber.
He had to have what was beyond the wall. It was everything. He had never seen it, never felt it, but he knew it was there, knew with a memory that had been vivid long before he had become aware.
The tall man felt something, a presence, nearby. He raced to a mound of rubble, collapsed from ruined ceiling, and swept a block of duracrete aside.
In the niche beyond huddled a small figure, a human male.
The tall man reached in and seized the other, yanking him forth. The smaller man wore rags and stank of sweat, months of sweat; his hair was long and ragged, and fear filled his dark eyes.
The tall man did not speak to him. He did not know words. Instead, he made a thought—an image of the black