Taking Wing - Michael A. Martin [53]
Given his closeness to such a well-known political figure, Mekrikuk had received greater scrutiny than most. He had survived brutal torture, but told his interrogators nothing of value, largely because he didn’t know anything of value, other than the location of some of the late senator’s hidden valuables. By the time they were done with him, he would have sacrificed anything—or anyone—to get them to stop, or put him out of his agony.
Finished with him after only a few days, the military dumped him in Vikr’l, where he appeared to have been forgotten. He often wondered why they hadn’t killed him, and sometimes wished he had the courage to end his own life. But he had learned many things in the prison, not the least of which was the burning desire to pull his life back from the brink yet again, as he had done so many times before during so many harrowing battles against the Jem’Hadar.
Reman legend was replete with tales of Tenakruvek, a great warrior who had returned from the brink of death five times, only to grow stronger each time. He eventually ascended to the Reman afterlife, to become a part of the pantheon worshipped by those few Remans who still prayed to the harsh deities responsible for placing them on their barren world of ever-day and ever-night.
Although he knew that many would see it as blasphemous, Mekrikuk now sometimes fancied himself a modern successor to Tenakruvek. After all, he had survived the mines, the war against the Dominion, and now torture and imprisonment. “Only two more deaths left,” he often said to himself whenever he felt his spirits sinking too far.
Whether because of his large size or his heavily scarred body, the others in the cellmaze mostly left Mekrikuk alone. Some newcomers had offered themselves to him in exchange for protection; twice he had taken the offer, less from any carnal desire than because it was an expected trade, merely the way of the world. The two under his protection hadn’t been abused by any other inmates, and they worked to keep themselves as fit as Mekrikuk did. They also kept their ears open for interesting news or opportunities.
Especially opportunities to escape.
They were away now, as the guards brought another new prisoner down the hall, using their dazzling handtorches to light their way and blind any Remans who got too close. Many of the others pressed forward to the bars of their cells, but the smarter ones stayed back. The chance to see the newcomer would come soon enough, and those nearest the bars were often sprayed with caustic xecin in addition to having their light-sensitive eyes dazzled by the handtorches; Mekrikuk found it odd, but he knew that some of them had actually come to enjoy the burning and stinging sensation of the xecin, if not the blinding lights.
As expected, the guards ordered everyone back from the bars, then sprayed the chemical at any who were slow to comply. They dumped a slight, rag-clad body in the center of the cell block, then turned to leave. After the outer cell-block doors had clanged shut behind the retreating guards, the individual cell doors opened automatically, allowing the other prisoners to inspect the new arrival.
Mekrikuk looked over at the body as the others began to move in closer. He saw immediately that this was not another Reman. It was a dark-skinned Romulan. Despite the kindness Varyet and Delnek had shown him, the sight of the bedraggled Romulan stirred something very close to hatred within Mekrikuk, as he was sure it did with all the other Remans in the cell block.
He remembered gentle Varyet, and felt shame.
What has this man done to deserve this? Mekrikuk reached out with his mind, concentrating hard to read the man. His telepathic talents were limited, but he knew that the mind of a sickly or infirm person was often easier to “touch” than that of someone in full health.
Moving into the Romulan’s