jeriendhal | Fic: Arc, Part Twelve (Reply)

They were led down the corridors of the station, guards to the front and back of them. Whitepelt glanced left and right as they passed through a security lock, into a hallway twice as tall and wide as what was found in the outer rings. They were in the Arc’s core, where Security and the Power Core were. Where the Lord Varn dwelled.

She tried to tell herself it was all over now, that she could relax. The months of listening to the other conspirators in the station’s small cell of rebels, of surreptitious reports to Security, of the lies, all over now. She had earned her name. She had earned her pass off the station. Who cared about a couple crazy vulps who said they could live without the varn?

She glanced over to Marty, who’s torn coverall was covered with blood, his eyes wet and red still. His face though, was a blank. What had happened to him in the utility corridor had been frightening to watch. He had seemed to have such self-control before, like every other vulpine on the station, only to have it flee him in an instant.

She flexed her paws, wishing they’d take the cuffs off her now, then lead her to wherever she had to go to get the next ship off the station. The high and wide corridor seemed very small now for some reason.

They paused before a doorway, manned by a single galen sitting at a desk. Captain Barloch cleared his throat and said, “The primary conspirators, as ordered.”

The galen looked Whitepelt over curiously. “She doesn’t match the description of the female Greycoat.”

“She’s not, sir. This is Supervisor White D6. She was assigned to monitor the Greycoats, and shot the vixen when she tried to kill her brother.”

“Our Lord Varn will not be pleased to hear that,” the galen said with a frown. “Vulpines,” he then said, pronouncing it like it was a curse.

“My name is Whitepelt now,” she said, speaking up. The galen stared at her, as if she was a errant loader arm that had just decided to lodge a complaint. She continued weakly, “It’s the name I was given. It’s my reward for doing my job. They said I could leave the Arc.”

“You’ll have to speak to our Lord Varn about that,” the galen said. He pressed a button on his desk. “My lord, the prisoners are here, Marturari Greycoat and Supervisor White D6, escorted by Captain Barloch..” There was an inaudible response from the earpiece clipped to his hearing tines, and he pressed another button. “Enter,” he ordered, waving them through.

“They said I could leave the Arc,” she repeated, her voice nearly inaudible. One of Barloch’s troopers gave her a push between the shoulders, shoving her into the chamber beyond.

The ceiling was higher than anything she’d seen outside of a maintenance bay, at least five meters and the floor was carpeted and soft under her foot pads. The walls had vid pictures of landscapes, like you saw in a coupling chamber, but surely that wasn’t what this was. In one corner a pair of little grey creatures with long tails and sharp horns sat, dressed in soft beige garments and decorated with golden chains at their throats. They held devices that when strummed sent pleasing music into the air.

And at the center of the room, sitting in a high backed chair, was a god.

He, Whitepelt could only assume the Varn was a he, it was difficult to tell under the layers of concealing robes, looked down on them with cold golden eyes. A black headband with a single large diamond at the center encircled his forehead, just under a pair of horns that swept back to follow the curve of his head and its covering hood. His robes were stark white, with a black overcoat over that. He sat as still as a statue, looking down on them, judging them.

“Kneel before our god, the Lord Varn Society Shaper,” Captain Barloch ordered. Whitepelt didn’t have to be ordered twice, quickly dropping to her knees, foreleg flat on the floor, bowing her head down until it nearly touched the floor. She spared a quick glance to with her eyes to the right, where Marty was still standing, the blank expression gone now, replaced by something harder, more determined.

“Kneel before you god, prisoner!” Barloch repeated.

“My Goddess does not want her people kneel. She wants them to stand tall at her side,” Marty replied quietly.

“Blasphemer,” Barloch muttered sharply. He motioned to one of his troopers, who stuck Marty behind the knees with the butt of his rifle, dropping the wounded vulpine down to the ground. But then, instead of staying where he was, Marty got up again, getting his feet under himself awkwardly, his hands still bound behind his back.

“You were ordered to kneel!” Barloch shouted.

“I will not,” Marty said softly, so softly that only Whitepelt could hear him.

The trooper struck him again at the knees, with another hitting between his shoulder blades. He dropped to the floor again with pained grunt. When he started to stand again, the trooper’s rifle butt caught him under the ribs, sending him falling to ground with a whoosh as the air was knocked out of his lungs. When he tried to get one leg under himself, the rifle struck him in the ribs with an audible crack that made Whitepelt whimper softly in sympathy.

Why wasn’t he doing the only logical thing and kneeling like was proper? Even if he believed in some other god, he obviously didn’t care what the Varn thought about him. He could just kneel and lie to himself quietly. She had done that often enough when she was interviewed by galen administrators, asking if she was happy, trying to avoid being sent to Medical for more testing and drug therapy.

Marty lay on his back a long moment, arms pinned underneath his body, breathing heavily, the bandage partially torn away, letting blood trickle over his pelt again. He closed his eyes, seeming to listen to the soft music that the little grey creatures continued to play, even while the troopers beat him. He rolled onto his unwounded side, then onto his knees, grunting in pain.

Stop it. Stop right there, that’s what they want. Stop and they won’t hurt again, Whitepelt thought to herself. What was wrong with him? She knew he was mentally damaged already, but this was suicidal.

Marty pulled his foot underneath himself once again, starting to push himself upward. The rifle hit him again, this time in the thigh, the bone snapping with a loud crack the reverberated around the room, as he dropped to the carpet for the final time.

And still the little grey creatures played.

TBC