Chapter 3

Sensory receptors disabled. No data.

Playback local data storage.

Subcutaneous data storage disabled. Data inaccessible.

Well, fuck.

Dear everybody, it's Len here. Not that you can hear me. Not that you can see anything that's going on. I can't hook up to the Infomatrix. Hell, I can't even access the local data storage device. But, y'know, I've gotten so used to subvocalizing in the past few years that it has become second nature to me now.

At the moment, none of my electronic sensor toys work. Maybe our hosts used their dampening mojo on me too, once they realized I was a walking-talking spybot in their midst.

I guess it's time to try opening my eyes, huh? Go back to looking at things the old-fashioned way.

***

“Get the fuck out of my face!”

Leonard Dixon had opened his eyes to find himself staring into the baleful yellow-orange orb of an alien eyeball. It peered back down at him from within folds of slime-drenched gray-green skin. The alien stank, a rancid, fetid smell like a sewer had spilled over into a landfill jammed with hills of used diapers. Shiny black beetles skittered over the glistening skin, passing within occasional reach of the blunt tentacles that slithered from the slit that passed for a mouth in the creature's face. The alien slurped in one of the bugs as it drew back a foot or so upon hearing Dixon's acerbic demand.

The neurojournalist tried sitting up, but discovered rather quickly that he was bound, flat on his back, on some kind of metallic platform. Manacles bound his wrists. Straps wrapped around his ankles and the top of his head.

“Let me go!” Dixon demanded. “I'm a journalist with the Consortium Broadcast Network!”

The alien moved closer once more, holding up a stone cylinder that had been carved with sharp-edged runes. The runes glowed pale blue in the grip of the gray-green fingers, which were long and slithery, capped by suction cups. More like tendrils than fingers, really.

“You will be released soon enough,” the alien replied. As he talked, the runes in the cylinder flashed brighter. “The Minders have work. You must do.”

Dixon furrowed his brow. “I'll be released? Is that a promise?”

“Promise?” the alien inquired, runes dancing on the cylinder. “Not a term known to the Thul.”

“A vow,” Dixon ventured. “Truth. You say you do something and you do it.”

“Why would I say I do something and then NOT do it?” the alien – Thul? - wondered.

“Good,” the journalist said. “No lying. I like that. So...” He shifted as much as he could within the restraints holding him to the table. “What are you doing to me? Why am I here?”

“We cut open and look inside,” the Thul answered.

“Oh, fuck me rotten,” Dixon grumbled, watching as the alien grasped a wicked-looking silver implement topped by razor-sharp twists of steel. “Lying might not be so bad.” White-blue mist spilled from an open hose dangling above Dixon's head. The flowery scent seemed out of place in the slime-splattered, breath-choking chamber, but it put him more at ease. Gently, gently, he drifted toward sleep. Unconsciousness pulled him with the magnetic strength of hardship toward love.

***

When he opened his eyes again, Leonard Dixon sat in the corner of a windowless, doorless white-walled cube. No restraints. No slime. No creepy aliens with surgical tools. No anesthetic fountain.

“I'm dead, right?”

The rasping multivoice returned: “No.”

“Ah. Batshit crazy, then?”

“You are unconscious. The Thul is exploring your biology during this period of communication.”

Dixon frowned. “That's not making me feel much better. How do I know that monster's going to put everything back where it goddamned belongs?”

“It is a valid concern.”

“So why am I here?” Dixon asked. “You didn't take Adelman. Why me?”

“It is a valid question.” The multivoice offered nothing further on the choice. Instead, it proceeded with motivation. “We have an enemy. We require your assistance in defeating that enemy.”

“Can your enemy be talked to death? If so, I'm your guy. Otherwise, I've got nothing to offer.”

“Persuade those on your ship to help. This purpose you serve.”

“Oh, the Vanguard soldiers?”

“Yes.”

Dixon nodded. “I'll talk to them. What if they don't listen, though? Soldiers are good at following orders, but they don't usually get orders from civilians like me.”

The multivoice answered: “The Thul places a capsule inside your armpit, just under the skin. If you cannot persuade the soldiers to act against our enemy within six hours, the capsule will crumble and a slow-killing toxin will be released into your blood stream.”

Dixon scowled. “Oh, you fuckers. You're going to kill ME if shit doesn't go your way? That ain't fucking fair!”

“Fairness is irrelevant to our cause,” the multivoice rasped. “Success is all that we require of you. Survival is secondary.”