“And you all are sacred. All the people are sacred, on the colonized planets, on the Home Planet, all the enslaved people everywhere.” I am talking to a group of people in Savela, trying to teach them that it’s us, the people in chains, the people under the boot of the Empire, it’s those people who are holy. It’s us who are holy. Not the Empire. Never the Empire. I am surrounded by my people. And we’re holy. So holy.
“And how will we tell each other that?” a teenaged girl asks me, “how will we teach people?”
“Treat everyone like they’re sacred,” I reply, “Treat people like the glory they are and they will understand that they’re glorious, that all of us are glorious.”
A banging booms through the room, coming from the door. All of our eyes go wide.
“Open the door!” A rough voice commands. “Open the door or we’ll break it down for you!”
I rise, and make my way to the rickety little door, the only protection between us and the Imperial guard. I take a deep breath and pull it open, and am met face-to-face with the Prince and his crew, dressed in thick, heat-generating armour. Something really disastrous must have happened for him to be here. Why is he here?
“We’re here for an Savelian woman named Ikkia. We were lead to believe she is in this area.” The Prince’s voice is harsh, full of hatred. His eyes are cold and hard, glinting blue like shadows on steel. I can’t breathe as all my past comes rushing up to me. I feel so young. So young. So lost.
But I remember all the people crowded into the room behind me. The people, the pouring infinities, who are depending on me to keep them safe, to keep all of our collective future safe. They need me. Not in the way that the Prince and his family need me but rather in an altogether different, more beautiful way. They’re depending on me and I have power. I have power. Even if it’s minuscule, even here in the face of the Imperial guards, I do have power.
I swallow down my terror and I do what I’ve had to do all my life. I act. Except this time, I’m doing it not just to save myself but also to save all my people.
“It’s me. I’m her,” I lie. It’s not really a lie, though, but it is.
“You are under arrest for crimes against the Empire!” the redheaded friend declares.
I think briefly that I could use magic to get myself out of this situation. I have magic that I can use now. Magic that is my own. Or, ours. But no. Of course not. If I use magic in front of them, we’re all dead. If there’s any hint that magic is going on, they’ll destroy us. We’ll lose the one chance that we have. I can’t use magic. And I’m so glad that I caught myself before I did anything stupid.
“Do I come with you, then?” I ask as meekly as I can manage. The most important thing right now is getting away from this hut full of people, this hut with children and babies in it, this neighbourhood full of people, this neighbourhood full of children and babies. I know what the Prince is like. I know what his friends are like. I know the explosive anger that is always squatting in their hearts, ready to be unleashed upon everyone that they hate.
“Come with us, you wench,” the Prince’s girlfriend - or maybe she’s his wife now? - states in a cold, hard, sharp tone. It’s a tone I’m far too familiar with. It takes everything inside me to not wince at her words.
“Ikkia! Don’t go!” a young child named Kamara calls out after me, “We need you!” Her voice is full of sweetness, of childishness, of worry and concern. My heart thuds in fear. She’s too young to incur the wrath of the Empire. Far too young. Though, I was much younger than her when I first incurred the wrath of the Empire.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. I put as much assurance into my voice as I can. I hope she doesn’t see through the lie. “I’ll be okay. Let me go with them. Don’t fight them.”
“But Ikkia,” a little boy, Kikonon, asservates, “we need you. And you need to be safe!”
“I will be safe,” I lie, looking at all the people, pouring kindness over my voice, “I will be safe. Just let me go.”
“That’s enough of this show,” the light brown-haired friend declares. He grabs me hard by the wrist, so hard that it hurts, and he pulls me out of the door. I try not to cry out in pain as I am roughly dragged through the streets. They pace out in front of me. Not even looking back my way. I turn around once, get one last look at the people I am leaving behind. Then I turn back around and prepare to face my destiny. Fear floods my mind. I have displeased the Prince. I have displeased the Prince. I have displeased the Prince. But still. Still.
There is something incredibly satisfying about having displeased the Prince. There is something deeply victorious about it. Though I try not to let the satisfaction show on my face. That would get us all killed.
We are rushing through the streets of the neighbourhood when suddenly I am thrown onto the ground. I hit the cold ice with a thud, and it sends chills all throughout my freezing body. I was already freezing before, in the chilly air of Savela, but now as I hit the ice, I am burning with cold. But of course they don’t care. Before I can react, a heavy boot slams down over my cheek, staying there, holding me in place.
“Don’t move, you maggot!” The blonde friend screams. The shoe grinds down further on my cheek. I don’t move. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. And my fear is calling out to me to stay in place. But still. Still. It is so very deeply humiliating to be crushed into the ground like this, as if I am a bug to be squashed. But I have experience facing humiliation. The Empire and its rulers love humiliating the people that they think of as lesser beings.
I think of all the people that I have met in my many years of journeying throughout the lands. And it sends a wave of pride through me. Yet the pride does not take away the humiliation. They both live side-by-side, against each other, rubbing together. And from the places where they rub against each other, where they create friction, where they rub each other raw, a new emotion takes shape and blooms within my being. Sweet, warm, dark resentment. An emotion I am far too familiar with.
All at once there are knees falling hard onto my back, feet slamming down over my legs. I cry out in pain. It hurts so much. So much. As if I have been battered by a boulder. The pain is uncomfortably warm, dull yet piercing at the same time, reverberating from its molten centres out to all the different parts of me. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the magic extraction machines. But I can tell that my body will be coloured red in bruises and swelling because of this.
My arms are twisted harshly and wrenched back, my joints crying out in pain. Cold metal is locked around my wrists, cold metal is locked around my ankles, and cold metal is locked around my neck. The bindings around my wrists and the bindings around my neck are both just slightly too tight to be comfortable. But still, what’s far worse than that is the humiliation. I am chained like a dog, all because I stood up for the pride of my people. I am chained like an animal.
But I know, I know that no matter what they do they cannot take the sacred glory that is in my soul. That is my soul, that is the souls of all the enslaved and colonized people all throughout the whole galaxy.
The Imperials grab the collar around my neck and forcefully pull me to my feet. I stumble a few times as I try to get up, their pulling hands and my own shackles making the task hard. Each time I stumble I am punched back into the ground and I have to start the process of getting up all over again. But finally, I do manage to stand. And all around me the Prince and his goons jeer at me, insulting me for being so pathetic.
It’s not like I care. Except I do care. But I keep that to myself. I keep silent no matter what they say, not meeting them in the eyes. I don’t want to meet them in the eyes because I don’t want to incur their wrath when we are still so deep in the city. Not when there are huts filled with people all around us. Not when there are civilians all around us. And also, I do not meet them in the eyes because I don’t want them to see the hurt that is in my own eyes, nor the smouldering rage.
Not that they would see them anyways, though. They never notice the emotions of those they call monsters. They don’t think we have emotions. But still. Still. I know beyond doubt now that we are not monsters. I know beyond doubt that we are, that my people are people, are sacred, are beautiful. And it’s the Imperials with all of their greed and elitism and superiority and hunger for wealth and power that are the real monsters. It’s them that are the truly brutal people.
The chain around my neck is yanked and I am pulled forwards again, a brisk pace that is it difficult for me to keep up in my under-protected, freezing body.
“Hurry up, you wench!” the Prince’s dark brown-haired friend shouts, “I know you can go faster than this, you pathetic thing! We don’t have all the day!”
“Sorry,” I reply, and I try to walk faster. And I do walk faster. I do. But just when I speed my gait, the Imperials ahead of me speed up even more, pulling on the chain that is attached to my collar.
“If you don’t keep up with us,” the Prince’s girlfriend booms, “we will have no choice but to beat you into the ground where you belong. You better listen to us if you know what’s good for you!”
“Sorry, ma’am,” I speak, as submissively as I can.
“That’s sorry, your Highness, you pathetic sop!” she yells back at me. So they did get married, the Prince and his girlfriend. Good for them I guess. Though I don’t feel happy for them at all. The happiness of the Imperials means nothing at all to me.
“Okay, your highness,” I reply, “I’m sorry.” I almost run in order to keep up with them. But keep up with them I do, I manage to, I barely manage to do it. And for that I am grateful.
All this whole while though, I am absolutely terrified. The sense of dread that washes over me, that drowns me, it’s far greater than any fear that I have felt before. I am choking on it. I am gagging on it. It seeps down, too hot and too cold at the same time, terrifying, terrible. It seeps down through every part of me and I cannot breathe. My mind is blaring, like there are thousands of alarm bells going off at once, and it’s too loud, too loud, too loud. My heart it thudding faster than it ever has before, so fast that my whole chest feels like a roiling mess of dirty water.
Why did they arrest me? Why did they arrest me? What do they know about me, about my mission? What do they know about what I’ve been doing so far? About the people I’ve been working with so far? Do they know about the World Stones? Do they know about the void? Do they know about how I’ve been travelling, who I’ve been talking with? Because if they do know about all of that, if they do know all of that, then I am completely screwed. Not only that, all my people are completely screwed. Our whole plan is completely screwed. Our chance at freedom.
I wonder if they’re going to torture me. I bet they are. But if they torture me, I can’t say anything, I can’t give anything away. I wonder if I’ll be able to do that. Not even the best of the best can hold up against torture. The best that I try will probably not be enough. And if it’s not enough, who knows what questions they’ll ask me. Maybe they’ll ask about the World Stones. Maybe they’ll ask about how I’ve been travelling. Then what will I say?
But still. Still. I’ve kept myself secret and hidden, kept myself quiet and contained, through all kinds of immense, incredible pressure, ever since I was a tiny, young child. I’ve been keeping myself hidden through emotional pain that was a thousand times worse than any physical pain of any type could ever be. I’ve been tortured. I’ve been tortured and I’ve been tortured and still I’ve kept quiet, still I’ve had to keep quiet. The odds therefore are at least somewhat in my favour. I have a chance, maybe, as tiny as the chance might be, and I can use that fact to my advantage.
We get to a large field that is covered in snow. Through the blur of falling snow, I can see the large spacecraft sitting squat against the whiteness all around. It is a shining, effervescent multi-coloured metallic thing. All sharp angles and sleek sides and curved walls. Impressive, like everything that comes from the Empire’s Home Planet. I am all too familiar with this kind of spaceship. I know what it entails for me.
I’m going back to where I came from. After all these years.
I gulp down my horror. I have to act like I don’t know what’s happening. I have to act like I don’t know what this is. So I keep my eyes up at the spaceship. And I look at it as if I have never seen something so grand in my life. As if under all the dread, I am a little bit amazed. Though, in all honesty, I don’t think that anyone from the colonized planets would be amazed to see such a spaceship. I think they would be scornful at all the money wasted, money that could go towards feeding people instead.
“Stop gawking and come along,” the Princess states unceremoniously.
I have two paths in front of me now. I could go on pretending like I’m the meek, submissive slave that I’ve been being before or I can, out here far away from anyone, pretend like I am rebellious. It would make sense to be rebellious. Because I’m sure they’re expecting some kind of rebel leader, and I don’t want to remind them of the scared child that I used to be.
But at the same time, if I switch out people, pretend to be someone else, they might suspect that I’ve been acting back in the community, when they were near the people. If they suspect that I’ve been acting, then they will suspect that I’m clever, more clever than I’ve let on. And I can’t have them think that I am hiding anything. I can’t have them looking too deeply into my behaviour. Because if they think I’m hiding something, they might prod deeper than I’m able to bury my secrets.
So I play the part of the scared little rabbit. And I tell her what she wants to hear, but not exactly what she wants to hear. Because if I tell her exactly what she wants to hear, she might suspect that I’m someone who has been trained in how to keep the Imperials happy. And I can’t have her thinking that. My compliance has to be sloppy, has to be terror-addled, has to be believably bad.
“Sorry, your Highness,” I respond, “I’m just awed by the beauty of this spacecraft.”
“Shut your mouth!” The redheaded friend booms, “We don’t need your whole life’s story. Just a simple yes or no will do.”
“Okay, sir, I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean any harm by it.”
“There you go again, running your mouth,” he exclaims, and I pretend to be exasperated but I don’t say anything.
The doors to the spaceship shimmer as they slide open and I am harshly pulled inside. There is a teenager in there, with soft green skin and wide eyes. Oh my gosh. Is this my replacement? I mean, I knew that I would be replaced. I knew that from the first moment that I was forming my plan. But I always thought that, as horrible as it would be to condemn someone to the same life I’ve lived, in the long run getting the World Stones to the people was more necessary. But still. Still. Looking at her (I think it’s a her) face, I feel so incredibly guilty. She’s here, doing the job that I was supposed to be doing, and it’s all my fault. Sure, I couldn’t’ve made a different choice, sure I had to think of the bigger picture, sure I had to think of the futures of all the people, but it’s my fault nonetheless.
The girl (I think) takes my hand - not my chain - and she leads me down a long corridor.
“What’s your name?” I ask her softly, too quiet for the Imperials to hear. “What gender are you?”
“I’m Alvi. I’m a girl. What about you?”
“I’m Ikkia,” I lie. “I’m also a girl,” I lie. Although I guess that last one’s not a complete lie, I am a girl sometimes. Just not right now. I’m sort of in between right now.
“It’s good to meet you. I’m sorry that you’re here.”
“I’m sorry that you’re here too,” I tell her, and I pour as much love into my words as I possibly can. I know that she needs it. I know that all the words that she hears are full of hard, grating hatred.
“You shouldn’t’ve defied the Empire,” she tells me softly.
“Child, look. The Empire is evil. The Empire is hurting us all. The Empire is hurting you. All of us colonized people don’t deserve to get hurt. You don’t deserve to get hurt.”
“I try to keep a positive attitude. You should too.” Her words are soft. Serious. Solemn. But most of all, they are unbearably sad. I can’t describe the layers and layers of desolation, isolation, melancholy, despondency that are laced in her voice, in her eyes, in her cheekbones, in her lips. I did this. I made this happen to her.
“Sweetheart. Fighting for what you know is right is better than denying that you’re hurt. Fighting for what you know you deserve, even if you’re only fighting in the quietness of your mind, is better than acting like nothing is wrong. You need to realize that you deserve better. You need to tell yourself that you deserve better, every single day.”
“You did that, and look where it got you.”
“I’d rather be hurt than complacent. But anyways, you don’t have to do anything dangerous. You just have to tell yourself in your own heart that you deserve better. That you are sacred.”
Her eyes are searching, thinking, wondering. All the sadness that was there before is still there, but now there is a tiny glimmer of hope, a tiny spark of wonder underneath all that. I can tell that she’s really thinking about my words. I can tell that this is perhaps the first time in years and years that she’s heard something like that. I hope her parents told her these things before she got taken away.
“You’re right,” she whispers to me, “and you kind of remind me of my older sister. She was a lot like you. Angry. Vengeful. There was a wildness about her, something that was more nature than human, that nothing could tame.”
“I’m sure your sister loves you a lot. I’m sure she thinks about you all the time. And she misses you. And she wants you to be angry in your heart.”
“Thank you.” Her words have a shaking, watery edge to them. “I miss her too.”
“I’m so sorry you got taken away from her. You both deserve so much better.”
She puts me in a dark electric cell in a holding room. And we bid each other goodbye. And she leaves. I am all alone in here. Of course, the cameras are still watching. If things are the same as they were six years ago, the cameras can’t hear us. But they’re watching. I think it’s probably safe to cry right now. And so I slump down onto the metal ground. And I put my head on my knees. And I start sobbing.
I sob for Alvi, I sob for myself, I sob for all the people who I will let down if the Empire does indeed know we have the World Stones. I sob for the fear and I sob for the sorrow. And I sob for the future in front of me that is undoubtedly filled with torture. I sob for the future potentially in front of my people, in front of all the colonized people of the galaxy, that is perhaps filled with torture, with death untold.
I am grateful, a little bit, that I have some time to myself, that I have some time free of the Prince and his cronies. But I know it won’t last. But still. Still. It’s a tiny measure of freedom, even if it doesn’t add up to a lot at all. People like us, we have to find and to cherish every little bit of freedom that we can find, wherever we can find it, because the universe knows that we don’t have nearly enough.
I feel the spacecraft take off into the sky, and I cry for all the people I have left behind, for all the people that I will likely never see again. Have I let them down? Have I let all of them down? Have I gotten them all into much deeper, worse trouble than they were already in before? I don’t know. At this point I don’t know anything. All I can do right now is remember them. Remember them and hope they’ll be okay.
I lose track of time as I stay there, in my electric cage, crying my eyes out. It feels good to cry. It feels freeing. I have only been able to cry whenever I needed to since about a year ago. I’ve lived two decades of having to swallow down my emotions and present an obedient, blank face in front those who would never want to consider that I have emotions that don’t fall under either gratitude or submission. It’s a rebellious act, to cry, here, now, where the cameras are definitely seeing me. It’s a smart act too. The Ikkret the Prince knew never cried. He couldn’t pin me down to that person if I do.
I don’t know how much time goes by, but the Prince eventually comes in, along with the Princess. Sweet Alvi is trailing behind them, a look of dread on her face. I know what’s coming now. I’ve been on the other side of this experience. Many times before. I’m scared. I’m definitely scared for me. But more than that, I’m scared for her. And the horrors that she is about to go through. I hope this is the first time Alvi’s had to do something like this. I know that it’s probably not.
I stare at her, tears running down my eyes, as she is threaded through with wires. She looks like a macabre string puppet. I’ve never seen it from the other side before. She looks so small. So small and so out of control. Her eyes hold mine, and they are so deeply remorseful. I would imagine that mine are as well. Still, I try to give her as much kindness as I can fit within our lingering, silent eye contact.
After she’s hooked up, the bars around me dissipate and the Prince strides up to me and throws me onto my front. My chest and stomach hit the floor with a thud as his heavy weight comes down onto my back to hold me in place. The Princess grabs me and threads wires all over my own body as well. It’s humiliating, being trussed up like this, but Alvi and I are both in this together. We have each other.
The weight above me lifts and I turn to my side, still lying down. I look at Alvi and Alvi looks at me while the electric bars go back up. So it’s really beginning. We’re really here. Noxious fear swirls within me, and I feel almost nauseous. But I have to take it. I have to take it. Whatever happens, I have to take it. And I have to sell the lie.
“I guess we’ll get started now,” the Princess declares with a hard edge, “answer all our questions truthfully. If you’re lying, we’ll know,” she taps a chip on her nail that’s glowing orange, “and we’ll hurt you.”
I can get out of this. I know I can get out of this. But it’s going to hurt like hell first.
“I won’t tell you anything,” I say to her. It’s what she’ll expect me to say. She’ll expect me to play the part of a passionate resistance member. But I let the fear show through my face, through my voice. Fear spikes in my heart. I hope it’s over with soon. But I have to drag this out as long as I need to.
The Prince smiles. A smug, gloating smile. As if he was longing for this answer the whole time. The Princess has a bright spark of malice in her eyes. They love this. They love the torture. They love turning the dial on the controller all the way up. Which is something I’m intimately familiar with. They’ve been doing it since I was twelve.
I shudder, and look at Alvi.
All at once the pain hits. It races through me, tearing apart my insides. It is burning hot like molten lava. Searing sharp like a thousand pins exploding all at once, inside me all throughout my body. I feel like I’m bleeding, bleeding, bleeding everywhere. It is much more intense than the magic extraction machines. I didn’t even know that there could be pain more intense than that. But there is, and I can’t help crying out as it wracks through me.
But I have to stay strong. No matter what happens, I have to stay strong. Because everything depends on me right now. And if I mess up, the whole galaxy is doomed. So I tell myself in the silence of my mind, again and again and again, as the pain rips and tears, burning and freezing, as I’m writhing on the ground, I tell myself again and again that I have to stay strong. I don’t know if I’ll manage it or not.
“Are you going to tell us now?” the Prince demands, amusement in his voice.
“No,” I manage to get out through gasps. My muscles are still spasming. And the Imperials don’t give them a chance to settle down as they turn up the pain again.
Once again, I am writhing on the floor, I am screaming out. This time, I am begging for help. Help that I know won’t come. I don’t know who I’m calling out to. But thankfully I don’t say any names. I make sure to not say any names. I make sure to not give anyone away. I have to not. I will not. No matter how much it hurts. And dear universe, it hurts so much. It hurts so, so unendurably much. But I’m used to the violence of the Empire. Physical pain is nothing compared to the pain of a life of slavery.
“Will you tell us what we need to know?” the Prince asks again, voice booming with pomp and power and grandeur.
Again, I give a negative response. Again they hurt me. Again I cry and scream out and writhe on the floor. Again there are thousands, millions of needles exploding apart every which way inside of me. They crack apart and shatter and pierce into every part of my body. Into my blood, my arteries and veins and capillaries. Into my muscles. Into my tendons. Into my ligaments. My bones. Into my organs, which writhe and bleed and want to die. Into my soul, which screams with the violence it is being forced to undergo. And I scream. And I scream and I scream and I scream.
But I force myself to keep going on. I force myself to keep denying them, time after time after time after time. I force myself to keep enduring the hurt. Hurt without end. Hurt without mercy. It scatters my heart and my brains and my soul. Again and again and again the pain dissipates for a few moments before once again rearing up, once again roaring up, and ripping apart all my insides. My blood, my brains, my flesh, my bones. My skin, my organs, my blood vessels, my ligaments. They are all being torn apart in pain.
But what’s worse, what’s so much worse, is the fact that Alvi is hurting each and every time that I am hurting. Alvi is so young. Alvi is so sweet. She deserves so much better than this. I’m a horrible person. I’m a truly horrible person. I have caused this little girl, this young woman, this child, I have caused her so much hurt over the years. And yet, every time I look into her horrified eyes, her eyes which never stop staring at me, I find strength. This is such a twisted game.
I hold out for as long as I can. And I am defiant, I am defiant, and I make the Prince and Princess frustrated. They don’t know how I haven’t given in yet. They don’t know how I can withstand so much torture. Joke’s on them, they’ve been making me withstand torture much worse than this physical violence, for most of my life. But still, it’s so deeply satisfying to watch their smug looks fade away, to watch them grow slowly increasingly agitated.
But I can’t hold out on the torture forever. They will think that I have something very big, very important, to hide. They will think that whatever I’m protecting must be really precious. And then perhaps they will look into things more. And I can’t have that. We all can’t have that. So I allow myself to show more and more of my exhaustion as time goes on. I allow myself to show more and more of my pain. So they can think that they’re wearing away at me.
“Fine, I’ll tell you,” I finally reply, breathless.
“Tell us what?” the Prince asks harshly.
“Whatever you want to know.” My voice is strained and raspy. Which is perfect.
“Fine.” The Prince’s voice is hard and smooth. Dreadful and devastating. “First question. Who are you?”
“Ikkia,” I respond. And it’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. But it’s also the truth. I have been Ikkia for so long that it’s who the people know me as now. It’s who the people know me as and, if they know me as such then in a way I am such. For we all are defined by how our loved ones and our allies see us. It is for this reason that the chip on the Princess’s hand glows blue and I can continue.
“And what have you been telling the people?” the Prince interrogates. What is important right now is that I tell the truth without actually telling the truth. I can’t give away my true intentions but I can answer the question in a way that isn’t false. I’m a way that makes them think that I am concealing nothing.
“I’ve been telling them that they don’t deserve to be slaves,” I answer him. The Princess’s chip glows blue and she glowers at me.
“Why have you been saying that?!” she almost yells.
“Because,” I answer, keeping defiance in my voice, “it’s true. And I have to tell the people the truth.”
“Lies look at lies and they see the truth,” the Prince retorts, no doubt parroting something that the Emperor said.
“It is the truth,” I retort back, body still aching with all the torture. Alvi looks at me with wide eyes. I must make for an interesting figure. Lying on the floor in a cage, covered with sweat, talking back to the Empire’s heirs.
“And did you tell anyone to cause trouble?” the Princess asks, eyes glinting hard and the rest of her face like chiselled stone.
“I told them to defy the Empire. Yes.” I do not tell these Imperials that I am telling the people to rise up against the Empire. I do not tell them that I am planning the revolution, or at least planting its seeds. I keep all that information safely hidden, but I tell the truth, and I tell them what they want to hear.
“Here’s the problem, you little maggot,” the Prince starts, glowering down at me, “because of your stupid dream, a girl robbed a medicine dispensary.”
“Did she succeed?” I ask. I’m proud of her, whoever she is. I’m so very proud. Though I hope she didn’t give too much information away to the Imperials.
“We still don’t know where the damned medicine is!” The Prince shouts, “But don’t worry, the girl’s dead.”
“She made a brave sacrifice,” I reply.
Pain rips through me again as the Imperials turn the dial of the controller up. It hurts so much. It hurts so much. It hurts even more than I expected it to hurt. I think I forgot just how painful it was. How could I forget so soon? Maybe my brain blocked the information out. A scream rips through me. I try to ground myself by gazing into Alvi’s wide eyes. I don’t know how long the torture lasts. It could be a few moments. It could be an eternity.
“Don’t you dare run your mouth again,” the Princess commands when the pain finally dissipates.
“Yes, your Highness,” I answer.
“So you’ve been going around spreading dangerous ideas among the people of your planet,” the Prince commences, “why have you done this?”
“Because I felt like it was important information to share.”
“And what about the resistance?” the Prince barks out, “which resistance members were helping you?”
“I did my work without being involved in the resistance,” I answer. And it’s true. I worked more with just the regular people than I did with the resistance. I wasn’t officially part of the resistance, not anymore at least, I just went out among all the people and I shared my knowledge.
“She’s not lying.” The Princess sounds displeased. But still. Still. I think I kept my people safe.
“Who among the people, then, heard you?” the Princess asks with a stony voice.
“Everyone on the planet. If they didn’t talk to me then they talked to someone who did.” It’s the truth. And they can’t single anyone out to punish. They’d have to kill the whole planet. Which they very probably won’t do, as it would cause a power shortage.
“And did they listen to you?” the Prince asks in his haughty tone.
“I received many doubts from all across the planet,” I explain. And it’s not a lie. It’s truth. But I leave out the parts where I managed to quell all those doubts.
“Well, flum!” the Princess exclaims.
“Don’t worry, my sweet,” the Prince tells her, “we did good. A threat has been neutralized.” They leave the room, each with one arm wrapped around the other’s back. They forget to unhook Alvi.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to her, as I take in the sight of her being wrapped in wires.
“It’s not your fault,” she answers.
“But it is,” I retort.
“Why?”
“I can’t say. Anyways, what do the Imperials know about me?”
“They know you’ve been spreading dangerous ideas throughout the planet. That’s about it.”
“We’ll dang,” I lie, in order to keep her safe, “then they know everything.”
“I’m sorry,” she tells me.
“Hey, don’t be. I have something for you.” I tell her to reach deep into my clothes and pull out the communications disc. I’m paying forwards the kindness that was shown to me. “Don’t tell anyone you have it.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, hiding it in her clothes.
“Girl! Get over here!” the Prince bellows. She quickly undoes the wires and turns to leave.
“I’m sorry,” I call out after her.
And then I am once again left alone with my thoughts.
So they didn’t ask me about going off planet. Alvi didn’t know anything about them knowing I’m going off planet. So they don’t know that I’m going off planet. They don’t know anything about the Stones, or else they definitely would have asked. Or at least Alvi would have told me. And they don’t know anything about the revolution.
Though it’s possibly true that they do know, but they’re not telling me in order to stop me from warning the others. But the Empire is not so subtle and manipulative. They are brute force and blunt trauma. They do not partake in games of espionage. They do not think we’re smart enough to warrant such games, and they do not think that we are smart enough to partake in such games with them either.
All this means that I am probably safe. Well, no, obviously not. But my people are obviously safe. As safe as they can be, all things considered. The Empire doesn’t know about the advantages that we have. The Empire doesn’t know about our unity, our solidarity, our hope. The Empire doesn’t know what we are planning. They don’t even know that we’ve been planning anything against them. It’s all been worth it. The game is still running.
But what about me? What will happen to me? There are two options in front of me now. I could either be executed, which is a very likely outcome, or I could be taken into the prison of the Empire, which is a likely option as well. Neither of these options, however, are remotely good. If I die, I die, that will be a mercy. It would have been better for me to die during my planet’s revolution decades ago, before all the horrors of my life could begin. But if I’m imprisoned … if I am imprisoned, it will be much, much worse than dying.
I take a deep breath.
I suppose I should stay alive in order to see if I can help the revolution. Except, there’s nothing I can do from prison. Nothing except lose my mind. I’ve never heard of an escape. Not even once. There are cameras everywhere, so there’s no chance of using magic. If I create an illusion of myself in the cell and then escape, I’d have to maintain that illusion forever. Even a one second lapse would give our magic away. And all that I’ll have with me in my cell is literally nothing. So no tools to work with. If I try to escape, I’ll put everything I worked for at risk, and if I don’t escape, I’ll have to waste away in a cell for the rest of my life. It’s not like it would be possible for me to talk to the other inmates.
I remember the resistance members I talked to on that fateful day, that fateful day when my whole life got turned around.
“The Empire’s mercy is not our mercy.” I guess I will have to find that out now.
Or not. I wait until the Prince comes back.
I’m on my knees now, sitting with my back straight and my head held high. Despite kneeling, I am radiating defiance. I look the Prince straight in the eyes. I glare at him as he glares at me. There is hatred in my eyes. Defiance. And, most of all, pride. Things I know he would not want to me to have.
“I’m not scared of you,” I state boldly, keeping the undercurrent of fear in my voice.
“You should be,” he answers me, almost amused.
“You are pathetic and weak and powerless. I’m not scared.”
“You will see!” the Prince bellows, “You will see the truth of my power!”
“I will see the the truth of your failure, you mean,” I taunt, smirking up at him.
“You will see!” He shouts, as the bars around me vanish. All at once he is on me. And he punches me hard in the stomach. I of course am still bound by all the shackles they put on me. I guess the Prince sees nothing dishonourable about hitting someone who is literally chained. I of course use this opportunity to spit in his face. And that of course gets him even more angry.
He keeps barraging me, and I relish the pain. Because each and every blow, each and every bruise, each and every bit of internal bleeding brings me closer to leaving this life. I feel as if I am being hit by concrete. As if every bit of blood and extracellular fluid and lymph is being squeezed from me. It aches, it aches, it aches beyond ache, everywhere. My ribs crack and my upper arm breaks with a sickening thud.
“What do you say about me now?” the Prince grunts out.
“You’re pathetic,” I respond, using all the energy I have left to form these words. His boot comes down on my neck. I feel hot, bright, burning pain. As if I’m a string being torn in two.
Then it all goes black.
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