Free Redemption of Light (The Light Trilogy) by Kathleen M. O'Neal Page B

Calas was urgent, but I assure you these rebels we captured in the last battle are a stubborn lot. I’ve used every technique I know, including the probes, and not one of them has revealed any critical information about Mikael Calas’ location. The only thing I got was that they’re planning a food gathering mission in the high latitudes in the next few days. Should I—”
    “I’ll take care of that, Midgard. I have a special unit to handle such missions.” Yes, indeed. He’d trained them himself, using the probes to erase any and all elements of compassion and guilt from their young minds. The soldiers in the Brandish Unit averaged between sixteen and eighteen years of age and felt guilt only when they failed him. He smiled gloatingly to himself, proud of that piece of ingenuity.
    “Yes, sir. I apologize. I don’t understand why I’ve been unable to break even one of these—”
    “Of course you don’t,” Ornias informed him irritably. Midgard had only been on Horeb for two weeks. He knew nothing about the reality of this squalid existence. “You don’t know Mikael Calas. He trains his troops well. Your problem, Fenris, is that your methods of information gathering are too sophisticated.”
    Fenris hurried to keep up with Ornias’ longer stride. “I don’t understand, sir. What else—”
    “Just wait, Midgard. You’ll see. I’ve had the prisoners moved to an isolated area of the Detainment Center.”
    Fenris looked at him askance, but said nothing.
    Ornias sniffed disgustedly. Midgard annoyed him. The man had no ethical elasticity. How could anyone so narrow-minded have survived this long in the realm of Magisterial diplomacy? He grunted to himself and turned the final corner, stepping down the dark stairs that led to his private interrogation chamber. Dank odors of mildew and rat droppings breathed from the stairwell. Midgard’s boots clacked hesitantly behind him.
    Ornias stopped before the door at the bottom and struck the communications box, calling, “Sergeant Horner? This is Governor Ornias. Please release the latch.”
    The door creaked open. Ornias stepped aside and extended a hand for Midgard to enter first. The minister nodded and stepped into the cold, foul-smelling room. The soft gasp that floated out made Ornias chuckle. He stepped inside and shut the door.
    Within the ten by fifteen foot room, six rebels dangled a foot off the stone floor, their wrists and ankles bound in iron shackles. Rancid odors of urine and vomit clung cloyingly in the air. Ornias smiled at the four gray-suited planetary marines who guarded the room. Most refused to meet Ornias’ eyes. Good. The more they feared him, the better he liked it. From the corner of his vision, he saw Horner grinning maliciously. The bestial little man had porcine yellow eyes and a head almost as square as a brick; he shifted eagerly from foot to foot. Black hair hung in dirty strands over his acne-scarred forehead. The filthy little marine adored torture, worshiping Ornias for his expertise in the matter.
    Ornias quickly passed by Midgard and went to the cabinet on the wall. He pulled out a crystal decanter of Cassiopan sherry and poured himself a glass.
    “Would you like some sherry, Fenris?” he asked.
    “No” A swallow went down Midgard’s throat. He hadn’t taken his eyes from the prisoners. Dark clots of blood matted their filthy clothing to their bodies. Two were women, four were men. One of the men had a jagged rent in the black fabric over his chest. Beneath, a hideous wound oozed with pustulation.
    “Governor,” Midgard whispered tautly. “That man needs medical attention.”
    “Yes, I’m sure he does.” Ornias took a refreshing sip of his sherry, watching Fenris. A dark gleam of horror had entered the minister’s eyes.
    Midgard’s nostrils quivered. He pulled his thin body straighter, glaring. Ornias swished the sherry around his mouth. The sweet honeylike flavor caressed his tongue like a silk scarf over