The Frihet Rebellion

Bryant woke with a pounding headache and an intense weariness behind his eyes. It took him a moment to focus and assess his situation. He wished he’d stayed unconscious.

He was naked and cold, goosebumps peppering his body. Thick, heavy manacles, chained to the wall behind him, stretched his arms above his head. His legs, also manacled, were spread apart. Not so wide as to be uncomfortable, but wide enough to make his nakedness feel even more vulnerable.

As his eyes adjusted a little to the darkness, he saw stone walls, ancient and damp, and a plasteel door, very much new and solid looking. Keeping his mind occupied with detail, rather than dwelling on his predicament, he estimated the room to be about five meters by four meters, with a low ceiling and a floor whose fissures and crevices were encrusted with dried blood. The smell that hung heavy in the stale air was that of the abattoir. There were manacles, dangling like gruesome pendants, on the wall either side of him, but he was, for the moment at least, the room’s sole occupant.

A dungeon, he thought. Like something from ancient history. Where in the galaxy has ancient walls like these and the need of dungeons?

He could think of only one place with that kind of history.

Earth!

The pain in his head gradually receded, and even his weariness lifted a little. But in its place came the brutal reality of the cold, the damp, and his predicament.

What happened? I remember talking to Jon. Did Jon do something to me? Did Jon betray me?

The thought was hard to countenance. He remembered feeling an incredible tiredness overcome him, and he knew well enough the power of Jon’s mind. And then there had been Jon on the communicator, just before he lost consciousness. He could not ignore the evidence.

His friend had betrayed him.

It was devastating, an empty feeling in his stomach that infected his whole being. To be betrayed by someone he had trusted implicitly. That Jon had rescued him and helped him escape from the very people he had now, presumably, handed him back to made no sense at all. Nothing made sense!

Bryant felt not so much anger, but hurt and confusion. Jon had always been logical, if sometimes hard to fathom. This seemed to be anything but logical, and Bryant did not know how to rationalize it.

He tried not to think too much on the subject, as it threatened to bring the crushing headache back. Instead, he let his thoughts drift, remembering better times and doing his utmost to ignore the current situation and surroundings.

He had no way of knowing how long he had daydreamed before the sound of bolts and locks drew him back to the immediate. The door of his cell was being unlocked. He watched with trepidation as it was pulled open.

First to enter were four armed guards, wearing the blue armored uniforms of the Earth Ground Army. Following them came Jon, his eyes downcast, unwilling to look up at the friend he had betrayed.

For a moment Bryant considered saying something, anything, to show the pain he felt at Jon’s actions. But all thought of speaking ceased as the guards stepped to one side and he saw the last three to enter the cell: General Kyger, the Commander of the Earth Military; Anderson Bentley, the Presidential Advisor; and last of all, smiling broadly, President Deaton.

“I do so hate to be cliché in these circumstances,” said the President, his tone light, conversational. “But it’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Johnson. It’s taken a long time and you’re very elusive.”

“And you’re very persistent,” said Bryant, trying but failing to match the President’s tone. The underlying emotions of anger and fear were too apparent in the tremble of his voice.

“Well, now I have you,” said the President, still smiling the practiced smile of a politician, a smile that never quite made it to his eyes. “But in truth, I don’t need you anymore. I have Spearhead, I have your friend, Jon. And I have an eager and loyal young man just waiting to take your place as co-pilot. You are surplus to requirement.”

The President paused, moving closer to Bryant and letting his voice and his smile drop. There was a genuine hatred in his glare, his sneer, but also, to Bryant’s surprise, more than a little fear. The President of Earth was frightened of him.

“But you’re still a traitor,” said the President, hissing the words for only Bryant to hear. “Under my rule, traitors are tortured until they die. Not an easy death. Not easy at all.”

Bryant could not suppress the shudder that rippled through his body. He was scared, and there was no point trying to pretend otherwise. It was not death that frightened him, but to face torture without fear was, in his opinion, to be foolish and in denial. Nevertheless, he managed find some bravado deep inside.

“Please, don’t go to any trouble on my account, Mr. President. Just kill me quickly. I’d hate to be an inconvenience.”

“No inconvenience, Mr. Johnson,” said the President, his smile returning as he stepped away from the chained man. “No inconvenience at all. Now, I’d love to stay and chat some more, but we do have some plans to make. Got to get Spearhead out there to Frihet and put down a rebellion you know. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of my jailers, so you won’t get lonely.”

The President and his entourage exited the cell. Only Jon hesitated, as though wanting to speak, before hurrying after the others. As they left, two more blue-uniformed men entered. But these were not combat soldiers. Bryant doubted they were soldiers at all. More likely the jailers Deaton had spoken of.

The two men barely glanced in Bryant’s direction as they walked in, one carrying an array of disturbing-looking implements, the other pushing a mini atomic furnace ahead of him.

As the cell door swung shut, Bryant attempted to remain hopeful of some means of escape, but none presented itself. In truth, none seemed likely. His only way of escaping prolonged torture was to die quickly, and he could not will himself to do that, however hard he tried.

His situation was hopeless.