Chapter ERROR (Questioning?) (1/2)
The slider at eye level on the door pulled back, pulling Do'ormo'ot out of his stupor.
”Prisoner 4582143, you have sufficient privileges for one hour of social time. Do you wish to engage in social time at this temporal juncture?” a voice, again with the jarring pieced together audio, asked him. He could see black metal instead of normal facial features.
”Yes,” Do'ormo'ot said, suddenly desperate for some kind of contact. He was starting to get thirsty and knew he would be hungry soon, his bladder was starting to signal he might need to urinate soon, and he could tell he would need to move his bowels in a few hours.
”Prisoner 4582143, exit your cell and follow. End of Line,” the voice said.
The door clacked and opened. Do'ormo'ot trotted out, turning to avoid the door as it was shut again. The hallway was, like before, black stone and dimly lit. The being waiting was obviously female, despite being completely covered by the robe, mask, and gloves.
Without another word the figure started gliding down the hallway and Do'ormo'ot nervously followed. His training urged him to take advantage of the fact that only one guard was present and had their back turned but he reminded himself that Terrans were more resilient than any other discovered species. They combined strength, endurance, and resilience with a certain feral cunning intelligence and instinct that allowed them to move without thinking about it, making them highly dangerous combatants.
Do'ormo'ot knew that he could not overpower even a single Terran and resigned himself to following the figure through the black stone building. The path wound through hallways, taking them across empty rooms several times, up some stairs and down others, until he was led, blinking, into a room with a single door of black wood bound with black metal.
On a peg next to the door was a black robe, a metal mask, and a pair of long gloves.
”Prisoner 4582143, don your outer wear,” the figure intoned.
Do'ormo'ot swallowed thickly, picking up the mask. It was shaped for his face, it would cover the front of his face, his long jaw, but was open at the bottom. He put it in place and shuddered at the cold feeling of it. The robe was thick, heavy, felt like it was too heavy and enclosing, like it was itchy even though it wasn't. The robe touched the ground, moving back and forth with his breathing. He put on all four of the two pairs of gloves and waited.
”Prisoner 4582143, you are allotted one hour of social interaction at Level One Interaction. You may engage in select topics of discussion, may engage in physical activity that is non-violent and does not interact with fellow prisoners, or you may simply enjoy the freedom of being out of your cell for one standard Black Citadel hour,” the figure said. The door swung open, revealing a courtyard lit by the ever-present violet light.
”End of Line.”
Do'ormo'ot had come to understand that those words were basically a dismissal and trotted out into the courtyard, looking around.
First thing he looked at were the walls. They were tall, twenty, maybe thirty feet, crenelated, topped with coiled wire. Walking the walls were robed figures with white gloves carrying naked sword blades. There were towers where other robed figures stood with what looked like string-tension projectile weapons.
Do'ormo'ot shook his head at the obvious disdain the Terrans had for the prisoners that none of the standard high tech procedures or equipment was in use.
He looked over the courtyard next. There were robed beings moving about. Some were lifting heavy metal plates attached to a bar, some were sitting on bleachers, and still others were sitting at tables. There were several robed figures with white gloves rather than the black gloves just standing at various places, unmoving. There were benches and picnic tables scattered about, many of them with a few bipedal robed figures sitting at them.
Do'ormo'ot chose a bench-table and trotted over, sitting down.
His training told him to start gathering information, but he had no idea who to even approach. There was no apparently leader, no apparent cliques for him to approach. He had no bribery, no leverage to apply.
He found he didn't like this state. It was nothing like his training. He had no tools, no barter items, no blackmail leverage.
Nothing.
A robed being came over and sat down, looking him up and down. Do'ormo'ot tried to ignore the figure, who had black gloves, tried to ignore the faint red glow in the eyes.
”So you're a cowpie,” the figure said. Its voice was rough and gravelly.
”I am a Lanaktallan, not a 'cowpie', whatever that is,” Do'ormo'ot replied.
”Rumor has it that you boys thought you'd take on the Corn Feds,” the figure said, giving a rough laugh. ”How's that working out for you?”
Do'ormo'ot stared for a moment. ”That is none of your business. Who are you?”
The masked male laughed, a harsh sound that reminded Do'ormo'ot of the buzzing of angry insects. ”John Vilda Ansoom, of the Austin OCP Epsilon-City Arcology, at your service.”
Do'ormo'ot frowned behind his mask. Very little of that made sense. ”I am Do'ormo'ot, Lanaktallan Executor Council. I am being held illegally for crimes I did not commit.”
The masked male laughed again. He turned slightly. ”Hey! Guard! He says he didn't do it! You have to let him go now!”
The ones in black gloves all laughed, sounds of aggression and mocking, making Do'ormo'ot stand up.
”I will not be mocked,” he said.
The masked Terran laughed again. ”Sit down, chump. Nobody cares,” he turned again. ”Hey, he won't be mocked, you better let him go right now, we got a badass here!”
More laughter and the Terran turned back to Do'ormo'ot. ”See, nobody cares.”
Do'ormo'ot turned away from the Terran, watching him still with his right side-eye.
”You think I can't see you eye fucking me, boy?” the Terran said. He laughed again. ”Ooh, I have six eyes, surely that primitive monkey can't tell when I'm side-eyeing him.”
The mocking tone got on Do'ormo'ot's nerves, but before he could retort the Terran raised his hand up, extending the two fingers closest to the thumb.
A white gloved figure drifted up and Do'ormo'ot noticed that it had black mist around the hem of its robe.
”You wish assistance, Prisoner 001834134?” the white gloved figure asked, the cobbled together voice sounding even more out of place after hearing a normal human voice.
”A glass of water, please. Cold, if you would, sir,” the Terran said.
”Prisoner 001834134, you possess sufficient privileges for refreshment. This is the third of your six allowed daily allotments of liquid refreshment. End of Line,” the figure said. It turned around, holding a tray with a single glass of water on it. It lifted the glass and set it down, the glass seeming to shimmer for a moment.
Do'ormo'ot stared at it, licking his suddenly dry lips, as condensation began to bead up on it.
”Looks good, don't it, cow-pie?” the Terran said, breaking into Do'ormo'ot's fantasy of drinking it down.
Do'ormo'ot inflated his crests in agreement then slumped slightly. ”Yes.”
”Then ask,” the Terran said.
Do'ormo'ot followed the example. The white gloved bipedal (maybe. did they even have legs under the robe or were they just drifting on mist?) moved over silently.
”You wish assistance, Prisoner 4582143?” the figure asked.
”A glass of cold water,” Do'ormo'ot asked.
”Prisoner 4582143, you possess insufficient privileges for refreshment. Please repeat your request at a later date,” the figure said. ”End of Line.”
It drifted away as the Terran with the glass of water snickered.
”Welcome to the Citadel, cow-pie,” he said. He got up, leaving the glass behind. ”Don't let the nightmares get you.”
Do'ormo'ot watched the Terran got over and talk to some others before sitting down on the bench, withdrawing a square package, and removing a tube that he then lit with paper flame-strikers. Do'ormo'ot watched the Terran he had been talking to exhale smoke then looked back at the glass.
The water beads slid down the side, forming a small puddle. It reminded him that he was getting thirsty and he licked suddenly dry jowls.