Elyon

Execution

Word passed rather quickly up and down the halls of the massive, and the word was simple. Stay out of Red's way. He was in a foul mood, one of the worst anyone had ever seen. Purple was unpredictable, no one knew when he would capriciously order a drone thrown out the airlock, but everyone knew that when Red was in a bad mood, heads would surely roll.

Red threw open the door to the Irken Information Network Headquarters, startling the half dozen drones running the late night programs. "OUT!" He barked, taking momentary satisfaction in their terrified scramble for the door.

Once alone, he sealed the door and pulled out a chair. "Show me the status of the IPN."

Instantly, the computer displayed half a dozen images from the Irken Propaganda Newscast. For ages, all they'd ever had to work with was the glory of the Tallests, the superiority of the Irken race, and the adventure that was invasion. Now, however, they finally had new bones to cut their teeth on. The subject of Krissirks was everywhere. Every hour there was a new expert on this subversive group that claimed some invisible being was mightier than the Tallests. Some said these Irkens' PAKs had been infected by the module they'd downloaded, rendering them defective. Some said it was an outbreak of Brainworms that needed to be contained. Whatever the cause, all Krissirks were being advised to come in for rehabilitation. Those who did not voluntarily come forward would be arrested, tortured, and likely executed once discovered.

A cheerful Irkeness sat at a newsdesk onscreen, chattering away. Red pulled up that clip.

"...and here we have, live, in the studio, an honest to goodness Krissirk. Don't worry everyone, she's been locked in a clear container, her contagion won't spread."

Two guards rolled in a small glass cell, about the size of a shower stall. Inside stood a rather frightened Irken female, pressing her hands against the glass and scratching to get out.

"The Tallests were most gracious and offered her rehabilitation, but she refused their generosity. As per the Tallests' decree, she will now receive the maximum penalty." The newscaster beamed, flashing a brilliant smile. "You may begin."

The cameras focused on the glass cell, as a guard connected a tube to the side of it. A few seconds later, water poured into the cell. The female Irken began screaming, clawing harder at the sides of the cell as smoke rose from her body.

"As you can see," the newscaster chirped, "This is what happens when you refuse the Tallests generosity. All Krissirks are advised to report themselves immediately for rehabilitation, so they may return to being useful members of Irken society."

The Irkeness' skin melted, leaving the water to strip her leg muscles from the bone. She collapsed into the puddle, water continuing to pour on top of her now.

Red checked the feed. The clip was live. This was happening as he watched. Reaching across to the controls, he grabbed a microphone, overriding the network controls.

The Newscaster, glancing down at her panel, gasped. "It seems we have an override from Tallest Red himself, his Almightiness wishes to speak!"

Pulling the microphone closer, Red peered at the screen. "So. Where is he? Where is this 'Ayam'? Is he going to save you now? In front of us all, and prove he's real?"

The Irkeness' chest heaved as she screamed in agony. The water, up to her neck now, was dark green. She flailed, attempting to keep her head above water, even as the water continued to strip her body away.

"There is no Ayam." Red growled. "There is no authority but mine and Purple's. There's nothing waiting for you. You died for nothing."

With a gasp, the Irkeness' head slipped below the water, the green murk shielding her final moments from view.

"Well," The Newscaster crowed, "There you have it, there is no one mightier than the Almighty Tallests."

Red leaned back, his mood lifted a little. Nothing had happened. No great and powerful being had stopped this execution, and none would stop the others to come. Soon, all this would just be a memory.

An Irken walked across the set on screen. He appeared to be no taller than an average invader, a little shorter even. Nothing about him stood out, standard issue boots, gloves, and uniform. But something about him caught Red's eye. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Maybe it was the look on his face, some strange mixture of anger and grief. Maybe it was the fact that no random Irken could walk on the set of a News Network without an uproar, and yet no one even looked at him.

Whatever it was, the Irken stopped at the tank, kneeling beside it. For a moment, he bowed his head, hand placed on the glass of the cell. His shoulders shook.

Her name was Teruna.

Red jerked back, the voice reverberating in the room, from all corners.

The Irken in the video didn't move, but now a small spot in the murky water was glowing. It moved toward the Irken's hand, and he pulled his hand away from the glass, slowly drawing the light out and away with his hand.

Again, from all corners of the room, came a feminine voice, choking on tears. In my last moments I cursed you. I was afraid. I was in pain. I cursed you. And before that, I wondered if you really existed, to let me fall into their hands.

The Irken held the flickering light in his hands, and gently lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to it.

You believed I would come, though. Come now. Come home with me.

The sobbing slowly ebbed away, and in its place, a small giggle. And then a laugh. And then gales upon gales of joyful laughter, ringing back and forth between the walls of the Headquarters where Red cowered in his chair, eyes glued to the screen. The light in the Irken's palms shot away, out of the room and away from the view of the camera.

And then the Irken turned straight to the camera. The Newscaster continued to chatter on and on as he approached the camera, growing larger in the screen as he approached. Red shrank back against the chair, eyes wide.

Know this, Red. You are murdering my children. The Irken's face was twisted in rage and grief. The count is heavy against you, and it will continue to grow. Decide, before the decision is taken from you, which path you will walk.

Red bolted out of his seat, tearing out of the room as fast as he could. He ducked into his quarters, then slumped against the wall, moaning. He couldn't even take comfort in his lavish quarters, as now he could only see it as a dismal dungeon. What was going on? Why was this happening to him? Why couldn't anyone else see what he was seeing, or hear what he heard?

And why did this Irken speak of a path, like the hooded figure spoke of a war? What did any of it have to do with him?

.....

And still the light comes. He shrinks back, ashamed. His royal clothes are in tatters, caked in filth and blood. His skin is raw, chafed, and oozing where the chains have cut into it.

Why is the light brighter? Doesn't the bearer of the light know they are bringing shame with their light? The darkness was better, it hid the chains, it hid the stench and the filth. No, this is cruelty, to reveal the true state of things. Better to hide in darkness than know that chains are choking him.

A hand touches his shoulder. He jerks his head up. He can't see. His ocular implants focus and refocus, but it's no good, they can't get a fix on the bearer of the light. Just the hand that rests on his shoulder. It's a three-clawed hand.