This one was written in response to a suggestion over on the SciFi message board. The suggestion was to explain how Glitch's jacket got torn. Thanks for the idea, Glitchin. Thoughts of the various characters are in italics. Reviews are welcome, even sought after. As always, I wish I did, but know I don't, own any of the characters or settings from Tin Man.
Hanging by a Thread
Prologue
Now where the heck is that seamstress? I just got this new uniform and there is a loose thread already. The Queen's advisor picked at the loose brown thread sticking up through the shoulder seam and sighed. No help for it, he had to go to see the council and discuss the problems the army was having in the south. What was that general 's name again? Darn! How can I be so good at remembering scientific notation but can't keep a man's name in my head longer than the time it takes to eat an apple? Ambrose gave one last check in the mirror, smoothed his unruly dark hair as much as possible, tugged the vest down a bit, looked at that lone thread and thought Later for you and headed for the hallway.
At the door to the council chambers Ambrose could hear voices raised in agitation, even anger. He did a last check on his uniform, tucked that loose thread as close to the seam as he could and pushed open the door. At his entry the council members stopped and turned to him. "We are finished!" "Azkedellia has won!" "All is lost!" "The last army has defected." The voices threatened to overcome Ambrose. "Wait! Not ALL is lost. I have managed to destroy the plans for the device Azkedellia wants above all others. At least she will not be able to get that." He looked around the room. "Has the queen been informed of the day's events?" The members glanced down; looking a bit sheepish, apparently not one of them had the courage to tell the queen her kingdom was as good as lost. "Very well, I will go. There is no time to waste."
After a frenzied run he found the queen sitting in a garden and kneeled beside her. Delivering the bad news was even harder than he expected and her concern over his safety nearly brought him to tears. With the arrival of Azkedellia and her henchmen he performed his one last act as protector of the queen. It didn't work. As he was dragged off Ambrose could see Azkedellia stepping up very close to the queen, too close for a mere intimate conversation. That was the last he saw of his queen.
Chapter One
The cell was cold. And dark, only a dim bulb in the corridor offered any illumination. In the distance Ambrose could hear snatches of terrified screams and loud yells and some discomforting thumps. The shiver that went through him was not all due the cold of the bare cell. He paced yet again across from the barred door to the opposite side, clutching his coat closer around his thin body. Was that vapor from his mouth? How could it be so cold? It was high summer. Wasn't it? Why hasn't anyone been here to interrogate me? Exhausted, he finally curled up in a corner, his arms hugging his frame for warmth and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
"Wakey, wakey, time to get up and earn your bacey!" The guard barked a laugh at his clever joke. "Wha….? Bacey?" Ambrose squinted in the sudden glaring light of the guards light in his face. He raised his arm to cover shield his eyes and a sudden shock coursed through his body. His body convulsed as the
shock stick struck home. "Get up, ya lazy bum. The Specialist wants ta see ya. Yeah, see ya! Ha! He's gonna do a sight more than see ya I bet!" The guard, not happy with the speed the advisor was showing reached down and grabbed his arm and pulled. His grab wasn't accurate and he tore the jacket sleeve almost from the shoulder but Ambrose got the message, quickly crawled to his feet and stood wobbling. At a threatening jab from the stick, Ambrose stumbled out of the cell and into the corridor where a pair of beefy guards closed in on him. At the door to the Specialist's special room the guards halted and pushed Ambrose in. The door closed and the guards settled in for a long stint of sentry duty. "Ya got a pipe and tobacco on ya? Gonna be here a while again with this one maybe." It took few minutes, but eventually they could hear some terrified screams, angry yells and discomforting thumps, coming from beyond the door. Smoke trailed up from his mouth. "Right on schedule that Specialist. He sure knows what he's doing."
Several hours later a visibly unhappy and dissatisfied cadaverous man opened the door and motioned the guards in. "Take him back to his cell. He is going to take a little bit longer to break than anticipated." He wiped some thick red liquid from his fingertips and stepped out into the hall. The guards were not surprised to see Ambrose naked and covered with welts cowering in a corner. They grabbed his clothes and dragged the semi conscious man back to his cell. Ambrose fell to the floor as soon as he was let loose and the guard dropped his pants, shirt and uniform jacket over him. "Here, they don't want ya dying of the cold. They got other ways o' doing that!"
Pain wracked at him. The queen's advisor laid there for what seemed hours, unable to move. The thought of sinking down into the abyss where there was no pain called to him. Finally the cold did what his will would not and he started to move his body. First his fingers, clawing at the icy stone, then his head moved to the side as his consciousness returned. Slowly he sat up and dragged his clothes to him. The shirt went on first and then the pants. He sat there, propped up against the cell wall, wrapping the jacket around him like a blanket. Something tickled at his cheek. Opening his eyes as much as the swelling would allow he saw that errant loose thread right where the guard had torn his sleeve. Have to fix that. Mustn't let it slide. Where's the seamstress when you need her? His leg kicked out and something small rattled across the floor. Ambrose reached for it and was rewarded with a pricked finger. A sharp, needlike stone! It's too fragile to use as a weapon though. He fingered the granite stone twirling it between his fingers. His mind, ever curious and looking for solutions to problems gave him an idea.
Within minutes Ambrose, the former queens advisor renowned for his sharp dressing habits, was punching holes in the fabric of his uniform coat, the thread joining the two pieces together as he pushed it through the holes his auger had created. When he tied if off, there was still a little hole the size of his fingernail, the thread was too short to completely sew the pieces together but the sleeve was connected back to the shoulder. There, not too bad. It should hold. A loud bang jerked him around and he saw some slop drop down into a bowl. At least they are going to feed me. Who knows what might happen? There is even more water than I need to drink. I can wash too.
There was no way of knowing how long it was, but the guards made another appearance. "C'mon lazy, get yer arse up." The look of surprise on the guards' faces when the prisoner they expected to see torn
and dirty turned to them with a clean face and mended jacket lifted Ambrose's chin that much higher. "I will admit I am not happy to see you fellows, but I am ready to go. Shall we?" The guards stepped aside to let him pass and it wasn't until they got an angry motion from the sergeant that they closed in on Ambrose. He stopped in front of the Specialist's door. "I'm not going to make this easy for you fellows. You're going to have to at least open the door for me." Another angry motion from the sergeant and the door was pushed open and Ambrose stepped in. A spasm flooded his body as the door started to shut. His eyes closed and his hands clenched tightly, he lifted his chin as the Specialist approached. "Ah, back again for another round, are we?" The door clicked shut. Soon terrified screams, angry yells and discomforting thumps came muffled through the door as the guards stood there, their pipes lit but unsmoked.
The cell door clanged shut again. Ambrose lay naked again on the floor, his clothes nearby. His injuries this time were more serious than welts. Some teeth had been knocked out and he discovered his right thumb was dislocated when he reached for his clothes. The sleeve was torn worse this time. Ignoring the pain he dressed again. Using his left instead of his right hand, he searched the corner until he found the tiny stone auger. The jacket stretched out across his raised knees he began the slow process of punching holes and pushing the thread through. He nodded off several times but when the guards came back they again found the queen's advisor clean and in mended clothes. The hole was a bit bigger, about the size of a first knuckle, but it was sewn. And the process began again.
Chapter Two
"I don't know how he does it! The Specialist is the best at what he does but I think this advisor guy is giving him a run for his money. How many times has he gone at him?" The brutal sergeant had an unfamiliar look of admiration for his prisoner. "I mean, every time the specialist beats the crap out of him, using who knows what sort of machines and stuff, this guy not only don't answer the questions but he comes out of his cell next time looking ready for a walk in the park!" "Not quite a walk in the park, Sarge, but I get what you're saying. Where does a poof like that sort get the strength to resist?" "I think he's been here for 'bout two weeks, ain't it?" The third guard offered. "And every day the same thing. He gets the treatment and we drag him back to his cell. Next day, we go to drag him back and he's dressed, even managed to sew up that jacket of his." A medico came down the hallway and stopped in front of them. "Is the Specialist still busy with the prisoner? Azkedellia is getting impatient. If standard techniques don't work, she is going to give him over to us. We will succeed." None of the guards liked the medicos; they did unspeakable things to the poor souls in their possession. The guards were rough and simple men, the thought of rooting around in a person's brain gave them the willies but they knew the medicos' methods did work.
Not much had changed in the cell, it was still dark and cold, how can it be cold in the middle of summer? Glad I still have this coat. I am still the queen's advisor, even if the queen is no longer advised. Ambrose's fingers kept dropping the stone auger; it was hard to grasp something as small as that when you could hardly feel your hands. Every day on his return to the cell, he dragged himself up and washed his face. Then he repaired the jacket. The hole had grown to the length of a finger and the thread kept knotting but Ambrose refused to give in. I am stronger than they are, they will not make me forget I am the
queen's advisor and as such have to keep myself looking presentable. I will keep my dignity. They will never take that away. The cell door clanged open and Ambrose turned to leave. He straightened his jacket, smoothed his unruly dark hair as much as possible, tugged the vest down a bit, and went through the door. "Not that way, we're going to a different part of the castle today, bud." Ambrose turned and staggered. In front of him was one of Azkedellia's medicos. The medico smiled a feral grin; "You have proven to be a bit too difficult for regular methods of information extraction. We will now do it our way. Your brain will give us the secret to the Sun Seeder." Ambrose stood rooted, unable to move his body. The medico motioned to his assistant and a convulsive wave of pain shot through him. "Not too much, we don't want his brain short circuiting. Be ready to shock him if he refuses again, but I think our Mr. Ambrose will co-operate now, won't he?" Ambrose nodded and, on unfeeling feet, managed to walk the corridors to the medico lab. They did have to use the shock stick to get him inside the room.
The assistant looked at the naked man strapped on the table. "Why do you think he fought so hard when we stripped him? It doesn't hurt." The chief medico looked up from where he was tightening the straps on a pleading Ambrose. "There is no way of knowing how someone will react once he realizes we are going to strip him of more than his clothes. Look at him now, pleading; saying No, No. As if it would make a difference. Get me the mask and we'll remove the brain." Turning to the struggling, bound man he said in what he probably thought was a soothing voice, "Count back from 100." And leaned in with the scalpel.
The cell was cold. And dark, only a dim bulb in the corridor offered any illumination. In the distance he could hear snatches of terrified screams and loud yells and some discomforting thumps. A shiver ran through his frame and he instinctively hugged himself. He began to feel a growing pain in his head and reached up. His fingers, painful, broken fingers, touched on a metal thing running down the center of his scalp. Ouch, I'm hurt! Isn't someone going to help me? What is that thingy in my hair? Did someone leave a comb there? Ouch, I'm hurt. Isn't anyone going to help me? The sound of booted feet stopping outside his door made him look up hopefully, brown eyes wide. The door clanged open and a beefy looking fellow in uniform came in. "C'mon, get up. You've had enough time." "Enough time? For what? Can't you see I've been hurt? Won't you help me? Can't you see I've been hurt? Won't you help me?" The guard sighed. So this one was going to be like that, a glitching specimen of the medico's operations. At least he could stand and talk, which was a sight better than some of them emerged. "Here, your clothes." He tossed a bundle at Glitch. "I put in an extra shirt seeing as how you won't get any from anywhere else. " Glitch fingered the striped shirt. "Was it mine?" "Naw, you idiot! I just gave it to you! Sheeesh, sometimes I think you headcases should never be let out. Get dressed quick. They're kicking you out today."
Glitch looked fearfully around at the dark cell. It was all he could remember. Before that, nothing. Guess I might as well get dressed. If I am leaving I certainly can't go out naked! His broken fingers slowed him down and he found that to lean forward caused pain in his noggin. Now, why does that hurt? What is that metal thingy? But he managed to get dressed. Somehow the fancy piping on the jacket felt right, as if he belonged in it, belonged to a better place. Glitch stood straight, lifting his chin, cocking one eyebrow up. He brushed the front of his coat and checked that is was on right, saw that there was a loose thread. Ooo! Loose thread! And pulled.