Chapter Two
The Empress
I reviewed my work. A mutilated, heaving sack of sweat and muscle writhed before me. I sighed in regret. My vision had not been realized. This was supposed to take much longer. My project was not as strong as I had predicted. He was almost done. But I was just getting started.
"Do you still believe your incessant lies are convincing?" I asked. "I grow impatient. I would be perfectly content leaving this room, eating some preserved arboreal cellulose, and spending the rest of my day recuperating from this arduous chore. Don't you want that, too?"
Pale green blood leaked from his nose, ears, and eyes. He was sobbing. He was more than hurt.
"Sub-Visser, what do you think?" I turned to my personal assistant, Sub-Visser Twenty-Four, known during his off-hours as Nagrit 767. He grinned playfully.
"I think it's a shame that such vital information is so difficult to exhume."
"Exhume," I said with a smile and a breathy laugh. "What an apt word."
I balled my Hork-Bajir hand into a fist and flung it into my project's face. His skin, swollen with blood, had lost its elasticity and molded to the shape of my hand. He moaned and sputtered, and his head rolled back in surrender. A flat tooth rolled out of his mouth and rattled on the floor.
"I just..." he began.
It's an amateur mistake to lean in and listen when torture subjects begin to speak. The power dynamic is fragile, easy to surrender. You have to remain in charge. I walked calmly over to the sink and washed his blood and spongy skin off of my hands. I could feel his eyes bore into the back of my skull, desperate for mercy, a gift I was unwilling to grant.
"Sub-Visser, did you hear something? A truthful confession, perhaps?" I dried my hands with a towel and threw it in a pile of them that was stained with green blood and yellow sweat.
"Nothing like that. Just a wisp of a coward's begging, I think."
"Yes, I agree." I grabbed a long, metal instrument, ending in two prongs and a screw connected to a hand crank. I turned around to face my project again.
"Wait, please! I'll tell you, I've had enough."
I stood there cranking the screw with a wild menace in my eyes, approaching slowly. My subject watched me, blood dripping from his beak like a melting icicle.
"You do not need my permission to confess, scum," I hissed as I raised my weapon and held it inches from his eye.
"It was Esplin. Esplin told me to take the fall for him. I couldn't refuse, he was my superior! After that debacle on the Taxxon moon, I couldn't just...I'm sorry. Please don't kill me. Please let me go. Please."
"Esplin," I groaned. My project had corroborated what I already knew. That's really the only practical interrogative method of torture. You've got to have information already in mind that you want double-checked. People will tell you anything to ease the pain, and in the throes of extreme suffering, truth and lie become indistinguishable. It can get uncomfortable, both for you and them, when they start telling you what they think you want to hear. Sometimes it is not what you'd expect.
Interrogation, of course, is not the only practical application of torture.
I dropped the instrument. Nagrit opened the door and we both shuffled out, leaving my project tied, swollen, and whimpering.
I closed the door and turned to him.
"That fool continues to cover his tracks, and only with enough skill to appease the Council." I huffed, shoving my sticky hands together and cracking my knuckles. "I do not believe this information will be enough to denounce him."
Nagrit sighed. He was in no place to voice his opinions. Not on record, anyway. But he understood my frustration. And with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, he showed that he agreed.
Nagrit had been my assistant for almost ten years. I'd been given the privilege to choose an assistant when I'd been promoted to the rank of Visser Sixteen. I chose quickly, some speculated carelessly, but his file impressed me immediately. He was a low Sub-Visser, and though I was confused as to why he did not head a command of his own, a quick glance at his record revealed that he assisted a number of Vissers before me, each of whom had dishonorably reassigned him. I did not immediately understand why. He was an intelligent, creative leader with good work ethic, a powerful charm, and a strong set of values, and he'd made no irredeemable mistakes that I could see.
After a few months, the reason became clear. He did not bear a normal Yeerk personality. Yeerk leaders are defined by their viciousness, the cold, glassy ruthlessness and apathy behind their determined eyes. Nagrit did not have that. He never broke orders, and at the beginning, never contradicted me, no matter how cold or wrong I was when I spoke. But he moved with a sort of warmth and organic passion, a foreign empathy and mercy. It gave me a heavy sense of guilt and unworthiness. It could get cumbersome. I could understand how a Visser would want not to be around that.
But Nagrit and I quickly developed an efficient rapport, and despite his strange mannerisms, including the eyebrows that furrowed when I ordered him to fire upon an Andalite vessel, or the involuntary twitch of dread when I told him that we'd procured a new prisoner to break, I considered him a trusted advisor. His abnormality was only outmatched by his loyalty and intelligence, and once our trust had been established, I encouraged him to contradict me when he needed to, and to offer alternative solutions even after I'd made up my mind. In some ways, he had become my conscience. Though most Yeerks consider this a taxing commodity, it was one I knew I could neither lead nor live without.
He was a good assistant, adjutant, and advisor, but those were not the only functions he served. I could joke with some of the Vissers. And I considered the Council my equals. But perhaps, in my distant and revered position, Nagrit was closest thing I had to a friend.
"Visser Eleven has done the impossible, sir. Never forget that fact."
Nagrit was right, but I was not pleased. More than once, Esplin had disappointed in his promises to deliver intelligence and results. But it was difficult to deny the impact his presence had: a symbolic representation of our mounting victories over the Andalites in the form of one of their most infamous War-Princes imprisoned in his own body.
I hated him.
He was a cheater. Promoted through Yeerk hierarchy not due to his leadership skills or strategic genius. He was a novelty. A farce. He was not an effective general, not a shrewd strategist. He wasted all of his energy on that selfish vision, and what good had it ultimately done the Empire?
"Besides stroking our own egos, how can one infested Andalite make a difference?" I scoffed rhetorically to Nagrit. He shrugged indifferently. Though Nagrit voiced his disagreement on a few issues, he never disagreed with me about this.
Not about Esplin.
"What course are you going to seek?" He asked.
"I will speak with the rest of the Council. Unfortunately, they do not share our distaste."
He made an apologetic, comforting face. "I'll be here when you're finished."
"Thank you, Sub-Visser."
I walked down the hall, past an echoey dropshaft, and entered the conference room, where the rest of the Council was already waiting for me. We rarely met on the same ship all at once, but a great deal of our forces had concentrated on this sector of the galaxy, and I thought it prudent to check up in person despite the inherent danger involved.
We were relaxed, or at least, as relaxed as the deified, mythic leaders of the Yeerk Empire could be. We did not wear our ceremonial robes, or hover in our neutral-gravity bubbles so as to appear intimidating and supernaturally powerful. We gathered in forms that were normal, if perhaps a little more physically fit than most, but even so, I felt a tingle of fear. Addressing the council was always stressful. I always felt like I was defending myself, even when delivering good news.
The Council consisted of four fat Taxxons, seated behind the steaming flesh of some unidentifiable corpse, insufficiently covered by their keratin plating, spewing forth a gust of rancid smell that disgusted my subtle Hork-Bajir nose; five fellow Hork-Bajir, who slouched backwards, bored, using their thick tails as a chair-like support; one elderly Gedd, whose eyes were crusted with cataracts; and two other species I could not identify. One was shorter than the rest, with thin, unadorned, pale skin, and two small, bright eyes. It walked on two legs and seemed both totally vulnerable and worthy among the beasts that surrounded it.
"I have concluded my interrogation of prisoner 2351," I began addressing them. One of the Taxxon's tongues leapt forward in curiosity and hunger. Another Taxxon's red, jelly eyes turned to it lustily.
"What information have you procured?" a Hork-Bajir named Krister 632 asked, bouncing on his tail.
"Our initial suspicions seem to have been correct. The mag-lev incident and subsequent uprising on the Taxxon Homeworld were indeed caused by one Esplin 9466, whom the Council has decided to promote to the rank of Visser Eleven."
I did not regret the observation when I spoke it, nor the acerbic tone with which I delivered it, but it made the small alien's mouth curl triumphantly nonetheless.
"Visser Eleven has already provided us ample information, not only about Andalites, but about this species as well," the being said, gesturing to his own form. I recognized the tone. It was Sessil 542, the overseer of new species acquisitions. Playing with his new discovery. "Do you know about this species, Councilor Eight?"
None of the Councilors were actually given numbers to designate them, except for me. Within the Council, that meant I was in charge. Outside the Council, it was meant to conceal my true identity. It was a system I appreciated for the amount of anonymity it provided me. I was glad not to accept the risk involved with being the face of the Empire. Unfortunately, it meant that the Council was often perceived as a more democratic body than originally intended.
Visser Eleven would already be dead if it weren't for the twelve other Councilors. Or at least seven of them. Five I could convince, I know that. But seven still beats six.
"I have read the dossier you provided," I conceded. "These humans do sound promising."
"Then give Visser Eleven his due. If not for him, we would never have even heard of this species," Vrasst 261, a Taxxon, hissed through large, dripping bites of rotting flesh.
"I doubt that," I muttered. "But very well. Visser Eleven shall remain. But I want him reprimanded for his responsibility in—"
"I disagree," About five of the councilors interrupted.
I sighed in frustration. "Fine. I shall terminate prisoner 2351. He is no longer a suitable host."
I turned to leave the conference room, but Sessil stopped me. "Councilor Eight," he said. "There is one other matter which requires your immediate attention."
"I realize we meet in person infrequently, but perhaps this can wait until our next conference? After all, I am overseeing the infiltration of the Taxxon insurgency, and I would greatly appreciate—"
"That task has been reassigned," he said, waving his hand. "We have received information about a new threat which requires your special brand of expertise."
"What information? From where?" I knew this question had no answer, as the Council periodically received information from an anonymous source, somewhere outside the galaxy, which proved always to be correct and beneficial. I had never been explicitly addressed in these messages. I felt my throat clench shut as I realized my time had finally come.
"The file has been downloaded to your Blade Ship's computer. View it at your leisure. You are charged with the task therein. It should be no problem given your talent for breaking down the structure of an individual, leaving them a bloody, mangled mess."
The Council chuckled at my expense. I allowed them. After all, the reason for their amusement was that I was not a conventional Empress. At the beginning of the war, the Emperor was the head military leader, a general of sorts that rallied all Yeerks and retained a great deal of executive power. Before the war, however, whatever military decisions necessary were left in the hands of the tribe leaders, the group of mediocre power that evolved into the Vissers. I decided to resurrect this lost tradition. I did not like the role of General, and though at first I was looked down upon for relinquishing the responsibilities, it had proven to be effective. One Visser in charge of the acquisition of each race. One Yeerk in charge of the Vissers. But, in most cases, I did not micromanage.
Besides management, delegation, and all the other annoying requirements of my position, I chose to focus my abilities on individual threats. Until now, that had been the interrogation of my own people, rooting out spies, insurgencies, and mutinies. This happened among Yeerks more than any of us would like to admit. Discontentment broiled among many of my people, and though I longed for a more peaceful way to remedy it, I was good at purging it through the threat of pain and death. It felt insincere, since I myself was dissatisfied with many aspects of the war, especially forced enslavement. But I realized I could never speak out against it until I offered some compelling solution or alternative. I wished more races would cooperate with us. I wished I didn't have to feel so guilty every time I heard my host moan a wail of grief in my head, or feel a thrash of resistance after a feeding. But there really weren't any other options.
But I was good at interrogations. Very good. I was very good at torture. I learned long ago that physical pain is only one form of punishment, and once the Council granted me full immunity from any conventions or treaties, I started seeing results every time.
And now it appeared I had an assignment that aligned my talents. I felt a thrill of anticipation as I left the overwhelming Pool Station, containing eight Pool Ships on each of its insect-leg docking ports, and boarded my own Blade Ship, preparing to read the file.
Nagrit walked ahead of me, and Yeerks we passed in the hall saluted stiffly. I was used to it. They respected me. That was fine. The thing I didn't want, the thing that provided no purpose, was fear. Pain and death are good punishments, but they are terrible motivators. This was something Visser Eleven did not understand.
"Sometimes I don't understand why we spend so much time trying to get him demoted," Nagrit said suddenly, breaking me from my train of thought. "He has served his people well. We may not like the way he does things, but he does them, and they get done."
I rolled my eyes at Nagrit's circular logic, but then I thought for a moment. "I suppose you're right," I replied. "He has never failed on a large scale. All of us have our disappointments. I just get a strange feeling when I think he will soon have a planet of his own. Foreboding. Disastrous. I can't explain it."
"If you say so, sir," Nagrit responded.
We entered the Bridge, and Nagrit ordered it evacuated. I wanted to view the file in private. Nagrit stood at the navigational computers, powering up the controls so we could get going as soon as we knew where we were headed.
As I sat waiting for the file to download, I felt a warm wave of accomplishment wash over me. I had not felt so content in my entire career—not during those first tests I had mastered in my birth pool to weed out executive talent, not upon entering my first Gedd host, not enjoying my first command position. I remembered the day I got promoted to Sub-Visser: even then, I felt more fear than accomplishment. But I kept climbing the ranks, through my fair, tough, rational leadership style that the entire Empire had become accustomed to. Less inefficiencies, more victories became our motto, and through me we had won the battle on Hork-Bajir and were currently picking off every Taxxon rebel left on their planet. I kept climbing, kept winning, making my name and accomplishments known.
I was first invited to the Council seven years ago. The rest of the Councilors had all been on the Council for decades, some even centuries. I was still young. New, fresh meat. They liked me. I kept them in order, and allowed the body overall, instead of just their leader, to be the figurehead of the Empire. We disagreed about Visser Eleven, but we kept civility among ourselves. I received compliments in private. Encouragements to continue along the path of leadership I had struck. I received very few insults or criticisms, though I was paranoid enough to believe that most of the praise was insincere. To my surprise, however, it was not long before I was chosen to be Empress.
Of course, even that decision was something of a mystery. It had appeared that even when I was invited to the Council, there was no Emperor or Empress. It was as if I had been predestined to become the Empress, that the position had been vacated just so I could fill it. I was confused by this process, and fear crept into the back of my mind.
But now, with an assignment meant just for me, I could feel proud. I no longer simply filled a seat at the head of the table. I sat there because of my skill, my inbred talent. And here, I could prove myself in ways that my particular style of management could never solely account for. I could be the greatest interrogator and torturer in the Yeerk Empire.
The file had almost finished, but I was distracted. I worried about this new race, these humans, only because I felt that somehow, they would outsmart us. Their file scared me. Billions of specimens all on one planet? Most viewed it as a cosmic gift, some force of charity bestowing us with such an able-bodied, ignorant, numerous race. But it made me uneasy. They didn't procreate to such a degree from sheer luck alone.
I heard a whining alarm sound. The file finished downloading. It read in a strange, garbled alien language that the computer took a couple of moments to translate. My eyes rolled back and forth over the data, absorbing the target that would become my job. My obsession. My life's work.
It was an Andalite. An Andalite who lived on the homeworld. Already I felt my stomach sink in failure. How could I procure a single Andalite off the best-guarded planet in the galaxy?
As the text translated, a picture depixelized and appeared on the screen. The picture was taken from an Andalite personnel file, and featured a child. An Andalite child. A girl. A girl that could barely be old enough to walk, let alone present a real threat to the Empire.
I laughed a little. "A little girl?" I asked Nagrit.
"Perhaps one Andalite can make a difference," he suggested.
I glared at him, and read the file further. Her father was a veteran. She had no mother that the file indicated. From one of the most destitute parts of their planet, she was not privileged in any way that I could immediately identify. I was confused. How could this little girl be worth all the trouble?
But I breathed in deep, and already felt my forebrain churn, formulating a plan. "Set course for the Hork-Bajir Homeworld," I said. "Do you think we'll have any luck salvaging an old Andalite fighter?"
"Honestly, no. But I suppose that's as good a place as any to start," Nagrit replied.
I stared at the little girl on my screen. I suddenly felt a surge of purpose and strength in me. I was going to find her, this little girl, this bitch and threat to my Empire. I was going to find and kill Jennor-Elacable-Barees.
