As he entered the very same prison where he had been held just days earlier, Mitth'raw'nuruodo came to the conclusion that things certainly looked a bit better from the other side of the cell. Of course, considering the circumstances, his position was not much of a comfort.
The ever-present guards accompanied him to the cell where Daas'ten'talon, once--and hopefully still--his one true friend, was being held. They marched along the silent hallway, the sound of their boots on the cold, metallic floor echoing loudly in time with his nervously pounding heart.
They passed by the solid, locked doors behind which murderers, thieves, and various other deviants--and perhaps even other innocents like himself--went about driving themselves mad. The thought sent a chill down his spine and he could imagine his guards trying to suppress a smirk as they realized the effect this place had on him. Let them laugh. They couldn't possibly comprehend what it was like to fall victim to their system. Having spent a period of time detained in one of those cells, he now intimately understood the process. There was no more efficient way to neutralize a criminal than to drive them insane. One was locked in a cell, which unlike the more public areas used for the more minor offenders, were devoid of windows or anything at all other than an uncomfortable cot. There was either no light at all or light of an excruciating intensity. And there was no way to entertain oneself other than thoughts which quickly turned bleak and hopeless. And on top of all of this some of the more violent offenders were kept under the influence of sedatives and various other drugs. A few days would leave one severely shaken. A long enough period of time with treatment of this sort would leave one a pitiful, misanthropic introvert too terrified and delusional to cause anyone any harm.
He had quickly come to loathe this place and everything it stood for. It made him ill to think that some faction of his people had created such a place and that others had been so willing to ignore and allow its presence simply because it was done in the name of "science."
He took a deep breath as they stopped at one of the anonymous doors, wondering grimly what condition he would find his confidant in. As the guards entered the lock code, he took a moment to straighten his tunic, still not accustomed to the civilian clothing. He much preferred the uniform he no longer had the privilege of wearing.
The door slid open with a soft hiss and the captive looked up, startled by the sudden presence of light, from where he sat huddled in a corner. Upon realizing who his visitor was, Daas'ten'talon got to his feet and gave a somewhat shaky salute. Mitth'raw'nuruodo winced slightly at the military gesture.
"There's no need to salute a civilian, Commander," he said softly.
"Forgive me for being so obstinate, sir, but I refuse to consider you a civilian. You may no longer technically be my commanding officer, but I've never cared much for technicalities. And I'm quite sure the rest of your subordinates feel the same." Daas'ten'talon replied, throwing a glance at the guards that still stood in the doorway, though they had respectfully turned their backs. He tried to ignore the doubts that were creeping into his thoughts. If they decided to report this little show of resistance...
But they didn't seem to be paying much attention.
"How are you being treated?" Mitth'raw'nuruodo asked quietly, taking a seat on the edge of the cot and motioning for his second--no, he was simply a friend now--to do the same.
"As well as can be expected, I suppose," he replied, amazingly, with a smile. "I haven't been beaten or tortured, and every once in a while they even feed me." He laughed bitterly.
But the haunted look in his commander's eyes told him his attempt at levity had failed. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, the only sound the constant hum of the complex's power generators.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo took a deep breath, shaking away the dreadful memories of his own captivity. Daas'ten'talon may not have been tortured--yet--but he had not been so fortunate. He attempted to suppress the shudder these memories triggered. And now, on top of everything else he had to deal with the fact that he was responsible for putting his second-in-command, his friend and confidant, through a similar ordeal. And what of the other thousands of officers, fighter pilots, and various other personnel aboard his ship and the others in the fleet? They had all been under his command, had trusted him to make the correct command decisions. And he had never before given them reason to mistrust him. What if he had proven them wrong?
"I've come to apologize," he said quietly, the words sounding terribly inadequate.
For a moment Daas'ten'talon didn't answer. He glanced at his commander--his comrade--who studied the floor, his face the emotionless mask he had long ago come to associate with, not a lack of emotion, but an overwhelming quantity of it. Just beneath that austere surface was a raging tempest of emotion held back only by will and necessity. However, he didn't need an expression to know the emotions his commander fought so hard to suppress.
"I'm afraid I cannot accept your apology, sir," Daas'ten'talon finally replied. For just a moment he thought he may have seen a hint of despair cross the others face. He held up a hand to stop any reply.
"I cannot accept your apology because it is unnecessary. A commander need never apologize for a decision made under such circumstances," he explained.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo, having finally forced himself to meet the other's eyes, looked toward the floor again. "Even when that decision jeopardizes the careers of those under his command?" he questioned.
"Sir, had any of us doubted your decision, we were perfectly free to say so. And if any of the officers aboard that ship or any of the others in the fleet had seen fault in your command, I'm certain they would have. You met with no opposition that day, Sir, were faced with no doubts, because you were right," Daas'ten'talon answered. He had been waiting to say this to his commander, had longed to say it during his trial and sentencing; however, had he done so he would now, most likely, be facing a much worse fate.
But his superior was apparently not yet ready to belay all of his self-doubt. "But I acted outside the bounds of war. I went against codes that have been in place for centuries. " The very same moral ideals that had been so important to his father; and had been his father's undoing.
"Yes, but centuries ago we weren't attacked every other day by intolerant religious fanatics, slavers, and power-hungry races looking to conquer every world that they could feasibly inhabit. And when we were attacked it wasn't with biological weapons and poisonous gases. Extinction was not an imminent threat. Do you really think our ancestors had to worry about the possibility of seeing our entire race wiped out within their own lifetime by invasions, alien inflicted diseases, and genocide? Those codes would never have been put in place if they had foreseen this. At that time, we were powerful. We could afford to have ideals." Daas'ten'talon found himself suddenly fighting back tears. What would their antecedents think if they could see how far they had fallen?
Mitth'raw'nuruodo did not reply. There was no reply to be given. It was the very same argument he had used time and again to convince his subordinates and himself. He'd never really thought anyone had listened.
Before he could formulate any sort of reply, Daas'ten'talon spoke again. "If you don't mind my asking, Sir...what now?" he asked, with a mischievous grin. It was the very same question he had always had a habit of posing after particularly harrowing experiences.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo smiled at the private joke and replied, "Well, I suppose I'll pay off all of my debts, take care of any unfinished business...Perhaps I should purchase a tent..." The two of them chuckled, then Mitth'raw'nuruodo grew suddenly serious. "Then, I suppose I'll pack my belongings, say goodbye to Alana and the daughter I'll never meet, and then I'll do my best to survive and find a way to escape whatever godsforsaken rock they drop me on."
Daas'ten'talon looked up at his commander who was, once again, intently studying the floor. He wished with all his heart that he could come up with something to say--anything that would be even remotely comforting, but nothing he could think of seemed adequate.
And before he had the opportunity to say anything, Mitth'raw'nuruodo spoke again, this time even more solemn. "I may no longer technically be your commander, but I have one last order to issue before I relinquish the title entirely." He took a deep breath. "Watch over Alana and my daughter. Make certain they're taken care of."
In all of the years Daas'ten'talon had served under him, he had never heard anything but calm and confidence in his commander's voice, nor had his expression ever shown anything different. Now however, both seemed to have betrayed him, allowing his voice to waver and his eyes to overflow with tears.
"I will, Sir." Daas'ten'talon quietly acknowledged the order, placing a comforting hand on the other's shoulder, "I shall watch over them as if they were my own."
It was then that the guards interrupted to inform them that their time was up. Mitth'raw'nuruodo stood and turned for one more look at his best friend and most loyal officer. "Thank you," he said.
"No, sir. Thank you."
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