The Eyes Have It

Metal walls and metal floor. They seep any warmth from the room and radiate a bone-chilling cold, but he stopped shivering a long time ago. It is growing increasingly difficult to keep his focus, but he breathes slowly in and out, striving to hold the shredded tatters of his mind and his will in balance. How long has he been here? It does not matter. Focus. Hold the walls in place. They will get nothing from him.

Footsteps echoing on metal walls, and a blow that snaps his head and rocks him against his restraints.

"I grow tired of waiting."

"I am so terribly sorry." Ben's voice is cracked, barely more than a whisper. "I'm sure you're a busy man. Don't let me keep you."

Another blow. He spits blood.

"You are beginning to bore me. It's time to try something else."

There is a distinctive vhooom sound that makes his stomach clench, and a blue light bursts into life. He wants the lightsaber so badly, but he could never reach it, restrained as he is. Taunting him with the chance of freedom, the light flickers off the man's face. The eyes are wide with a sick madness.

"How hot does a lightsaber get, do you think?" says the other man. "Hot enough to melt metal. Certainly hot enough to melt skin."

"This is pointless," Ben says. "You know I won't tell you anything." His mouth is drier than bone, his eyes follow the blue blade like an obsession. It tilts closer to him, and he smells burnt hair as it dips towards his head. Sweat runs down his face.

"Shall we find out what your skin melting feels like?" the man whispers, smiling, and then nods to someone behind him.

Firm hands grab Ben's head and force it to one side. He arches, jaw clenched, every muscle tighter than a wire, trembling against the restraints. The painfully bright blue light swings into his field of vision, plasma crackling with heat, and those mad, mad eyes behind.

"Ready to burn for your silence?" The man says, and presses the white-hot blade against the side of Ben's throat.

Someone screamed. Ben convulsed, arching in agony and threw himself forward. He clutched at his neck. Blood was spurting from his nose and pooling in his throat and mouth. Hands were holding him, restraining him, and he threw them off, fighting madly. He felt as if he were choking, and he tore at his throat, desperate. The hands were back, snatching at his wrists. He kicked out wildly, but his feet were held too, and he could only sob and choke on blood, and throw his head back. Sounds were wildly distorted in his ears; he could hear crying and shouting, and then a calm, clear voice said;

"Ben. You must stop. You are frightening the children."

The tension suddenly rushed out of him, and he felt his limbs go limp, even as his heartbeat raced. Someone gathered him up, and lifted him securely and he felt the world sway as he was carried away. The person carrying him hummed softly with a soothing vibration, and Ben was set down on something cool. The blood he had swallowed was curdling in his stomach, and he could smell burnt flesh. Ben felt himself go rigid, he tried to mumble a warning, but then he was throwing up bile and blood all over the floor. His helper didn't pause in his soothing humming but carefully held a basin to his chin, and then laid Ben down on his side on a cool surface. A cloth was pushed up against his nose, and his hand was moved up to hold it. The other person moved away.

Ben lost track of time for a little while, and the next thing he knew, someone was shaking his shoulders, and then pulling him into a sitting position. He blinked his eyes, and Shaarm and Pakat swam into focus. They were talking together in soft, anxious tones. He was in the living area of the Kheelians' house, sitting on the edge of the stone table. Pakat was supporting his shoulder, looking worried, but Shaarm was as calm as ever. She took the bloody cloth from Ben's limp hand, and replaced it with a fresh one, bringing Ben's hand up to his nose again and clamping it there. He tilted his head forward to stop the blood running into his mouth.

"Are you awake now, Ben?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but the movement sent little tendrils of agony down his neck and into his jaw. He made an involuntary sound of distress and tightened his jaw.

"What happened?" he muttered around the cloth, just aware enough to speak in the right language.

"You had a nightmare," Shaarm said. "Do you want to tell us about it?"

"No!" The response was emphatic and immediate. He closed his eyes, trying not think about flickering blue light, the horror and the madness.

Shaarm reached out. "Very well. But you need to let go, Ben, so that I can look at your neck." She pulled at his other hand which he hadn't noticed was still clamped to the side his throat. With her encouragement, he loosened his stiff fingers. Pakat took his hand and gripped it while Shaarm tilted his head back gently. He looked up to the ceiling and concentrated on pinching his nose as Shaarm peeled the dressings off his neck.

"Yes, it is bleeding," she said quietly. "I will need to clean it before I can dress it again." He closed his eyes once more and tried to ignore the sting and burn as she worked on the ruptured blisters and charred skin he had torn at in his nightmare. His hand moved of its own accord a few times to push her away, but Pakat held it firmly and wouldn't let go.

Ben suddenly remembered that someone had been crying.

"The girls!" He made to leap from the table, but Shaarm held him firmly.

"The girls are fine, Ben. They were just frightened by the sound of the screaming. Chana is with them."

Ben felt the full horror of what had just happened rise up to smother him with fear and guilt and dread. "I'm so sorry!" He managed, through choking breaths. "I didn't mean to scare them, I-"

"Ben!" Pakat gave him a little shake.

"It is all right, Ben," Shaarm was saying. "We understand, and no one is angry. Breathe slowly."

He really did try to, but he was shaking hard, and his breath was too caught up behind painful ribs. His eyes were wet with tears. Ben felt like he was coming apart; all the emotion bottled up inside him with nowhere to go. Suddenly he found himself enfolded tightly in someone's arms. He dropped his head down onto a broad shoulder, and just let himself breathe, let the simple comfort of being held push down the panic and dread that was coursing through him. A soft hand was smoothing down his hair. After a few minutes, he pulled away and Pakat let him go.

"I'm okay," Ben said, at their looks of concern. "I'm all right. Sorry."

His nose finally seemed to have stopped bleeding, which is just as well or Pakat would be covered in it by now. Shaarm's hand had moved from his hair to supporting the back of his neck.

"Here." She handed him a damp wash cloth. Ben wiped his face, washing some of the drying blood from his face and beard, and the salt from his eyes. Shaarm peered into his face.

"May I carry on?"

He nodded, and she resumed dressing the burns on his neck. It took her a while to cleanse the wound of blood and pus, and he found himself sinking into misery. He had frightened the girls, awakened the whole household in the middle of the night, and had almost fallen into a full blown panic-attack, all over a dream…But his mind kept going back to the blue, blue light that burned, and those mad eyes.

Are you ready to burn for your silence?

Who was he?

"We need to talk, Ben."

It was early the next morning. Shaarm had carried him back to his sleeping pallet after she had finished dressing his neck, but he had not slept again that night. He was not sure anyone else had either. The girls had been quiet and subdued at breakfast that morning, but they were out in the garden now with Grandmother, and he could hear laughter through the halls. Children recovered quickly. Shaarm had cornered him then and made him sit at the table while she checked the burns on his neck. He had apparently torn at the wound in his nightmare and damaged the new skin that was forming under the cauterised burn. Shaarm re-dressed the injury, and then stuck a green patch, this time radiating cold, over the dressing. When she had not moved to help him down from the seat afterwards, Ben realised she wanted to talk. Pakat and Chana were hovering nearby, putting items away in cupboards or on the shelves. They were clearly to be part of the discussion too, but were trying not to crowd him.

"Do you not have to go to work?" he asked Shaarm.

"I have told them that there is an emergency and I will be in later. Ooouli as well," Shaarm answered, "and do not try to change the subject."

He smiled, a little.

"We are very worried Ben," she said. He nodded, swallowing, and turned the earthenware cup round in his hands.

"I know. I am sorry that I have brought this to your home."

"Make amends," Chana suggested, "by telling us what you dreamed about."

Ben shook his head instantly. "No."

She sighed. "You dreamed about your injuries, correct? About being hurt?"

"Yes," he conceded.

"Ben," Shaarm was looking overly calm. The two husbands had stopped still, no longer pretending to be busy. "When we treated your wounds, there were some that may have been caused by an accident. A fall, perhaps. Your ribs, the internal injuries...But there were others….Ben, we think someone may have hurt you on purpose. In Basic you would say...torture."

The Kheelians looked at him as if unsure what his reaction was going to be.

Ben nodded, carefully, rubbing his chin through his beard. His fingers brushed the bandaging on his neck. "Yes, I know. I came to the same conclusion myself when I woke up on the moor. I had almost decided not to come down to the village when I saw the lights in case it was where I had escaped from."

Pakat especially looked shocked and a little upset at that.

"We are not violent," Chana said, quietly. "We defend ourselves if we must, but one Kheelian does not do violence to another. Not any more."

"I know that now, and it is admirable," Ben said, soothingly. "But not all peoples are the same, I think. There is much danger and darkness in the galaxy."

"Listening to you speak of violence and darkness, of torture...it is as if the war had come here after all," Pakat looked sad.

"The war?"

"There is a terrible war engulfing much of the galaxy," Shaarm explained. "Many planets have been destroyed and many people suffer. It is a war about power, between those who want to stay in the republic, and those who want to leave."

"And which side are you on?" Ben asked.

"We are neutral. We govern ourselves and do not travel into the stars. Years ago, our planet was engulfed in a terrible civil war. We survived, and since the peace was forged, all Kheelians abhor violence and pursue only peace. I have a former colleague," she added, seemingly out of the blue. "He works in the city, helping people who have been in accidents, on the roads or trains for instance, or in a fire. He helps them not to be afraid and to feel whole again. I told him about you, and what we guessed had happened to you. He said that talking about anything you could remember might help. That your missing memories might come back if you can tell us anything you dream of."

Ben smiled sadly, and said; "I can't," but what he meant was I won't. The Kheelians were peaceful, caring and gracious, and he had come crashing into their lives. The best kindness he could do them in return was not to drag them into the horrors of his.

"I understand," she said, but he doubted that she did. "I would like to take you to my surgery at Tszaaf soon, now that you are able to walk. We have very good medical equipment there, and I would like to check your leg and organs, and run a scan of your nervous system. Without an identity, getting your treatment will be difficult….we can try next week when many staff will be away. But even though you seem to be healing now, you do not seem...well. And your memories do not return. Perhaps it is the shock of the torture. We found no head injury, although it remains possible that there is some other underlying cause, like a tumour. But I feel that your captors, somehow, did this."

It was Ben's turn to sigh now. "Yes," he admitted. "I think you are right. My head feels…strange. I think they must have done something to me a bit more serious than just breaking a few fingers."

Chana winced at his casual tone. "Forgive me..." the Kheelian said. "You do not seem very concerned by what has happened to you."

"Concerned? I am terrified." Ben admitted. "But I can see that my pain is in the past and cannot be changed. I must be mindful of the present, and therefore now I am more frightened about what they wanted."

The Kheelians looked at each other, puzzled.

"Pechnar are complicated," he tried to explain. "Some are peaceful, yes, but others are cruel, or driven to cruelty to achieve a goal. I do not think they hurt me for just for sport. The dream I had. It was a memory, and I-" Ben paused, unwilling to carry on. "I had something they wanted."

"Credits?" Chana guessed, trying in vain to picture what cruel men might hurt others for. "Power?"

"Information," suggested Pakat. Ben nodded.

"I am frightened of what I told them, I am worried as to why I knew anything of value in the first place, and I am terrified of what my weakness might mean for others."

"But how do you know that you told them anything?" Shaarm said. "Perhaps they changed their minds? They did bandage the wound in your leg." She did not look convinced even as she said it.

"But they did not treat it," Pakat reminded them all. "It was bandaged to stop the bleeding, but they did not take the metal out." He looked sickened. "Maybe they were just trying to keep you alive for long enough."

Ben nodded. "I am afraid that you are right. I do not think I would still be alive if-" He stopped, suddenly. A horrible thought had come into his mind. A horrible, terrible, desperate thought.

"Ben?" Chana asked, worried. "What is it?"

"Oh," said Pakat, who seemed to have come to the same realisation. "Oh."

"You were saying you would not be alive if you had told them," Chana said, trying to follow their logic. "But you are alive, so therefore you told them nothing. But that is good, yes?"

"Yes," said Shaarm, looking uncertain. "Except it means that whoever took Ben did not get what they wanted."

"I thought I had been running," Ben said, "When I woke on the moor. I seemed to remember I had been running, but I had no shoes."

"You escaped..." Pakat concluded.

"Wait," said Chana with alarm. "Are we saying that they might still be looking for Ben? That someone could follow him?"

"Let us hope not," said Shaarm firmly. "And even if they were hunting him, I do not see that they could track him here. His residence here has not been registered with the authorities, unless we report it or he receives medical treatment. We are in the middle of nowhere, even beyond the end of the railway line. Who would search here? More than that, we do not even know how Ben got here."

"It is unfortunate that there are not more Pechnar." Pakat frowned. "You are too distinctive. Everyone in Thet knows about you by now, and they will tell others."

"I should leave," Ben said, feeling as if ice had been poured into his stomach. "If there is any chance that they could-"

"You will not! Do you think we would cast you aside the moment that there was the slightest suggestion of danger?" It was the first time Ben had seen Shaarm angry, and it was an intimidating sight. "We are peaceful, not cowards! You will stay, until you are healthy, or until you freely choose to leave us. You will not be driven out, or taken from us! I will not allow it."

Humbled, he bowed his head, realising he had said something wrong. "I did not mean to suggest such a thing. I apologise."

"I accept," she said, straight away, and stroked his hair to indicate her forgiveness. Chana and Pakat crowded closer, patting his shoulders and back, and Shaarm's fur. No-one spoke for a minute or two.

"I am pleased that some of your memories are returning to you," Shaarm said, quietly. "It suggests that the damage may not be permanent. I hope you remember something that you feel you can tell us."

"I think perhaps there are some things I would be better off never to remember," Ben said, feeling hollowed out. "My old life does not seem to have been one that I should want to go back to." The conversation had drained him entirely, and he felt old and tired. They looked it him in silence for a moment.

"There are many things about you which we do not understand, Ben," Pakat said. "But every living thing in the galaxy has its worth, and you are quite unique. Do you not realise that you have been speaking our language fluently all morning? You learned it in three days."

Ben stared at him in astonishment. "But I do not -" he stopped, frowning, because the words did not come out in Basic. He was indeed speaking Kheelian.

"I did not notice," he said, slightly disquieted.

"Your accent is truly terrible," said Chana, with a smile, "but it is better than my Basic, I am sure."

"I am sorry, but I must go," Shaarm said, "Or Ooouli's teachers will be furious. Ben, you must rest. There are more heat and cold packs in the kitchen if your injuries pain you, and Chana has laid out some of your food in the cooler. But today you are to do no walking or carrying. And do not let Tiki make you play with her for too long. You are only to rest, and not to think or worry."

He nodded, but he did not think there was much chance of that.

The day passed much as Shaarm had decreed. She and Ooouli were out, and Pakat was tied up with his work worries for much of the time, and was either closeted away in the house somewhere, or up on the moor. For their part, Chana and Grandmother took Shaarm's sanctions seriously, and Ben was allowed only to walk between his room, the living area and the washroom. He spent several turns playing quietly with Tiki, but it wasn't long before they had gone through all her puzzles and picture books, and were both bored stiff. Grandmother took her out for a long walk after lunch, leaving Ben alone in the house 'to rest'. He, slightly rebelliously, walked out through the house to the garden. He explored it thoroughly, investigating every tool, every variety of plant in their beds, and the irrigation system drawn from the well's deep waters, and the wind-powered generator. That took up one turn.

He went and lay down in his room, to sleep perhaps, but he just ended up looking at the ceiling and doing the two things Shaarm had told him not to do. Think and worry.

Pakat said he had learned their language in three days, but that could not be true. For one thing, many of the words in their conversation that morning; violence, cruelty and war; those he had certainly not learned from Ooouli's text book. He was certain now that he had known how to speak Kheelian already. It was just concerning that, yesterday, he could not remember that. He was still having a great deal of difficulty with the Kheelian written language though – he had not been able to read any of Ooouli's books that did not come with a translation. And Chana had said his accent was terrible. So it seemed clear that he probably did not come from here. Perhaps he was from Tszaaf or a similar town, or even from the City where Pechnar were populous. He must have a job which meant he had dealings with the Kheelians enough that he knew their language but did not need to write it often. It seemed like a likely solution to the riddle, but solving it did not bring with it much in the way of relief, or satisfaction.

He closed his eyes, and tried to do what Shaarm had said. Tried to block out a spiralling wave of feeling and a thousand unanswered questions and fears. Attempted to access some kind of harmony and balance that came deeper than conscious thought. There is no emotion, he told himself. Only peace. All he got was another nosebleed.

After what seemed like an afternoon which lasted forever, the family returned. Dinner that evening was as near a perfect event as he could picture. He could understand and join in the conversation for the first time, and he did actually feel improved for his enforced rest. Everyone's fears and doubts of the previous night seemed to have been been put aside, and there was music and food and laughter. Chana had composed a poem, and he tested it out on the family. Chana really was an artist; even though he still didn't understand all the language, Ben's mind was whisked away by the skill of the words to a far off place in a swirl of linguistic colour and motion. They all cheered and applauded uproariously when Chana had finished reading, and at Shaarm's insistence, he read out several other pieces which seemed to be family favourites. Even Grandmother stopped her recitation from the red-bound tome to listen. After the meal was was over, Ben spent a while working with Ooouli on her Basic. She had an exam in a few days that she was practising for, and had come along tremendously. Ben enjoyed teaching her, but too soon Shaarm was telling the girls to bid him goodnight. Ben sat for a while and listened to the adults talk about the events of the village and the town, of Shaarm's colleague who had been accepted to publish in a prestigious academic journal, on the price of Ooouli's school robes in comparison to last season. Ordinary, beautiful, wonderful, everyday things, all a world away from mysterious injuries, torture and tattered memories.

Then night came, and he was back in his room, lying on his bed in his sleeping clothes, starring up at the curved ceiling and wondering what he was going to do. Why was he here, in this house, in this village? Could he stay here? Should he? If not, where else could he go?

Unbidden, Ben's thoughts turned inexorably back to the nightmare. His one memory of the time before he was here, and it was one he could hardly bear to examine. As with the nature of dreams, much of the detail had gone from his mind, but the emotions remained. He had felt fear and pain and dread, and more oddly, resignation. No, perhaps that was not the word...Acceptance. Ben had felt acceptance that he was being tortured, and determination to hold out as long as he could, for...what? He wasn't sure. But he remembered speaking; his own voice was unafraid and more, he had been sarcastic, throwing out dry witticisms at his enemy's expense. What sort of life had he led that even a torture chamber provoked amusement?

But more than the fear and horror, his own strange sense of humour, more even than the mad eyes, he remembered a single word.

And that word was lightsaber.