War is a game of chess. Every soldier, every outpost, every vehicle, all of it; we're worth certain points. To sacrifice something of low value to protect that of greater worth is the law of the battle field. A pawn to save a knight. A knight to save a rook. A rook to save a queen. Lives have price tags. It's economics. It's math. In the game of war that's what a human soul comes down to: numbers.
-Peacemaker
PRESENT ...
Peacemaker was exactly six foot one and one hundred and eighty pounds. He was barrel chested, straight backed, and an expert marksman. He almost always was seen chewing on the end of a cigar - Cuban only - never smoking though an earthy savor clung to his clothes. He wore a black uniform, marking him as a field agent and the fabric was kept clean and lintless as though he lived in a vacuum. Although the insignia at his shoulder proclaimed him a Knight, he had no problem bossing around a Rook. No one bothered to correct his lack of respect for his superiors. With muscles like a bears and enough scars to make a sadist blush, no one was stupid enough to so much as frown in disapproval.
The aircraft touched down on the helipad at 0300 local time. The new V320-Osprey had the speed of a jet and the maneuverability of a helicopter accomplished by the unique twin tilt-turbine engines. Even though he'd ridden one before, Peacemaker was still impressed. He hefted his dufflebag and jumped from the aircraft. Personnel milled about to refuel and tend the plane. Peacemaker tried to orient himself.
He paced to the edge of the tower. Below, the castle was dark. Here or there patrolmen or spotlights threw up a dim orange glow against the stone walls. From their approach in the air, Peacemaker had watched the imposing dark structure against the sky swell. The fortress was set high, capping the ridge of a mountain. From his position, he could make out the courtyard, the keep, great hall, gatehouse, and there, the barracks. He plotted a course for the soldier's quarters in his head. It had been a while since he'd returned. A long while.
"Sir!" a voice shouted. Peacemaker turned to one of the ground marshalers. He wore bright orange sound-canceling ear guards. "You're asked to report to the keep!"
Peacemaker nodded and braced against the mounting jet lag. Sleep could wait. Being called back like this, no warning, so quickly, it had to be something important.
His trip to the keep was uneventful. The castle's interior defied every trope that pervaded the concept of a castle. The halls were well lit for security purposes. Besides, candelabra were against fire codes. Cameras were mounted at almost every archway and corner. Keycard access points and fingerprint scanners controlled entrances. Doorways had been reinforced with steel frames and motorized locking mechanisms.
When he reached the keep, a Pawn on desk duty referred him to the third level briefing room. A short elevator trip later, he disembarked on the proper floor and marched into the briefing room. Stainless steel panels had been drilled into the ancient stonework, making the room bright and sterile feeling. A walkway led to the front of the room, either side lowering a few steps into tech pits where tables circled the edge of the room harboring touch screen desks, towers of monitors, and a fleet of nerds attending to the technology.
Peacemaker scanned the intel agents, all clad in white uniforms. They were a sun deprived and frail race. Peacemaker's lip curled. Of course he valued the results of their work. Intel was as vital to survival as a well maintained weapon. But this? He eyed the closest white Pawn, an emancipated boy hunching over a computer. It looked as though his wrists would snap if he so much as looked at a .9mm let alone tried to lift one. Though he shouldn't judge too harshly. Pawns were only support staff afterall.
Peacemaker breezed past the huddled Pawns to report to the white Bishop at the head of the room. The main monitor immediately caught his eye. It was mounted on the wall, several times larger than any TV screen he'd ever seen. As he stared at the screen, he felt his heart skip a beat. Even though he had been in the graveyard in El Paso, witnessed with his own eyes, the sight of the creature made his blood run cold. He glanced at the monitors of the white Pawns. Each screen was hedged with readings, analysis, and data regarding their latest prisoner: the Texan.
"Agent Peacemaker," the white Bishop nodded. "Welcome."
"Orders are orders," Peacemaker said. "There a reason ya jerked me all the way over here?"
"Can't you guess?" The white Bishop gestured to the screen.
"Already gave my report. Ya need me ta read it to ya?"
"I called you here," a woman's voice said. Peacemaker turned as his side's Bishop, Jessica Midnight, paced to the front. Midnight was everything he'd expect from a black operative. Military pixie cut taming her dark hair; eyes as hard as stone, squinting into his soul with their piercing gaze. She was alert despite the early hour. In place of the ornate officer's uniform, she was dressed in the standard field gear including a sidearm; always ready for action.
Peacemaker nodded, his abbreviation of a salute. "Midnight. Nice to see you out of the fox hole."
"You were the first to interact with the Texan anomaly," Midnight said. "And the only one in your unit it didn't incapacitate." Always right to business with her.
Peacemaker turned back to the main screen. The monitor showed the slumped figure of the Texan restrained in one of their security cells. Peacemaker knew first hand that the Texan's body—or whatever it was—was hard as steel and metallic, even at the joints. He had no clue how the thing could move. But that wasn't his job. In fact, nothing involving the thing concerned him. He caught it. End of story.
Peacemaker shrugged. "If you wanted to thank me, ya could have sent a card."
"It spoke to you, correct?"
"You people even read reports? Why I even bother ta write the thing? Yes, he- it talked to me."
She nodded once. "How are you with interrogations, Peacemaker?"
"You called me off my post to question it?" Peacemaker said. "Really? There was no one else within a three foot radius?"
White Bishop suppressed a smug smile at the reaction. "My thoughts exactly."
"A word?" Midnight said. She whisked forward, barring the white Bishop from their conversation.
"Why you wastin' my time?" Peacemaker asked. "You know how close I am to the arcane artifact-"
"I'm trying to help you," Midnight said. "After that rogue black Knight, our King and Queen are second guessing their picks for promotion. Think you'll get so much as a thank you for that arcane nonsense? They are, however, very interested in the Texan."
"And why's that?"
"All I know is our King wants this done by black side."
"Does he?" Peacemaker frowned, noticing the slight emphasis she placed on the word King. What made him consider this significant, was the way her eyes darted to the sides, the way she focused on her peripherals, trying to make sure no one was listening.
"There's plenty of black Knights around here," he said. "Still no reason to call me."
"Don't sell yourself short. You've proven yourself, Peacemaker. Our King recommended Bordeaux for the interrogation. But I convinced him that you were the better choice. More experienced. Had a previous encounter with the prisoner."
The better choice. What she meant was Peacemaker was Queen's Knight. Sasha Bordeaux. The name was familiar. As far as he could remember, Bordeaux was a fairly new agent. Trained by Midnight as a matter of fact. And as he recalled, Bordeaux was King's Knight.
Both Peacemaker and Midnight were black Queen's agents. As far as duties went, nothing changed. It was a preference of who you got along with. As it was, the current black Queen just happened to be more his pace.
Often absent from the Keep, Peacemaker missed all the little dramas that went on behind the scenes. The power plays. The challenges of the intricate checks and balances. Peacemaker took a moment to ponder Midnight's layered speech. Both black King and Queen were interested in the creature; but their goals were different.
For some reason, Black King was trying to get his men in on the Texan case. Probably so he could restrict the flow of information to the other King and Queens. To counter King's unknown motives, Queen was sending one of her own.
Peacemaker prompted, "What's our royal Queenliness have to say about King's ... interest?" He wasn't as clever with the political speak as Midnight was. But his question got across; Does our Queen think black King's making a play?
A shrug from Midnight.
Peacemaker grunted, brow furrowed.
"Any progress made on this case won't go unnoticed," Midnight said. "I'm sure an observant agent would be well rewarded."
"Rewarded? You mean the opening for Rook?" he clarified.
"Twenty plus years in the field; don't you think it's time to secure a position in a more senior office?"
"Didn't know ya cared, Midnight."
"I could use someone in operations command who sees things on the same level as I do."
"Don't play well with the other kids? Sweet of you to think of me." Peacemaker considered. He was still in his prime. A bit slower to heal, sure. Maybe his mind wandered every now and then. And the thrill; the action; kept reminding him he still had a heart beating away. But maybe it was time ... start thinking about the future.
Midnight allowed a small smile, seeing she'd convinced him. "Knew you'd do the smart thing."
"I ain't said nothin about leaving the field. Just keepin' my options open."
The white Bishop didn't look pleased with his change of mind. Peacemaker knew white Bishop had hoped to gain some glory by having a white operative crack the Texan. Midnight must have really called in some favors to bump Peacemaker to the front of the line.
"Keep me up to date on your progress," Midnight told him. She could have been talking about the interrogation. Or about any reason why black King would be interested in the inmate. But the tilt of her tone seemed to speak to something else. Remember me when you get to the top. Remember what I did to get you there. And remember you owe me for that, she was saying.
Peacemaker suppressed a sigh. Politics. One good reason to stay the hell out of the keep and in the field. Instead he nodded and said, "Sure thing." With that, Midnight excused herself and Peacemaker was left to plan an interrogation.
Jaime awoke screaming and trapeased from one nightmare into another. His arms were encased in dense metal gauntlets up to his elbows. These were attached to thick cables. And those were attached to the ceiling. He dangled from these restraints. He thrashed. But the restraints didn't budge. He kicked, but his feet were shackled in the same manner as his hands; knees to toe.
His side seared and he screamed again. His voice was not his own. It was the strangled shriek from some broken creature. His entire body arched, fighting. Bracing. Defying the crippling pain.
There were no people. Just machines. They were like the programed arms from a car factory. They descended from ceiling compartments, various tools in place of fingers. Scalpels. Needles as thin as hairs. A spinning saw. Clamps. Twisted metal that reminded him of a dentist's scrapers.
A gnarled barb came at him. He tried to break free.
Useless endeavor. The tensile strength of the cables was approximately fourteen tons each.
The barb pressed against his side, dug in, gouged. A second mechanical arm came at the wound with pliers and Jaime's screams rose in a vivid crescendo.
"Stop!" he yelled, "Stop!" until his words morphed into noise.
The machines didn't obey. They worried constantly at his body; or rather, at what was covering it. The glimmering forceps pried away layers of thin onyx like peeling layers from an onion. It was like ripping off his own skin.
And maybe they were. Maybe that was his body and he was trapped in a Kafkan hell. What was at the middle? Oh god, why couldn't Jaime remember what was under it all?
A scalpel honed paper thin moved in, slicing gently, parting the weak point in his body. A yelp escaped his clenched jaw.
Defences weakened, he thought. Priority: prevent access to core.
A warmth stretched across his side. The scalpel halted and snapped. The mechanical arm withdrew, then returned, a toothed saw equipped. It lowered to his hip, carefully selected where his leg met his socket, and sunk its fangs in.
And on it went. The whittling. The gouging. The ripping. Tearing. Hurting. Little by little, his own body betrayed him. His muscles, fighting so desperately at first, unclenched and sucuomed. His ears dulled all sound until his world became his own shrieks in the hollow fire of his prison.
But no matter how deep they gouged, how many sheets of shiny flesh they removed, there was always more. More of his body to be hacked from his ropey sinews. What was he? What did he do to deserve this; this infierno?
No matter how loud he screamed, the mechanical arms—whirling, bending, moving with such grace and precision—never once paused.
Jaime had no idea how long it lasted. He cowered and trembled, waiting for the next groove to be carved into him. He panted, wanting to cry. To die. To get away from this wretched body that made him so weak. So hurtable.
Threat: receding. Running diagnostics. Vitals: abnormal.
Every time he thought of opening his eyes, his heart hammered and his breath caught in his throat. At last, Jaime peered through cautious lids. No tools. He dared to glance up. No mechanical arms. The room was empty. Metal sheets had been riveted into the walls. There was a slab at the wall that Jaime supposed was to act as a bed; when he wasn't, you know, dangling from the ceiling. The floor was mettal as well, patterned with bumps for traction. The floor sloped to a drain at its center. For easy clean up once they actually managed to peel his skin off, he guessed. Jaime clenched his muscles to still his shaking.
No. He was not a ... an animal waiting to be slaughtered. He craned his head up to examine the gauntlets imprisoning his hands.
Vitals: stabilizing. Priority: escape.
Loose Spanish translation as taken in context:
infierno - hell