A/N: Curtis is starting to get one too many knocks on the brain. Italicized Text = Dumac | **Stars** = Slitter
Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.
Chapter 28: Partial Recall, p.1
The latch on his helmet was stuck. Probably bent by the force of the hammer strike on his collar. He looked around for any more foes to pop out from behind the rocks, the bushes, the next hill. He risked taking off his helmet to better hear the world.
Below ground, it wasn't really silent. The world hummed at its very bones as it twirled like a music box doll. Above ground the tone was higher, breathier. The light wind fluttered about the helices of his ears, whispering distractions.
He determinedly ignored the background ambiance, more intent on locating any further dangers.
He and five guards had been traveling overland to get to a southern station that had gone silent. The strongest listeners heard nothing, not even the buzz or squeal of emergency beacons. The station, of necessity, was above ground to monitor a growing new magma pocket in that section of the island, a sign pressure under Vvardenfell was shifting. It was only meant to be a temporary station, but it was important enough that he'd check on it himself.
It was supposed to be a fast trip, but rotten luck that they'd run into a platoon of outlanders.
His people protected him from the melee fighters while he invoked his magic to cast flesh armor spells to reinforce their bodies; combined Restoration boosts to health, endurance, and speed; and an overarching shield dome to deflect arrows and spells and to make difficult the advance of their foes; a telekinetic spell guided the poison coated stars he threw into the air to find the human archers and battlemages.
When the archers and battlemages were dead, he threw the rest of his power reserves into recasting the flesh-armor spells, then took his two maces in hand and joined his guards. At the end, about two dozen humans had fled. They didn't have the time or energy to chase after them. It was futile anyway. Battlesuits were heavy and a disadvantage to scrambling up over hills and rocks, and the outlanders knew that, so they usually fought like Chimer in hit-and-run tactics unless they thought they had overwhelming numbers to try a toe-to-toe battle.
His head hurt. "Not again!" he groaned. The world creaked and rocked. He smelled wood and salt water. "Fuck no! I did this already!" he snarled. "What the fuck?"
** It had been an ambush. The Wah'lu Street gang had been waiting for them. So they were starting their territory pushing now. He and his buddies where going to be the first kills, except that he'd managed to throw off his attackers, kill one, and run. His friends weren't so fortunate. **
He heard people talking. Altmeris. He looked towards the voices. His arms were behind his back and tingled with that unpleasant side effect of magic-sucking shackles. He was lying on a pile of rough burlap. The room was scarcely bigger than he was, he could easily bang his head and his feet against opposite walls.
He started concentrating on a yoga breathing exercise, dragon's breath, a rapid puffing working the diaphragm. Focus. Fight the mind-numbing effects of the shackles. Push back all the questions clamoring in his head. Push back the emotions. Prioritize. Focus. Assess.
There wasn't much to remember. He'd had his head down, scanning the beach for seaweed and oysters. He liked whatever was in Tamriel's oysters, and he usually got lucky finding pearls, already having a half dozen he was going to make into a necklace for Colette. Beck and Elden trailed behind him, father and son indulging their charge's wish to beachcomb along the sands where the White River drained into the sea. It had seemed harmless enough. It was low tide and visibility was clear for miles around.
They'd walked far enough south to come to the collapsed tower built into the cliff side. From the Game, Curtis knew it had been the back door to Yngol's Tomb. He looked east for the wrecked ship that used to have a pirate gang camping out there. All that was left was a pile of burnt timber. He could see the masts of another ship passing on the far side of the atoll.
Tide was rolling in fast. Elden had cried out, pointing to a small horker struggling near the waterline. It was tangled in a fishing net. He and Beck went to help Elden to wrestle the horker back onto sand where they could do their best to pin it long enough for Elden to cut the net.
There was a blast of fire. Elden screaming as the force threw him back into the tides. Beck shoving him down behind the horker's burnt corpse just before a second blast hit. Not directly at them, no, but near enough for the shock waves to stun them. Beck shouting as gold and glass armored warriors appeared from nowhere. They flinched from the Nord gift, but recovered quickly with experience's skill. Too many.
Beck went down. A sword hilt to the back of his skull was the last that Curtis remembered.
He was tired. Remembering was tiring. He was too tired to grieve properly. He let himself drift into sleep.
He called to the nearest fortress to report this battle. There were a lot of Dwemer items in the enemies' possession, and so he wanted salvagers to come out and try to determine where the loot came from, which settlement may need help.
They got near the area where the station was. It wasn't built for defense, so it sat in a depression in the land; that was the problem, then. There was the slightest of mists filling that depression. He took a spectrometer from his pack, opened the ends of the tube, and put it in the mist, swirling it gently around so that oxygen was displaced and only the mist was in the tube. He sealed it and lifted it out. Now he added power to the device, and they all watched the tiny, colorful gems light in a sequence of patterns as gases were identified.
So, a heavy cloud of poisonous volcanic gas had seeped out a vent somewhere, filled the depression, killed everything inside it within minutes. Station machinery took no damage, so no automated distress signal.
The thought — the prayer — as he woke was, "Beck, Elden, don't be ashamed to run and hide. Alduin's hunting in mist. Stay safe."
A guard finally opened the door. Behind him, another guard stood ready.
"Oh, so you're finally awake. I suppose we should feed you." The door closed. A short time later, it reopened. The guard put down a bowl. "On your stomach. I'll free your hands. Attempting an escape is useless. If you haven't figured it out by now, you're on a ship. There's nowhere to go."
"Yeah, yeah," Curtis muttered as he rolled over. "Be a good boy and get chocolate cake later with cherries on top."
The chain was removed from his cuffs. The soup was fish, hot and decently flavored, he gave them that. They set a little bucket inside and shut the door, leaving him back in the dark. With nothing else to do, he curled back up and went back to sleep.
"Alert," a guard said.
They looked. A middle-aged Chimer, red crested, dressed in boots, kilt, and vest strolled casually towards them. He used his chitin spear like a walking stick and still had his shield slung on his back.
"You came quickly. Good. We found one of yours unconscious just outside that valley of death. I hope you have a healer in your group. We've done our best for her, but none of us know much beyond herbals and minor healing spells. I would've sent word to your nearest settlement, but I didn't know where one was. You see, we've been following this group of outlanders for a while, and we're far from our home territory."
The Chimer's attitude was far too casual. He was far from his home? Of what tribe? The particular tribes of this area were hostile and would attack any Dwemer. This one claimed to be trying to assist.
"What do you want for her return, Chimer?" The Chimer frowned faintly. These savages were so sensitive about their courtesy protocols, but he wasn't in the mood to entertain a Chimer's ego. He was concerned for the injured researcher, but these primitives going out of their way, expending healing resources —if truly they did — for a Dwemer was near impossible to conceive. She was either the bait of a trap or a prize for ransom.
"Nothing, Dwemer. I expect nothing. She's dying, and we don't have the skill or resources to save her. Only from misplaced kindness do I go out of my way to tell you of her on the chance you value her life.
"Now, come or not. My people are chasing down the ones who escaped you." He pivoted away and began walking. "Slow as you are, you need to start moving now. Your injured woman needs your help."
His name was Ancarion. He was the Justiciar in charge of this base. Unfortunately, they seemed to have had a history.
"Slitter, it took me a long time to believe that you are this 'Curtis Johnson' I've heard tales about. You now how this goes; your cooperation will make things easier for you."
"What you mean, dawg, is that it makes things easier for you. You didn't kill my friends and float my ass here in a box for a tea party. You ain't gettin' shit outta me."
"Actually," the Justiciar drawled, "I fully intend to get some informative shit out of you, Slitter." He held up his gloved hand. Sparks played out his spread fingers. "I was quite put out that Mogrul finally tried to bully someone who didn't hesitate to put a knife in him. He had been quite useful.
"I congratulate you on attaching yourself to a new master such as Mage-Lord Baladas. You are certainly far more intelligent than you played since last I saw you. You acted the brutish idiot thug very well when you were with Mogrul.
"And scarcely a year later, after Baladas joined the College of Winterhold, you come along and quickly rise to prominence as another expert in Dwemer technology.
"Now, tell me about this aetherius forge in the Rift."
"Aetherium," corrected Curtis. "You'll find it in that ripoff book by Taron Dreth, who stole all her work to publish under his own name after her accidental death on her last expedition. Calcelmo tore him apart during the symposium on Dwemer metallurgy that Dreth was the star speaker on."
"Tell me about the forge."
"Don't know nothin' about it. Don't know nothin' about a forge. Read Dreth's book yourself. He's a thief and liar, but he stole from the best."
A couple more shocks, but Curtis didn't change his story.
"What is your master doing at Goldenglow?"
"Not a clue. He doesn't report to me, y'know."
Ancarion obviously thought Baladas was masterminding everything. Curtis was happy to go along with that. And so far, the shocks were painful, but not yet debilitating, not yet causing permanent damage. He was happy to talk.
But he didn't think playing the idiot assistant would work for long. Ancarion, so far, was fixated on Baladas. Curtis could see that. Baladas had the reputation of being a Dwemer Researcher. He was also still on the Telvanni ruling council, and the Telvanni was still a major House in Morrowind. Telvanni had established two towns in Skyrim. Ancarion was also blinded by his previous acquaintance with Slitter. Curtis didn't think that would hold for very long. He had to have some brains to be a Justiciar; he'd figure out soon enough that the data wasn't compiling right. Then the real interrogation would begin.
Another day of sailing, and they docked finally at a rocky islet with a crumbling tower.
It looked familiar.
It was also freezing. He could see the ocean and the ice sheets and wrecked piers and skeletons of two broken, partially sunken ships.
The winds about the rocky islet created a banshee's forlorn keening, and he remembered — Japhet's Folly, the pirate killing quest from the East Empire Office in Windhelm.
One dock had been repaired, the one Ancarion's sleek schooner was moored at. There were two other Dominion frigates, one sharing the dock, one anchored further out. The burnt rubble of gates and shacks leveled by the East Empire Company at some earlier time when the Blood Horker pirates used to be here had been cleared away. Now there were rows of tents and plenty of Altmer soldiers and sailors moving among them. And there were stacks of new lumber for rebuilding the docks and other structures.
Wonderful. The islet was outside the shipping lanes, and Dominion weather wizards had re-cloaked the area in a dense fog. Now they had themselves a nice supply and repair dock from which the Dominion Navy could resupply before striking at any Skyrim or Morrowind port.
The stuffed him into one of the new cages set in the lowest room of the fortress, formerly a large storage area. The room where Japhet's corpse was to found in the Game was the torture area.
This sucked. The corridor that led to the sea cave was four flights up and the areas between the flights of stairs seemed to have plenty of mer, off-duty or otherwise, milling about. The fortress was chilly, but warmer and out of the unceasing wind outside, so only natural that off-duty personnel came inside for their card and dice games or general relaxation. He'd hoped the sea cave would be too damp and too cold to be used for either storage or recreation, and so maybe he could do something there. But if he couldn't get there…
He wasn't alone in the prison. The cage at the left held a Dunmer woman. The cage on the right had a Nord. Both were captains of their respective ships. The Dominion were using their ships and crews to do their spy work and to survey pirate hideouts for future supply depot potential.
The Nord, Vragi, was a Blood Horker pirate who had come back to Japhet's Folly to see if there were things he could salvage and to recover chests he knew were buried in spots around the islet. He hadn't thought twice about sailing through the mists, which were a natural event during the winter season. When the mists abruptly cleared, they were between two Dominion frigates and Dominion sailors had them grappled and were boarding.
The Dunmer, Nyassa, had a family-crewed small fishing vessel and had been doing a last run of the season between Solstheim and Blacklight, with a load of dragon bones salvaged from the island's dragon temple. They'd been sailing along, there was fog, and then there was a Dominion frigate cutting in front of them.
"You sell dragon bones?" asked Curtis.
"Of course not, Slitter, you know as well as I that any major sale like that is controlled by Morvayn. The deal is between Councilor Morvayn and Cliffracer Enterprises, a company owned by Sedura Sadri and two Redoran master smiths in Blacklight. They make armor and weapons out of the Dragon bones. When the fishing is down, it's good money to run bones even if the guarantee is steep. A whole damn season's profits on that guarantee." She sighed unhappily. "'Course, guarantee be damned. I just don't want any more of my family to die."
"We're all dead anyway once they're done with us," the Nord stated. "Some more painfully than others." He looked at Curtis. "You say they snatched you because of who you work for, then?"
"Yeah. Mage-Lord Baladas. S'wits think I can give away his secrets."
"How did you go from working for that n'wah Mogrul to a Telvanni lord?" asked Nyassa. "The stories that have come back to us from Winterhold about you are too fantastic to believe. From Mogrul's enforcer to Dwemer researcher?
** Wasn't much to tell. His mother did what she could around the docks short of whoring. She did short-term accounting and clerk work, she mended nets, did laundry and clothes mending — but she had a lung sickness that sapped her strength and the cold seasons laid her in her bed barely able to move or breath. There was no money to travel to the warm southern lands to possibly start over.
He didn't know his father. Some sailor whose ship never came back. He ran errands for anyone who tossed him a coin, he stole food and medicines, he got caught by an old guard. An old guard with no family and going senile because he seemed to think the angry little boy was his grandson, and his mother, the widow of his son. He moved them in. Mother did housekeeping. The man's friends were civil enough, seeing their old comrade was happy in his delusion that lost family had come back.
He got admitted into basic training for the Redoran guards. He took orders well enough, not noted for active intelligence, but excelled at learning weapon skills.
He wasn't so good with controlling his temper. One fight too many got him kicked out. It had been shortly after his mother had finally succumbed to her illness. Then, after that, the old man had also succumbed to age. He was back on the streets. Got a job as bouncer at a bar owned by someone with a lot of street interests. Got into enforcer work. Eventually, the boss paired him with a fast-talking Orc who had a knack for scenting prey desperate for money. Smart Orc. Lousy battle skills. It worked.
Eventually, they were set up in Solstheim. It was profitable enough until Mogrul threatened this little Hlaalu girl after she helped Geldis's potboy escape his debt by finding him employment with a Telvanni wizard, making him untouchable. Mogrul tried to make her assume the debt. He tried to tell Mogrul it was a bad move. The little girl wasn't even half his bulk, barely shoulder height, wasn't even 20, but he knew death incarnate when he saw it. But Mogrul had gotten arrogant and enjoyed throwing his weight around; didn't listen.
He couldn't prove that it was her that slipped past him one night and knifed Mogrul. Even if he could, he wouldn't. Hlaalu ran the Morag Tong, and though the Morag Tong was officially ended, she had to be one of them. He wasn't that stupid or suicidal. **
No, he didn't know the exact relationship between Baladas and Revyn Sadri and the Felix Family. Yes, he knew Baladas was currently working on something with the Felixes at Goldenglow. No, he didn't know what. Yes, they'd found Dwemer ruins underneath the ancient Nord barrow called Skytemple. No, he had no idea why it was called Skytemple. What was in the Dwemer ruins? Old machinery — what else does one find in Dwemer ruins? It was restricted because it was the first ruins they'd found that had been untouched since the Dwemer disappeared.
He was very involved in the rebuilding of Winterhold. Why, if he had all this knowledge, why had he been working with Mogrul? Was it a cover to do research on the Dwemer ruins on that miserable island? Was he working for Baladas even then, perhaps doing Dwemer research in secret because the other Telvanni Councilor, Neloth, had already claimed territory there and Telvanni masters were infamous for their territorial nature?
What was really being done at Winterhold? How was the Dragonborn involved? What was the College hiding? What collaborations did the College have with Sadri?
He had to be carried back to his cell. Shock induced spasms had torn leg muscles. Ancarion had healed the tears afterwards, but the memory of the trauma lingered as deep soreness, the type that warned there would be screaming residual spasms afterwards.
Nyassa had a visitor, a tired looking mer. He wore the magic-inhibiting slave cuffs, and he sat outside her cell, their arms going through the bars to embrace. Slitter identified him as her son, but couldn't recall his name. She indulged his story of partial amnesia due to a head injury received after he'd left Solstheim, and introduced her son, Nidren.
"Winterhold's your new home? That's the next destination," said Nidren. We're to catch a load of fish and haul it there to sell. Stay a few days to gather information." He regarded Curtis, closed his eyes and wearily shook his head. "A month at least before we actually get there. We still need to catch the fish and then pick up spies. I somehow doubt you'll still be here by then. Even so, none of my crew will be allowed off the ship. Khajiit Thalmor will pose as part of our crew."
"Oh, like that ain't suspicious," growled Curtis. "A Dunmer crew coming in from the storms with a haul of fish and not taking shore leave in a town full of other Dunmer? And the captain and first officer are Khajiit? That's B.S. right there."
The mer shrugged wearily. "It would seem a good chance to escape, if I were willing to sacrifice the kids. Whenever we get near shore, they chain the youngest four below deck and threaten to blow the ship if the rest of us don't return on time. We could walk away from mama, our captain, because she would want it, but we can't from the kids."
"I feel ya." Curtis was exhausted. He curled up and went to sleep.
He entered the lake of poisonous gas surrounded by his strongest shield column that reached high above him and opened to the clean air. He alone. It was all his potion refueled power reserves could handle. Two guards stood outside to keep watch for any danger. The three other guards accompanied the Chimer back to his camp to retrieve this injured Dwemer scientist. He went to the base and retrieved the data cubes and picked the family badges off the bodies. He turned off the machines and removed the power gems. Before quitting the area, he chiseled on the door frame a volcanic vent warning so that any Dwemer that came here after the gas had dissipated would know not to linger too long.
He let his shield collapse and sat down to rest until the time gems on his bracelet alerted him that it was time to communicate. He dropped into a meditative state, listening for his secretary who knew his reception schedule. Soon enough he heard her voice in the wind. She relayed:
…A call-back from the nearest settlement. They were in the process of relocating vital resources to underground bunkers and it would be at minimum three days before salvagers could come out to sort through the dead.
…His men with the Chimer reporting the last researcher was technically alive, but as good as dead; there was only empty silence from her mind. They would terminate body function and bury her before returning. The red-crested Chimer insists on returning with them, stating his intention was to talk.
…A scientist at Bthanchend requesting a location where a courier could meet them to bring any retrieved research back to Bthanchend.
…A request from the lord at Bthuand for advice/directive regarding a large tribe of Chimer that was moving into the land above them. At present, the Chimer did not appear to be actively looking for battle.
He dictated to his secretary what replies were to be sent and then queries of his own and orders she was to relay onward.
Nyassa's youngest child was allowed to visit, a girl of 16. She'd be a pretty girl if she wasn't too thin and too haggard with worry and fear, he thought as he reluctantly woke to her shaking him.
"Sera, sera," she repeated urgently in low tones.
He groaned. "I'm awake. Stop touchin' me. That's the shoulder they fried today."
"Apologies, sera. But look!" She held her open hand before his eyes. She'd worn the ring turned around. The flat disk of the plain silver ring had College's stamp on it. A standard issue waterbreathing ring.
"Elden is alive. We got him aboard last night, but we can't hide him too long aboard. When it gets dark again, he's going into a small cave he found that leads into the fortress."
"How the h-, did he tell you how in Oblivion he got here?"
"I don't know. Nidren and Fendas are the only ones talking with him right now. Nidren gave me the ring and told me to tell you your friend's alive."
"My family is allowed to visit individually, never twice," said Nyassa, "which is why Nidren isn't telling you himself."
"Kid, turn around and talk to your mother, not to me. You shouldn't be observed talking to me," said Curtis urgently, glancing to the doorway. The girl promptly went to her mother's arms. "Good girl. Now, when you go back, ask if Elden still has his lightwand. If he does, tell him I need one of the powergems. The powergem should come with the strongest one with any magical talent. Got it? No, don't look at me, look at your mother."
"Deliver a powergem if he has one, yes, sera, and send it with Ulmora," she answered, looking into her mother's face.
** Mogrul was dead. It would be stupid to stay. No one in Raven Rock wanted him around. Forget joining with those worthless reavers. Little death girl used them to sharpen her sword and spell skills because no one cared how many she killed or how she killed them. He could probably return to the boss in Blacklight, but once he explained how Mogrul died, he could forget about ever getting any good jobs.
Might as well try his luck in Skyrim. Start clean maybe. **
It was hard to focus. It wasn't just the pain, it was the drugs Ancarion had started using. Curtis was hallucinating episodes he supposed were Dumac's life, and so the person doing all the talking to Ancarion was Slitter. He was entertaining the Thalmor, who listened eagerly as Slitter went from telling his life with Mogrul to following Helsette Felix Faro around the island. A day behind always. He'd figured places she went through were safe enough to look for treasure. She couldn't carry everything, he figured. She took the most valuable stuff, but he could pick up small things that she missed or passed over.
So he told Ancarion about the Dwemer ruins. The underground towns. The machines. The other ores besides ebony that were still on the island. And stories about Helsette further distracted Ancarion. He'd seemed to have had his own encounter with her which left him curiously angry. He also eagerly listened to any stories Slitter had about Revyn Sadri's commercial activities in Raven Rock.
Tattling on those two, with tales anybody could pick up in a few evenings in the tavern, distracted Ancarion, who didn't press Slitter to explain anything technological, although Curtis was surprised at how much Slitter had picked up from knowing absolutely zero about machines.
Who knew a multiple personality condition could be so useful? Or that Slitter would suddenly come forward, essentially launching a Sybil/sock puppet attack as a countermeasure?
Slitter was the one who was actually handling the pain during interrogation and shielding Curtis. He'd been in a lot of battles, had taken physical and magical damage. Fought through them. He may not be an honorable Redoran, but he was Redoran. Boethiah's favorite war dog stock. He was holding ground.
But he was off-duty now leaving Curtis to handle the recovery part, and plot for escape. These weird dreams — memories — were teaching him techniques. The old programs were slowly migrating. This wasn't the time to be stubborn. He had to accept it. Absorb it. Not just for himself, but for Elden, for Beck, for Nyassa and her family, and for that stubborn lug comforting himself with X-rated dreams about Colette and vague wish dreams of teaching small hands how to properly grip their first sword.
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