Escape
© 2021 by Walter Reimer


As prison cells went, Gromov Feranq thought, the set of rooms that comprised his “protective detention” was rather comfortable. Three rooms, not including a full bathroom, and he could quite literally get anything he wanted to eat. He had been very painstakingly examined by a doctor before being confined.

And, yes, ‘confined’ was the right word. The only door was locked and guarded by at least two Special Service agents, the windows could not be opened – of course, the atmosphere outside wasn’t survivably breathable, and none of the room’s communications devices would work. Even his dataport was blocked.

That left the information and entertainment system, and he was ignoring the latter in favor of the former ever since he saw a short piece of Dark Sun, purportedly the story of his task force’s victorious attack on the Kashlanin home system, and the long struggle to get home with a pack of brutal Critters hot on their heels. Knowing the truth, Gromov found the movie grating, if not downright disrespectful to the people who’d died in the attack and the long retreat.

Despite the patriotic tone of the news, the tiger was good at reading between the lines. The Confederacy – pardon, the Terran Empire – was in trouble. The Colonies weren’t lifting a paw to help their Coreworld cousins, and the Kashlani . . .

He still shuddered when he was reminded of what had happened.

Before he’d been arrested, he and Rikki Schalke had talked over drinks. The red panda had been very curious about his mission, and the battle logs were downloaded from the Menhit before Intelligence could get their paws on them. Schalke and several other admirals were nearly salivating at the wealth of data on the hyperspace terrain and Kashlanin defenses and tactics, and it was essential that the raw data be saved and passed on intact.

With little to watch and nothing to read, Gromov had taken to prowling around his cage, looking for the surveillance devices that he knew were watching and listening in on him. He had paper, actual paper, and writing instruments, so he was drawing up a set of playing cards.

When they were done, he could at least waste time by playing solitaire.

He couldn’t help recalling what Schalke told him before they parted that night: “Don’t forget, Feranq. Whatever happens, you have friends.”

The tiger had gone to sleep that night and had awakened in these rooms that now constituted his prison. Several analysts from Intelligence, but not ‘M’ herself, debriefed and questioned him. One of the teams was accompanied by two furs cloaked and hooded in gray, and Gromov recognized them as possibly being members of the Order of Terra.

His hackles had gone up immediately.

Shockingly, he hadn’t been tortured or anything, although he still expected his food or drink to be poisoned or drugged at some point. Mostly, it appeared as if they were trying to bore him to death.

Which, in its own way, was a form of torture.

The remains of his lunchtime bowl of ramen sat beside the darkened monitor screen as he carefully shuffled his improvised deck of cards and began to deal them out when his ears perked at a sound at the door. He briefly pondered whether it was someone coming to collect his lunch, another interrogation session, or the death that he expected, when the door opened.

“Hello, Feranq.”

The paper cards fell to the floor, scattering unnoticed as the tiger twisted in his seat and began to stand up when he saw Admiral Schalke standing framed in the doorway. “Rikki?”

The red panda nodded. “Like I told you. You have friends, Feranq.” She made a show of looking around the room. “Nice place you have here.” She grinned. “Ready to leave it now?”

Gromov Feranq grinned. “Fuck, yes.” He took two steps and glanced down at himself.

Shoeless, and wearing only his underwear.

Screw it.

Half-naked, he followed her out of the room. There was no sign of the two Special Service agents, but there was a small spatter of blood droplets on one of the corridor walls. Several marines in armor grinned and nudged each other at the tiger’s undraped state. “Where the hell are we?” Gromov asked as he and Schalke started down the hallway, preceded and trailed by the marines.

“Titan,” the red panda replied. “Mezzoramia, to be precise. Took a while to sort out where they were holding you. The rest of the time was spent planning your rescue.” She glanced at him, looking him up and down. “They didn’t hurt you?”

“No, which is odd.”

She nodded. “Probably wanting you intact for propaganda – “

“That was my thought too.”

“But the Kashlanin terms leaked a few days ago,” Schalke said, her banded tail flicking back and forth. “The Critters want everyone who planned and executed the attack on Gwath ka-shlal surrendered to them. With Wen dead, that leaves you and most of the high command.”

“What about Liang?”

“Dead.”

“Shit. I wanted to kill him,” Gromov growled, and his ears flicked as one of the marines behind him chuckled. He glanced over his shoulder at him. “What?”

“If the Admiral will pardon me,” the canine said, “you have a nice ass.”

Gromov heard Schalke snort and the tiger said, “Maybe later. Right now, let’s get out of here.”