He reached the daylight, crawling on his belly. The rifle barrel pressed against his neck while they gathered around him and searched him all over for weapons.
Besides, he said to himself, the paidhi wasn’t a fighter. The paidhi was a translator, a mediator— wordswere his skill, and if he was with Ilisidi, he might even have a chance to negotiate. Ilisidi had some kind of previous tie to the rebels. There might be a way out of this…
They jerked the rain-cloak off him. The snap resisted, the collar ripped across his neck. He tried to get a knee under him, and two men caught him by the arms and jerked him to his feet.
“He’s no more than a kid,” one said in dismay.
“They come that way,” red-and-blue said. “I saw the last one. Bring him!”
He tried to walk. Wasn’t doing well at it. The left arm shot blinding pain, and he didn’t think they’d listen to argument, he only wanted to get wherever they were going—and hoped they’d bring Cenedi and Ilisidi with him. He needed Ilisidi, needed someone to negotiate for, himself and his loyalties being the bargaining chip…
Claim man’chito Ilisidi: they’d read his actions that way—they could, at least, if he lied convincingly.
They hauled him into the next building, and Cenedi and Ilisidi werebehind him, held at gunpoint, shoved up against the wall, while they said someone’s neck was broken—the man Cenedi had kicked, Bren thought dazedly, and tried to make eye contact with Ilisidi, staring at her in a way atevi thought rude.
She looked straight at him. Gave a tightening of her mouth he didn’t immediately read, but maybe she caught his offer—
Someone grabbed him by the shirt and spun him around and back against the furniture—red-and-blue, it was. A blow exploded across his face, his sight went out, he wasn’t standing under his own power, and he heard Cenedi calmly advising the man humans were fragile and if he hit him like that again he’d kill him.
Nice, he thought. Thanks, Cenedi. You talk to him. Son of a bitch. Tears gathered in his eyes. Dripped. His nose ran, he wasn’t sure with what. The room was a blur when they jerked him upright and somebody held his head up by a fist in his hair.
“Is this yours?” red-and-blue asked, and he made out a tan something on the table where red-and-blue was pointing.
His heart gave a double beat. The computer. The bag beside it on the table.
They had it on recharge, the wire strung across the table.
“Mine,” he said.
“We want the access.”
He tasted blood, felt something running down his chin that swallowing didn’t stop. Lip was cut.
“ Tellus the access code,” red-and-blue said, and gave a jerk on his shirt.
His brain started functioning, then. He knew he wasn’t going to get his hands on the computer. Had to make them axe the system themselves. Had to remember the axe codes. Make them wantthe answer, make them believe it was all-important to them.
“Access code!” red-and-blue yelled into his face.
Oh, God, he didn’t like this part of theplan.
“Fuck off,” he said.
Theydidn’t know him. Set himself right on their level with that answer, he did—he had barely time to think that before red-and-blue hit him across the face.
Blind and deaf for a moment. Not feeling much. Except they still had hold of him, and voices were shouting, and red-and-blue was giving orders about hanging him up. He didn’t entirely follow it, until somebody grabbed his coat by the collar and ripped it and the shirt off him. Somebody else grabbed his hands in front of him and tied them with a stiff leather belt.
He figured it wasn’t good, then. It might be time he should start talking, only they might not believe him. He stood there while they got a piece of electrical cable and flung it over the pipes that ran across the ceiling, using it for a rope. They ran the end through his joined arms and jerked them abruptly over his head.
The shoulder shot fire. He screamed. Couldn’t get his breath.
A belt caught him in the ribs. Once, twice, three times, with all the force of an atevi arm. He couldn’t get his feet under him, couldn’t get a breath, couldn’t organize a thought.
“Access code,” red-and-blue said.
He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t get the wind. There was pain, and his mind went white-out.
“You’ll kill him!” someone screamed. Lungs wouldn’t work. He was going out.
An arm caught him around the ribs. Hauled him up, took his weight off the arms.
“Access,” the voice said. He fought to get a breath.
“Give it to him again,” someone said, and his mind whited out with panic. He was still gasping for air when they let him swing, and somebody was shouting, screaming that he couldn’t breathe.
Arm caught him again. Wood scraped, chair hit the floor. Something else did. Squeezed him hard around the chest and eased up. He got a breath.
Who gave you the gun, nand’ paidhi?
Say it was Tabini.
“Access,” the relentless voice said.
He fought for air against the arm crushing his chest. The shoulder was a dull, bone-deep pain. He didn’t remember what they wanted. “No,” he said, universal answer. No to everything.
They shoved him off and hit him while he swung free, two and three times. He convulsed, tore the shoulder, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t breathe.
“Access,” someone said, and someone held him so air could get to his lungs, while the shoulder grated and sent pain through his ribs and through his gut.
The gun, he thought. Shouldn’t have had it.
“Access,” the man said. And hit him in the face. A hand came under his chin, then, and an atevi face wavered in his swimming vision. “Give me the access code.”
“Access,” he repeated stupidly. Couldn’t think where he was. Couldn’t think if this was the one he was going to answer or the one he wasn’t.
Second blow across the face.
“The code, paidhi!”
“Code…” Please, God, the code. He was going to be sick with the pain. He couldn’t think how to explain to a fool. “At the prompt…”
“The prompt’s up,” the voice said. “Now what?”
“Type…” He remembered the real access. Kept seeing white when he shut his eyes, and if he drifted off into that blizzard they’d go on hitting him. “Code…” The code for meddlers. For thieves. “Input date.”
“Which?”
“Today’s.” Fool. He heard the rattle of the keyboard. Red-and-blue was still with him, someone else holding his head up, by a fist in his hair.
“It says ‘Time,’” someone said.
“Don’t. Don’t give it. Type numeric keys… 1024.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s the code, dammit!”
Red-and-blue looked away. “Do it.”
Keys rattled.
“What have you got?” red-and-blue asked.
‘The prompt’s back again.“
“Is that it?” red-and-blue asked.
“You’re in,” he said, and just breathed, listening to the keys, the operator, skillful typist, at least, querying the computer.
Which was going to lie, now. The overlay was engaged. It would lie about its memory, its file names, its configuration… it’d tell anyone who asked that things existed, tell you their file sizes and then bring up various machine code and gibberish, that said, to a computer expert, that the files did exist, protected under separate passcodes.
The level of their questions said it would get him out of Wigairiin. Red-and-blue was out of his depth.
“What’s this garbage?” red-and-blue demanded, and Bren caught a breath, eyes shut, and asked, in crazed delight:
“Strange symbols?”
“Yes.”