The Beast

When I wake up, I’m no longer a teacher. I’m a refugee half a galaxy away from my home on Erde II. 

The refugee next to me, a bearded, olive-skinned man, says, “Welcome back, sleeping beauty.”

I look around the sparse shack. There are dozens of bunks stacked on top of one another with men in them, conversing, sleeping, or crying. They all wear the same worn, dusty, striped clothes, and look as if they haven’t bathed or eaten in weeks.

“Where is Ilsa, my wife?” I ask.

“The pretty one? She might still be alive. You’re Hebron, aren’t you? All Hebrons and Gypsums are now considered enemies of the Imperial Regime. What’s your name?”

“Dorian Donovan.”

“I’m Tobor Sokolov. Welcome to the Duchfall refugee camp on Proxima Centari, the bleakest planet in the Regime.”

I stumble toward the window. Looking beyond its frosted confines, I see the bright twin moons of Castor and Pollux. The moons appear to be so close to each other that they practically touch, yet they’re far apart… Just like my Ilsa and I.

There are at least thirty other Hebrons in the barracks. Hebrons are the educators, politicians, and financiers of our society. Most are fair-skinned and blonde with sinewy builds, like me. There are Gypsums here as well, identified by their swarthy complexions, inky black hair, and boisterous personalities.

Both races have lived for centuries in harmony with the Imperialists, elitists who believe the Federov family should continue to govern the Regime.

The Federov’s once ruled Erde II with a benevolent hand, giving all races and creeds a voice. When King Constantin Federov took the throne, he displayed a passion for acquiring territory and an obsession with exterminating Hebrons and Gypsums. As a result, in the past few violent weeks, Constantin’s troops have taken control of our galaxy.

Most of the guards here are Volks. They are androids with humanoid brains, created to preserve society’s great minds. But Constantin had them engineered into a race of sadistic killers.

Holstein is the head Volk. Before his brain was pressed into an eight-foot suit of armor, cancer victim Marvin “Chuckles” Holstein was a beloved clown on a children’s show. He was chosen for the Volk program by King Constantin, who hates clowns.

I am taken to a dark, dank room. The guards take great pleasure in interrogating me about rebel bases, kicking in my ribs, and blackening my eyes. Thinking about Ilsa keeps me from giving in to the pain.

I met Ilsa when she was playing her violin with a group of street musicians. She was twenty, with wavy raven hair, a lithe figure, and dark, intoxicating eyes. My parents warned me that at twenty-four I was still young, that I shouldn’t fall in love with a Gypsum because they’re irresponsible and shun hard work. Ilsa is different. She is devoted to her music, intent on playing in the great halls throughout the Regime.

We had been married for a month when the Imperial soldiers broke down my parents’ door, stunned us, and flew us to this desolate prison.

Two days after our arrival, the guards herd us outside. I’m overjoyed to see Ilsa again, although her almond-shaped eyes are wide with fear, and she’s caked with the planet’s grainy dust.

Cursing, the brutish Volks arrange us into rows. They make us stand at attention for hours. I watch Siobhan Reid, my late mother’s best friend, groan, and fall to the ground.

“GET UP!” a guard shouts, pounding the butt of his laser gun against her face.

He turns Sioban’s face into an unrecognizable pile of gore.

Nessa Craven, six months pregnant, is the next to collapse. Her young son bends down to help her.

The Volks beat them both until the sandy ground is dyed red with their blood.

 “All traitors of the Imperial Regime will be eradicated,” Holstein announces in a droning, expressionless voice. “Obey, and you will be spared. Lie, resist, or disobey and…”

Holstein kicks at the bodies.

After five hours, our feet are numb and frostbitten, and our thin clothing can no longer protect us from the frigid atmosphere.

“I wonder when the Beast will come out of his lair?” the man next to me whispers.

I recognize the man as Ciarán Dennehy, an extremist sworn to topple the regime.

“The Beast?” I ask.

“Manfred Everhardt. He killed over two thousand of us at the Battle of Annenberg. His army chased us all the way to the sea. Everhardt sent a message to our commander saying he’d be eating his liver by suppertime. He made the concession of cooking it before he ate it.”

“The act of a ruthless savage,” I reply. “Is he a Volk?”

“No. He’s a Gypsum.”

“Then why is he murdering his people?” I ask.

“Revenge,” Ciarán replies. “His father was the head of a rich Gypsum clan. His uncle murdered his father when he was a little boy. He lived on the streets, tracking down his father’s killers one by one. He was an assassin for hire when he got into a fight with an Imperial guard, killing him. Instead of executing him, the King made him a bodyguard.”

“And then he worked his way through the ranks.”

“Yes. He’s an excellent strategist,” Ciarán replies. “He was wounded during the siege of Saint Augustine. A resistance fighter got close enough to throw a homemade bomb at Everhardt’s tank. The explosion melted one side of his face. From that point on, he took no prisoners, becoming the Regime’s most celebrated killer.”

“It’s ironic that a soldier who doesn’t believe in taking prisoners is now in charge of guarding them.”

“The Regime’s allies took exception to Everhardt’s tactics of impaling soldiers’ heads on pikes, vaporizing old men and women, and burning children alive,” Ciarán replies. “As long as he’s stuck here, we have a chance to win the war.”

Colonel Manfred Everhardt steps out onto the porch to audible gasps. His form-fitting black uniform is crisp and festooned with medals. He points at a group of old men, cripples, and pregnant women, turning his face so we can see its deformed appearance.

“Where are they taking them?” I ask.

“To die,” Aiden whispers.

A thick, sweet smell like vanilla soon pervades over the camp.

Everhardt notices Ilsa. He also sees that I’m holding her hand.

Everhardt reaches out, cupping Ilsa’s chin.

“Who is this beautiful creature?”

The right side of his face, as handsome as a fallen angel, beams at Ilsa.

I only see the left side, the melted death mask.

“You may speak.”

“I’m Ilsa Ivanova.”

“Gypsum?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Revolutionary?”

“No.”

“Wise answer.”

He casts his wolfen left eye at me.

“Dorian Donovan.”

His gloved hand quickly smashes against my skull. My knees buckle, but I somehow remain upright.

“I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO ADDRESS ME!”

I let go of Ilsa’s hand. When my senses clear, I see the Beast has his paw drawn back, ready to strike me again.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Ilsa begs.

The Beast gives us a half-benevolent, half-malignant grin.

“Alright, not just yet. Are you two married?”

Ilsa nods.

“But you do not share his name. You are either cunning, frightened, or both. What is your profession?”

“Dorian’s a teacher. I’m a violinist.”

“Excellent,” Everhardt says offering Ilsa the crook of his arm. “Come with me.”

“You can’t do this! She’s my wife!” I yell, yanking on his arm.

Everhardt bares his teeth, the left side of his face becoming a screaming skull.

“DO NOT MAKE THE MISTAKE OF THINKING THAT I ADMIRE BRAVERY IN MY ENEMIES! I LIVE TO EXTINGUISH IT!”

I charge at him. Only Ciarán follows. He’s incinerated by Holstein.

I feel the sharp, hard edge of Everhardt’s knuckles as they carom off my jaw. I quickly find myself on the ground.

I hear Ilsa say, “No, please, Colonel. I’ll do anything you say.”

“Put that rebel in the isolation chamber,” Everhardt says.

I feel the heavy boots of the guards as they kick me in the ribs and face. Holstein takes a special interest in ruining my privates.

I’m thrown in a minuscule, unheated box and denied food and water for three days. Curling up, shivering, I moan Ilsa’s name.

Strong arms pull me out of the isolation box. I cover my eyes from the cold light of Castor and Pollux.

Too weak to stand on my own, the guards drag me to the Beast’s lair.

Everhardt turns his hideous features in my direction as he speaks to me.

“Have you learned to be more cooperative?”

         I open my mouth to speak. “…Water…” finally ekes out.

         “Give it to him.”  

         Holstein pours me a glass of water. He sets it on the edge of Everhardt’s desk, so I have to strain to reach it.

          I have to use both hands to corral the glass and eagerly gulp down the water.

          “Give him another glass.”

          I finish it as quickly as the first.

          After my second glass, Holstein asks, “Should I destroy the glass, Colonel?”

         “What?”

          “He is vermin,” Holstein drones. “He touched your glass with his lips. Shall I destroy it?”

          Everhardt is amused. “Your programming is more thorough than I thought. Very well. Take the glass outside and shoot it if you wish.”

         “So long, Chuckles,” I say as Holstein turns to leave.

         Everhardt turns the undamaged side of his face toward me.

         “I want you to convince Ilsa to eat.”

         “And if I talk to her and she still refuses?”

         “Then I will kill one prisoner per hour until she complies. Do you love her?”

         “Yes.”

         “So do I,” Everhardt says.

         My laughter spills out in loud, mocking guffaws.

         He hits me. When he pulls his hand away, my teeth are embedded in it. I choke on the blood running down my throat.

         “No longer laughing, I see.”

         “You have to have a heart to love,” I manage to say before he hits me again.

         “HOLSTEIN! BRING ME THE WOMAN!”

         Holstein pushes Ilsa into the room. Paler than the last time I saw her, Ilsa cowers, dodging my gaze as Holstein shoves her into a nearby chair.

         “Tell her,” Everhardt commands.

         I convey Everhardt’s demand.                                                                                                 

         “No.”

         Everhardt calls for Holstein.

         “Assemble the prisoners. Pick one of them, a young girl, if there are any left, and vaporize her. Then inform the prisoners that as long as Ilsa refuses to eat, they will die at a rate of one per hour. Take her back to her room.”

We stand and watch as twelve-year-old Claire Rainey is murdered. An hour later, twenty-year-old Maura O’Toole dies.

         I hang my head between my knees and wretch.

         After four hours and four deaths, the executions end.

         Everhardt and Ilsa come out onto the porch of his office. He has his arm around her waist.

He tilts the handsome, placid side of his face in our direction.

         A guard brings out a violin and a chair. Ilsa sits down and begins to play.

         Everhardt closes his eyes, swaying side to side, a smile breaking out across his conflicted features.

         We close our eyes, breathing in the intoxicating beauty of Ilsa’s music.

         Later in the day, Everhardt gives us extra food and water.

         Our ripped mattresses and torn, grimy uniforms are soon replaced. Families are allowed to gather in the yard and visit one another.

         The sweet vanilla smell of captives being reduced to ashes ends.

         The guards stop listening to our conversations. It allows me to talk to others about escaping. But as long as their stomachs are full, as long as Ilsa plays for them and the Beast shows them the handsome side of his face, I know most of them will remain docile pets.

        Ryan Darby listens to my words and recruits a dozen men to try and escape.

       “Once a month, the Volks go into stasis to recharge,” he says. Tonight’s the night.”

 I wake up to the sound of an explosion. The Volks’ recharging chamber is on fire, and two dead human guards lie in front of it.

         I scramble outside. There are wires, bolts, cracked domes, and artificial limbs scattered everywhere. I look for Holstein, but sadly, he’s not among the destroyed Volks.

         Waving aside the acrid smoke, I see the men running toward the deactivated fence.

        Everhardt stands on the porch of his office, watching the chaos with bemusement. Ilsa stands nearby in the shadows.

        The escapees cut through the fence, running across the field toward the unguarded shuttles.

         Ryan is the first to be torn to pieces when he steps on a mine. The man next to him has time to turn his head and gasp before his legs are blown off.

       Three men manage to get into one of the shuttles and take off.

         Moments later it’s blown to bits by a laser cannon stationed on the other side of the planet.  

In my enthusiasm to recruit more rebels, I talk to the wrong men, and I’m betrayed. Holstein is thorough in punishing me. He breaks my jaw and ribs, leaving me to bleed on Everhardt’s porch.

       “Chuckles, eh?” he rasps.

        Everhardt comes out to view my prone body. Laughing, he kicks me hard enough to snap my shoulder and rupture my spleen. “You would be ashes if not for Ilsa.”   

         I’m in the infirmary for a month. When I get out, they put me in the isolation chamber for another week.

         The Imperialist guards think they can finish me. I laugh at their taunts and insults as they smash their rifle butts against the box’s rotten wood to wake me up each morning.

         Only the sound of Ilsa’s violin playing in the distance keeps me alive.

When I’m finally released, I’m brought before the Beast.

         It’s the first time he looks directly at me, showing me both the beauty and the horror of his features.

          “You and I have a personal battle to finish… You must divorce your wife.”

          “Never.”

          “Your wife loves me. She will have a much better life with me.” 

         Everhardt pauses, looking over my battered body. “Despite the beatings, the isolation, you remain a defiant, admirable adversary. If you divorce Ilsa, I will allow you and the men in your barracks to escape to Pollux.”

         Everhardt calls for Ilsa.

         It’s the first time I have seen her in months.

         Her luxurious raven hair is now dyed blonde, her nose has been shortened, and her body is more voluptuous. Her bright blue eyes are hazy, and her smile is more courteous than radiant.

          The Beast has turned my love into one of them.

          I hear them whisper to one another as they hold each other.

         “When we first met, I thought I’d rather die than be anywhere near you,” Ilsa says. “But you gave me a world filled with music. Now I can’t imagine being apart from you.”                            

         “And I am a better man because of you, Ilsa. You know what to say to him.”

         Everhardt turns to face me. “I will give you two a moment to talk,” he says, departing.

          I try to reach out to Ilsa. She pushes me away.

          “He’s drugged you, brainwashed you.”

          “No, Dorian. I really do love him. This war has changed us. Perhaps we married so quickly that we never noticed our differences. Maybe we never really knew each other to begin with. You say you love me, but you love being a rebel more.”

         “And you’ve convinced yourself you love him in order to protect our people.”

         “You don’t know Manfred the way that I do. When this war is over, he’ll get me into the most prestigious concert halls in the regime. With Manfred, I can shoot for the stars.”

         “It’s more likely you’ll just be shot.”

 That night, Everhardt and Holstein come to our barracks.

         “It is time,” Everhardt declares.

         I eye him suspiciously. “The last time someone tried to leave, they were blown to bits. And given our history, I hope you’ll understand my skepticism.”

         “Then, by all means, stay. I just received a new directive from the King. He has decreed that all Hebrons and Gypsums at the camp are to be exterminated.”

         “Including Ilsa?”

         “No. Ilsa is my wife.”

Pollux became my new home. There were many new dangers, such as scorpions that spit acid, rocket-sized vultures that can carry a man off, and ravenous, three-headed boars.

         An Imperial scout ship crashed here a few months later. We took our anger out on the crew, salvaging their provisions and communications system.

         We weren’t able to talk to our fellow rebels, but we could monitor how the war was going. Shortly after Everhardt arranged our escape, everyone in our camp, over 1,500 innocent refugees, was executed. Everhardt was recalled to the front, promoted to General, and given command of the Imperial Army. Within six months he’d driven the Hebrons and Gypsums from Erde II. Within a year, he’d killed nearly every rebel in the universe and the war was over.

         For his barbaric efficiency, General Everhardt was named Viceroy to King Constantin, the second highest position in the Regime.

         He kept his promise to Ilsa. She played her violin in the finest venues in the galaxy.

Over the next four years, the fourteen of us who had left Proxima Centauri were whittled down to six.

         Five years after landing on Pollux, we intercepted a transmission sent to Imperial outposts throughout the galaxy – King Constantin was dead. Manfred Everhardt was now King of the Imperial Regime.

          His coronation was broadcast for all to see. When King Everhardt moved to the podium to accept the royal scepter, his face restored to its striking beauty through plastic surgery, his queen, Ilsa, stood nearby, smiling in admiration.

Three ships with fifty families landed today, carrying equipment, and weapons. Their leader, Ryan Darby’s son, shook my hand saying, “Death to King Manfred and Queen Ilsa!"