Where the snow had fallen all night, any trace of her movements had been covered. The scanning spotlights sparkled off the fresh snow, refracting the light into a million shining crystals. To her eyes, Miller’s Glen appeared as a gem encrusted wonderland. Ice sparkled off the awning of their house even in the dark night and crunched underfoot as she stepped away from the door. She stood, her breath rolling past her face in large puffs, and admired the scenery and serenity while steam rose from her drink.
“It’s a good day to start a revolution,” she whispered into the brisk morning air.
CHAPTER 20:
Yen stood behind the one-way glass that separated the interrogation room from the viewing area. He had decided not to enter the room with Horace yet. Instead, he allowed the Security Officer to conduct his interrogation and, if need be, his torture without Yen’s interference. There was no doubt in Yen’s mind that Vangore would reveal just enough information to substantiate Yen’s allegation without going into great detail. Vangore would never reveal the specific details of his crime, no matter how intricate and painful Horace’s interrogation. Those memories just didn’t exist; Yen simply hadn’t implanted those memories into Vangore’s subconscious.
Closing his eyes, Yen searched his own feelings but wasn’t surprised that he didn’t find any remorse or guilt hidden within his heart. He had never held a grudge against Vangore and had, in fact, worked well with the Communications Officer while serving on the bridge. But Yen knew that his sense of self-preservation was significantly stronger than any weak emotional bonds he might have built with the Wyndgaart. Therefore, it was with a clear conscience that Yen watched the Oterian shake the dazed Vangore back to consciousness. The microphones hidden throughout the interrogation room piped Horace’s voice into the chamber where Yen watched.
“Wake up, traitor,” Horace barked harshly, striking Vangore roughly on the shoulder. Yen knew that the strike was a wasted effort, since the neural stimulator had disrupted Vangore’s sense of feeling, a sense that was only just now returning. Though the Wyndgaart would be in pain later, any punishment he received now would do little toward making him reveal information.
Vangore’s head rolled from side to side as he slowly awoke. His dazed expression quickly turned to a grimace of pain as feeling rapidly returned to numb limbs, leaving their muscles feeling as though needles were being driven through to the bone. Vangore squirmed against the restraints, trying to relieve the discomfort. Leaning heavily on the table, his dark fur bristling with impatience, Horace watched and waited for Vangore to settle before beginning his interrogation.
Though the prisoner was still in pain, Horace’s impatience reached its end and he cuffed Vangore against the side of the head, ensuring the Wyndgaart’s full attention was on the Oterian.
“I want to make something completely clear, Vangore,” Horace began, his voice a low rumble through the electronic speakers near Yen. “The Fleet has no place for murderers. As far as I’m concerned, you’re as guilty as sin. I’d sooner jettison you through an airlock than waste the time I’ll needed to get a confession. But, you see, the problem is that I can’t execute you until I receive a confession.” Horace leaned forward until his warm breath blew across Vangore’s face. “And I will get a confession and you will be sent out of an airlock, even if there are only a few parts of you left to eject into space.”
Vangore mumbled something as he struggled to keep his head upright. Yen strained to hear what he said, but the microphones weren’t able to pick up his reply. Horace’s response, however, was clearly transferred into the viewing room.
“I don’t believe you, Vangore,” the Oterian growled. “I’ll tell you why I don’t believe you. There isn’t a single person in jail right now who rightly says they committed a crime. What makes me think a slime like you, who killed a superior officer in a time of war, would admit to being guilty?”
“I didn’t do it!” Vangore cried through numb lips, sending spittle flying into Horace’s face. The Oterian lashed out, sending both Vangore and the chair to which he was secured tumbling to the floor. Horace wiped the spit from his face and looked down at the moaning Wyndgaart.
“You did it,” rumbled Horace, “and I will have all the proof I need by the time we’re done.”
Signaling toward the door to the interrogation room, Horace grabbed the chair and set Vangore upright. The door swung open, allowing a pair of security guards to enter, carrying a small but heavy case between them. Setting the case on the table, the left as wordlessly as they had entered, closing the door behind them. Though Yen felt little sympathy for Vangore, he still inadvertently cringed at the sight of the black box. He had never been on the receiving end of a professional interrogator like Horace, but he knew the hell that was concealed within the slick black polymer case.
Though Horace leaned close to Vangore before speaking, the prisoner’s wide eyes never acknowledged the Oterian. Vangore’s eyes never left the black box; his expression clearly displayed the fear that coursed through his body.
“I don’t have to open that case,” Horace whispered. “You can save yourself all the pain and agony of me forcing a confession from you if you just tell me what you did.”
Vangore shook his head, a reaction mirrored by Yen. Though Vangore shook his head in fear, Yen shook his head because he knew Horace had been wrong. The Oterian had promised that he didn’t have to open the box, but Yen knew otherwise. His psychic suggestion would only be released once Vangore had been exposed to extreme pain. The Wyndgaart wouldn’t even know he had committed a crime until he had been severely tortured, possibly for days. The box would open, regardless of what Vangore said now.
There had been a time, before the First Great War, when interrogations would go on for months without a prisoner ever admitting his or her guilt. Interrogators had shown a compassion for the well being of the individual being questioned, relying on mental games and deprivation techniques to get answers. Those techniques had been ill conceived and ineffective, often resulting in months of wasted time with no confession and with accused criminals going free based on a lack of evidence. Once the Alliance had been formed, the other species had learned invaluable interrogation practices from the brutal Lithids, who left no leeway in their legal system. To a Lithid, an accusation of a crime was a sign that someone had committed a crime and that it was only a matter of time before they confessed. To that end, the Lithids had shared their techniques with the other races. Sitting within the black box was the culmination of the Lithids’ interrogation programs: the Crown. In his many years of being in the Fleet, Yen had never known someone to last for more than a few days against its agony. If the Crown did not result in a confession, it more often than not resulted in the death of the prisoner.
Sighing heavily, Horace leaned back against the heavy metal chair. His fingers drummed on the heavy black box. Reaching over, he unclasped the lock on the front before turning back to Vangore.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, Vangore,” Horace said, the gruff demeanor dropped, as even he seemed hesitant to open the Crown.
“I didn’t do it,” Vangore whimpered, the numbness finally fleeing from his body.
“A shame,” the Security Officer muttered as he opened the black case, its hinges creaking as he revealed the contraption within.
The Crown sat like a metallic halo, a single thick metal band was held together by a leather harness made to fit over the head of all species in the known universe. The shiny metal halo stood as a stark contrast to the archaic series of wires, dials, and electrodes that protruded from its perimeter. More intimidating than the gauges, however, was the set of razor sharp drill bits that faced the interior of the halo, metal drill bits permanently stained dark by the Crown’s use on previous prisoners.
Horace ignored the Crown and, instead, pulled out an auto-injector full of a viscous yellow fluid. The Oterian tapped the side of the vial within the injector, watching the bubbles rise slowly through the thick serum. Without
warning, Horace’s arm shot out, driving the tip of the auto-injector into Vangore’s shoulder. The yellow serum pumped into Vangore’s blood stream before he was able to pull away from the sudden assault.
Immediately, Vangore’s body convulsed against the metal chair. Rigidity spread across the Wyndgaart’s shoulder, radiating from the injection site. Muscles usually flexible from hand to hand combat grew as stiff as stone as the fluid spread through his body. Vangore’s left arm grew completely stiff, convulsing, as the muscles grew tight, pulling his arm backward in an awkward angle. He stifled a scream as the serum spread, tightening across his chest and into the side of his neck. Unable to move his neck, Vangore watched straight ahead, though his eyes darted nervously as the side of his face grew tight, his facial features growing taunt and pulling his upper lip into a twisted and sadistic smile. Moments later, the serum worked completely through his system, leaving the former Communications Officer sitting statuesque in the uncomfortable metal chair.
“The unpleasantness that you’re experiencing right now,” Horace explained, “is a paralytic enzyme harvested from a rather unusual swamp creature on a planet that has yet to receive more than a designation number: PR-3409. The enzyme courses through your blood stream almost instantaneously after injection, spreading its toxin to all parts of your musculature system. The result, as you are now well aware, is complete paralysis without any of the sedation usually associated with being paralyzed. The effects are quite permanent, until I give you a relieving dose of the antidote. The problem is that I won’t give you the antidote until I’m sure you are ready to cooperate. And I’m a firm believer that it will be hours, if not days, before you are ready to give a full confession.”
Horace paused, watching as tears streamed from Vangore’s eyes and sweat beaded on the Wyndgaart’s tanned forehead. Clicking his tongue, the massive Oterian shook his head.
“You see, Vangore, you’re afraid because you feel helpless right now. More importantly, you have heard so many terrible things about the Crown that you are petrified about what it will do to you.”
Pulling the Crown from the black box, Vangore’s eyes followed Horace’s movements as he affixed the contraption on the top of the Wyndgaart’s head. The Security Officer adjusted the drill bits until their tips rested solidly against Vangore’s scalp, drawing small beads of blood just from their contact.
“The real problem, however, is that the things you’ve heard don’t begin to do justice to the true amount of pain you will encounter under the influence of the Crown.”
Pressing a button on the side of the Crown, the drill bits tore through the soft flesh and hard skull alike as they pierced the tender brain beneath. Vangore’s back arched, a scream erupting from between his clenched teeth. Yen watched in a mixture of horror and awe, amazed that so powerful a scream could be generated past the paralyzed muscles of both the neck and jaw. He waited for the screaming to stop, but it never did. Vangore paused only long enough to breath again before his scream shook the small room once again.
Through the incredible screaming, Horace’s rumbling voice called out clearly. “The Crown is currently injecting a cocktail of medicine directly into your brain. The first, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, is keeping you from passing out from the pain. An interrogation would be ineffective if you went unconscious every time I put the screws to you… no pun intended. The second is a serum that destroys any mental barrier you may have put in place to resist my line of questions. There is a debate about whether the metaphorical destruction of mental barriers is directly correlated to a very real destruction of brain tissue. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think you’re going to much care one way or another when all this is done.”
Horace leaned back, reveling in the screams, and propped his feet up on top of the sterile metal table in the middle of the room. “Believe me, Vangore. I know you’re far from admitting your guilt right now. I just want you to know that I will stay here as long as it takes until you’ve admitted your guilt.”
Yen watched through the one-way glass window as the screams continued hour after hour. Occasionally, Horace stood and adjusted the fluid flow coursing into Vangore’s brain or wiped away the frothing spittle that spilled from the Wyndgaart’s mouth. For the most part, however, the Oterian sat back and watched for an indication that Vangore was ready to admit guilt. Yen couldn’t even fathom what more the prisoner could do to signal that he was ready to speak. As far as he could tell, Vangore did little other than scream his muffled scream through locked jaws.
Veins bulged against Vangore’s neck and pulsed in his temple as he continued to strain against the paralytic enzyme within his system. Yen knew that the subliminal trigger he had placed within Vangore’s mind had activated hours before, when the pain threshold was surpassed. Were he given the chance to talk, he would readily admit to killing anyone in known space. But Horace had never given him the chance to talk, instead keeping the Crown working at full power. Yen empathized with his scapegoat, having known the feeling of having his brain alight with fire. However, he had trouble sympathizing with Vangore, knowing that his guilt would keep Yen from future accusations. Still, Yen reached up and wiped away the sweat that beaded on his own brow, the continued screams having made Yen feel a little queasy.
After nearly four hours of torture, Horace arbitrarily reached up and turned off the Crown. Though still paralyzed, Vangore visible collapsed against the metal chair, moaning as much as his stiff body would allow. The blood from the four holes in his scalp mingled with his tears as they coursed down his face. Ignoring the sobs that erupted from Vangore, Horace pulled a second vial from the black case and loaded it into the auto-injector. Sliding the needle into the prisoner’s arm once more, the purple fluid bubbled as it pumped into his system. Muscles that had been held taunt for four hours relaxed instantaneously. Vangore’s face melted as though he had suffered a stroke. Had he not been affixed to the chair, he would have fallen limply to the floor. Instead, his head lolled from side to side, allowing blood red droplets to pool and fall forgotten from the tip of his nose.
Horace leaned forward, whispering just loud enough for the microphones to pick up his words. “Now, Vangore, is there something you want to tell me?”
Yen strained to hear the reply in the other room, eager to put this behind him and allow the Revolution to continue its mission. Vangore strained to pull his head up, his dark hair cascading over eyes that struggled to focus on the brutish, shaggy Oterian who sat before him. Slurping back the drool that ran from his limp lips, Vangore tried to form the words. A soft mumble rolled from his dry throat.
“I’m sorry, Vangore,” Horace said, shaking his head, “but we just didn’t hear that.”
Coughing, exhaling a fine mist of blood, Vangore tried again. This time, Yen heard his reply softly through the speakers in the observation room.
“I did it,” Vangore muttered. “I killed Merric.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Horace said condescendingly. “I truly am.”
Horace stood, turning to look at his own reflection in the one-way glass behind which Yen stood. Though he fidgeted as though examining himself in the mirror, Yen caught the look in his eyes. Horace was not yet done with Vangore. Turning back to the prisoner, Horace proceeded to crush any hope Vangore had of being free from the hell of the Crown.
“I am glad to hear that you confessed to the crime,” Horace explained, “but I am having trouble believing that you planned so complex a murder by yourself. How did you move his body through the ship without anyone noticing? How did you dispose of the body in the engine room, a place that is never empty, without someone noticing the warning claxons that would have sounded when the active exhaust vent was opened?” Horace paced around the metal table. “No, I don’t think you’re smart enough to plan this yourself. You had an accomplice, and we’re going to stay here until you’re ready to give me every one of their names.”
Yen’s groan of disappointment was only slightly softer
than that of Vangore.
CHAPTER 21:
Time had passed quickly for the trio, with no word from Alcent. Keryn spent the day after her return from outside Miller’s Glen telling her story to the other two, ending with the dramatic entrance of the Uligart. The others seemed to share her infectious optimism, but clearly felt the loss of both Cerise and McLaughlin. With their numbers dwindled even further and without the ship, they now relied entirely on Alcent.
Though their situation had barely improved from before her escape from the city, Keryn found her spirits lifted and her focus fell more often toward thoughts of Adam and her making love throughout their night together. She longed for another night like the one they had shared, but time and mission no longer permitted. Instead, Keryn spent most of her time focusing on creating a plan for escape, content with the longing looks they shared as they worked.
“I really think this has a chance of succeeding,” Keryn remarked one dark morning as the trio shuffled in their work group toward the ruins. She had explained the outlines of her plan to them the night before. “I think this could actually work with Alcent’s help.”
The other two, Adam in particular, seemed more skeptical about the situation. “Even if he’s legitimate,” Adam replied, “our plan counts as little more than a rough outline right now. He may have the biggest arsenal on the planet’s surface, but until we get a plan that we are sure will work, we still don’t stand a chance against the Terrans. Putting firepower in the hands of a disorganized and leaderless mob is nothing but chaos.”
“I don’t know Alcent,” Penchant added, supportive of Keryn’s plan, “but he seems capable since he already has his own following. But is he prepared to lead a full revolt against the Terrans? This plan will not only need a strong leader, but one that is willing to accept the catastrophic losses of soldiers that it will entail. I don’t know if this Alcent character is going to be that leader.”
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