by Eric Thomson
“Mister Decker. What a pleasure to see you so soon again. You will forgive me if I don't offer you any refreshments, but...” Amali raised his manicured hands, palms upwards, in apology. His nose twitched when he caught a whiff of Zack's aroma.
Decker felt lightheaded, like a man who had nothing to lose by a little defiance.
“Can't say the pleasure is mutual, Amali, but then, you're a slimy bastard, and I don't like those. Though I wouldn't mind getting to know that bimbo of yours. Does she give good head?”
The magnate's eyes tightened. He took a step forward and slapped Decker across the face.
“Uncouth and impolite to the last. The flower of Fleet Intelligence.”
Two of the guards pinned Decker's arms back before he could return the blow. Instead, the gunner laughed with open contempt.
“Is that the best you can do? A five-year-old old has more strength, and for your information, I'm not Intelligence. Never was. You have the wrong guy.”
“Mister Decker,” Amali replied, a dangerous tone in his voice, “as they say, you can fool some people some of the time, but you can't fool all people all the time. I must admit you had me fooled during your last visit. But only just. As the leopard cannot shed its spots, a Marine cannot change his loyalties.”
Zack snorted. “There's all kinds in the Corps, asshole. If I had you fooled, as you say, that's because you're one of the biggest fucking congenital idiots in the known galaxy. Especially if you think you’ll get away with whatever you're planning.”
Amali laughed.
“Brave words, Mister Decker. I must say that I find your courage admirable. You are the first agent who penetrated my organization so deeply.”
“Would that be the Sécurité Spéciale, by any chance?”
“No, Mister Decker. It belongs to the SecGen as you well know. I have their use in matters involving the Coalition's interests. I handle my commercial interests with other, more direct means. But come, let us drop the charade. You are a Fleet operative as the delightful Miss Kiani established.”
Zack snorted.
“If your mind's made up, Amali, then believe I work for the Fleet. Wouldn't be the first time someone's mistaken me for something I'm not. But if I'm a hotshot spy, then why hasn’t the Navy dropped in on you yet? I had four weeks to pass the information to my supposed employers. While we're at it, how come I let myself be captured so easily? You'd think a trained spook is good enough to ruin Smiley's day.” He jerked his head towards the agent who caught him. Smiley didn't like his new nickname and jabbed Decker hard in the ribs with his blaster.
Amali clasped his hands in the small of his back and stared up at the deep blue sky. Zack didn't think for even a second that he believed him. Not faced with the evidence he had left in his wake.
“Hmm, be that as it may,” Amali shrugged, making a small moue of languid disinterest. The aristocratic, disdainful expression on his smooth face made Zack want to wipe it on hard concrete. “I do know that you are much too familiar with my affairs. Your recordings show an interest that does not correspond to your supposed status as merchant ship gunner. Yes, Mister Decker. I have had occasion to read your findings and deductions. Fantastic. Miss Kiani brought them to my attention the evening after your departure from my little island. By the way where is she? We have not been able to contact her since her last report when she transmitted the contents of your data chip.”
“Dead, Amali. Her body disintegrated by my hands.” Zack chuckled. “A shame too. She was one hell of a good lay. Probably better than your bimbo, even if her tits weren't as big, or as artificial.
Amali raised his eyebrows and tsked, refusing to be baited again.
“Pity. But she has served her purpose admirably. I suppose you also killed her partner that same evening?”
“Yeah.” Zack let a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “Your fucking Sécurité Spéciale isn't worth crap if a retired Marine noncom can wipe 'em off the face of the universe that easily.” He received another painful jab in the kidneys from Smiley's blaster.
“I'll take care of you too, sonny,” the gunner muttered over his shoulder, “just mark my words.”
“Ah, but you see,” Amali replied, ignoring the exchange between agent and prisoner, “I don't believe you are a retired Marine noncom. The Navy placed you aboard Shokoten to replace their dead officer, Lokis. But this time, they succeeded. Good cover story. It took Nihao Kiani nearly half a year to figure it out though she suspected you from the outset. I didn't approve of her attempts to kill you without proof, but it would have saved us much trouble had she succeeded when you first joined the ship.”
Zack barked out an incredulous laugh.
“You trying to make me believe you have scruples? I might not be the brightest guy to come out of the Corp's Command School, but I'm not that fucking dumb.”
“Believe what you will, Mister Decker. Your opinion matters less to me than bird shit on the hood of my speeder,” Amali replied. “I did not bring you here to trade insults, though a non-entity like you can scarcely touch me, but before you join your unfortunate predecessor in whatever hell is reserved for failed spies, I wish to know how much you found out, and whom you told. Then, I have a very special finale for you.”
The magnate's languid, bored tone managed to wear down Decker's self-control. If the mercs weren't holding him in a grip of steel, he'd have slammed the heel of his palm into Amali's nose, driving the cartilage into the brain and killing him.
“One last thing before you go, Mister Decker.” Amali reached over and pinned something to his jacket, patting it into place. “Your Master Gunner's badge. A beautiful piece of miniature script work. I like that. Unfortunately, the sappy words Duty, Loyalty, Honor, will be of cold comfort to you in a few hours. We wondered whether it was a special device. You see, Miss Kiani noticed that you did not have it when you first came aboard Shokoten. I can only assume that it was a reminder from your friends in Naval Intelligence as it is nothing more than an unusual alloy. Maybe it will bring you luck, though where you are going, you will need more than just luck.” He chuckled. “Take him away, but make sure he can still play his part.”
Before the guards roughly turned him around, Decker spat at Amali, landing a thick gob of saliva on his cheek. The magnate flushed in anger.
“You will regret that, Decker. You will beg me for mercy.”
As they took him away, Zack laughed. In the end, he had made the goddamn creep lose his temper. But at what price? The man who controlled ComCorp had nothing to fear from the law and could make him suffer any torment he desired, and if Walker Amali was half as cruel as his father Peterson was rumored to have been...
The mercs led him to half-buried, windowless building near the tarmac. A short flight of stairs brought them down to an armored door that opened on a sterile, white corridor.
They shoved him into the first room on the right. It was equipped like a dentist's surgery but with a few refinements. Now real fear wormed its way through Zack’s gut. He recognized the sophisticated interrogation equipment and knew he would tell them everything. No training could help him now.
The guards strapped him down in the reclining chair and took up position along the wall, silent as ever. A technician appeared from another doorway and deftly shaved Zack's head. As soon as he was done, he vanished again.
A few minutes later, a wizened, white-haired man appeared. He wore a light green medical smock and looked for all the world like a kind cleric, with a wrinkled, red face, bulbous nose, and twinkling eyes.
“Good day, good day, Mister Decker,” his head bobbed as he smiled absently at the prisoner, displaying crooked, yellowed teeth. “I'm Doctor Hans Cantos. We will get to know each other intimately over the next hour.”
Cantos broke off and giggled, bobbing his head again.
“At least, I will get to know you intimately, so you will understand if I drop all formality and call you Zachary. In return, you may call me Doctor.” He giggled
even harder at his little joke.
“Do you know what this equipment is, Zachary?”
The gunner inhaled a whiff of the doctor's bitter, cloying scent, like that of orchids and burning tea leaves. Cantos was a shimmer addict. Zack knew enough about the drug to know that Cantos was hooked without hope of ever shaking it. The only way shimmerheads escaped the weed's grasp was through death. And that came soon enough for heavy users as the active ingredients slowly burned away their nerve endings.
“Yeah, Doctor Shithead. A mind probe.” Zack felt a small measure of pride that his voice was steady and his tone insolent although he his fear was mounting.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. So impolite. I dislike rudeness.”
Cantos shook his white mane as he placed the shining dome of the probe on Decker's head. Long, needle-like tendrils formed on the inside of the hemisphere as its surface prepared to establish a direct link with the gunner's brain. Tendrils crawled across his bare scalp as they moved into position and he shuddered with horror.
Then pain exploded from a dozen spots on his skull as the probes drilled through skin and bone to touch his very being. He screamed. Cantos merely continued to smile, bobbing his head, as he manipulated the probe's controls.
“Pay attention now, Zachary,” he leaned towards the gunner, his fetid breath warm and sickening on Zack's face. He sounded like a benevolent schoolmaster.
“F-fuck y-you.”
Cantos tasked. “I've already told you I dislike rudeness. Now, I shall have to make you suffer for it. You see, the probe can also directly stimulate the brain's pain centers. Quite marvelous, I think.”
He touched a button on the control panel, and a surge of incredible pain lanced through Zack’s body. It was as if all his nerve endings were on fire. He screamed with enough force to bruise his vocal cords. All of his muscles spasmed in a single, unified contraction, making his body arch against the chair, pulling painfully at the restraints
The pain suddenly vanished, but its phantom remained as a lingering memory, a tingling that would never die and would always promise to flare up in agony again.
“How do you like my little nerve inducer?”
Decker gasped. It had shot through him for only a second or two, but it had seemed like an eternity.
“I-I'll k-kill y-you, runt.”
Pain surged again, drawing out his last reserves of strength. He no longer heard his own screams, but his mind refused to shut down, to drown out the agony in unconsciousness or death. The probe kept him awake, making him endure every microsecond of soul-searing hell.
When it stopped, Zack's muscles relaxed their tetanic spasm, and he slumped into the chair, sobbing, only half-aware of his surroundings. Cantos's stinking breath brought him back to a semblance of rational thought.
“If you insist on being impolite, I'm afraid I shall have to insist on using the inducer again. Believe me, I dislike causing so much suffering.”
“Now,” he said with a sickening smile, “I shall ask you a few simple questions, to calibrate this delicate machinery. Please answer truthfully. I will know if you are lying and shall use the inducer again. If you hope to make me hurt you enough to send you into a coma, disabuse yourself of the notion. The machine knows your exact tolerance at each moment, and will make sure you stay conscious. Now, what is your full name?”
“Walker Amali. Ahhh!” Zack's voice filled the room with an unearthly wail that made even the merc guards shudder in horror.
“Let us try again.” Cantos sounded resigned, even sad at his lack of cooperation. Decker knew he was only delaying the inevitable, but he couldn't give in without a fight, even though it hurt like crazy.
“What is your full name?”
“Z-Zachary T-Thomas D-Decker.”
“Excellent. What is your planet of birth?”
“Mykonos Colony.” Zack's voice was weak and hoarse, his vocal chords badly bruised by his screaming.
“Thank you. What unit did you last serve with?”
“The 902nd Pathfinder Squadron.”
“Excellent, Mister Decker. You see how easy it is.” Cantos beamed at him, like a proud father. “You will be pleased to know that I have calibrated the probe to your brain patterns, and you have nothing more to fear from the inducer. Just sit back and relax.”
Intrusive, incorporeal fingers began to sift through his mind, reaching out from the probe's metallic spikes. They caressed his thoughts, his memories and his soul like the fingers of an obscene lover, exploring, sifting through his memories, revealing Decker's innermost being. He tried to fight the horror but in vain. The tendrils could not be stopped.
Part of him screamed in rage and terror though his throat remained silent. Through open, staring eyes, he saw Cantos smirk and bob in front of his screen, seeing in full color and detail that which made up Zachary Decker's being: his experiences, his loves, and losses. His life. Cantos was a voyeur of the soul.
Instead of merely homing in on the memories Amali wanted, the doctor spent a long time in his degenerate pursuit of titillation. All of Decker's sex life paraded on the mind screen: his wife, Raisa, Kiani and the others. Then, his moments of deep pain joined the good memories: Darhad's death, his forced retirement, and the many miseries of a long life on the frontier. Nothing remained hidden.
Finally, to his ultimate horror, Zack felt Cantos extract all he knew about Amali's operation, and the memory of telling Avril Ducote everything, condemning her to death. Suddenly, as if Cantos had tired of the peepshow, the insubstantial fingers vanished, leaving the cold metal spikes behind.
“There we go, Mister Decker. That wasn't very difficult. And you'll be glad to hear that I've done it without damaging your psyche. Unfortunately, most of my customers do experience permanent damage.” He sounded almost comically wistful. But Zack wasn't in a position to appreciate the humor. He was trembling with anguish and self-loathing, his soul violated and dirty.
“You appear to have led a fascinating life. So varied.” Now, the dwarfish doctor sounded envious.
“Jealous, y-you f-fucking eunuch? Sh-shiimmer already robbed you of your balls?” Zack's voice held so much agony that the few guards who hadn't looked away a long time ago now turned their eyes upwards and studied the ceiling, wondering how they ever came to serve here.
“Oh Mister Decker, and just when I thought we had established such a good working relationship.”
An eternity of nerve-fire hit Zack again, but no sounds came from his abused throat. It was as if the violation of the soul had robbed him of any connection with his flesh.
When the last twinges from the inducer subsided to a dull ache, Cantos apologized. But looking at his crazy eyes, Decker knew he wasn't sorry at all. He enjoyed his job very much. Too much. He was very near the edge of permanent drug-induced insanity. The gunner knew that if Amali hadn't ordered he be kept in working condition, the doctor would have slowly twisted his whole being into a single mass of endless pain.
At a command from Cantos, the metallic tendrils of the probe slipped out of his skull and merged with the helmet's shiny inner surface. Moments later, the helmet itself lifted, leaving a dozen tiny blood spots behind. Cantos, with a tenderness that surprised even the brutalized and half-conscious gunner, applied medical paste to fill the holes in his skull. When he was done, he smiled at Zack.
“Goodbye, Mister Decker. Maybe we shall meet again. But I doubt it.”
When the guards untied him and pulled him to his feet, Zack found that his legs no longer obeyed the commands of his brain. The brawny mercenaries had to drag him through an underground passage before throwing him into a bare cell.
They brought him food, trays of real food, not ratpacks or reconstituted stuff but the guards didn't speak, and Zack didn't have the energy to try, though he ate with appetite.
He had no idea how long they left him there. The meals came regularly, and his strength returned as the last physical traces of the pain inducer faded into an indelible memory, but the agony of the me
ntal rape would not go. That soiled, hateful sensation remained vivid and unyielding, and would stay for a long time. Perhaps forever. Nightmares haunted him mercilessly, ensuring the experience remained engraved on his neurons.
*
After nine meals or three days by Zack's reckoning, the same six guards returned and escorted him to a cold, clean lavatory, ordering him to shave and wash. They gave him nondescript coveralls to wear once he was clean, disposing of his old clothes, including his beloved leather jacket. One of the mercs, his face twisted by an expression of cruel irony, pinned his Master Gunner's badge to the coveralls' right breast and patted Zack on the head, to the laughter of his friends.
“There you go, little Marine cocksucker. Now you can keep on impressing us peasants.”
Decker joined in the laughter but when they were distracted, he belted the merc who'd patted him on the head, sending him crashing in a shower booth, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Zack's fist hurt like hell, but he had heard a satisfying crunch and knew he'd broken the other man's jaw. He would be eating through a straw for a good while.
Two of the guards grabbed him as the others went to pick up their stunned comrade, muttering angrily, but Amali's orders were that Decker be presented in good health, freshly washed, and shaved.
They took him through yet another underground tunnel. The hum of environmental machinery filled the silence as they neared their destination while a dry, acrid scent, faint but unmistakable grew along with the hum. His memory twitched at the odor, but his broken synapses weren’t making the connection.
The mercs stopped at a smooth, white door set in the right-hand corridor wall, a few meters short of a pair of armored hatches. It whooshed aside with a faint sigh.