Purge of Prometheus (26 page)

She stopped just long enough to ensure Adam was still sleeping comfortably before walking down the hall and into the house’s kitchen.
 
Pushing the button on the side of a pot sitting on the stove, she moved to the cabinet while the water began boiling.
 
She pulled out a mug and a packet of instant hot drink mix.
 
Breaking the vacuum seal, she poured the powder and boiling water into her mug, mixing the two into a hearty, if not poor tasting beverage.
 
She clutched the mug tightly in her hands as she walked back to the common room, reveling in the warmth from the glass on her cold hands.

Passing the bed, she heard Adam’s soft snores.
 
She was glad to hear the sound, and she bent over and kissed him softly on the cheek.
 
Once he awoke, she’d fix him a glass of something warm as well before they started the day of manual labor in the city ruins.
 
For now, however, she let him sleep.
 
Moving to the exit door of House 12, she opened the door she had never locked from the night before and stepped outside.

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.