by Allen Ivers
How disappointing. Riley could have sworn that was a seasoned soldier at his arm, not some naive member of the diplomatic corps. Soldiers lived in permanent residence amongst the worst realities of the modern world. Lifting your head up from your foxhole to gaze at the shapes in the clouds got it removed from your shoulders.
Riley gave his lieutenant a soft, patronizing smile, trying to remember how his own teachers used to belittle his youthful missteps, “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”
The two marched the short distance in toward Aaron’s makeshift cell. The open door flooded the room with light from two floods triggered by the hinges -- intentionally blinding the occupant to hinder resistance.
Aaron didn’t even look up, his eyes cast to the chipped stone floor.
Riley squared up in front of the Capital, arms folded, “I trust we’ve made you comfortable?”
No response. But Aaron’s eyes flitted across Riley’s pristine boots, studying and absorbing.
He was listening. Good. Time for the two-punch.
Riley pursed his lips as he fished in his pocket, “They strung you up? That’s just bad staff work. Lieutenant, would you mind?”
He pointed at the restraints, and Holmst delayed the requisite half second before swooping forward to undo the restrictive knots.
The sudden slack sent Aaron to his knees, as the awkward wide leg restraints kept him from holding himself up. The prisoner rubbed at the sores and blisters on his wrists. Standard pain response, unconscious behaviors.
The crinkle of a wrapper pricked up his ears, his neck craning up to see Riley chewing on a ration bar: steel oats with a bitter chocolate and stimulant injection.
He wasn’t even hungry. He just wanted to show the Capital food.
Riley gnawed on the end of the bar, breaking off a malleable chunk, “I apologize for the accommodations, but we have some protocols that… quite frankly, we’ve never had the opportunity to observe in this particular theater. The bugs don’t typically leave survivors.”
He pointed at Aaron with the bar, letting it linger with grabbing distance, “And they let you go twice.”
Before Aaron could reach for the food, Riley pulled it back, breaking off another bite.
It was the unspoken offer for comforts, the waste of a badly needed necessity. It was better than any torture, any pain.
In his final exam, Riley had brought a mangy dog. The instructors were disappointed, assuming physical violence, but Riley went through his motions, before inevitably giving the ration to the dog. The starved animal swallowed the thing whole right in front of the prisoner.
The implicit threat coupled with the abject waste was devastating to their psyche. No amount of shouting or sensory deprivation would best a wasted cigarette or spilled water.
Torture steeled the will; waste crushed hope. The real game was not in invoking so much pain that one begged for release, no -- a man will tell you the sky is made of ice cream to quash a fire.
But a seduction, if he believes you his only friend in a God-forsaken world? You silence all hope, and then position yourself as the sole source of store-fresh, brand-name, farm-to-table relief.
People will confide their darkest secrets in their friends.
“You know who I am?” Riley asked between bites.
Aaron nodded, shaky from exhaustion and nerves, but his eyes never left the ration bar. “I’d like to hear you say it, if you can.”
Aaron’s dried and cracked lips seemed to pop apart, the dirt and saliva having dried into a sealant. Finally free, he sucked in the stale air like it was a cool drink of water, “...You know who I am?”
There it was. The aggression, the pride, the belligerence of a prisoner. He was not yet broken, but would need the softer hand and patience. 'Do not cede the higher ground; instead, give enough to build a bridge that you own.'
“He speaks!” Riley said, glancing at Holmst with a happy smirk, “Little victories.”
“If you’re going to torture me,” Aaron croaked, “I’d rather we get to it already.”
“Torture?” Riley played up his appalled expression, “Aaron, we’re just happy to see you.”
“So the ankle irons and the tanning rack were just…?”
Riley nodded, with rolled eyes, as though he too found it ridiculous, “Part of the protocol.”
Aaron sneered, a thin smile wrapping up around his jaw, “I’d love to meet the guy who drew up that bit of the rules.”
“Work long enough in the Armed Forces, and that sentence becomes a bit of a refrain.” Riley quipped, drawing up a chair from the shadows. He eased into it, settling in like he was building a nest. Aaron was not going to be easily persuaded by that, but a proper foundation had to be laid. Interrogation was a patient man’s art.
Aaron leaned back, like his body was slack in a rope line, “They don’t want to fight anymore.”
“I believe you.”
Aaron blinked, clearly not expecting that response. “Really?”
“I’m skeptical of them, but I believe you,” Riley said, gesturing for Holmst back in the shadows. The lieutenant produced his canteen, careful to remain out of sight. The senior officer who had abandoned Aaron in the mountains certainly wouldn’t create a further bond.
Riley took a theatrical swig of the contents, relishing the refreshment as it cooled his throat. He offered it to Aaron -- the first official gesture of connection. Aaron took it -- hook, line & sinker. He plucked it from Riley’s hands and took a strong belt.
Riley began, “Some of us have been fighting these things for years. It’s not so easy to rationalize that they suddenly want peace.”
Cracking voice, relishing the refreshing water, “It didn’t make much sense to me either.”
“Why’s that?” That’s it. Unravel his own logic, so even he doesn’t believe himself anymore.
Aaron froze up, clutching the canteen like it was a teddy bear and he was a small child laid up at sundown, “They’d killed friends of mine.”
Riley gave the smallest of nods, “Mine too. It’s been a long war.”
Aaron glowered up at Riley, under his ragged brows, “You have the power to stop it.”
Give ground. Be humble. Let them be the ones to overreach.
“You think very highly of little ol’ me,” Riley smirked, all contrite as he leaned back in his chair. “But we’re the ones defending a Wall. They’re the ones hitting us.”
“Not by what I saw.” Aaron didn’t have to look at Holmst for everyone to know where that jab was sent. Damn it. Riley had been arrogant bringing the lieutenant in here.
Damage control. 'They will flail. You must direct.'
“Lieutenant Holmst was acting under my direct orders,” Riley jumped in, “Turning the blade to them saves lives on the Wall, and by all accounts, it has completely blunted their assaults.”
“They stopped,” Aaron flared, “because they want peace--”
“They wanted peace at Rimpau?” Riley asked, “When they cut your friends to ribbons?”
Riley let that image hang in his head. Riley had seen the body-cam footage from the Oskies. The Jergad had been ten-to-one, and they had torn through the opposition like a hungry Hydra, more a single legendary monster than individuals, as they pulled the hapless into a waiting maw to experience the kind of suffering reserved for mankind’s worst offenders before silencing their screams with blood.
“Aaron,” Riley soothed, “It’s not an action I take lightly, but we had to start punching back.”
“They’re defending themselves…” Aaron whispered, “This was their home.”
“Is there any action we could commit that justifies what they’ve done?”
That was apparently a land mine. “We glassed their whole planet!” Aaron shouted, “We killed billions!”
Ay, there's the rub. That's the root of the tall tale.
Riley got up out of his chair, kneeling down in front of Aaron. Vulnerability -- putting himself within range of Aaron’s grasp
was a show of trust, kinship.
He was not a prisoner and Riley not his captor. This was more intervention than interrogation, and a delirious Aaron would lose sense of his allegiance.
“Says who?” Riley met him at the same level, “The telepathic monster that personally executed your friends, my friends? It’s claiming victimhood? Really? Oh, please, Aaron! You’re smarter than that! It’s in your head! It’s been there for months! They didn’t let you go out of the goodness of their heart. They’re lying to you!”
Riley sat back on his heels, letting Aaron stew in that. The Capital squared up, but his lip was quivering, his hands shaking.
Aaron was moments from breaking.
“Aaron, protocol insists I terminate you as a threat,” Riley stated, with gloom, “I’m trying to save your life right now.”
“You don’t care about Capitals…” Aaron stammered out. "No one does."
“Do this right, and you won’t be a Capital, Aaron. You get through this… and you’re a citizen again. More than earned it. You could go back to your life or build a whole new one, if you want. But not if you die out here.”
Aaron lowered his head, eyes darting across the floor, like he was speed-reading something scrawled into the foundations.
“You’ve come a long way,” Riley said, “That got to mean something.”
“…They lied to me?”
“The best lies are sprinkled with some truth,” Riley equivocated, quoting from some high school philosophy textbook, “We may not be angels. But they’re not victims. And given a chance, just the smallest chance… I understand why you trust them. They spared you. But why?”
“Because…” Aaron croaked out, “I can speak for them.”
“To what end, Aaron?”
Aaron shivered, sinking backward into his restraints.
Turn out the lights and last one out, get the door. Show’s over.
Riley made some effete promises for creature comforts, physical therapy and observation, of how the Doctors were going to help rehabilitate him, even that he could see his friends just as soon as they could make assurances he was safe for general exposure. Riley spoke of fresh clothing and a hot meal -- nothing luxurious but sorely needed. It was a kindness bestowed.
None of it would come true, of course. He was a Capital. Riley would likely never step foot in that room again.
After a few performative farewells, Holmst slid the door closed behind them. He fell in stride beside his commander, but he moved like someone had strapped him with cement boots.
Better get this over with.
“You've got comments?” Riley seethed.
“We went in there looking to get answers,” Holmst fretted, “Not supply them. What if he’s telling the truth?”
“You want to know what the oddsmakers say about that?” Riley asked, a growl behind his cynical question.
Holmst bowed his head for a moment, before bucking up the courage to support his objection, “Sir, it’s a possibility we shouldn’t dismiss, is all.”
Riley stopped in his tracks, blocking the hallway, “There are only two possibilities, Lieutenant. Either they are actually suing for peace, or they are trying to trick us. Either way, the prescribed response is ‘let your guard down.’ There are thousands of innocent lives in Vanguard and I will not gamble with their safety.”
“Then why not execute him and move on?”
“Because he’s a gold mine of intelligence, and I wouldn’t give that up for my own mother. We’re not peacemakers, Lieutenant. We are Peacekeepers.”
"I'm from Venus, sir," Holmst blurted, stopping in the hallway like an anchor.
Somehow, the gravity of it kept Riley from walking on. He turned back to his aide. “I’m sorry?”
"We get acid rainstorms. The ground has to be carefully cultivated, or it doesn't grow anything. We had six famines growing up. But no matter how bad it got, we all knew we could trust a man with a flag on his shoulder."
"You looking for a demerit or just a smack in the face?" Riley asked, lip curled.
"Peacekeepers do a lot of torture where you come from?"
Adorable.
"That wasn't torture, Lieutenant. Believe me, when I start the torture, you'll know. There'll be a ledger. It'll be your job to take the minutes."
18
Aaron
It started with simple blood tests. They unlocked his restraints, brought him water and a hearty bread, before setting him down in a steel chair. There was polite conversation, even asking about Aaron’s future plans, what he’d do with his freedom.
He'd have to think about it. They found that charming. Or maybe, they were just wincing at the parched creak in his voice.
With a hypo, they drew blood from his arm -- it felt like a lot, but what did Aaron know? There wasn’t even a puncture site where the work had been done, but the primary vein collapsed after, a blue streak up his dark bicep. He asked about it, but the Doctors were more eager to talk about him.
They were never happier than when Aaron was talking about himself. He doubted they were actually listening to a word he said, but they almost never stopped with their questions.
He learned the name of his primary physician: Dr. Lisa Womack. She was a slender woman, short, almost childlike. She had solid shoulders and immaculate flowing black hair that hung along her angular jaw like curtains cut for the occasion. There was a strand of her bangs that kept slipping forward in front of her eyes, and she had to keep swiping it back to hook behind her ear.
She was a lively conversationalist, with a music to her soprano voice. It sounded so… familiar.
Aaron could not remember what they spoke about, but he grew to relish her visits. Womack meant food, water, comfort, warmth, and…
Touch. It was like a shot of electricity, a bolt that darted from end to end affirming he was awake, alive. It warmed his gut and cooled his sweat. It relieved the weight on his shoulders and anchored his feet to the ground.
It was so isolating without a human voice, but a human touch might as well have been a drug cascading through his veins.
It was nearly a week before she touched him the first time. She had stepped up to apply a topical antibiotic to the abrasions on his wrists. He had developed a fever and they were concerned for his health. He felt her soft hands graze his wrist and for that moment's embrace, he was in heaven.
“Thank you,” he rasped, with more intensity than she likely expected.
She started at the words, blinking through the computational error. She had done nothing worthy of gratitude, so she thought, until the obvious result came to her.
She resumed her task without another look. It was bliss for a brief time, before they left him again.
Two days of solitary and smothering heat later, Womack returned with her team. She never directed their work; rather, she nodded to them at intervals, indicating they could proceed to their next task. She busied herself talking with him.
Distracting him.
“What were you thinking?” Womack asked him, “At Rimpau?”
Aaron’s eyes fluttered as he struggled with parsing the question.
She had never asked about his time as a Capital before. It was always about before, his life as a citizen and his occupation and family, the Empire and Sol.
He swallowed on the dried mucus, trying to force a pathway for his voice, “I...I thought… was going to die.”
She glanced at someone just out of sight, hovering somewhere to his left. They nodded to her, and she looked back at him, “What did you see?”
“I saw... “ Those eyes. The Queen’s penetrating stare. “I saw the Howler overhead.”
She raised her eyebrows, like a teacher pulling an answer from a child, “Did you dream?”
Aaron shook off the mounting headache, “I saw her eyes…”
The shadow leaned forward, grunting with a familiar gravel that teased the edge of memory, “Whose eyes?”
Aaron lifted his head, searching the darkness
for that voice. Womack couldn't let him, "Aaron, focus. Please."
Something in her voice, a bedside manner, a friendly tone, his own delirium. He didn't why he associated the name, but all he wanted in that moment was to see her face, hear her voice. Was she there?
"…Eden?"
"Not her," Womack scolded, in that soft maternal tone, "The eyes. Tell me about the eyes."
He didn’t answer, at least not fast enough for her liking. He blinked, trying to break the growing crust on his lips, and in that moment’s hesitation, her team may as well have vanished.
He was alone for three more days after that. His abdomen had gone from hunger pangs to pouting silence, only to circle back with more pain. And every time that pain came, bread and water would appear with the warm face of Dr. Womack. Then he would be alone until that pain twisted up his insides.
He tried to fake it, aping the movements and groans, but they always knew when it was real.
Then they turned on the lights. Hot, white, blinding him.
Before he knew it, his restraints had been cut and hands pressed him into a board. Thick bindings lashed about his midsection and chest, pinning his arms to his sides, before tilting him down to a horizontal position.
He could hear the wheels on his gurney rattle as they wheeled him out.
He was leaving.
“Where are we going?” He croaked.
Dr. Womack’s dulcet tones crooned into his ear, “We’re moving you to a Forward Operating Room.”
“Can I- talk to the cleaning crew?” He jested, his throat raspy from lack of use, hitching in a painful way every so often, “I want to- apologize for the state of my bunk.”
She snorts, “Two whole months of isolation, he’s still got a sense of humor.”
“You should see me af-- after a forced march. Jokes get filthy.”
He felt a prick at his elbow and a chill shot up his arm and through his chest that made his stomach churn like cold laundry. This was not made for his comfort.
Womack leaned in again, “We need to insert two probes, one into your lumbar and another into your cerebral cavity. This should help us study the movements of your CS fluids. We got authorization this morning!”
