Stars Rain Down (Biotech Legacy)

by Chris J. Randolph

  “Name unimportant, Nefrem. Reveal location is battle fleet.”

  Jack’s chest was twitching, and he was having trouble speaking. “I don’t… don’t think that… made it through the translator.”

  “Where location battle fleet is!? Nefrem fleet must to return. When is return?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The alien reached up and grabbed Jack’s throat. “When?” it demanded.

  “I don’t understand,” he gurgled.

  A deep, throaty growl came out of the alien, and his grip on Jack’s throat tightened. “When?” the alien kept saying over and over again, until Jack slipped back into darkness, where more twisted dreams awaited him.

  Chapter 39:

  Interrogation

  Jack’s life took on a peculiar sort of rhythm. They left him alone in his cell to stew for long stretches, until such time as the fascist alien bastard came back to question and torture him some more. During each questioning session, he was pushed up to and past his threshold for pain. He would pass out and find a small measure of peace, only to awaken later and repeat the process all over again.

  Jack felt like Prometheus chained to his rock.

  His resolve only lasted so long, and he started to answer questions, mingling truth and lies, losing track of where one began and the other ended. Sometimes, he made a game of giving the most ridiculous answers possible, speaking at length about an army called the Lost Boys who had a base hidden in Never Never Land, or the terrorist leader Christopher Robin and the suicide missions he launched from the 100 Acre Wood. When he ran out of kids’ books, he turned to movies, spinning stories about British super spies, flying Chinese monks, and space police with lenses attached to their hands.

  The interrogator listened intently but never bought a word of it, and Jack discovered that the quality of his story telling had zero effect on the amount of torture he received.

  He had no idea how much time passed or was passing, and he lost count of how many sessions he endured. The only change from one day to the next was the interrogator’s grasp of English, which improved at a startling rate but remained oddly stilted.

  Throughout it all, Jack somehow refused to divulge his name despite whatever pain he was subjected to; it was his alone, and he wouldn’t let them have that piece of him. The interrogator addressed him only as Nefrem, and whenever Jack asked about the word, he was introduced to yet another pressure point, offering its own unique flavor of agony. The interrogator thought Jack was playing dumb, and no amount of arguing could convince him otherwise.

  Their relationship was a tense one, yet they somehow grew comfortable with one another. Jack spent more time howling and slobbering than he ever could have imagined, but the interrogator didn’t relish the work; he performed it clinically, without joy or satisfaction. He even displayed mercy on occasion, and Jack thought he might be able to forgive the interrogator. Those times didn’t come often.

  Whenever Jack was left alone, he prayed. He hadn’t since he was a child, and it was awkward at first. The prayers started out formal, complete with all of the ‘holy father’s, ‘art’s and ‘thou’s he could remember, but soon he was talking to God like an old friend returned from a long trip. When his prayers went unanswered, he bargained, hoping that smaller requests might be granted where larger ones were ignored, but that went nowhere quickly. Finally, the prayers disappeared and he just talked to himself, because unlike God, he was polite enough to reply.

  Facing a future that promised nothing but pain, Jack began to wish for death. He just wanted it to end, and he considered sharing this fact with the interrogator. He wasn’t sure if the masked alien might grant his wish, or if it was exactly the submission they’d been working toward all along.

  Jack never revealed his desire to die, and the torture continued unabated. When reality grew unbearable, he retreated into ever more complex fantasies, managing to convince himself the whole ordeal was just a terrible dream, and that he’d wake up back in sunny San Jose at any moment. He imagined lying in his king-size bed with Jess snoring beside him, then sneaking out to read the newspaper over a glass of orange juice with the morning sun breaking through the trees outside his window.

  The simple, prosaic details had the most gravity. They pulled him down into the dream, and made it feel more real.

  He could just about taste the tangy-sweet orange juice and feel its squishy pulp on his tongue when a surprising jolt of pain thrust him back into real reality. Back in his cell, strapped to the ceiling like a modern art exhibit, while the interrogator stared up at him from below.

  “You drifted away for a moment, Nefrem.”

  “So sorry about that,” Jack said through gritted teeth, “What was the question?”

  “I don’t believe I asked one,” the interrogator said. “Tell me, where did you go?”

  “Dunno know what you mean.”

  “When you were off just now. Where did you go?”

  “Home,” Jack said. The word evoked feelings that were strange and out of place now. They were the phantom feelings of an amputated life.

  The interrogator took a seat on the floor. That was a first. He was acting particularly strange this session, and Jack thought he should be on guard for trickery, but he didn’t have the energy to be on guard against anything. His constant state of half-starved delirium made anything more complex than basic sarcasm impossible.

  “That’s the first question you’ve answered truthfully.”

  “No one’s perfect.”

  The interrogator was deep in thought. Jack considered spitting on him, but doubted he could muster enough saliva.

  “I have determined after rigorous experimentation that we are in a deadlock. An impasse. You cannot be broken by pain alone, and for that, I commend you.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “I suspect that you have already resigned yourself to death. Perhaps you consider yourself dead already, and your body nothing but an empty shell.”

  “Maybe I just like the pain.”

  The interrogator let out a queer laugh. “Possible but unlikely. You’ve shown no signs of arousal during our sessions. I suspect that you might fold were I to mutilate you, but I find that option unsavory.”

  “Don’t have the balls to cut me up?”

  “I have employed mutilation before, but only in dire circumstances. I find such tactics dishonorable and morally reprehensible. They are not to be considered lightly.”

  “I see. And this shit is just business as usual?”

  “Essentially. Pain is fleeting and impermanent. With time, the memory fades and the mind heals. Not so with mutilation. It renders parts of the subject forever unusable, and the possibility of total psychological collapse is always close at hand. It’s a point of no return, beyond which atonement becomes unreachable.”

  “Nice to know you have limits.”

  “All life has limits, Nefrem. Even you.” The interrogator said things like that often, and they always took Jack by surprise. Whatever these Nefrem were, the interrogator held them in high regard. They were legendary, and Jack held the same status by association.

  “So, what now?”

  The interrogator considered. “If you give me what I want, I will release you. To the outside or death, whichever is your preference.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “I don’t have any.” Jack spaced his words deliberately, like speaking to an unruly child.

  “But I know you do. Your species is guarding a secret, and I will uncover it by any means necessary. If you will not assist me, then one of the others will.”

  Jack’s mind raced, but he tried not to let it show. What others? Could the rest of his team have been captured? No, he told himself, he was being played. He retreated from the thought, and stuck to his guns.

  “Tell me what I wish to know, Nefrem. Tell me where your battle fleet has gone, and when it will return.”

  “I am not
a Nefrem,” Jack said, “I’m a free man.”

  “Then we are done,” the interrogator said. He stood and walked from the room, saying, “Farewell. You will not see me again.”

  The bastard left Jack alone in silence, and for some reason he would never fully understand, he began to weep. His body quaked. Tears ran down his nose and dropped to the floor below, where they formed a shallow puddle. He cried until the darkness once again came to take him away.

  Chapter 40:

  Solitary

  The next time Jack opened his eyes, he was on the floor of a different room, wearing rags too threadbare to hang himself with. The place was stark and empty, with flat, smooth walls in perfectly inert grey. The only noticeable details were a hole in the floor for waste, a small dish attached to one wall that was constantly full of water, and a deep slot beside it just wide enough to fit a hand inside.

  This was Jack’s new world.

  Stuff came out of the slot every now and again that turned out to be food. It was a curious smelling pile of lukewarm chunks that may have been meat, vegetable or neither. It came in different colors, but always tasted the same.

  His first attempts at eating ended in vomiting, but it wasn’t a problem with the food. Jack had been fed intravenously for so long that his stomach wasn’t yet up to the task, but he kept at it, and by the fourth meal he kept some down. Things improved from there.

  He suspected the food was dispensed on a timed interval, but he had no way to know for sure. Regardless, he used bits of each meal to mark the walls so he could have at least an idea of how much time had passed.

  Otherwise, there was a perplexing sameness to his days. No one ever came to check on him, and he never heard anything outside. The cell was his own personal purgatory, and after scouring every last millimeter of it, he decided there could be no escape. He couldn’t even figure out how they got him in.

  His body was a damn wreck. The time spent hanging from the ceiling had taken its toll, leaving him weak, emaciated, and covered from head to toe in deep, discolored bruises. His shoulders were especially sore from holding his weight, and it took some time before he could raise his arms without severe discomfort. A strong breeze could have blown him over, and restoring his health became a top priority.

  Each ‘day’, he woke up, exercised as much as he could, then rested and ate. After his meal, he exercised to his limit again, then broke for his second meal, and returned for one last exercise session, this time only stopping when he collapsed. He was always so exhausted by then that sleep came easily.

  The interrogator’s torture had altered Jack’s relationship with pain, and he found himself working straight through exhaustion and muscle fatigue, right up to the point when he literally couldn’t move anymore. As time passed, that point stretched further and further out, until he could work himself virtually non-stop.

  In truth, he wasn’t just used to the pain; he craved it. Trapped in that grey box, it was the only thing he had left, and he never let it far out of his grasp. It was the last thing grounding him to reality.

  His life went on like this through one-hundred and thirty seven meals, each day the same as the one before it, and then it changed. He passed out as usual in a pool of his own sweat, but when he awoke, he wasn’t alone.

  The other man was huddled in a ball against the wall, shivering even though the room was stuffy and warm. He was dressed in rags like Jack’s, and was both badly bruised and malnutritioned. His gaunt physique reminded Jack of old pictures showing Jewish prisoners in German concentration camps.

  The man had his knees drawn up and his head buried in them. He was sobbing, and Jack couldn’t get a look at his face.

  Jack was so surprised, he didn’t know what to do. He felt like his space had been invaded and he had a powerful urge to attack, followed quickly by a sense of self-disgust that left him confused, and ultimately silent.

  So Jack went about his daily business and tried to pretend nothing had changed. He stretched until he felt good and limber, then dropped to the floor and did push-ups. After working up a good sweat, he stood, spread his feet and lowered himself into a horse stance, then stood there until his quads felt like they might catch fire.

  Meanwhile, the other man sat on his side of the room. He never looked up or pulled his face away from his knees. He did nothing but sob for hours on end.

  Then lunch time came. The slot in the wall produced a pile of multi-colored food chunks, which Jack attacked voraciously. He stuffed his cheeks full like a chipmunk, and was piling more food in when he stopped himself. He decided to be more than just an animal in a cage.

  He grabbed a handful of food-bits and carried them over to the other prisoner. “Hey,” he said. It didn’t come out easily. He hadn’t spoken in so long he could hardly remember how.

  The other man didn’t respond.

  “Hey, you should eat,” Jack said. His words were hurried and sloppy. He sounded like a caveman. “Gotta keep yer strength up.”

  The other man finally looked up with yellow discolored eyes, and a face just as gaunt and wasted as his body.

  Jack held out the food. “Gotta eat. Need strength to fight ‘em.”

  The yellow-eyed man reached out with a shaking hand, took the food and returned to hiding behind his knees. It was a first step, and Jack returned to his own side of the cell, mindful not to push too hard.

  He exercised until dinner came, then again portioned out food and brought it to the other man, who took it and went back to hiding behind his knees.

  Jack finished his own food fast and skipped that evening’s exercise regimen. He tried to sleep with one eye open but didn’t get much rest, only managing to sleep for short bursts before waking in fits of heart-thumping paranoia. It was hard to be sure, but he didn’t think the other guy slept much either.

  The next day, he went about his morning exercises as usual until lunch rolled around, and then made another attempt at diplomacy. He gathered up a handful of food and delivered it to the huddled-up man, and said, “Heya, food time.”

  The other grunted and took it.

  “You speak English?”

  The man’s eyes were full of fear and confusion. He stared at Jack for a long time while he nibbled at the food like a rat. “A little,” he finally said.

  “Hey. That’s great. Really great. I’m Jack. What’s your name?”

  The other glanced around like he thought someone else might be listening. “Kai,” he said. “My name’s Kai.”

  “Please to meetcha, Kai.”

  Jack had known a fellow named Kai who was from Finland. He looked at this new Kai, and he honestly couldn’t figure out what ethnicity the guy might be. He had the most forgettable face Jack had ever seen. “Are you from Finland?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Puhutko suomea?”

  “What? Um… I don’t speak Finnish.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence, and Jack was kind of glad for it. He didn’t remember conversations being such a damn struggle. “So… How’d you get here?”

  Kai shook his head. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s right, right. Okay. Sorry. But you’re okay, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well… ummm,” Jack droned, “I uhhh… I’m just gonna go back to doin’ what I was doin’. Stay cool, right? Right.”

  Jack didn’t used to repeat himself so much before his incarceration. He’d have to work on that.

  He went back to his exercise, and attacked it with a renewed vigor. It’d been months since he last saw another human being, and he never imagined how important other people were to him. Better still, he’d made some headway this time. The sense of accomplishment was more filling than a home cooked meal.

  When dinner rolled around, Kai met him at the dispenser and they both ate like ravenous animals. The feeding frenzy might have lacked culture, but it was better than being alone. Anything short of torture was better than being alone, and over the following weeks, things improved
.

  Chapter 41:

  Comrade

  ”…and when the time came, I couldn’t do it. I refused to have millions of deaths on my head, alien or not. In return for my mercy, I ended up here.”

  “No kidding. What did you do before the invasion?”

  “I was ERC,” Jack said, but Kai looked confused. Then Jack was confused, too. He was sure everyone knew about the ERC. “Emergency Response Corps? Global do-gooders. Firefighters and medics and stuff.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Didn’t recognize the name.”

  “S’alright.”

  “You were a firefighter?”

  Jack shook his head and made big motions with his hands. “No, no, no. Those guys are crazy. The smokejumpers especially. Man, skydiving and firefighting. Might as well jam your hand in a blender. No, I was search and rescue. Tracked down lost hikers and mountain climbers. That kinda stuff.”

  “A lot of need for that?”

  “Some. Not really. We spent most of our time backing up other teams, like those crazy ass smokejumpers.”

  Kai let out an awkward chuckle, then got a weird look on his face.

  Jack said, “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you were a soldier for some reason.”

  “Nope. Not until the shit hit the fan, at least. Used to be against war of any kind. Hurting people, pain and suffering. That stuff was the enemy. I was a true believer, but the invasion changed my outlook I guess.”

  “True believer?”

  “In the mission, man. I helped people, and it’s all I wanted to do. I didn’t care who. Just help ‘em, ya know? It was a different time.”

  “Yeah. Ever changing world, right?”

  “How about you, Kai? What’d you used to do?”

  “A lot of things. Construction mostly. I was building an offshore drilling platform when it happened.”

  “Musta been nice. Out on the oceans and all that. The bastards probably didn’t pay much attention to you guys.”

  “Not at first. Took them months to come out for us. Where were you when it happened?”