by Jay Posey
Not because his captors were harming him. Apart from the drugging he’d suffered in his initial capture, they had done nothing to cause him injury. Though the meals were always cold and the water tepid, he had plenty to eat and drink.
It was the room. He’d never been in anything like it before.
It was stealing his mind.
His cell was large by usual prison standards, perhaps as much as twelve feet square. But there was no furniture. No bed, no chair. A toilet was in one corner, but it was sculpted into the floor and wall in such a way that he hadn’t identified it as such at first. A small recession in the wall served as a sink. Other than those two things, the room was empty.
And when they’d first brought him in, he’d found its shape bizarre; the walls and ceiling were strangely contoured, the material unpleasant to touch. The floor was flat, and vaguely spongy. It wasn’t until they sealed the door that he understood.
As total darkness was to the eyes, so was this room for the ears. In pitch blackness, you could touch your palm to your nose and still not see your fingers; it was this same uncanny sensation, but for sound. Lincoln had never experienced anything like it before. At first, it had seemed merely ridiculous. A novelty, even. He had yelled, clapped his hands so hard they ached, even thrown himself against the walls and floor, experimenting and marveling at the deadness of the room. And no matter what he did, the sound dissipated immediately, no louder than a soft exhale. Even screaming as loud as he could, the wordless cries died as soon as they left his mouth. For a while he’d tried raving about the illegality of his imprisonment or pleading for release, but there had been no response and the lack of sound quickly became too unsettling for him to continue.
It wasn’t deafness. He could still hear. The noises he could detect were simply all internal; his breathing, his own heartbeat, the rushing of his blood.
Or was he just imagining that constant rushing sound? Surely it would be impossible to hear your own blood moving through your body. But what else could be making that endless noise?
The temperature was too cool, by a degree or two. Not enough to cause hypothermia, by his estimation, but uncomfortable. The thin shirt and pants they’d given him to wear held little heat. No matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to get warm. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think.
And how long they had given him before they introduced the next phase? An hour? Two? Ten? He’d lost his ability to track time.
When they made the switch, Lincoln felt himself cry out reflexively, even though the scream was virtually silent. Had they known about the anxiety open space caused him? The walls, the ceiling, the floor, had all ceased to exist. Every direction he looked was the vastness of space. Except for down. Below him, far, far below him sat Mars, spinning on its axis.
He had fallen to the floor then, thrown himself upon it on hands and knees, to remind himself that the room still existed, that he hadn’t really, truly been ejected into space. But even with his palms pressing hard into that strange, springy material, the image was so convincing Lincoln nearly started to hyperventilate.
He shut his eyes against the vision, drawing up the image of the room as it had been, reminding himself of its many surfaces, of its solidity, of its realness.
And it was then that he understood the insidiousness of the room’s design. Shutting his eyes magnified the isolating effects of the silence; opening them made his mind swim and reel at the all-encompassing emptiness, and his utter insignificance in its midst.
Lincoln’s only refuge, his only coping mechanism, was sitting tucked in a ball, hugging his knees, his back pressed into the corner with his feet flat on the floor. Sometimes he would run his palms back and forth across the floor or the irregular walls to increase the sensory input. When he was brought food, he forced himself to eat it slowly, a small bite at a time, regardless of whether he was famished or wasn’t hungry at all. Anything that could help him stay grounded, to stay present in his body.
His captors were, most likely, providing food for him at irregular intervals. Forcing him to go hungry for eighteen hours, and then giving him two meals less than an hour apart, to further deteriorate his sense of time.
It all worked. When the room reappeared and the door opened, Lincoln had lost all concept of time. They could have told him he’d been held for a day or a year and he would have believed either of them equally.
The return to reality was shocking to Lincoln’s senses. Lights dazzled, and the sounds… they were a nearly unbearable confusion assaulting his mind. The two guards that escorted him to the interrogation room practically carried him, and not roughly. A man and a woman, they didn’t speak or make eye contact, but even so, their hold on him felt more protective than controlling.
They left him sitting in his chair in the interrogation room he’d been in previously. Or, one so like it as to be indistinguishable. The questions were coming. Lincoln knew it. He used the time he had alone to try to prepare his shattered mind.
The door opened some unknowable span of time later, and the woman who had questioned him before came in, a pleasant look on her face. Lincoln struggled to remember her name. He had always been so good with names before.
“Mr Kim,” she said. “So good to see you. Can I get you some coffee?”
Mei. Her name was Mei. He should refuse. You always refused. It was their way of putting you in their debt, of making you feel the need to reciprocate, to return a favor.
“That would be great, thank you,” Lincoln heard himself say.
Mei nodded, opened the door and stepped out into the hall. She left the door propped open while she spoke to someone outside. When she returned, she was holding two steaming cups of coffee. It wasn’t until Lincoln heard the sharp clicks of the door locking that he realized he hadn’t even considered getting out of his chair while the door was open.
“Black is OK, I hope?” Mei said, as she handed him the cup. “I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of extra luxuries here.”
Lincoln accepted the cup with both hands, savored the warmth that ran through his palms up through his forearms.
“Black is perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”
He took a sip and scalded his lips and tongue. He didn’t care.
“How are you finding your accommodations?” she asked.
Lincoln blew on his coffee, watched the steam swirl across the surface. Fighting to come back to himself. He inhaled deeply, let the aroma draw him into the present.
“Quiet,” he said. “Nice view.”
Mei sipped her coffee, her sharp eyes monitoring him over the rim. She looked a little different than the last time he’d seen her; still a dark suit, still squared away. Dark hair in a loose pony-tail.
“Mr Kim,” she said, and then stopped herself. “… Do you mind if I call you Simon?”
“Simon is fine,” he answered.
“Simon, then,” she said. “Are you feeling up to answering a few questions?”
“I would love to answer some questions,” Lincoln said. “As long as you ask me ones I can answer.”
“Good. Excellent. Let’s start with Elliot Goodkind.”
Lincoln took another sip of coffee, trying to keep his reaction neutral. He shouldn’t have been surprised that they would know about Elliot. But that was a connection he didn’t have to worry about trying to hide, either.
“OK,” he said.
“How did you come to be connected with Mr Goodkind?”
“Through work,” Lincoln said. “First time I met him was when we arrived. I don’t know him personally.” It was nice to be able to answer that one with complete honesty.
“And what role does he play in your work?”
“Liaison, mostly. Part tour guide, I guess. He was supposed to show us around, set up a few meetings… I don’t remember seeing you guys on the itinerary though, so I’m pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to let me get caught up in your crazy spy story.”
“If that were true, then perhaps an undeclared co
vert intelligence agent was a poor choice of guide,” Mei said.
Lincoln shook his head.
“So now Elliot’s a spy too?” he said. “Are you guys just trying to stir up trouble? Pick a fight with Earth? Is that what this is?”
“The Collective Republic is neutral in such matters, and will remain that way for as long as it is within our power to do so.”
“Is there anything I can say to help you understand that I’m not a spy?”
“No.”
Lincoln let his exasperation show.
“Why not?”
“Because, Simon,” she said with a smile, “if you were simply a man on a business trip, you would have gone insane by now. Your training is showing.”
Lincoln tried to prevent his face from revealing his realization, and knew he had blown it. How had he been so stupid? He had become so focused on enduring, he had forgotten what such circumstances would do to his cover identity.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a moment to myself,” he said, trying to deflect. “Nice to get a breather.”
Mei chuckled.
“I still don’t know what you want from me,” he continued. “I wish you would just tell me what you want me to say, so I could say it.”
“I think you do know what I want you to say,” she said.
“I really don’t.”
“I want to know why the United American Federation wants to go to war with my nation. The United States in particular.”
“We don’t want war,” Lincoln said, before he could stop himself.
Her eyes narrowed just enough for him to pick up on it.
“Then why are you here, Mr Kim?”
He’d given himself away completely now. She’d gotten him. He looked down at his coffee, took a sip to buy himself some time and to help keep his mouth occupied. Mei watched him intently for a long moment. And then suddenly got to her feet.
“OK,” she said, as she walked over to the door. “Well, maybe next time you’ll have more to say on the matter.”
Even knowing what they were doing, it was hard to resist. This room. This comfortable room, with light, and warmth, and a human voice. They would let him stay here as long as he liked. As long as he talked. As long as he told them everything.
“No… wait,” Lincoln said, reflexively. He took a breath to say more, but then regained control. It had been close. His body had nearly betrayed him again. He didn’t know what words had been about to come out of his mouth, but he’d only caught them in the barest nick of time. They were going to stick him back in that room again. He closed his eyes, held that breath for a moment to settle himself, then exhaled. Opened his eyes, looked down into his half-finished cup of coffee.
“Yes?” Mei prompted.
He looked up at her. “Can I finish my coffee first?”
She didn’t answer, but her expression showed clear disappointment and, Lincoln thought, perhaps a flash of frustration. Maybe he wasn’t losing as badly as he thought. She knocked on the door three times, and while the guards came to get him, Lincoln drank in as much of the warmth as he could before they took it away.
TWENTY-SIX
When Gregor came to, his first sensation was the feeling that someone had filled his mouth with scalding water while he was out cold. His half-numbed tongue felt too big for his mouth, and his teeth ached with a dull throb. He couldn’t remember ever having felt his heartbeat in his teeth before. It was decidedly unpleasant.
Seeing that he was awake, the right side of his face joined the pain party with the gift of a blowtorch impression, along his upper cheekbone below the eye socket. He went to touch it, but his arms didn’t work. It took him a moment to realize he was strapped down.
“Mornin’,” a man’s voice said.
The sound drew Gregor’s attention to the larger surroundings, outside the borders of his personal world of hurt. He opened his eyes to find himself quick-cuffed, hands and feet, to a chair, in the middle of a small, otherwise empty room. It was damp, with a sharp odor of fuel. A man leaned against the wall in one corner; tall, long limbed. He was smiling, but he didn’t look happy, or friendly.
“Let me put it to you like this, buddy,” the man said. “The only reason you woke up with eyes is because I wouldn’t let her carve ‘em out while you were out cold.” He pointed to a woman seated on the floor.
Dark skinned, her face vaguely familiar. Gregor knew her, from somewhere. Cooper. Allison Cooper, though he knew now that most likely wasn’t her real name. The other NID agent. Gregor looked back at the man, tried to bring up anything he might know, but came up blank. Apparently Elliot hadn’t given him all the information. Gregor regretted not having shot him more.
“And why is that?” Gregor managed to ask.
“Figured it’d be better if she waited till you were awake,” the man said.
“You seem angry,” Gregor said. He sat up as straight as he could in his chair and made a show of stretching his back and neck, to draw attention away from the fact that he was testing the strength of his bonds.
“They’re strong enough,” said the man. “Don’t you worry about that.”
“I work for Internal Security. I hope you realize you’ve assaulted and imprisoned an officer of the law.”
“You’ll have to pardon me if I don’t think you’re much of a lawman.”
“Well, I’m sorry, I’m at a bit of a loss,” Gregor said. “You’ll have to remind me what it is in particular I’ve done to upset you.”
“You killed a friend of ours,” the woman said. “And kidnapped another.”
“Oh,” Gregor said. “Ah yes, I could see how that might be upsetting. But if you’re referring to Elliot Goodkind, let me assure you that he was no friend of yours. I probably did you a favor.” Good to know the man was dead. Gregor still wished he had shot him more.
“Then maybe you’d be kind enough to do us one more,” said the man. “What are you doing with SUNGRAZER?”
Gregor kept his face neutral. For what was supposedly an above-top-secret asset, an awful lot of people seemed to know about that ship.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the reference,” Gregor said. “But I do understand that you’re hostile spies operating in the colony I’m sworn to protect. I’m sorry about your friends, but I’m not sure what else you would expect me to do, exactly.”
“Think harder,” the woman said. “Do your best to remember. It’s important.”
“Hmm,” Gregor said. “SUNGRAZER you say. OK, let me think about it. Nope, no idea.”
Cooper, or whatever her name was, got up off the floor then and walked slowly towards him, with a predatory look. She stopped in front of him, her legs touching the front of his knees, and started to unbutton her shirt. Underneath she was wearing an athletic compression top, sleeveless. Her arms were well-muscled, covered from shoulders to wrists in intricate tattoos. She tossed her shirt to her companion in the corner.
“Don’t get excited,” she said. “I just don’t feel like trying to get the blood out of my shirt.” Her hand disappeared behind her back for a moment, and when it returned it brought with it a claw-shaped blade. She straddled him and sat on his lap; Gregor reflexively leaned back in the chair. When he did, the woman grabbed the top of his head with one hand and forced it back further, to the point of pain. The next instant, he felt cold steel press into his cheekbone, the blade flat against his skin, but the point of that claw-tip uncomfortably touching the lower eyelid, just under the eyeball.
“I hope it doesn’t pop like a grape,” the man said.
“You sure you don’t have anything you want to say to me?” the woman asked.
“I have many things I’d like to say to you,” Gregor answered. “But I fear they would only anger you further.”
The woman pressed her body into him, her weight and strength constricting his abdomen; with his head tilted so far back, he found it difficult to breathe. Even without the knife blade threatening to pluck his eye out, Gregor had to
fight against the natural panic rising. It was almost like drowning on dry land. But Gregor held on. He was strong. He could beat her. He held still, silent, did his best not to give them the pleasure of seeing his discomfort.
“Don’t break that neck,” the man said. “Gonna be hard for him to talk if he chokes on his own tongue.”
In response, the woman lightly dragged the curved inner blade of her knife along the hard edge of Gregor’s eye socket, not enough to cut, but uncomfortable, like she’d dragged the back of her fingernail roughly across the soft flesh.
“Torture me all you want,” Gregor said. “I assure you I have nothing to tell you.”
“That’s OK,” the woman said, suddenly casual. She stood and backed away from him, and held up a small device for him to see. His badge. His credentials. Access to Internal Security Systems. “I only needed a little bit of your DNA and a couple of minutes of voice sample anyway. I was just hoping you’d save us the trouble.”
She tucked his badge into her pocket, and held the blade of her knife up to the light, looking undoubtedly at the skin cells she’d scraped off. The man moved closer to her and returned her shirt.
“You want to say SUNGRAZER for me again, nice and clear?” she asked.
“I don’t know what you think you’ll do with that,” Gregor said. He couldn’t stand the smug look on her face, as if she’d beaten him somehow. She had no idea what she was up against.
“I do,” she said.
“It’s too late,” Gregor said. “You can’t stop it now. Not even I can.” He wouldn’t make the mistake of revealing anything they didn’t already know, but he couldn’t let them leave that room with any sense of hope. Maybe they’d kill him. But not without knowing it was for nothing.
The woman hesitated by the door. “Things starting to come back to you a little clearer now?”
