A guard twisted Marten’s arm behind his back. Marten ground his teeth together, refusing to cry out.
“Think you’re a tough bastard, huh?”
Marten remained silent.
The guard twisted harder.
Marten yelled. The guard laughed in his ear. Marten struggled to free himself, and to his amazement, the guard let go. Marten turned toward his tormenter. Shock rods hit him in the face. He saw their black visors and the gleaming white teeth of their sadistic smiles. Then he blanked out into unconsciousness.
7.
Marten woke to the sound of a hissing hypo. Groggily, he realized someone had shot him full of stimulants. He was also aware of a body beside him. He checked and saw Stick sneer. They sat on a bench together.
“You’re meat,” said Stick.
“The prisoners will not speak unless they are spoken to.”
It was an effort, but Marten swung his eyes toward the front. Ogre-sized Major Orlov sat there, her black cap snug over her beady eyes. Brutality shone on her face. Behind her stood two, red-uniformed PHC thugs, men with the zealous glare of the hypnotically adjusted. They were in a small room, the lights bright and the walls bare.
“Marten Kluge, the State believes that you are worse than an incorrigible.”
Marten said nothing concerning her statement. He was too shocked and dismayed to discover her here.
Major Orlov, her ham-like hands resting on her knees, shifted her attention to Stick. “What could possibly drive a trainee to strike another member of society?”
Stick took a leaf from Marten’s book, saying nothing.
Major Orlov nodded curtly, as if confirming a suspicion. “Intransigence is punishable many different ways.”
Stick’s eyes darted around the cell.
“On the other hand, cooperation shows willingness to reform, which means the incorrigible might possibly be returned to the labor battalion he originally came from.”
“Uh…” Stick shifted on the bench. The two thugs behind the major grew tense. Stick’s shoulders slumped in a submissive way. The guards relaxed and the major stretched her lips in what she surely assumed was a smile.
“We had an argument,” Stick said slowly.
The major’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Does Marten Kluge slack off during work hours?”
Stick shrugged.
“No. Mannerisms don’t interest me.”
Stick stared at her.
“Truth interests me. Factual, precise, measurable truth.” She glanced at Marten.
He glowered, but he didn’t glower at her. In fact, he didn’t really listen to her. He stared straight ahead and let rage consume him. His eyes grew glossy and his breathing deepened. He let rage wash over his thinking as he brooded on how much he hated everyone here. How everyone here was against him and plotted to thwart him. They tried to make him talk. He would never talk. He would rather they slice open his belly than give them the satisfaction of hearing him talk. They tried to subdue his will. They had taken away all his personal freedom. No. He refused. He wouldn’t budge a millimeter.
Major Orlov pursed her lips. “The truth is both of you broke regulations. These regulations are not frivolous guides haphazardly written. Indeed not! They are here to reform you. But we can only reform you if you will help, if you will cooperate. Truth…. It is a precious commodity. Those who cooperate will only wish to speak truths. Now, I will give you each a chance to tell me factual, actual truth.”
Marten breathed heavily through his nose. For the moment, he subsisted on rage.
Stick, however, thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He eyed Marten and then he judged the major and her two killers.
“You want the truth?” asked Stick.
Major Orlov bared her teeth. “At this moment we attempt to solve deep-seated issues. I admit to a personal interest—I wish to show the sluggards who run Reform how to… how to correct an incorrigible.” She glanced at Marten, before she continued with Stick.
“I tell you frankly, the tank awaits both of you if we fail. But you must never think of the tank as punishment. Indeed not! The tank is merely one of society’s many tools of reform. Unless each of you is reformed, we have failed in our assigned task. I hate failure. It mocks the State, which is the engine that gives the greatest good to the most people. So yes, truth must now step forth so that the proper correctives can be applied to each of you.”
Marten vaguely understood that hoarding food was punishable by death. Not that he planned on turning Stick over to them. To cooperate was the first step toward giving in.
Stick seemed to think about his answer as he gauged the major. “We don’t get along.”
Major Orlov leaned forward. “Indeed. Why did you choose that moment to publicly reveal your dislike?”
Stick hung his head as if defeated. “He spoke profanities.”
Major Orlov sat straighter, her interests obviously engaged. “Marten Kluge spoke to you, verbally?”
Stick nodded miserably. He was a good actor.
Major Orlov scowled and snapped her thick fingers. One of her red-suited killers stepped forward.
“Give me your agonizer.”
The man placed a small disc with a dial into her huge hand. She twisted the setting onto high as the two thugs swung behind Stick and held him fast.
“Mannerisms annoy me. They indicate frivolity.”
She placed the agonizer to his neck. Stick arched his back and winced horribly, but he made no noise other than a croak. Finally, she removed the agonizer and handed it back to the thug.
She addressed Marten. “What did you say to him?”
Marten glowered at the wall.
“My patience is not unlimited, Mr. Kluge.” After a moment, Major Orlov pursed her lips. She asked Stick, “What did he say to you?”
“It don’t matter.”
Her tone turned glacial. “I will determine that.”
“He called me a dirty gook.”
“Ah… a racial epithet?”
“Yeah.”
She swung back to Marten. “That is a serious crime, Mr. Kluge. You shall spend ten days in the tank unless you admit to your racial bigotry and make a formal apology to everyone in squad eleven.”
The glassy look left Marten’s eyes. He grew aware of the conversation, playing it back in his mind, as it were. He glanced at Stick, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. A small, tight smile played on Marten’s lips.
“And what do you find so amusing?” asked the major.
Marten fixed his gaze upon her.
“Here, Mr. Kluge, insolence is a costly attitude to sustain.”
Major Orlov could hurt him, hurt him very much. Despite that, Marten let his contempt for her freeze onto his face.
She flushed. She leaned forward and deliberately slapped him across the face. Marten checked his impulse to leap upon her. Instead, he laughed.
She bolted upright, seemed on the verge of falling upon him and then whispered, “Into the tank with him this very instant.”
8.
Nine-foot tall glass cylinders lined the sides of a sterile auditorium. In the middle stood what seemed to be an emergency medical operating theater, complete with green-clad doctors and nurses. Several interns strolled around a working cylinder.
As he was marched past them, Marten saw green-colored water pouring into the cylinder from the top, splashing upon a naked woman inside. The water swirled up to her thighs. Drenched and wretched she worked the lever of a hand-pump built into the cylinder. At every stroke, water exited via a tube and drained out through the auditorium floor.
Marten’s scrotum tightened and he stumbled.
From behind, Major Orlov steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. He felt her breath on his neck.
“Ten days in there, Mr. Kluge. Either that or speak to me now.”
Marten calculated the fall of the water. It wasn’t gushing, but it was constant. He felt dizzy, lightheaded. He considered the medical unit. They wouldn’t let him die, it seemed. So he steeled himself for the worst and kept repeating in his mind how he’d never give in.