“I was studied species acutely, and I having found many fifty productive nerve intersections. It is introduction. Pain will to increase during resistance continuing. You is understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I repeating, what name is?”
“Pretty sure I told you to go to hell.”
The baton struck in the exact same spot, but the pain was worse. It was an unstoppable flood, and his arm spasmed. When it finally subsided, Jack was struck by a memory of his karate teacher showing the kids a couple pressure points, talking about how effective they could be when used properly.
“You is challenge. Is soldier yes? Screaming not, but will to scream soon. I to begin new nerve package, and true pain then.”
Jack was drooling, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.
“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.