“I don’t know why yet,” replied Milo grimly. “But I will, soon! As to who he is, he is a hundreds-of-years-old mind, that remains ‘alive’ by invading and usurping the bodies of others—God alone knows how many human beings he’s victimized, since he began his noisome career. But he’ll tell us that, too, before I’m done with him!”
Milo mindspoke Chief Djeri, issuing certain instructions, then he addressed Titos/Titus.
“There are some things I’d know of you, Backstrom. If you’ll be cooperative and give me truthful answers to my questions, we can remain civilized. If not, I suppose we’ll just have to see how much punishment that body of yours can endure.”
The captive’s answer was short and couched in ancient Anglo-Saxon words.
Hwil Kuk and Mai hustled the naked man out of the lodge and held him fast until the chiefs had completed the preparations. While a half dozen of the chiefs were engaged in securing the struggling man to the heavy, wooden frame, Milo called Hwahlis of Linsee over.
“Take or send Aldora back to your lodge, Hwahlis,” he told the chief. “I’ve the feeling that this one will be long and hard. In any case, it won’t be pretty and there’s no need for the child to see it.”
Nodding in agreement, Chief Hwahlis turned his daughter over to one of the Linsee clansmen, before he rejoined the knot of chiefs near the fire.
Milo conferred, for some little time, with Lord Alexandras—who seemed still a bit dazed—and Djeen Mai, then strolled over to talk with some of the chiefs. At last, he came to stand before the spread-eagled captive.
“Backstrom,” he said slowly, “we are born of the same era. I suppose you are—or were—some variety of scientist. As such, you must realize that any human body is capable of sustaining just so much pain, then it will die; its heart will cease to function. Over the centuries, I have unfortunately found it necessary to torture a number of persons, also I have watched expert professionals perform the functions of their unpleasant trade. I don’t know whether or not you suffer with this body, but I assume that you probably do.
“Many of the people of our age were soft, Backstrom. I, too, was soft—once. But I’m not soft anymore! Furthermore, I despise you and everything for which you stand. Because of my extensive experiences, I believe myself capable of keeping this body alive for a long, long time—as long as it takes to get some answers from you at least. Because of the fact that you are a despicable creature, I shall probably enjoy what I’m going to do to you, enjoy it so much, in fact, that I may find it difficult to make myself stop, even when you start to talk.
“Therefore, I implore you—for your own sake or, at least, for the sake of this body which houses you—to reconsider your previous, somewhat temerarious, reply.”
“Up you!” Titos/Titus sneered. Then he spat at Milo.
23
When the spear blade was hot enough—when it glowed a pale-pink, held away from the fire—Milo had four of the wiry chiefs hold the prisoner rigid, while another removed the bloody bandages from the deep gash in the the thigh. Then the War Chief wrapped a scrap of wet hide around the blade’s tang, turned, grasping the nearly white-hot metal, and walked over to the man on the torture-frame.
Titos/Titus’ wide eyes never left Milo as, without another word, he clapped the hot blade onto the area of the wound! Had it not been for the lashings securing ankles and wrists, the four chiefs could never have held the prisoner. Grimly, they hung on, half-deafened by the screams which tore from between Titos’ writhing lips, or splattered by the mucus which gushed from the tormented man’s nostrils.
Milo held the iron hi place for the space of five heartbeats, then removed it and, without even looking at his victim, walked back over to the fire and thrust the blade back into the embers. Fishing another bit of hide from the water bucket, he selected another spear blade and, holding it before him, went back to confront the sobbing, gasping, shuddering captive.
“Well, Mr. Backstrom,” he said conversationally, “now you are aware that I mean business. May I say that I have seldom done a better job of wound-cauterization. But, medical matters aside, where would you prefer me to apply this iron? The left eye, perhaps?” As the blushing blade-tip approached his face, the prisoner, moaning in horror, bent his head back and back, screwing his eyelids tight-shut. That was the moment that Milo chose to lay the red-hot blade in his subject’s hairy arm-pit, a maneuver which evoked a very satisfactory response from said subject.
For nearly two hours, Milo and the chiefs and Alexandras and Djeen Mai kept up the grisly task. Between screams, Titus/Titos sobbed prayers and curses, the like of which Milo had not heard hi more than half a] thousand years. At length, just before midnight, the broken, blackened, bloody thing indicated its willingness to answer Milo’s question and the War Chief had it cut; down from the charred frame.
Milo hunkered beside the wreckage that had been called Titos and poured a trickle of wine down the screamed-raw throat. Then, setting the wine cup down between them, said, “Alright, you parasitic bastard, talk! What were you up to, anyway, in taking over Lord Alexandras? It appeared you were either trying to get him killed or precipitate a pitched battle between his people and my tribe. Or, could it have been both?”
Milo had to strain to hear the hoarsely gasped answer.
“Either would’ve … been ac … acceptable, both better,” came the reply from betwixt the Titos thing’s chewed, charred lips. “Water … or … or wine? Please … ?”
Milo picked up the cup, holding it before Titos’ remaining eye. “When you tell me this, you mental leech, why. Who put you up to it? The so-called High Lord?”
“No, not De … metrics. ’S part of … plan. Th’ directors were … ’fraid Lord Alexandras … unite bar … barbarian indigenes ’n Greeks, b’fore we ready. Maybe even Black Kingdom, too … make one … whole Atlantic Coast … dangerous f us. Then … found out you mu … mutant, from twentieth cen … tury. Had to … move fast… c’d’n fool you. Y’d know … science, not witch … craft. No time … lay groundwork … communicate, Trout you … get help. Drink? Pl … please?”
Milo bent and lifted the hairless, mutilated head and held the cup so Titos might drink. He allowed the tortured hulk two swallows, then took the cup away.
“Okay, Backstrom, next question. Who are you?” Titos’ one-eyed gaze shifted. “You … you know … a’ready. ‘M Titus Backstrom.”
Milo drew his dirk, found one of Titos’ fingers that still retained a fingernail, and jammed the dirk-point far under said nail. When, after a while, Titos’ last moans had subsided, the War Chief remarked, “Don’t get cute with me, you son-of-a-bitch! It would only take one word from me to have you back up on that goddamn frame, you know. And the next time around, I won’t take you down so soon. I’ll give you another swallow of wine. Then I’ll ask the question again. One more facetious remark, and you’ll spend the next few hours where and how you spent the last two. Get me?”
Driving his blood-tipped dirk into the ground, he once more lifted Titos’ head and allowed him two more swallows. “Who are you, Backstrom? Whom do you represent? Where are these ‘directors’ and of what are they directors?”
“Titus Backstrom … really m’ name, Doctor of Science … psychologist. Was Research Assistant … AMIR Project J & R Kennedy Science Center. Project never really stopped … went underground. Shelters … whole Center … fallout … lived through it. D’veloped vaccines … fight plagues … pigmentation viruses, too. Kept Center area sealed … years … finally let ‘nough outsiders hi … form breeding stock … new bodies, f minds worth saving … scientists, others … chosen by directors.”