Excerpt: Prospect

Beir was balancing his tray on his left hand and entering another lengthy code on the security panel embedded in the wall. After several beeps there was a momentary rush of air followed by the dwindling buzzing of a force field dissipating, then the opening of the door into the chamber where the man was sitting. Hol’s breath left him immediately as a foul stench burst forth from the room and directly into his nostrils before he had even stepped inside. Once he regained his composure and entered, the force field reappeared, its pinkish charge popping and crackling for a few seconds before settling to a quiet hum. Hol wondered how the man had managed through the night with that dreadful quiet noise constantly in his ears. Probably the rebel had spent time aboard larger vessels, surrounded by the inescapable reassurances of equipment. But aside from the sound, how had the man survived the sheer putridity of the place?
“I’m sorry, Hol, I should have warned you,” Tan said, obviously noticing his comrade’s discomfort. “These animals have a way of degrading whatever place they inhabit. In space it’s their recklessness. In captivity, it’s their bodily functions.”
The man in the corner, who had not looked up when they entered, finally raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, Hol could see it even from six lengths away, and his face was darker than the previous day, or so it seemed. When he spoke, it was not what Hol expected, deep and scratchy and creepy. The voice was light, even, and patient.
“I shat in the corner,” he said, quite clearly to Tan. He had already deduced who was in charge of the operation and had no intention of speaking to a subordinate unless necessary.
“I’m surprised you didn’t do it on my chair,” Tan retorted, sitting on the bench along the right-hand wall, away from the man. His voice, too, had altered somewhat since coming into the room. It was edgier, sharper, more inflected. Hol sat next to him.
“I didn’t know where you would sit,” the rebel said.
“You could have smeared it around to up the odds.”
There was a silence in which the man dropped his head again. His body heaved once, then he stood and leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. The left side of his face was somewhat swollen, a bit of blood or something caked on his upper lip among the dark stubble. He spoke again, but more quietly, and not directly at them. “I am not an animal,” he said.
Tan shrugged. “You might as well be, as far as I’m concerned.” He took a large bite of a piece of meat, turned to Hol and urged him with his eyes to do the same. Hol did it in spite of the smell, which had cleared him of any appetite. They ate in silence for a while, Garan struggling with each swallow but trying not to show it, Beir eating quickly but clearly enjoying it. The man in the corner watched them, rarely blinking. His green coveralls had been replaced by a bright red pair of pants and a black shirt that was obviously too large for him. Hol didn’t know where they had come from—usually when prisoners were kept they were given yellow jumpsuits with black stripes around the limbs and their reference number on the back. That was what Hol had seen in videos, anyway; his service had never brought him face to face with a captive before, even in his time in the regulars.
When Beir finished eating he set his tray on the floor to his right, leaned back against the wall, and cross his hands over his lap. Hol put what was left of his food on the floor also, not at all anxious to continue eating while the room smelled the way it did. They were still for a minute or so before the rebel spoke.
“Would you mind if I finished that for you?” he asked. He was looking at Hol now, and received no response. Instead, Beir spoke.
“No,” he said simply, then followed it up, “though if you behave yourself and turn out to be useful, you may be fed.”
“Why did you ask?” Hol inquired, unable to keep still. He knew his orders, but the whole situation was off, somehow. The rank insignia on his uniform clearly denoted a higher station than Beir’s, even a rebel should know that, yet the man was obviously not interested in speaking to Garan at all. Tan shot him a look, but he ignored it, curious about the man’s response.
“It couldn’t hurt. Worst you could do was say no, like your boss.”
“Quiet,” Tan instructed to the man, though Hol felt the impact of it as well and leaned back. “What are you doing here?”
The man laughed suddenly then, a striking, round laugh that had a surprising amount of joy in it. It carried for a moment, then was interrupted by words. “You ought to tell me that. I’m not even sure where I’m at, to be honest with you.”
“You were found on the surface of a small planet on the outskirts of the system.”
“If you say so.”
“How did you get there?”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, I didn’t walk.”
“Don’t play with me.”
“You’re no fun anyway.”
The back and forth was rapid, words exchanged almost as if they were scripted. Hol watched the men’s expressions change with each retort, Beir’s especially. The young man’s eyes narrowed every time the rebel responded, and his cheeks became tighter and redder, his posture more rigid. There was a moment of silence, and the tension in the room eased ever so slightly. The rebel broke the quiet, directing his question at Hol.
“What are you here for, anyway? To keep him safe? You a bodyguard?”
“I don’t need any protection. Not from you,” Tan broke in before Garan could respond. “Do I need to remind you about the dent in your face?”
“So that was you, huh? Figures it would be Navy, bringing two against one.”
“Why did you attack us?”
“You were on my ship without asking.”
“We were on an errand of mercy. A misjudgment, maybe. But that’s a mistake easily fixed.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. All I have to do is press a button on this,” Beir said, pulling a small silver remote out of his pocket, “and you’ll wish you would have died on the planet’s surface.”
“I doubt it,” the man scoffed. Then, “Aaaaagghhhhhhh!”
“Would you like more proof?” Tan asked him, his head tilted to one side and a nasty smirk on his face.
“Bastard,” the man murmured, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I called you a bastard,” the rebel responded, straightening and sucking in a breath. Tan made him scream again.
“I guess,” the man started, getting up from one knee, “I shouldn’t be surprised. I heard you do stuff like this. What is it, not intracranial?”
“It doesn’t need to be. We found it was much simpler not to intrude on the brain cavity—instead we insert the electrode at the base of the neck and attach it directly to the nervous system from there. It’s impressive, really, it draws power from your own cells, then redirects it at my command. Your body hurts itself, I am merely a go-between.”
“Does that make it easier for you?”
“Yes,” Tan said without any consideration. “It’s simple, but brutal. Of course,” he continued, waving his hands, “I would prefer not to have to use it. I thought it might be appropriate, however, to set some guidelines.”
The man’s eyes wandered between the two officers. “What’s he doing here?” The man went down.
“Guideline number one,” Beir said, “is I ask the questions. Understood?”
The sprawled captive nodded from the floor, gathered himself, and stood. Beir Tan spoke again.
“What were you doing on the planet’s surface?”
“Go to hell,” was the response, though the last word did not quite make it out before a shriek took its place.
“Guideline number two is you will answer my questions. I would hate to see you get hurt.”
“I bet you would,” he said between breaths. He put one hand on the wall for balance, squinted his eyes, and was then laid out by another surge of electricity raping his brain.
“Guideline number three is you will respect me.”
A quiet moan came from the man on the floor, head tucked to his knees, both hands behind his neck, pushing against it. Through all of this Hol sat still, hardly able to believe what was going on in front of him. He knew about torture, of course, that it was employed on very rare occasions when suspected criminals were uncooperative, but only against the worst offenders, and only after all other avenues of questioning had been exhausted. That is what Hol knew. Torture was not used to set boundaries or for the sort of disturbing pleasure Beir seemed to be getting out of it. It was not a game, it was uncivilized. But Hol was not able to act on his thoughts; he wasn’t in charge.
The rebel opened his eyes and stared at Hol. No words passed between them, but it was clear that the ragged man in the black shirt was in desperate pain, and equally clear that Hol wanted to help him somehow. That passed between them before Beir interrupted their communication.
“You can stay there if you like, but I expect you to be a little more considerate next time. You will have another chance to impress me later.” With that, Tan stood and made his way to the door, where he pushed a second button on the remote, revealing an input pad. He entered a code and the force field disappeared and the door slid open. He stepped into the closet room and was followed by Garan. But before leaving the closet Hol cast one more look through the viewing portal at their rebel prisoner. The man was still on his knees, head bowed, though he didn’t show signs of pain. He was swaying, just a little, and his lips were moving rapidly. Just before Hol turned away to follow Beir out into the hallway, the man looked up and Hol saw his eyes, wet with tears.