Chapter 5: Interrogation

Sergeant Narlüg entered the fortress's cell block. The terrible screams that came from the interrogation room were difficult to tune out.

The follow up with the base's medic had been long and drawn out, a feeling of immense relief had washed over him when he left the med section. Now covered in a bandage, his wound was numb, slathered in pain killers and anti-septic gel.

He entered the chamber, mentally preparing himself first.

The terrorist was locked into a purpose-built chair. Several non-stop hours of interrogation left the man ragged. This process had been both physical and mental. Pain was administered, the subject was questioned and threatened. This would be repeated until the interrogator got the information that they needed, or the subject died.

Intel had identified the man. He was a drifter, wanted in several systems. How or why he had fallen in with such a group was still a mystery. Maybe he didn't even know; maybe he had just woken up one day to find that he was a murderer.

Sergeant Korova was leaning against a wall, his arms crossed, watching the spectacle through the optic systems in this helmet. He spotted Narlüg, nodded, switched over to his communication frequency, "How's the arm?" he asked, somewhere between teasing and genuine concern.

"It's fine."

"You missed a nice show."

"I don't see it that way. This is just another unpleasant task, a necessary evil."

"Na, I like seeing him squirm. After what those guys did, I can take comfort in it."

"Maybe you're right."

He sighed, "I guess that at some point we end up sinking to their level, making the whole thing completely meaningless. But I think that we are still a long way off."

Commander Varlon towered over the terrorist, "Do you have anything else to tell me?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Because if you don't have anything useful to tell me, then I don't see any reason to let you live."

A look of resignation crossed his face, "We were in contact with the alliance."

"Interesting," Varlon purred, "Tell me more."

"We met with a representative."

"Give me a name."

"I don't know his name. I was told to follow him back to his hotel."

"Which hotel?"

"The Triple Sun Inn."

"If you are telling me the truth, I will send you to a nice, easy prison. If you are lying to me, I will keep you here until you give me the right name. Then you will go to the spice mines."

He spent the next few minutes getting a detailed description of the supposed rebel.

"What do you think?" Korova asked.

"I think that he is full of it," Narlüg declared.

"That is the downside, they will say anything to stop the pain. Hell, they will even confess to crimes that they didn't commit."

He decided to change the subject, "Where do you want to go for that drink that I owe you?"

"I'm thinking that place over on Sixth and Crystal Way."

"The one where all of those Zabrak girls hang out?" he smiled in spite of himself, "I should have known."

Korova chuckled, producing a strange sound as it passed through his helmet, "What? I like 'em feisty."

It was Narlüg's turn to chuckle, "Your love of dangerous women will be the death of you."

"Remember that assassin we worked with on Yargarth III? Man, she was something else," the trooper reminisced.

"How could I forget," he replied, painfully aware of how jealous Korova would be if he found out about their rendezvous in a secluded maintenance area.

Sergeant Yor entered the interrogation room. He walked with even more swagger than normal, which was an accomplishment. His backwater accent fought against the distortion of the helmet, "He get anything out of 'em yet?"

It was Korova that answered him, "Ya, he is just finishing up now."

"I grilled a rebel on Bork Prime. Got 'em to talk in under five minutes, new base record."

"Really," Korova said, making no effort to hide his frustration, "Is that the same unit where you got the top score at the target range?"

Yor didn't pick up on Korova's attitude, "The very same."

The prisoner let out a scream, Narlüg focused on Yor, "Got my arm patched up, doc gave me a piece of candy for being brave," this statement caused Korova to giggle.

Yor failed to notice Narlüg's sarcasm, "One time I broke my leg. Went through a whole training exercise without getting treatment."

Commander Varlon walked over to them, "We need to plan an extraction mission. We're going to hit that hotel."

Korova uncrossed his arms, "Easy, we post the same storm unit as last time on cordon. Have a ship drop us on the roof, work our way down, clear the place from top to bottom."

"Sounds like a plan. Narlüg, head to the barracks, pick out a squad to go in with us."

He acknowledged the order, quickly left the detention area, leaving the other commandos to sort out the remaining details. He went over it in his mind, glad to have a distraction. Which stormtrooper squad would be the best? Marksmanship scores and efficiency ratings were compared as he entered an elevator. By the time he reached the barracks he had picked out Bravo squad.

He entered the living area. Troopers were lounging around. Barracks rooms were always odd places. This was where faceless men removed their helmets, becoming human beings again. They had taped posters to the doors of their wall lockers: the images ranged from depictions of the empire's glory, to attractive women, to simple distractions from military life.

The smell of cleaning supplies managed to make it through the helmet's filter. Memories flooded back. The fear of failure interrupted by sharp points of shame and joy. That guy that tried to escape the training base, and the patrol troopers had dragged him back, literally kicking and screaming. That time that his friend had rode a floor buffing droid, went flying off like a ragdoll.

Someone called them to attention. Making a show out of scanning the group, he was glad that his helmet hid his sour expression and dread. This sort of thing wasn't his strong suit.

Sergeant Narlüg summoned all of his willpower, "We have a new mission. Bravo squad, you're with me. Everyone else, get ready for a cordon operation," then he switched to a harsher tone in a bid to motivate them, "We are going to catch ourselves a rebel."