In The Belly of Another Beast
The cruiser was surely approaching.
Ken forced his gaze away from the windscreen, a difficult action now that his Pelican was on a confirmed collision course with an object possessing hundreds of times more mass.
The ex-pilot swept his eyes over the cockpit's wide console hoping to scavenge any morsel of information that could prove useful in the future, but all the electronics were fried—a very strong EMP emitted from the gargantuan trio, he suspected. The inky-black void itself was getting eaten up from the inside out as the lead cruiser swelled up like a balloon. A strange object attached to the belly of the ship was now barely visible, so insignificant to the naked eye yet it warranted observation. It was like a dangling chandelier, a stack of rings that he mistook for a giant antenna at first. He would've spent a unit of time guessing what it was, but he and everyone else were speeding towards the looming vessel in perfect silence, powerless to stop it.
Chris felt resigned to fate once more. The boy crossed his arms and clutched his shoulders, then started to shiver. "I had no idea it was this cold in space."
"Try not to breathe too hard." Ken announced over his shoulder. "And try to keep conversation at a minimum. That goes for everyone. There'll be nothing in here but pure Carbon-Dioxide in a matter of minutes."
Ken once again looked ahead just as all the stars were blotted out. The cruiser's outer paneling grew larger by the second, minute details now visible. Microthrusters and solid waste spigot tubes bristled outwards every few meters and photovoltaic arrays pockmarked the hull, glistening with a blackness as deep as space itself.
Hendricksson intently gazed upon the mammoth cruiser's skin now fully encompassing the cockpit's diminutive field of view, appearing bloated and blimpish. Rivets could now be seen. "Hey...Ken...what's our velocity?" he asked, hesitant to hear the answer.
"Hell if I know!" The pilot vented in frustration. "Everything inside the forward radome is burnt to shit and all the instruments are useless to me."
"I hope they know what our speed is, because we're about to spear them right in the gut."
"Of course they know." Sergei said, now sitting cross-legged. Joe glanced his way, then back out the distant windscreen.
"No, Sergei. No, we're coming in too hot. Dear God, I think we're speeding up."
"He's right!" Chris shouted.
"Calm down." Ken urged sternly.
"Well, how are we supposed to slow down without any propulsion?" Joe screamed.
Sergei chuckled and flicked a piece of lint off his knee. "Guess they'll have to find a way for us."
The cruiser's internal illumination flooding out its airlock was painful to look at. Chris squinted, then realized the light was still too bright for his vision to process anything. He had no choice but to look rearward, further into the Pelican's hold. His eyes took a moment to adjust, then a large, yellow-white rectangle lingered everywhere he looked. As soon as the rods and cones in his eyes chemically filtered out the intense overexposure, he caught the sight of something strange all around him. Every unused restraining strap in the bay was levitated, the metal buckles on either side of the aisle angled straight towards the cockpit. It could only mean one thing: the Pelican and everything inside it was being obstinately dragged forward by a magnetic force of unfathomable strength. "The ship isn't coming toward us. We're being pulled in."
Kaiser Sergei let his arm hang free and float upwards. He watched it get tugged along by the wristwatch as if an invisible spirit guided. All eyes regarded the spectacle for a moment then went back to the front. Each survivor tried as best they could to study their inevitable destination as they drew nearer to it, Ken shifting in his seat with the only vantage point worthy of such an attempt.
The bay's inlet was now just a few hundred meters in front of the Pelican's nose cone.
The view of the airlock's interior was improving proportionally to the rapidly dwindling distance to it. The bay certainly looked large enough to accommodate a D77-TC dropship with room to spare, but Ken agreed with Joe: their approach was too fast. Ken identified many objects around the Pelican that he could reference, and indeed their current speed had to be at least one-hundred knots and holding. The cruiser itself was larger than life, and the dropship was at the cusp of entering the massive fissure, a wonder to Ken that they remained perfectly on course—a straight vector to the innards of the enveloping hulk. He tightened his straps as hard as he could and braced himself with outstretched arms. He referenced the gauges one last time—nothing. The Pelican's prow passed through the threshold.
Then to his glance, Ken's attention was stolen by the wide console of controls and indicators before him. Stunned, he saw the analog compass and a few other ferrometric gauges going erratic, their needles deflecting from one extreme to the other. The majority of them shouldn't have worked at all. Unbeknownst to him during this moment of inevitable peril, the Pelican's hull was passing through oscillating poles of magnetism.
He looked up through the windscreen again and winced at the sight of a load-bearing bulkhead rapidly closing the distance, and the Pelican wasn't slowing down.
"Hang on!"
The Pelican shuddered fiercely—but with some distance before the actual collision. Before Ken could understand why, his vessel immediately slowed to a halt well before the impact should've happened. His breath faltered as he flew forward a few millimeters, the harness absorbing all of his momentum.
Their velocity relative to the cruiser's was now at zero and perfectly stable.
Moments passed as Ken swayed in and out of consciousness, his head jarred from the near-instantaneous deceleration. No other vessel occupied the spacious bay. All was quiet. Another moment and his vision was no longer a blur. He blinked a few times to clear the haze away and looked around, trying to collect his bearings. The first thing he did was loosen the harness that had dug into his torso. With enough slack, he slid a hand underneath the triple-stitched nylon and rubbed his chest gently—it throbbed. Every time he touched it, even delicately, it stung. He knew his skin would be paying a price…but the restraint did its job: it kept him alive. He glanced backwards. "Is everyone okay?"
Bill's deep voice called out assuredly, "We're okay."
Ken checked himself for any more injuries. All he had beside the X-shaped bruise over his chest was an insignificant nick on one of his knuckles, the right hand. He leaned forward and gazed out the view port.
"So this is the big wow."
Every surface of the airlock was a whitewash. Floor, ceiling, walls—the achromatic color scheme exploited any available luminosity and filled the entire bay with it. The large, circular magnet anchored to the bulkhead fifty meters ahead was the puller, a lengthy contraption, hollowed out and cylindrical. It jutted about a decameter out of the wall. Hypnotic spirals of conductive metal windings lined the entire inside diameter from the aperture to the shadowy distance deeper in. Ken took another glance at the ferrometrics below: all the needles fluctuated in tight movements, perhaps stationary if not for his keen eyesight. They more or less hovered precisely at 90° ± 0.25.
"We just got tractored in by a hunk of electrified metal. I am officially impressed."
"Well," Chris rasped, "we're still alive, so I am officially grateful."
Every survivor in the passenger bay broke free of their restraint harnesses and summarily floated towards the partition jockeying for a good view outside. Bill, Ken and Hendricksson crowded down low with their knees hovering just off the deck. They craned their heads high above the waist-high firewall that separated the forward cabin from the fuselage while Chris and Sergei floated on top of the three, comfortably gazing onward.
Chris stole any sight the limiting view port could provide him, about 120° worth of azimuth. He scanned side to side. There was not a person in sight. "Umm, now what?"
Ken leaned forward and looked down over the Pelican's cowling. "That's what."
The others couldn't see it yet: the massive deck some distance below rapidly approaching to meet the Pelican's ventral surface. Its male locking claws on three sides ratcheted against female columns recessed into respective bulkheads throughout the ascent.
"The landing gear won't be operational, will it?" Chris said.
"Nope, but it doesn't matter." Ken had glanced sidelong out the Starboard window. A stairway of bare steel rose up ten meters along the closest wall and terminated at the doorsill of a smaller, windowed airlock. Blurry figures waited there motionless, presumably watching the Pelican's approach the entire time. "We're landing right here, right where they want us."
The main air lock had fully closed right as the adjustable flight deck gently tapped against the Pelican's flat chine, locking in place. The electromagnets de-energized and the superstructure of the Pelican groaned for a moment before its reinforced, Carbon-fiber belly fully settled onto the polycarbonate surface. All was quiet as invisible, breathable air flooded the cavernous bay through high-flow ductwork far above. There wasn't much to look at from inside the canopy. Much of the deck was empty save for the typical layout of multi-wheeled fuel bladders and robotic loaders stationed around the periphery. Metal tethers wound taught on electro-mechanical wenches anchored the equipment to the deck amidst the momentary vacuum and the magnets' switchable influence.
Chris felt uneasy, the fear of the unknown creeping in. He scooted as far as he could to Port, pressing one side of his face to the bulkhead to get a good angle out the Starboard side. Chris barely noticed them, the crowd gathered on the other side of the windows. From what he could tell in this distant and uncomfortable vantage, they looked like ordinary people dressed in formal attire—businessmen and women. They simply regarded the Pelican with no particular look about them, motionless themselves. "Who do you think they are?"
Sergei pushed his neck far into the cockpit space and took a glance for himself. A fraction of a second was all that he needed. He pushed off the bulkhead and floated towards a seat in the rear hold. "Business folk, just like the ones we know and love, Chris." He grabbed hold of an outstretched strap and reeled himself downward.
"Yeah, well whoever it is, they want to know what we're up to." Chris glanced back to where the FTL hardware spanned down the length of the King Plank. "What do we say if they start asking questions about the batteries in our ship?"
"I don't think it's where we're going that they're particularly interested in. But regardless, we tell them we're transporting batteries to a hub colony. Arcadia or somewhere."
"They'll know that's totally bogus."
"It's the only reasonable explanation available to us, unless you can think of something better."
"They're gonna see we're not company men. They'll know we don't belong in the shipping lanes, much less outside the planet's atmosphere. Look at us. We're a bunch of mangy looking people with no administrator on board to convince them this is legit."
"We'll worry about that when the time comes. Right now, I suggest you all find yourselves a seat before they gravitize this entire place…unless you like hard landings."
With that, everyone still aloft scrambled to their seats. All survivors firmly restrained themselves for the last time.
Moments passed. "They disabled the systems." Chris said. "The hatch will be burned out too. They won't be able to get us out of here."
From somewhere far off, Ken heard a loud clang! He then felt his coccyx thump down on the seat cushion. Artificial gravity had taken over.
Ken's gaze was fixed on something outside the windscreen, invisible to his passengers. "I wouldn't say that, Chris." He tracked its movement—off to Starboard and skirting along the lateral line. Seconds later, it passed from his sight.
Ken sighed and hung his head, then glanced back from the cockpit. He regarded them all solemnly. "So much for going home, boys."
A strange whining noise crescendoed, originating a short distance just outside the hull along with a rhythmic pounding. The amalgamation of bizarre sounds worked its way to the keel, then a noise all too recognizable announced itself right before a shower of sparks punctured the rear hatch and lanced deep into the fuselage. The pinprick of orange glow slowly traced a rectangular outline just inside of the hatch's own reinforced jambs.
"We are so screwed." Chris mumbled.
"No," Sergei boomed above the screeching, "surely we can find common ground with these people. Don't give up now. They wanted us here for something, so let's be sure to keep it that way. We just have to get inside their heads. We have to figure them out, see what it is they need. A deal can be worked out. A deal can always be worked out."
The entire loading ramp moaned as its own weight tore itself from the greater hull. After some audible rearranging, the ramp crashed to the deck. Its heavy thud echoed throughout the bay and into the Pelican. Burnt metal and ozone wafted from the seams still glowing dull-red. Past the improvised exit, a robotic exosuit with a barely-visible occupant stood motionless amidst the smoke and fibrous particulate lingering in the air. It instantly reminded Chris of Doctor Kleiner laboring in the depths of Traxus IX. Its hydraulically-assisted limbs were large and powerful, and fastened to its right 'arm' was a rotary saw the size of Chris' head.
The humanoid chassis extended a clamping appendage and scooped up the severed chunk from the deck, pivoted and walked away with heavy thuds. Instantly rushing up to fill its place was a 5-man paramilitary squad dressed in all-black fatigues, their assault rifles aimed at all the Pelican's occupants. One of them broke ranks and stepped towards the cockpit, his steel-toed boots pattering over the deck. The assumed leader wore a red overcoat with colorful campaign ribbons pinned to the clothing over the left breast. He further identified himself by stepping forward, saying, "Exit this vessel in a single file line with your hands locked behind your heads."
All eyes instinctively went to Sergei. He shrugged and stood slowly.
He did as instructed and proceeded through the smoldering hole. On bended knees he hopped down and regarded the leader before stepping a short distance away, two guns aimed at his torso and tracking his every movement. The remaining survivors in the Pelican's blood tray egressed toward the ledge where the ramp should've assuredly extended to the ground. They followed Sergei coolly, calmly, without incident and were soon joined by Ken as another guard escorted him from the cockpit to their vicinity.
The guards rounded up the group near the massive hatchway. The leader had cold, calculative and remorseless eyes that exuded dispassionate confidence. It was the look of a seasoned, professional soldier, a man with skills so proprietary in nature that employment under a heartless corporation was quite possibly the only means he had to provide for his own family—perhaps a wife and some children far away. Aside from his level-headed gaze, the leader's only other distinct feature was his neatly-trimmed mustache. Without introduction, he cued a radio transmitter attached to one of his padded gloves. "Control, we have five unidentified persons accounted for in the bay ready for processing, over."
"Roger that," a response emitted, "proceed through airlock alpha. We'll cycle them through. Out."
"Pat them down." he ordered his squad.
The guards retrieved several firearms—all pistols. The only unarmed subject was Bill, predictably. The leader slung his rifle over his back, momentarily studied the priest and withdrew a black, polymer sidearm. He positioned the barrel a few centimeters off Sergei's abdomen. "Turn around and move."
Sergei led the way to the staircase, red LEDs embedded into the deck his guide. The lot of other survivors was crudely herded into a small cluster with the remainder of black-clad guards formed up behind them, weapons still drawn. They ascended the stairs slowly and calmly, not a word uttered.
Upon reaching the last few steps of the climb, the length of the clear window came within eyelevel, as did a plethora of suit-dressed natives of the ship on the other side of it. They regarded each raggedy-clothed survivor as would patrons observing caged zoo animals, empty-gazed and neutral. The steep-angled stairway transitioned to a wide, perforated steel platform suspended twelve meters high in relation to the modular deck below, and an unknown depth in relation to the bay itself depending on how far down it plunged. A motion sensor tracked the group's movement as they neared the windowed airlock, which parted vertically down the middle and slid open for their entrance. Sergei didn't step in just yet—under the factual premise that he wasn't ordered to. He used that as his own red herring to buy just a few seconds' time. He turned in place and studied the leader's uniform, specifically the insignias attached to his Cardigan field jacket.
"Step in." the leader ordered him.
Sergei had no choice but to obey. Together, they all filed in on his lead. The door now behind them procedurally closed while the next one opened simultaneously, giving way to the ship's reception deck.
It was a wide and almost semicircular layout with the bar and lounge area in the center. The ceiling was low, but not low enough to induce discomfort. A variety of organic flora was positioned near every seating surface, exuding the home-like class of five-star lodging. Wide, waist-high windows featuring space lined the circumference.
Punctually rounding a corner up ahead was another businessman headed straight at them. The white suit he wore contrasted against his trigueño complexion, suggesting he spent more time on soil rather than in space, or that he simply got regular access to UV lounges. Something about his step suggested he served in the capacity of a caretaker, a host or steward of the ship. His pace was brisk and snappy, almost jovial and certainly unbefitting of the moment. Nevertheless, his pleasant disposition towards the survivors was disarming despite the situation. Upon reaching conversational distance, he stopped promptly and offered a curt smile to them. "Welcome to the Acheron, our flagship. I'm Virgil Alkaios. I know the nature of your arrival seems somewhat disconcerting, but let me assure you that my superiors wish you no harm and would simply like to ask you some questions about the nature of your presence in this star system."
Ken took a powerful step forward. "What gives you the right to disable my ship? We had no propulsion and no HVAC. What if your EMP affected the electrohydraulics and caused the rear hatch to rupture? You could've killed us!"
Virgil cupped his hands together.
"A necessary risk that had to be taken, you must understand. I know what you're thinking and feeling, believe me. If you don't realize why this has happened to you now, you will soon…I promise you. Rest assured that you will be looked after throughout the duration of your stay here. Please, come with me."
Chris, who had remained silent thus far, instantly changed. His posture touted straighter and his chest swelled with esteem. "But we choose not to stay here." he said flatly, the staunch tone of his voice booming throughout the deck. The host of the ship darted his eyes downward with sudden astonishment. The boy had unexpectedly acquired incomparable confidence, his presence demanding acknowledgement. "Repair our ship immediately or give us one of equal value, one with translight capability."
Virgil glanced around the periphery at all the onlookers now attentive to the small gathering before him.
"That's not allowable, at least not yet. I don't make the calls around here. I'm just your facilitator." He glimpsed upon each of them with a look that could pass for genuine concern for their well being. "Please, don't make this harder on yourselves, just follow me. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can see a resolution to this matter." He spun around to face the ship's interior and started walking. "This is Alkaios. Custody is confirmed." he spoke into a lapel-mounted transceiver. "We're en route to the Charon Lift and will arrive at your location soon."
The survivors exchanged wary glances with one another. Without a word, it was reluctantly decided they would follow him.
Upon this, the security guards providing escort broke off and began mingling with some of the other commoners around the observation room, joining the curious revelry taking place there. The greeter proceeded straight ahead, away from it all. His pace warranted no time for sightseeing, but every so often the wary newcomers attained a focused glance at the wide edifices stemming off either side, presumably places of interest for the ship's regulars. There were gymnasiums, cafeterias, barber shops and other morale-enhancing localities frequented by travelers during the long, dreary stints of interstellar passage. Chris glanced over his shoulder as the clanging together of wine, champagne and martini glasses resounded off every surface of the observation deck and into his ears. He saw the gathering crowd of elitist folk and guards loitering near the windows and condensing together as they toasted their drinks to various triumphs unknown. They carried on in their gossip and snickery, their teeth more like fangs as they laughed. Chris paid them no more attention.
An elevator ahead beckoned, its door already holding open.
None of the survivors had ever been in a lift quite like this one. Instead of a single door, there were four angled 90° from one another, the other three currently shut.
The greeter bee lined for it and together they all filed in, Virgil taking his place closest to the brushed Aluminum console. Most of its surface was adorned by an unpopulated liquid crystal display. He waved his hand over the LCD and numbered icons materialized from within, a dizzying stack dozens of rows high and dozens of columns wide that tapered off into a single, lonely column below it all. Virgil pressed pressed one of the virtual buttons, fifth from the bottom. It shone solid red, an unfriendly chime accompanying the error notification.
"That's strange." he mumbled. "Why isn't it working?"
He pressed it again—same reaction.
"Oh, of course. None of you have been verified so it won't let you in, but I've got a fix for that." he smirked.
Virgil retrieved a tethered key from one of his pockets and inserted it into one of many locks, twisted, and the elevator's doors immediately shut.
"What's that mean?" Chris pointed upward.
Up top near the floor indicator, an inscription read: Vuolsi così colà ove si puote
Virgil glanced at the boy, then followed the invisible vector made by his index finger. "You know…I'm not sure. I was always curious about it myself, but I can't read Latin and I never could remember to sit down and look it up."
Bill cleared his throat: "So it is wanted there where the power lies."
The lift began its descent.
The ride down was reasonably short for Hendricksson. Having spent the last 500 years hurtling through space in a lifepod, even if the entire journey was spent asleep, he had developed a profound aversion of confined spaces. The lift stopped soon enough. Each door slid open and Joe breathed easier.
In all four directions, corridors stretched so far out that the ends were nowhere in sight.
The group now resided outside of the cruiser in the fourth of nine, concentric circles that plunged below its ventral surface in an inverted pyramidal fashion. More like an addendum to the greater vessel, each level was accessible only through the central lift they now exited. Virgil and the group had just stepped onto one of many pressurized service ways arranged like an X that adjoined the elevator shaft to the surrounding halo.
The deck of this interconnect—and presumably all interconnects—had an autopedescalator running the entire length, flanked by narrow aisles of shale-blue shag. Passing one's sight into the blurred distance, the way ahead was as a continuous stepping stone set in a river before them.
The thuds of footsteps were muffled to near-silence as the expatriates traversed the length of the long and wide autowalk on the greeter's lead. The black, vinyl sections drove inexorably onward. Whereas vessels of this tonnage were typically purpose-built and held little to no panache, this area of the ship bared no semblance of the often crude, utilitarian fashion in which slipspace transit was accomplished. Unlike the hangar bay of paint-slathered metal they entered from, there was not one meter of framework or ductwork exposed here. Not even one of countless weld seams showed, which supposedly required third-party, documented inspection at fixed intervals. By the looks of it, there was no easy access to hidden piping, hydraulics or electrical conduits, all of which required vital, routine maintenance. Instead of exhibiting compliance with even the most basic mass transit code, every square inch of bulkhead, deck and deckhead was adorned in some decorative paneling. While most of the captives simply followed Virgil in a straight line, Kaiser Sergei glanced around at the many frivolities surrounding his every footstep. Solid gold picture frames outlined the portraits of corporate execs hanging on either side of the conveyor. Just how much weight had all this luxury added to the total mass? How much more efficiently could the ship traverse space-time without it all bogging the Acheron down? He glanced dead ahead where the interconnect met the curvature of the ring itself.
The greeter slowed his pace, letting the moving tiles simply carry him as he prepared for the transition onto stationary ground again. The group now found themselves at the end of the interconnect, now at the ring itself as Virgil stepped across the wide path bending around them and towards the doorway recessed into the wall of the halo. Extravagant artwork was now on display all around them. Various frames housed dieties' mythical creatures of ancient lore: Pegasus, Medusa, Posiedon. The canvass hanging atop the doorway was the Minotaur, a bull-headed man, eyes alight with fire and horns bristling outward.
Everyone else looked down both lengths of the ring's curved deck as Virgil pushed the doors open. Sergei estimated them to be slabs of solid oak at least half a meter thick. The fourth ring was truly drowning in its own decadence.
The group found themselves at the threshold to a large amphitheater—some sort of grand meeting place for very important persons. The rows of chairs to the right stretched far back, rising parabolically to about ten meters high, a sumptuous cascade of Cherrywood. Wide footboards of solid brass lined the face of every step upwards, matted atop with plush, maroon Berber. The place was unoccupied save for a trio of armed guards waiting at the central podium, its flat top crowded with sophisticated electronics.
"What's this now?" Sergei asked.
Virgil stopped and turned to face him. "This is your identity check. Your hosts like to know who they're dealing with. Please comply. This is just for verification purposes." He nodded, then began walking again. His white suit shone like a signal flare as he strode to the exit on the far side, and then he disappeared entirely.
One of the guards set his rifle down some premeditated distance from the captives, then stepped closer to the podium and opened the lid of an optical scanner resting atop. "Empty your pockets and place any loose articles at your feet."
There was no protest. All of them did as instructed and had nothing to show but stringy, inside-out linings hanging from the sides of their sandblasted and discolored trousers. During the show and tell, Sergei observed the soldiers in kind.
They each sported closely-cropped haircuts, their heads appearing rounded. Their armament was a diverse carry. Apart from the carbine rifles they hefted, each had twin pistols holstered at both flanks of their web belts. There were Short Mortuary Swords sheathed at their cross-draws as well, which struck Sergei as odd. Any professional soldier would surely favor smaller and lighter tactical knives over heavy, expensive ceremonial pieces. He scrutinized the blades further before he'd lose the chance.
The body material was folded steel, yet it was honed down to mere centimeters wide, tapering to a micrometer edge within a decimeter of the tip. He could make out the subdued waves down the length of the forgings, baring the signature of the annealing used. Sergei had underestimated the swords' capabilities at first glance—they weren't just for show. Being a cutlery enthusiast himself, he knew perfectly well that tempered steel rolled over itself a few times resulted in a strong and hard surface able to maintain a very sharp edge with minimal upkeep, perfect for making short work of primitive hand-to-hand combat for sustained periods. With a quick summary of every functional aspect he was able to spot, he then imagined what they'd be like in-use.
A fighter who'd somehow lost their ability to prosecute combat at a distance through means of firearms could easily hold their opponent at comfortable length with the sword's extensive reach, and it was there at that distance where the weapon was truly the most destructive with its incredibly sharp tip. Therefore, the art of fencing was obviously a design consideration. In a more aggressive situation, the opponent could simply be impaled by its piercing end, the wide girth and long surface capable of inflicting severe internal damage with even a single jab. Only detectable by the shadows they produced, micro-serrations along the edges would allow the handler to eviscerate quite efficiently. And in a situation so tense and unnerving that combative discipline was among lesser concerns, the stout nature of the folded steel could serve to simply bludgeon someone into submission or death.
They were indeed battle-worthy pieces. But even more surprising was the way they effortlessly captivated him with such an archaic, metallic beauty seldom seen in modern human culture. The hand guards were of the half-basket variety, a very intricate casting design featuring loops of braided alloy. Oblate sphereoids shaped the pommels, every one of them a different size and weight in accordance with the owner's swordsmanship and preference of end-balance. With his careful eye he spotted a series of ornate characters scribed into the hilts with masterful precision:
The Good Old Cause
"You," the guard pointed at him, "step forward and place your thumb print on that glass."
"No problem, boss. Just take it easy."
Charged-coupled devices inside the chassis whined to a crescendo, soon sweeping towards the inaudible range as Sergei approached. Bright, fluorescent light radiated upwards, casting some of its luminance at the underside of his facial features.
"Good. Now, follow with the rest of your digits for each light pass, continuing with the index finger. You will scan all ten fingers." He pointed to the first row of seats. "When you're finished, wait over there. Retinal scans will follow."
"And after that?" Chris folded his arms.
"You will be fed."
After the recording of everyone's biometrics, the group assembled where instructed and they waited.
The leader of the armed trio exited with the scanner device in his grasp some time ago. The two subordinate sentries stood watch in his absence. And Virgil was nowhere to be seen. He took his time, apparently had more pressing matters to attend to at the moment—left them waiting for thirty minutes even after the authentication session was completed and the guards were more or less through with them.
One of them pressed an index finger to his ear and stared emptily into space, clutching the rifle tighter. A moment later, he slung it over his shoulder by the dummy strap and brandished one of his pistols. "Everyone form up at the exit. You're going to the galley."
The elevator doors parted after an ascent so quick that the upward journey had barely registered to them.
They departed the lift, stepping into one of four interconnects at the third ring.
This corridor was not as lavish as the ones on the fourth ring below, but still well-appointed by shipborne standards. Apparently business was booming for this outfit, but the most interesting aspect of their stint aboard this vessel thus far was not the opulence of their surroundings; it was the fact that the ship was all but bereft of life. At least it seemed that in the deep places. It was as if the elongated halls and the surrounding nine rings were kept empty just for them.
The trek down the interconnect toward the actual ringed portion was long and uneventful. Walking a Traxus IX mile was comparable, only quite a bit more hospitable. Upon finally reaching the intersection where straight met round, the sentry in the lead hooked a vague left while the other held the caboose of the formation with a single pistol drawn.
The survivors once again glanced outward at the walls of another non-linear aisle. Stemming off both sides were many doorways. To where they led or what they housed was anyone's guess. One particular entryway was atypical to all others, swinging double doors. A wheeled cart slammed into them and the individual pushing it stepped out into the open, pacing away down the bend. A small gout of steam followed him out before the doors rebounded and shut, and the group then became aware of a delicious scent propagating the air current around them. The guards led them through that entrance, straight into the galley.
Other than a few confused looks from culinary professionals laboring about, everything seemed normal. A small table and some chairs were laid between a bank of gas grills and a rack of canned foodstuffs just inside the entrance.
"Sit here," one of them said, "and wait for your meal."
A single member of the kitchen staff placed a fold-out sawhorse on the deck adjacent to the dining table while two others hefted over a large serving platter. On display were five glasses, a pitcher of ice water, and five plates of bone china with generous servings of Yakisoba artfully arranged. The server laid the dishes in front of each individual along with an array of sterling silver forks. As they returned to their common area, the last of the staff turned and bowed towards them. "Enjoy." he said in broken English.
Chris was the first to dig in. He grasped his utensil and scooped up a mouthful of the wheat noodles and bite-sized beef chunks and began eating. He grunted with satisfaction. The savory meat was so tender that it practically melted upon contact with the fork, perfectly seasoned with crushed pimento peppers and a Beni Shoga garnish that gave an almost citrus aftertaste. By itself, the look on Chris' face spurred the others on.
They ate fervently. Breathing was a secondary concern.
Occasionally, some of the service staff tending to the galley's sanitization and food prep offered compassionate glances at the survivors, and Chris wound up making eye contact with one of them and smiled tiredly. They were all of Asian descent—Chris could tell by their almond-shaped eyes. They hushed some indecipherable dialect to one another from time to time, perhaps a family who traveled and worked together. To Chris, that didn't sound like so bad of a life.
Everyone received seconds upon request, which they devoured at an animal's pace. Their next few moments were spent washing it all down with what water was left and wiping their faces with the supplied napkins.
"Jeez," Chris said, "what's with the hurry up and wait? Where's Virgil? I can't wait to get out of here."
Sergei regarded the boy with a roll of his eyes, bearing truth to his own bored-stiff deportment. He excused himself from the table, gaited over to a nearby wall and leaned his back up against it, his gaze angled up at the fresco-dressed ceiling tiles. The swirl of green and blue-pigmented pixels above was a place for thought. "I hope you enjoyed your meal."
"It hit the spot."
"Good, because it may be quite a long time before the next one." His voice trailed off, "…if there even is a next one."
"What's that?"
"It's all a game." he replied coolly. "Play it wisely. Keep your wits about you."
"What's that mean?"
Sergei's eyes darted all over the room, though the vibe given off by him was one of pristine calm and control. "They're trying to work our nerves."
"I feel just fine."
"Exactly, this is the calm before the storm. Just you wait. They're gonna shock us soon. They're gonna hit us with something unexpected."
"Like what?"
"I do not know the Devil's machinations, all I know is that they will come. But don't be frightened. Put on a face, do whatever you must. They have all kinds of cards up their sleeves, these people. Just be sure to give them nothing in return."
"Why, Sergei? Virgil said the sooner we cooperate, the sooner we can leave."
"Leave? Where's your head at, boy? He said no such thing. That's his illusion. You believe that we'll soon be on our merry way because your own desires outweigh your capacity to comprehend the elegance of his wording. He only said, and I quote, 'we'd see a resolution to the matter.' He did not say we could leave, it wasn't even implied. Well, maybe to you it was. You've got to get smart, kid, and start thinking about the bigger picture here. Once our purpose is served, that's it, it's over. The instant they glean the right quantity and quality of information from us, we're deader than door nails."
"What can we do?"
"Don't' talk. Don't respond to any of their questions even if you have truthful answers."
"Do you think they'll torture us? That's what they do to people who won't talk, right?"
"Don't worry about that. I've got this whole thing figured out. You'll be in no such danger by the time they work their way around to me. You'll see."
"What makes you so sure of yourself? We're totally at their mercy."
"Don't think like that. It's what they want you to believe. And that's the Devil, thinking you're powerless."
"Please, don't be a hero and screw this up for every—"
"—First of all, kid, observe your surroundings. Less than an hour aboard this ship and already I know there's diverse political forces at work here, some of which may be in competition with one another. I'll find out for sure soon enough, and maybe we can use that to our advantage."
"Explain exactly what you mean." Chris sat straighter.
"The first set of guards that exfiltrated us from the Pelican…did you get a good look at their uniforms?"
"No."
"I did."
"So...wait. What is it about their uni—"
"—They would look similar to these ones here in the galley, right?"
"You're saying they're different from each other?"
"Attention to detail, Chris. The ones in the bay had a different kind of patch velcroed to their uniforms than the ones babysitting us now. Not the same employer, these two sets of mercs. Consider them separate armies."
"How can you be certain? What did the emblems look like?"
"The uniforms I saw in the bay had a very simple emblem on them. Didn't see the artwork too well, but I could make out a lowercase 'a' embroidered on."
"And the ones here?" Chris craned his neck and squinted at the two guards standing watch near the broilers. "Rats, I can't see them too well from here."
"I took that initiative earlier." Sergei grinned. "Can you guess who they are?"
Chris sighed. "The New Model Army."
"That's right, Chris. A patch with the words Old Ironsides and that fabled acronym below it in bold, block lettering. Our favorite, take-no-bullshit corporate security force, the NMA."
"So you think you can work an angle with this information?"
Kaiser Sergei suppressed the urge to grin. "I'll see what I can do."
"Ugh," Chris moaned, "I'm so dead."
It was going on another hour.
The wait in the galley was uneventful. After such a voluminous and ferocious intake of food, some of them teetered on the verge of dozing off. Bill sat erect with arms folded and his head pointed down. His eyes were closed, but his lips were moving slowly, perhaps mouthing a prayer. Kens eyes were heavy and leaden, though his posture was active, still alert.
"Why haven't you finished your food?" Sergei asked Chris.
"I ate too fast, couldn't do it."
"If you're not gonna eat that, I will."
"Help yourself." Chris clutched his stomach. "How can you eat like that? So fast."
"You always wanted to be a soldier."
"That's right."
"A tenet of the battle-wise infantryman is to always seize the opportunity for food, drink and rest because the soldier never knows when that opportunity may come again. Could be soon, could be very later, could be never again."
Chris eyed the fluffy noodles Sergei was stuffing his face with, perhaps wishing he'd wolfed it all down earlier and paid an even steeper price than he currently was. But his stomach still ached. There was no way he could even think about another morsel of food. He turned from the sight of it.
"So," Sergei said delightfully, "Live it up every chance you get. And if need be, milk the system in order to do it." He finished by winking at Chris, then looked up at the guards holding their posts near the broilers at the far wall. "Isn't that right, fellas?" he shouted.
They didn't answer. Perhaps the tableside conversation was inaudible from their distance. Whatever the reason, they simply held their watchful eyes on the group without reaction.
"You roundheads are about as lively as corpses! I know you're highly trained and all, but did they take away your ability to speak? C'mon, be human for once!"
Still, no answer.
"Easy, Sergei." Hendricksson spoke coolly. "Don't antagonize them, they're just doing a job. Let's save our energy for the boss man, aye?"
Sergei's eyes narrowed, examining them. Nothing anyone said had any effect on the soldiers' bearing. They remained perfectly still, perfectly alert. Nothing could faze them. Sergei was right: they were extremely well-trained. The guard Sergei currently studied was probably early-twenties, boney cheeks, barely any facial stubble, not quite a kid anymore but still had more to experience, no doubt. Sergei took his mind off them and savored the food Chris had relinquished, eying the mouthful aboard his fork.
"Hmm, this stuff tastes remarkably fresh. No freeze-dry staleness. Definitely not synthetic. Must've gotten this batch of food from the last colony they docked at. These people really do have wealth to spare. We're the most lowly guests at the dinner table and they offered us some pretty decent hospitality."
"Could just be loaded with Sodium to give you the illusion of flavor."
"Good point. It would raise our blood pressure, too. Chip away at our cool, make us less calm and more ripe for the questioning."
"C'mon, we're thinking too much!" said Chris.
Sergei eyed the sentries again before he'd inevitably lose future opportunities. He could feasibly exploit a potential weakness if he had more time, but a pack of individuals on approach could be heard echoing off the galley's solid surfaces. Hard-soled shoes tapped against the ceramic tile the moment they entered. All the survivors stood, listened and waited for them to round the bend.
It was a blitz of black coats by the time their presence officially permeated their vicinity, their pace swift by the tempo of the footfalls. As one, the cooks and sous chefs and custodians ceased their activities and stiffened almost immediately upon making eye contact with the incoming horde. It was blatantly evident in their body language that some of them considered the option to dart away, but there they remained—petrified with their slanted, oriental eyes widening.
Sergei simply shook his head as the black-suit posse came into view.
"Now's the time to put on that face, Chris."
None of them broke stride as they rounded the way and immediately moved in on the survivors huddled near the refrigeration units. That's when the ship's help finally scampered into the unlit recesses of the galley. The ranking member of yet another mob paid no notice to the soldiers on guard duty and introduced himself indirectly to the group by inspecting them at first, particular scrutiny being devoted to Sergei. "Okay, let's get them to where they need to be." he ordered his cohorts. None of the ship's men drew any weapons; they simply gestured the way to the next destination as if compliance was a requisite to existence.
Sergei pushed himself off the wall and happily left the place he'd been floundering about for the past hour. Hesitantly at first, everyone else followed single file. Chris gave the new leader a wily glare as he passed under his looming shadow, following closely behind Bill.
Once more, the survivors were herded across the length of an interconnect and to the lift, soon on an ascent toward the first ring.
For the last thirty minutes, Chris had nothing to look at but six sides of tedium encompassing him, five of which were cold steel and one of which was a reflection of himself.
The interrogation chamber was dead silent, possibly soundproof. The walls were bare—just rust-inhibiting primer slathered over them. The one-way window likely had a technician behind it recording all of Chris' audiovisual emanations. The crude contours of the metal chair he sat on were digging into his hamstrings, cutting off circulation to his lower legs and feet. His spinal alignment was unsupported and his muscles began to ache, then his vertebrae after enough time. He shifted but the action did him no good, just riled up the awareness of his agitated nerves all the more.
The fluorescent tube overhead had no cover and blazed, saturating the room with a solid-white glow. Its ballast buzzed like a mosquito swarming about his ears. The sheet metal table was hastily welded together, the support legs bearing rust at every jagged bead. The surface of the table itself was also covered in an oxidized film of grey primer, splotches of it bubbled up and peeling. Situated on the opposite side was another chair, and that was it; the room was empty aside from these static pieces. The solitude was bearing down on him. Chris stared at the table top. Splattered across its surface were patches of white. Chris bent his head closer and sniffed. He smelled bleach. Closer now, he focused harder…
Clinging to the edges of the stains were droplets of dried-up blood.
Just then, a rectangular panel of steel dense as the surrounding walls suddenly flew open, screeching on corroded hinges. Chris jerked his head up. Through the doorway, a brighter light from outside crested over the shoulders of whoever opened it, the face partially obscured. The silhouette entered, closed the door behind, and stepped inward.
"Hello, Christopher."
The voice sounded early-thirties, and somewhat forthcoming like a gentleman captor. But it was common, gut instinct that a gracious host in such a setting was to be treated outright suspiciously. And Chris knew malice could take on multiple forms, grotesque and fair.
"I'm Agent Salinger." He pulled out the chair and took a seat, now low enough for Chris to get a good look at his face from across the table. Nothing was particularly intimidating about the man, just that he could be mistaken for a co-worker or next door neighbor. He flexed his arms outward, letting the suit's fabric rest naturally over his upper torso. The man got comfortable despite the austere appointments of the room. "I'm going to ask you some questions and then you'll be free to leave this place. At first they'll seem easy and ordinary. The longer we go on, the stranger they'll sound, but you must answer them truthfully. Do you understand?"
Chris nodded.
"What's your last name?"
"Dunedyne."
"Say that again slowly so the recorders can get it."
"Doon-eh-dine."
"So, who are those people with you, Christopher Dunedayne.?"
Chris then glued his eyes on the table. "They're my friends."
"You're pretty young to be consorting with them. What was taking place aboard your ship?"
"I'm not sure I have a good answer for that."
"It's okay, son, you can tell me. I'm here to help."
"Look, sir, I'm pretty tired. I need rest. Will this take long?"
"That depends on your willingness to cooperate. Now, the question..."
"So much happened in the last few days and I haven't got much rest. I'm not sure where to begin."
"Just start out by answering what I just asked you."
"I don't know much about what was happening."
"Well, that's interesting. Did you get hit in the head?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Have you experienced profound memory loss from physical trauma?"
"Well, no…"
"Then you can answer the question."
"I don't know what to tell you. I'm not sure that what I say will be what you want."
"Just tell me the truth. Tell me what you're doing way out here in this star system. Tell me how you got your hands on a military-grade vessel, and for the love of God tell me how you tucked away a slipspace drive so beautifully inside it."
"We were transporting batteries to sell at Arcadia."
The agent gave a bitter beer face and stood up. The backs of his knees pushing the chair out made an awful screech that made Chris wince.
"If that's the route you want to take, then that's your choice. Now I'm going to look for answers from the others, and if I get the answers I want then what good are you afterwards? Did you think of that?" Salinger gaited towards the door.
"What are you talking about?!" Chris shouted. "Look, can I just get some rest and some water. I can't think when I'm not...comfortable."
"I might've been more generous if you didn't treat me like an imbecile. Everyone knows Arcadia was glassed. Happened a long time ago."
"Ok, I'm sorry for that. But still, don't treat us like a bunch of prisoners. We have rights, you know. We'll give you answers in time, but you gotta give us some things."
"Nope. I only deal with facts, so I don't appreciate stories. And I know you're just stalling. Right now it's rest and water. Next time it'll be a phone call home." The agent turned back to him just shy of reaching the exit. "Someone is going to talk, Chris. I hope it winds up being you, I really do. You probably just got dragged along for the ride without a choice. Don't hold out for them. They don't care about you. Next time, just give them up and we'll make sure you get a clean slate. It'll be like this whole thing never happened."
"What about us getting some answers here? Why are we being detained? What did we do? You'd get in huge trouble if any authorities were to learn of this."
"Tell me right now what you were doing on that planet."
"Actually, we were just leaving." Chris rolled his eyes.
"What is your involvement with the Traxus Heavy Industries?"
"Hello? I'm sixteen years old. I can't even drive a motor vehicle yet."
"Who are you working for?"
"Jesus, I cannot believe this."
The agent opened the door and remained for a moment before exiting.
"This was your first chance, Chris, and you blew it. I'm going to meet with someone else now. If they wind up telling me what I need to hear, then I'm afraid helping you will be out of the question. Think it over. I may or may not be back depending on what happens next. If you are lucky enough to get another visit from me, I suggest you capitalize on that opportunity and play ball."
"William Santhouse, born twenty-five twenty at Prith City, Arcadia." Agent Salinger read without enthusiasm from the screen of a datapad. "Choir boy, attended Saint John's Seminary College, an overall clean soul in a dirty universe. Your record states you volunteered for UNSC. You commissioned into the Chaplain Corps. How thoughtful of you. What is it you carry out other than God's will?"
"That is all I do."
"And I'm supposed to believe that because you wear the white cloth around your neck?"
"You can believe what you will. That is your right."
"Then, Father Santhouse, I choose to believe that there's a little more than meets the eye with you. It's pretty out of the ordinary to see a priest in orbit around Traxus Nine. You can bypass any pain and suffering and just tell me what connection you have with the Traxus Heavy Industries."
"I hold no greater connection than what you'd have. Wherever travelers go, why shouldn't there be those like me to accompany and comfort them?"
"I never looked at it that way, William. How interesting." Salinger rocked in his seat, feigning a comfort on its rigid surface. He cocked his head to the side, studying Bill, and then rose slowly. He slid the chair in before he left his place. He strolled around the table and teasingly walked two fingers over the surface, coming to a stop behind the priest. He placed his hands around Bill's shoulders, slowly rubbing.
"C'mon, Bill," the agent whispered softly, "this isn't your cross to bear. Set yourself free and tell me what I need to know about these guys. No one's gonna blame you if you look out for numero uno this time around."
Bill answered with silence.
"It's for the best, Bill. So much is at stake now. I'd like to see you go on more than any of the others. Most of 'em are dirtbags. They don't deserve the kind of special treatment you do."
"All of us are the same."
Salinger removed his hands. "Did you know that your homeworld was destroyed by the Covenant some years ago?"
"No, I did not know that. Why do you ask?"
"Oh," Salinger shrugged, "no particular reason. I just thought you'd like to be in the loop of things."
Bill nodded. "Appreciated."
Salinger huffed and left the room.
The suited agent walked in, removed his jacket and hung it on the chair's back, then rolled up the lengthy sleeves of his pique shirt.
He removed a datapad from his left pocket and set it on the table, face down. He was clean-shaven, sported a faded flat-top hairdew, likely prior service, Sergei gathered.
"You already know how this works, Mister Sergei. I could give you the riff-raff that I do everyone. I could tell you we have magnetic resonance imagers pointed at your skull right now, analyzing your brain activity. I could say that we have infrared sensors monitoring spikes in blood temperature, ultrawideband radar checking for elevated heartbeats, cameras looking at pupil dilation...I could even break out the Sodium Pentathol needles if you really want to play hard-to-get. But all that would do me no good here. I've done my research on you. You're a sociopath. You're an expert liar. You don't care, so therefore I don't care. And I'm gonna know if your story doesn't check out, so you're going to provide me answers in exchange for your timely release. You can be on your way and back to crime in no time. Are we on the same page?"
"You're looking for information about THI's operations, but I can't help you there. I didn't work for them, I worked against them." Sergei grinned. "You know about as much as I do."
"And the others in your party?"
"If you want intel on your competitor, yeah, I'd ask them. I'm sure they'd be more than happy to assist you. Come back my way if I can be of other assistance."
Joe Hendricksson scowled as the agent who called himself 'Salinger' entered his cell.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Joseph Hendricksson."
"That your real name?" Salinger chose to stand. For some reason, he preferred to distance himself from this interrogatee. He stretched out his arms and buttressed his weight into the chair opposite of Joe. "You don't look like much, Joe, but I imagine that's the idea. How many people have you killed in your lifetime?"
"I've never killed any human."
"Ever order the killing of anyone?"
"That's a different story."
"Isn't it always." Salinger nodded. "You don't exist in any database. What's a guy like you doing with these people?"
"That's one thing I can't tell you."
"I see. Understand that you're in my control now. Your superiors or handlers or whoever won't ever have the chance to find you as long as you're here. And here I intend to keep you until you help me out. This is a two-way street. Do we understand one another?"
Joe nodded, already knowing that all his superiors were five-hundred years buried in the dirt somewhere. All he had to do was remain silent and the others would work something out, somehow. He wondered how Sergei was holding up and what kind've treatment he'd received so far.
"Kenneth Sopher, you were commissioned into the United Nations Space Command officer corps in twenty-five thirty-five. You had a spotless and distinguished record as a combat aviator for nearly six years, attaining the rank of lieutenant before you went AWOL, and I don't particularly care either. I just wanted you to know who you're dealing with. I have a certain amount of power and resource at my disposal. How I use that power next is largely your decision. Tell me how you got a hold of a military-grade vessel."
Ken jerked his head to the side and blonde strands of his hair flung away from his face, allowing him to get good eye contact with Salinger. "Go fuck yourself."
An hour later, the door to Sergei's cell opened again.
The agent entered and paced straight to the mirror where he momentarily gazed, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt collar. Salinger then took a seat across from Sergei, removing the datapad just like before, only this time he retrieved the stylus embedded into its plastic frame and poked at the touchscreen.
"Bad news. Your friends won't budge. You know what this means?"
"That you can't get a business loan because your market research is inadequate?"
"Funny." Salinger smiled, setting the device down between them. "That's actually pretty good. No, as it turns out, you're the only one left I can rely on for information. I have to start ridding myself of the excess now, one by one." Salinger winked. "Gotta remove the others."
Sergei rolled his eyes. "Remove them how?"
"We have several single-serving airlocks. Want to start talking now?"
"You should tell your bosses I have a counter-offer to propose."
"I'd like to hear what makes you think they're even willing to listen."
"I may not know very much about THI, but we can help one another in different ways. I'm very much plugged in throughout the galaxy. I have certain interests aligned with yours and I've got the connections to see them carried out. And it's not what you know…it's who you know. Just allow me access to an outgoing line."
"Yes," the agent scooped up the datapad with a deft swipe, "as it turns out, this is perfect timing. I just downloaded the entirety of your background information and you've got quite the résumé. Let's take a look at what you have to offer...
"Miroslav Sergei, born twenty-five oh-four on Russia Two, leader of several high-profile Koslovic remnant factions during your residence at four outer-rim worlds where your involvement in the galactic drug trade set record levels of traffic at the interstellar tier. Miroslav Sergei, prime suspect in a number of federal racketeering cases detailing the sudden disappearance of highly classified conceptual military hardware valued at over four trillion credits. Miroslav Sergei, wanted for mass fraud and cyber-intrusion activities that led to the three-day crash of the Galactic Stock Market's Communications and Information sector. Miroslav Sergei, quite possibly responsible for the death of three federal agents, a state department official and three soldiers before heading to Traxus Nine for…obvious reasons." Salinger sat back with an uncontrollable smile. "Mister Sergei, you've got a helluva lotta dirt on you. And that was just a summary of your profile! It seems criminal life is seldom discrete."
Sergei bowed his head low, appreciatively. "One does what one can in these times. But run me over if I'm wrong to say that you've got a keen uptake on things."
"Ever get tired of life on the run?"
Sergei stifled a yawn. "Lack of privacy is simply a routine aspect of my occupation as much as any other chosen profession, just manifested in a different fashion."
"Please, elaborate."
"Surely you're not serious. Everyone's life is an open book. Your company keeps tabs on you in one way or another, right? Your home address, your contact information, blood type, felony and misdemeanor records," Sergei winked, "your credit worthiness. Other personally-identifiable information you may not even be aware of is all on tap. All these pieces of information determine what kind of name you make for yourself when you live under the control of the United Earth Government."
"So, what kind of name have you made for yourself at Traxus Nine? You don't have to answer that. We know Traxus Nine is full of people just like you, so it's kind of a moot point in asking. You know if you weren't so biased against government authorities you'd find yourself far more marketable with your skill set. The variety of locales can certainly improve for you."
Sergei gave a curt nod. "That's an impressive gadget you've got there. How many gigs worth of data have they got on me?"
"Like I said, a lot of dirt."
"I'm no mathematician or anything, but I'd postulate that fifty percent of that file is true, while another fifty percent is bullshit, and the remaining fifty percent is just striaght-up lies."
"Look, if you still think this is entertainment right now, all this small talk, keep trying me and see how deep I can dig. I can go way back if you know what I mean, Colonel. Now is not the time to be cute with me, I assure you. No one's watching this space. There's no UNSC for a light-decade in every direction, which means your ass belongs to me. You can skip the charade and give me something useful, or I'll start to jettison bodies."
A smile materialized on Kaiser Sergei's face, a smile so subtle that no sensory equipment housed behind opaque glass could detect it. He took a deep, cleansing breath as if he currently resided at a mountain top. "Okay, great show you've got with the voyeur treatment inside this sweat box, almost novelty-like. Did you remember to crank up the temperature on the thermostat? Now, allow me to state my observations…
"You were once federally employed or in military service yourself judging by your attitude. You got out because military life wasn't your cup of tea, the selfless service and day-to-day sacrifice of it all. Your work suffered because of your attitude towards authority and the overwhelming responsibility placed in your hands was more pressure than you could handle. You eventually stopped taking advantage of the taxpayer-funded training opportunities as your morale approached rock bottom. You became less effective in your unit, a weak link in the chain so you didn't really get along with your colleagues. After your discharge, of whichever nature it was, you took your training and experience into the civilian sector working with these types of folks along with bigger payout, more freedom, but the training ceases. You got rusty, not the man you once were in your craft. Now, anyone can see you're sloppy around the edges, your posture too stiff and your face speaking confusion even though you checked yourself in the mirror over there before sitting down. Even your associates know it but continually choose not to burden you with the truth because it would only slow operations down and there's a shortage of human intelligence professionals due to the War being in full swing, so they make do with you and figure it's good enough to get by. But you and I both know it's not always good enough. And it's highly probable you're the substance of their gossip during mess hall chatter. They mock your technique and create long-standing, inside jokes in your name. The jokes become hackneyed to the point where your name is nothing more than an association to all things foolish. But there's always a brighter side to things as well. To your credit, you get the job done most of the time. You've been able to gather and sort solid information and pass it on to the right people, hence your presence here and now. But now I'm inclined to wonder where exactly you attained this information on me, because surely you couldn't access it through the unofficial channels currently available to you as a freelancer. In this light, it's obvious you have connections of some worth as well. Guess if you're gonna find dirt on a dirty person, occasionally you've gotta get dirty yourself. Commendable. You're good, Agent Salinger, but you're not that good. Far more effective interrogators have dealt with me before, all to no avail. Maybe it's time to broaden your skill set and leave this business. Let the big fish swim, eh?"
Salinger sat stone-faced.
He was good at maintaining composure, very good. It was the keystone of an agent's job to keep cool. Staying power was at the very core of social engineering. If you couldn't evince the believability of your act, you'd lose all leverage. Your time and efforts would be all for naught. Even after Sergei's barrage, there was nothing available to exploit in the agent's eyes or body language—nothing that suggested defeat. There was no regret, no frustration, no tensing of the muscles or weakness in those hard eyes, absolutely no conceding the ground he might've gained, nothing. Sergei had zero momentum to build upon.
But after a moment into the face-off, an infinitesimal twitch materialized in the shade of Salinger's eye. He knew Sergei picked up on it, but nevertheless stared down his subject in silence, analyzing, salvaging, his self-control tomblike stable. He looked over his shoulder into the mirror. "We're wasting our time."
"Thanks for reminiscing with me." Sergei added. "I do miss the old times."
The king of Traxus IX's underworld watched a wordless Agent Salinger retrieve the datapad and push his chair out.
"It's nice to have a network of professionals at your disposal, isn't it, Agent Salinger? They feed you intel, prep you for this session, even offer a little friendly encouragement when it's tolerable." Sergei tapped an index finger against his own forehead. "I did all that with just this."
Straight-faced, the suit stood up and left the room, taking with him whatever dignity he still had.
As the door closed, Sergei leaned back in his metal chair and balanced on two legs, aiming his steely gaze straight into the reflection of himself. "Get me a negotiator, not an interrogator!"