Chapter 73 Methods

"The method is solid, but the results can never be guaranteed."

Over and Out
Max Hempershein

"Over there first."

First?

Rex didn't like the sound of that, but he gave no indication as he was led a few steps forward. His arms were grasped firmly by his escorts as someone untied his hands. He was made to lie face down on top of a long wooden table, and his wrists were bound together underneath while his ankles were placed in close-fitting shackles with his feet hanging over the edge.

He fully expected to receive a beating on his back, so when something hard and thin struck the bottom of his feet, he was taken completely by surprise. It was not particularly painful – at first. A stinging sensation developed after the first dozen blows; but by the time the count reached twenty, with one of the onlookers counting out loud, Rex found himself shaking from the exertion of trying not to cry out against the pain.

"Twenty-one! Twenty-two! Twenty-three!"

Rex struggled to keep his composure intact. Throughout his time as a cadet, most resistance training had been directed towards staving off the effects of shock and plasma interrogation methods – effective methods of torture that caused immense pain but tended not to leave lasting damage. Mind infiltration techniques—long considered too dangerous for use in a training scenario—had found a minor and highly controlled place in training in recent months when administered only by and under the supervision of a Jedi.

The sort of torture he was being subjected to at this moment—the infliction of brute physical pain—was something he would have thought he could handle quite well. But the walls were crumbling fast, and just when one more stroke would have been one too many, the beating stopped.

The tension which had held his body taut against the bonds burst out of him like steam from an engine and he collapsed on top of the table, gasping to catch his breath.

From somewhere beyond the hurt and his dazed senses, he heard the deep voice speaking in a dispassionate tone. "Free his arms."

His wrists were untied and his right arm drawn up behind him, elbow locked.

"Hold him down."

Rex felt at least two bodies press their weight against his back.

Another new voice, this one refined and gentle, spoke with what might have passed for genuine concern. "Any time you want to tell us where the rendez-vous is or how many men you had with you, we'll be ready to listen."

At last, some dialogue that gave the Rex hope that this was truly an exercise in escape and evasion and not just a vindictive assault on him by a former rival. It made him think that he might actually be able to endure their brutal regimen, knowing it was only part of an exercise.

The next moments went a long way towards dashing that hope.

His right arm was forced up until it was perpendicular to his body on the table. The pain in his bruised shoulder was certainly bearable after the beating on his feet, and so he did not even show a grimace.

The arm was rotated a few more centimeters forward.

"We don't want to hurt you. All you have to do is answer a few questions, then we'll let you go free," the gentle voice insisted.

Rex did not reply.

A few more centimeters.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous with your friends?"

Again, Rex was silent.

There was a brief pause, then the centimeter-by-centimeter rotation of his arm gave way to a violent thrust that sent cries of desperation from every nerve ending. Rex's breath erupted from his lungs in a piercing scream of pain, and he began fighting. Fighting the metal clamps around his ankles, fighting the two—now three, now four—men pressing him down, fighting the contortionist who was trying to tear his arm from its socket.

It was a hopeless endeavor, reduced finally to a series of pain-induced spasms, as his captors held his head and body flat against the table.

"Where is the rendez-vous?"

For a few seconds, Rex said nothing, then his voice—breathless and strained—sounded in his ears before he even knew he was speaking.

"I don't know."

"Where?" The word came with a further turning of his arm.

A choking sound gurgled up Rex's throat. "S-stop . . . ." he gasped, a tremor roiling through his body. "Th-this isn't right."

"Where?"

But Rex's only response was the weakening repetition of a single word.

"Stop."

Wolffe opened his eyes and looked about him at the other men sharing his cell. There were five of them now, including himself. Bly and Shinie 1789 were the most recent arrivals, only a few hours present, still bound and blindfolded, secured to the wall by ankle chains. When the next prisoners were brought in, Bly and 1789 would have their blindfolds removed and their wrists untied. Only the ankle chains would remain – like the rest of the cell's occupants.

The commander was starting to understand the way it worked, having the distinction of longevity as a prisoner on this particular exercise. His capture had been immediate, much to his humiliation. He and his two Shinies, 2303 and 9218, had happened upon an enemy patrol in the early morning darkness of the first day. As a diversionary tactic, he had drawn the enemy's pursuit in an attempt to give his Shinies a chance to get away. He'd managed to take out three of them before being surrounded, dragged down and beaten on the spot for having killed the three aggressors. They'd bound him, blindfolded him, and dragged him by his feet through the woods before throwing him into the back of a speeder truck and bringing him to this compound. Here, they'd pummeled him again, beaten him with wooden poles, and closed him inside a metal cage barely large enough to fit a grown man, where he'd remained doubled-over and twisted for hours.

His first contact with other members of the squad had occurred after he'd been brought to this cell and secured to the wall with iron ankle chains. His wrists had been freed, the blindfold had come off, and he'd found himself the sole occupant of a large, dimly lit room made of three stone walls and a door of heavy iron bars. There were no windows, and the light that came from the single naked bulb in the corridor beyond was weak and flickering. The walls were wet and cold. Water dripped from the ceiling. As a form of inflicting misery, it was, as Wolffe had concluded over the past two days, quite effective. Still, it was better to remain in the cell than to be taken from it, since to be removed from the cell meant only interrogation and torture.

Wolffe had been through the same previous E&E courses as his fellow clones, and he'd been captured every time. And every time, he'd hated it. Every time, he was done over. Every time, the severity of realism seemed to increase. This time was no exception, and he could not remember ever having been so abused in all his previous training cycles. But then again, this was ARC training. As he'd watched the other members of his squad trickle in, he saw that he was not the only recipient of brutal treatment.

The cadre's practice was to keep each prisoner isolated initially for a period of time, during which the majority of forceful interrogation took place. The first hours—or in some cases, days—were the worst of the entire exercise. The use of considerable violent coercion was authorized in order to extract information from the prisoners, and it was not uncommon for them to be tortured into screaming confessions or rendered unconscious in the process, so long as no permanent damage or disfigurement occurred. It was all considered part of the conditioning process, teaching the clones how to hone their resistance techniques.

After the initial phase of interrogation, the prisoner was dressed in the standard gray prison slacks and shirt and delivered to the communal cell where he was left bound and blindfolded until the next prisoner was brought in, at which time, the prisoner's arms were freed and the blindfold removed, with only the ankle restraints – iron cuffs attached to half-meter long chains – to restrict his movement.

Still, there was some strength to be gained by being with fellow prisoners; and now as Wolffe looked at his cellmates, he felt his rank and leadership would be put to good use.

"Bly?"

"Who's that?" came the reply from the still-blindfolded prisoner.

"It's me, Wolffe. You okay?"

Bly's tone, though derisive, yet contained an element of defiance. "Good as I look."

"We all look like osik right about now," Wolffe deadpanned.

Bly went on. "Did they catch 7567? We got split up."

Here, CT-2303 spoke up. "They got him. They used me to lure and trap him. They definitely got him."

CT-9218 confirmed this report.

"What about Commander Cody?" Bly asked. "And . . . 2876?"

"I don't know," Wolffe replied. "I haven't heard anything."

"If anyone can beat this, it's Commander Cody," 9218 said with certainty.

Wolffe was quiet. The truth was that he'd imagined the trainee most likely to beat the scenario would have been CT-7567. But now he'd been captured, and Force only knew how the rest of the exercise would play out.

Glop! Glop! Glop!

The sound of dripping water.

Before he even thought of opening his eyes, before he was even aware that he was conscious, Rex heard the sound of dripping water. It was not nearby. It was far away, worlds away.

It reminded him of his thirst.

He eased his way up to consciousness and blindness, the realization that he was back in his tiny cell, arms stretched above his head again and bound to the grate. His right shoulder and arm felt inflamed and disproportionately large, as if they had swollen right out of the skin. A second's contemplation and he recollected why they should hurt. He did not remember leaving that room of torture, nor did he remember passing out. But here he was, so apparently, it had been the latter.

His shoulder pleaded for relief from the stress of supporting the weight of his hanging body; but when he shifted to his feet, pain like fire shot from the bottoms of his feet up the length of his legs to remind him that his shoulder wasn't the only part of his body that had been mistreated. He relaxed his legs and let his body hang again; but within a minute, the shoulder could bear no more.

After several aggravating attempts to find some relief from the hurt, he simply let himself hang and attempted to block out the pain. There was no comfortable position. It was all misery, and it wasn't going to end anytime soon.

"How you doing down there, Lieutenant?" The voice of First Escort. In an odd way, the voice had become a comfort. Derisive, often indifferent, taunting – yet familiar. "Don't get too comfortable. Your presence is desired elsewhere. You ready to pay another visit to our friends?"

Rex swallowed down a series of groans as he was pulled out of the pit, but when he was set on his feet, the pain that exploded up his legs dropped him to his knees.

"Yeah, they're swollen pretty badly, Lieutenant. But come on, you've got more character than this. It's just a little pain," the voice of First Escort challenged, as its owner secured Rex's hands behind his back. "With everything we've heard about you, we kind of expected a bit more fight."

Rex was drawn back up to his feet, First Escort's words echoing in his ears. He could not account for the effect those words had on him. It was as if the jab at the weakness of his character had rattled something in the back of his mind where Cody's reprimand still loomed large and powerful. He took half a dozen steps, faltered, then collapsed to the ground.

"By the Force, I can't believe you did that," came the voice of Second Escort.

"That's more what I expected. Maybe all the rumors were true. You are going to be one tough bastard to break." This from First Escort. "Well, if you can still walk, get back on your feet. If not, we're going to drag you . . . by your ankles."

"I can't walk," Rex replied.

"Yes, you can. Come on, we'll help you."

This reply surprised Rex. Why didn't they just drag him as threatened? Why did they want to see him surpass the limits of endurance? First Escort had just stated in a circuitous manner, that the cadre intended to break him. Did they want to see just how strong he was so that when they finally did tear him down, their victory would be that much sweeter? Or was it simply that most prisoners gave up easily, and it excited them to see a fighter?

Whatever the reason, when the two men took his arms and pulled him up to his feet once again, Rex began to walk. The escorts were supporting most of his weight, and by the time they came to the end of their journey, Rex could hardly be considered to be walking anymore. In essence, he was being carried, merely shuffling his feet in a show of stamina.

"He looks good."

Rex recognized the deep, non-clone voice.

"He practically walked all the way here," Second Escort said with what sounded strangely like pride.

"Oh?"

"No, that's not exactly true," First Escort corrected. "We had to carry him most of the way."

Rex thought he discerned a tone of aversion in First Escort's voice, as if he were trying to waylay the prospect of more excessive punishment.

"Hmmm . . . . I suppose I was too lenient during our last session," the deep voice said with a tinge of innuendo. "Ah well, I won't make that mistake twice."

"Where do you want him?"

"Just there . . . sit him down on the floor."

Rex was filled with relief when they lowered him into a sitting position, his legs out in front of him, his upper body hunched forward.

"Don't get so relaxed," the deep voice warned ominously. "We still have business to conduct."

The sickeningly sweet voice from the previous visit now spoke. "I don't suppose you have anything to tell us."

Rex was silent, and during his silence, he heard or perhaps he sensed his escorts leave. The feeling of desolation that followed upon their departure was unexpected. They had stayed with him the last time he'd been tortured, and without them, he felt very alone. He was horrified to find that he wanted them to come back. He almost asked for them to be brought back, was only a second from opening his mouth to make the request when someone began tying his ankles together, while someone else looped another rope around his arms just above the elbows, and with rhythmic jerks, began cinching his arms together behind his back.

"This one's very popular on Garpur 4," the deep voice said casually. "I think you're going to enjoy it."

Already, the pain from his injured shoulder was making Rex's head swim. The ropes around his arms were drawn tighter until his elbows were touching. His forearms grew numb and tingly, and he could not feel his hands anymore.

"Time to see how flexible you are, Lieutenant."

The weight of at least one man pressed against his back, slowly forcing his shoulders and chest down until his torso was flush against his legs, folding him virtually in half. It was not possible to breath in this position, and Rex began gasping, panic-stricken.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"

"C-can't breath!" Rex choked out.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"

Rex's arms were raised behind him, pushed farther and farther beyond the point of natural muscular resistance until they were directly over his head, displaced from their sockets. He was screaming now. In a moment, he would start begging.

"Are you ready to answer some questions?"

So horrible and consuming was the agony that Rex could not even form the words of submission.

Something struck the bloodless skin of his forearms, and for an unbelievable instant, the pain was worse. Then it struck his forearms again and again, like a knife slicing into his flesh, driving him—him! of all clones!—to the verge of tears.

At last, he summoned enough wits to scream one word, the only word he could think of.

"Stop!"

The beating stopped.

The gentle voice was right next to his ear. "Just a nod will do. Are you ready to answer some questions?"

Rex nodded.

The ropes came off his arms, and with the flow of blood returning to his arms, a new kind of pin-prick pain washed over him. His ankles were freed, but his wrists remained bound behind him. He was rolled onto his stomach and left to lie there as his interrogation began.

"You see, Lieutenant, we don't want to hurt you like that. All we want is a little information. If you tell us what we want to know, we won't lay another hand on you," the voice said with the false assurance of deceit trying to sound trustworthy. "Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"

Rex faltered before answering. Now that the hurt had subsided to tolerable levels, he was humiliated at his weakness. He could not recall that the pain had been all that terrible, and he was starting to believe that he had simply acted like a coward. Surely, his threshold for pain could not be that low. It was embarrassing! Cody would never have given in so easily.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous, Lieuenant?"

Rex replied in a quiet, even voice. "I don't know."

A sound of disgust came from Deep, while Sweet let out a dramatic sigh of disappointment.

"Don't do this, Lieutenant. I hate it when people don't keep their word. Do you want us to truss you up again?"

"No," Rex answered right away.

"Then cooperate with us. Where is the rendez-vous?"

"I don't know."

Immediately, the ropes were woven around Rex's arms again; and at the first tightening above his elbows, his memory loss abated.

"I'll talk!" he insisted. "I'll talk!" His voice cracked as his elbows were drawn together in one violent m motion. "Stop! Stop it! I'll talk!"

His pleas went unacknowledged. His arms were rotated up behind him as his screams rose to a climatic pitch.

"Let him stay like that for a few hours," Sweet said coolly. "Maybe he'll learn not to tell lies."

Hours? Hours?! Rex could not imagine lasting beyond thirty seconds. The loss of circulation could cost him his arms. His tormentors had to be bluffing. Surely, they would not do anything that would permanently maim him. And yet, in the blur of his thoughts, he was not so sure. Any idea that this was merely a very realistic training scenario had been beaten out of his mind, and he was hard-pressed, in the face of such brutal treatment, to believe that his health and safety were being taken into account by the men inflicting the punishment. If there were fail safes in place, he was not going to wait to see at what point they kicked in.

"A bridge!" he blurted out. "We meet at a bridge!"

"It's too late, Lieutenant," Sweet replied. "You need to learn a lesson or two. But save your information. I'll be back for it in a few hours."

"No! No!" Rex shouted, pushing up onto his knees and lurching forward, relieving the pressure against his arms and catching both of his captors by surprise. For a moment, no one had a hold of him. He rolled onto his left side, thrust a leg out blindly, and felt a horrible, sharp pain as his foot came into contact with something solid.

Deep's enraged voice answered the question of what that something solid had been. "You fekking bastard!" Each bit-off syllable was accompanied by a blow against which Rex could not fight back.

"Hold him down!" This was Sweet's voice. He had gone for the two escorts, and now there were four sets of hands working to subdue the nearly hysterical prisoner.

"Stop fighting! Stop fighting!"

Rex heard the familiar voice of First Escort close to his ear.

"My arms! Don't let them—my arms!"

All struggling ceased, and a peculiar silence ensued, which, to Rex, reflected some sort of observation or deliberation on his captors' parts. He felt a touch on his arm, which although it was gentle, sent shuddering pain through his entire body. He knew his arms were being examined.

"What's this?" First Escort's voice was soft and incredulous.

"Nothing for you to be concerned about," Sweet replied. "And not a topic for discussion in front of the prisoner."

There was a brief moment of quiet, filled with a tension that even Rex could sense, then First Escort spoke again.

"May we speak outside, Sir?"

Rex listened to departing footsteps and the sound of a door closing. Over the next half-minute, he heard bits and pieces of a conversation coming from the corridor.

" . . . questioning tactics and doing so in front of the prisoner . . . "

" . . . I've never seen marks like that before . . . "

" . . . do it again and I'll request you be replaced . . . "

With this last comment, Rex heard a sharp breath and sudden movement nearby and within the room. One of the entourage had not gone out with the others and was still in the room, listening – like Rex – with much interest, hearing something disturbing enough to make him shift and groan.

Rex, sensing that his companion was Second Escort and most likely a junior soldier, was tempted to say something to him; but an alarm was playing in his mind, a warning that it was a bad time to attempt any communication. A ripple of outrage and disobedience was trembling beneath the efficiency and outward projection of unit portrayed by the team. The wrong choice of words, the wrong inflection, and any attempt at undermining the team's cohesiveness could backfire, landing Rex and his squad mates in even worse scenarios than those already playing out.

A few seconds later, the door opened and Rex heard Sweet's voice.

"Take him to the courtyard."

Unable to walk at all at this point, Rex was carried through the dim corridors, up a flight of stairs, and out onto a stone-cobbled yard. In the center of the yard was a pole, at least twelve meters tall, with a diameter of about forty centimeters. A pair of iron wrist cuffs hung at the end of a set of chains operated by a pulley system fixed to the top of the pole.

Rex's arms were untied, and his wrists placed in the cuffs, the pole at his back. He was hoisted up until his feet were off the ground, and then his ankles were drawn together and bound behind the pole.

"You need some cooling off, Lieutenant." This was Deep's voice. "Enjoy it while you can."

Rex listened to the sound of receding footsteps, and then all was silent except for the whirr of distant machinery and occasional sounds of indistinct origin. The frigid air settled around him like a shroud, lulling him into complacency and numbing the pain. Some time later—he wasn't sure how long—a wind began to rise, followed by rain – a heavy, wind-whipped rain that, while it washed the filth from his body, was cold and biting.

Rex was a man who, despite his intermittent bouts of whimsy, was fully grounded in reality. Yet, this whole thing – this ordeal he was undergoing – none of it seemed real. The longer he hung there, suspended like the carcass of some dead thing, the more his thoughts fragmented into a dreamlike state where these tortures could only be figments of his imagination. They were mind manipulations, meant to induce a sense of genuine physical agony. He wasn't really being tortured, just chemically tricked into thinking so.

A blood-curdling scream ripped him from the twilight.

It was a man's voice, raised in desperation and pain.

Above the din of the wind and rain, Rex heard a very familiar conversation, if it could be called that: the repeated, incessant demands of the interrogator and the agonized response of the one being interrogated. It seemed to go on forever, and as Rex recovered his senses, he realized that one of his fellow squad mates was being subjected to the same torment he had suffered.

A savage fury began to take shape somewhere too deep inside his body to be pinpointed. These were his squad mates being brutalized. His brothers. And, he feared, all on account of him. He had never heard of such tortures being used before in ARC training. But could it be, was it possible that Skidz hated him so much that he was not only willing to break the rules to get his revenge on Rex directly, but to also take it out on his squad mates – though they be men who felt only marginally less animosity towards him than Skidz?

Guilt did not sit well on Rex, but it had found a place to perch.

"Stop it," he mumbled. "Stop hurting them. I give up."

"Are you saying something, Lieutenant?"

Rex did not recognize this voice at all.

"I think he's delirious."

"That should make our job all the more entertaining."

"He's been up there four hours. Time to take him down."

Rex was lowered to the ground and his hands bound behind him once more as he lay on his stomach. He was then pulled to his knees.

"Get on your feet."

"I can't."

"Look, we've got a job to do, and it doesn't matter whether you're standing, kneeling, or flat on the ground. We've got our orders, and we're damned good at carrying them out. You, uh, you just might stand a better chance if you're on your feet." A derisive chuckle. "Eh, what the hell – it won't make a difference at all. You don't stand any chance."

"Where's the other soldier who's been guarding me?" Rex asked.

The answer was a crack across the jaw that sent him crashing to the ground.

"I'm still here." It was First Escort speaking in a snide, threatening voice; and then Rex knew it was First Escort who had struck him.

Rex was already trying to get to his feet in a show of determination and strength. "Tell them—tell them they don't have to hurt my squad mates—"

It was not First Escort but the new voice that responded with a condescending laugh. "We're not interested in the others, Lieutenant. We were sent here to deal with you. We understand you need softening up." A perfectly calculated pause. "By the time we're done with you, they'll be able to cut you with a spoon."