The Ascendant Stars - Michael Cobley [60]
Robert almost laughed. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t feel honoured.’
‘The honouring satisfied us,’ the Shyntanil said, leaning over Robert’s strapped-down, immobilised hand. ‘Your defiance is admirable and expected but in the end you will tell all that I wish to know.’
Robert stiffened, gritted his teeth. Work had begun on his forefinger’s third segment.
‘I’m still at a loss to understand what that might be,’ he said. ‘Could it be the top five Glow-dramas from last year? The winner of the Io hunt-chase? Or maybe my mother’s recipe for Bienenstich … ’
He paused, holding his breath a moment as the pain sharpened. Sweat droplets slid down his back.
‘We know that you had dealings with some of our people, despicable renegades,’ the torturer said. ‘We know that they gave you information relating to our ally, the Godhead, information they were willing to die rather than reveal. This is what you need to tell us. Surrender this to us and we shall put you back in your ship and see you safely away.’
‘The Godhead is not your ally,’ Robert said deliberately. ‘Neither to you nor the Vor – both your peoples are being used.’
The Shyntanil’s regard was languid and considering. He looked old. Fine webs of wrinkles covered his grey face, some seeming as deep as cracks. When he spoke with that small mouth it exposed black and silver teeth.
‘Your ignorance of reality is both saddening and salutary. Perhaps we should hasten matters a little and treat these three remaining digits at the same time.’
The pain struck his hand with tearing savagery, as if some beast was biting and ripping at it. In spite of himself he cried out, a tormented sound that had the force of all his fear behind it. Robert lost control. He struggled against the couch straps and padded restraints, wishing he could escape the burning hot agony that his hand had become. Vision was blurred, swimming with tears and sweat, and his every sense felt overloaded. Yet he was vaguely aware of a harsh metallic chime sounding repeatedly while a deep-toned voice repeated urgent commands over it.
The Shyntanil torturer muttered incomprehensibly to himself, and the grinding pain went on.
A second later the lights went out and the pain vanished. Through the sudden bliss of no-pain, Robert heard the Shyntanil uttering raging shrieks that sounded oddly muffled. Then there was a series of thuds, a crash, shouts – Human voices! – then bursts of gunfire. And still, infuriatingly, he could see nothing. Then something opened in front of him and a flood of light dazzled his vision.
‘We’ll soon have you outta there, Mr Bauer,’ said someone as fingers unfastened padded shell segments that were restraining his arms, legs, hands, torso, neck and head. He also felt odd plucking sensations from his head and neck, but especially from his hands. And he was thinking, who is Bauer?
Sight started to return, blurs resolving into shapes. He felt weak, dehydrated. His surroundings came into focus – he was half-naked, sitting in a rounded compartment with a black interior that was stippled with curious crystalline stalks. The hinged front of the strange stall opened up fully and he realised that a couple of battle-armoured Humans were leaning in, disconnecting clusters of glowing fibres from his legs, chest and arms.
This is some kind of virtuality tank, he realised, suddenly staring at his fingers and laughing when he saw that they were whole and unharmed. Virtual torture, the perfect torment.
‘We’re nearly done, Mr Bauer,’ said one of the marines, whose chest patch read ‘Harriman’. ‘Soon have you outta there.’
‘Great, yes,’ Robert said. ‘How did you know where to find