tight, pulling his arm backward in an awkward angle. He stifled a scream as the serum spread, tightening across his chest and into the side of his neck. Unable to move his neck, Vangore watched straight ahead, though his eyes darted nervously as the side of his face grew tight, his facial features growing taunt and pulling his upper lip into a twisted and sadistic smile. Moments later, the serum worked completely through his system, leaving the former Communications Officer sitting statuesque in the uncomfortable metal chair.
“The unpleasantness that you’re experiencing right now,” Horace explained, “is a paralytic enzyme harvested from a rather unusual swamp creature on a planet that has yet to receive more than a designation number: PR- 3409. The enzyme courses through your blood stream almost instantaneously after injection, spreading its toxin to all parts of your musculature system. The result, as you are now well aware, is complete paralysis without any of the sedation usually associated with being paralyzed. The effects are quite permanent, until I give you a relieving dose of the antidote. The problem is that I won’t give you the antidote until I’m sure you are ready to cooperate. And I’m a firm believer that it will be hours, if not days, before you are ready to give a full confession.”
Horace paused, watching as tears streamed from Vangore’s eyes and sweat beaded on the Wyndgaart’s tanned forehead. Clicking his tongue, the massive Oterian shook his head.
“You see, Vangore, you’re afraid because you feel helpless right now. More importantly, you have heard so many terrible things about the Crown that you are petrified about what it will do to you.”
Pulling the Crown from the black box, Vangore’s eyes followed Horace’s movements as he affixed the contraption on the top of the Wyndgaart’s head. The Security Officer adjusted the drill bits until their tips rested solidly against Vangore’s scalp, drawing small beads of blood just from their contact.
“The real problem, however, is that the things you’ve heard don’t begin to do justice to the true amount of pain you will encounter under the influence of the Crown.”
Pressing a button on the side of the Crown, the drill bits tore through the soft flesh and hard skull alike as they pierced the tender brain beneath. Vangore’s back arched, a scream erupting from between his clenched teeth. Yen watched in a mixture of horror and awe, amazed that so powerful a scream could be generated past the paralyzed muscles of both the neck and jaw. He waited for the screaming to stop, but it never did. Vangore paused only long enough to breath again before his scream shook the small room once again.
Through the incredible screaming, Horace’s rumbling voice called out clearly. “The Crown is currently injecting a cocktail of medicine directly into your brain. The first, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, is keeping you from passing out from the pain. An interrogation would be ineffective if you went unconscious every time I put the screws to you… no pun intended. The second is a serum that destroys any mental barrier you may have put in place to resist my line of questions. There is a debate about whether the metaphorical destruction of mental barriers is directly correlated to a very real destruction of brain tissue. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think you’re going to much care one way or another when all this is done.”
Horace leaned back, reveling in the screams, and propped his feet up on top of the sterile metal table in the middle of the room. “Believe me, Vangore. I know you’re far from admitting your guilt right now. I just want you to know that I will stay here as long as it takes until you’ve admitted your guilt.”
Yen watched through the one-way glass window as the screams continued hour after hour. Occasionally, Horace stood and adjusted the fluid flow coursing into Vangore’s brain or wiped away the frothing spittle that spilled from the Wyndgaart’s mouth. For the most part, however, the Oterian sat back and watched for an indication that Vangore was ready to admit guilt. Yen couldn’t even fathom what more the prisoner could do to signal that he was ready to speak. As far as he could tell, Vangore did little other than scream his muffled scream through locked jaws.
Veins bulged against Vangore’s neck and pulsed in his temple as he continued to strain against the paralytic enzyme within his system. Yen knew that the subliminal trigger he had placed within Vangore’s mind had activated hours before, when the pain threshold was surpassed. Were he given the chance to talk, he would readily admit to killing anyone in known space. But Horace had never given him the chance to talk, instead keeping the Crown working at full power. Yen empathized with his scapegoat, having known the feeling of having his brain alight with fire. However, he had trouble sympathizing with Vangore, knowing that his guilt would keep Yen from future accusations. Still, Yen reached up and wiped away the sweat that beaded on his own brow, the continued screams having made Yen feel a little queasy.
After nearly four hours of torture, Horace arbitrarily reached up and turned off the Crown. Though still paralyzed, Vangore visible collapsed against the metal chair, moaning as much as his stiff body would allow. The blood from the four holes in his scalp mingled with his tears as they coursed down his face. Ignoring the sobs that erupted from Vangore, Horace pulled a second vial from the black case and loaded it into the auto-injector. Sliding the needle into the prisoner’s arm once more, the purple fluid bubbled as it pumped into his system. Muscles that had been held taunt for four hours relaxed instantaneously. Vangore’s face melted as though he had suffered a stroke. Had he not been affixed to the chair, he would have fallen limply to the floor. Instead, his head lolled from side to side, allowing blood red droplets to pool and fall forgotten from the tip of his nose.
Horace leaned forward, whispering just loud enough for the microphones to pick up his words. “Now, Vangore, is there something you want to tell me?”
Yen strained to hear the reply in the other room, eager to put this behind him and allow the
“I’m sorry, Vangore,” Horace said, shaking his head, “but we just didn’t hear that.”
Coughing, exhaling a fine mist of blood, Vangore tried again. This time, Yen heard his reply softly through the speakers in the observation room.
“I did it,” Vangore muttered. “I killed Merric.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Horace said condescendingly. “I truly am.”
Horace stood, turning to look at his own reflection in the one-way glass behind which Yen stood. Though he fidgeted as though examining himself in the mirror, Yen caught the look in his eyes. Horace was not yet done with Vangore. Turning back to the prisoner, Horace proceeded to crush any hope Vangore had of being free from the hell of the Crown.
“I am glad to hear that you confessed to the crime,” Horace explained, “but I am having trouble believing that you planned so complex a murder by yourself. How did you move his body through the ship without anyone noticing? How did you dispose of the body in the engine room, a place that is never empty, without someone noticing the warning claxons that would have sounded when the active exhaust vent was opened?” Horace paced around the metal table. “No, I don’t think you’re smart enough to plan this yourself. You had an accomplice, and we’re going to stay here until you’re ready to give me every one of their names.”
Yen’s groan of disappointment was only slightly softer than that of Vangore.
CHAPTER 21:
Time had passed quickly for the trio, with no word from Alcent. Keryn spent the day after her return from outside Miller’s Glen telling her story to the other two, ending with the dramatic entrance of the Uligart. The others seemed to share her infectious optimism, but clearly felt the loss of both Cerise and McLaughlin. With their numbers dwindled even further and without the ship, they now relied entirely on Alcent.
Though their situation had barely improved from before her escape from the city, Keryn found her spirits lifted and her focus fell more often toward thoughts of Adam and her making love throughout their night together. She longed for another night like the one they had shared, but time and mission no longer permitted. Instead, Keryn spent most of her time focusing on creating a plan for escape, content with the longing looks they shared as they worked.
“I really think this has a chance of succeeding,” Keryn remarked one dark morning as the trio shuffled in their work group toward the ruins. She had explained the outlines of her plan to them the night before. “I think this could actually work with Alcent’s help.”
The other two, Adam in particular, seemed more skeptical about the situation. “Even if he’s legitimate,” Adam replied, “our plan counts as little more than a rough outline right now. He may have the biggest arsenal on
