story telling had zero effect on the amount of torture he received.
He had no idea how much time passed or was passing, and he lost count of how many sessions he endured. The only change from one day to the next was the interrogator’s grasp of English, which improved at a startling rate but remained oddly stilted.
Throughout it all, Jack somehow refused to divulge his name despite whatever pain he was subjected to; it was his alone, and he wouldn’t let them have that piece of him. The interrogator addressed him only as Nefrem, and whenever Jack asked about the word, he was introduced to yet another pressure point, offering its own unique flavor of agony. The interrogator thought Jack was playing dumb, and no amount of arguing could convince him otherwise.
Their relationship was a tense one, yet they somehow grew comfortable with one another. Jack spent more time howling and slobbering than he ever could have imagined, but the interrogator didn’t relish the work; he performed it clinically, without joy or satisfaction. He even displayed mercy on occasion, and Jack thought he might be able to forgive the interrogator. Those times didn’t come often.
Whenever Jack was left alone, he prayed. He hadn’t since he was a child, and it was awkward at first. The prayers started out formal, complete with all of the ‘holy father’s, ‘art’s and ‘thou’s he could remember, but soon he was talking to God like an old friend returned from a long trip. When his prayers went unanswered, he bargained, hoping that smaller requests might be granted where larger ones were ignored, but that went nowhere quickly. Finally, the prayers disappeared and he just talked to himself, because unlike God, he was polite enough to reply.
Facing a future that promised nothing but pain, Jack began to wish for death. He just wanted it to end, and he considered sharing this fact with the interrogator. He wasn’t sure if the masked alien might grant his wish, or if it was exactly the submission they’d been working toward all along.
Jack never revealed his desire to die, and the torture continued unabated. When reality grew unbearable, he retreated into ever more complex fantasies, managing to convince himself the whole ordeal was just a terrible dream, and that he’d wake up back in sunny San Jose at any moment. He imagined lying in his king-size bed with Jess snoring beside him, then sneaking out to read the newspaper over a glass of orange juice with the morning sun breaking through the trees outside his window.
The simple, prosaic details had the most gravity. They pulled him down into the dream, and made it feel more real.
He could just about taste the tangy-sweet orange juice and feel its squishy pulp on his tongue when a surprising jolt of pain thrust him back into real reality. Back in his cell, strapped to the ceiling like a modern art exhibit, while the interrogator stared up at him from below.
“You drifted away for a moment, Nefrem.”
“So sorry about that,” Jack said through gritted teeth, “What was the question?”
“I don’t believe I asked one,” the interrogator said. “Tell me, where did you go?”
“Dunno know what you mean.”
“When you were off just now. Where did you go?”
“Home,” Jack said. The word evoked feelings that were strange and out of place now. They were the phantom feelings of an amputated life.
The interrogator took a seat on the floor. That was a first. He was acting particularly strange this session, and Jack thought he should be on guard for trickery, but he didn’t have the energy to be on guard against anything. His constant state of half-starved delirium made anything more complex than basic sarcasm impossible.
“That’s the first question you’ve answered truthfully.”
“No one’s perfect.”
The interrogator was deep in thought. Jack considered spitting on him, but doubted he could muster enough saliva.
“I have determined after rigorous experimentation that we are in a deadlock. An impasse. You cannot be broken by pain alone, and for that, I commend you.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“I suspect that you have already resigned yourself to death. Perhaps you consider yourself dead already, and your body nothing but an empty shell.”
“Maybe I just like the pain.”
The interrogator let out a queer laugh. “Possible but unlikely. You’ve shown no signs of arousal during our sessions. I suspect that you might fold were I to mutilate you, but I find that option unsavory.”
“Don’t have the balls to cut me up?”
“I have employed mutilation before, but only in dire circumstances. I find such tactics dishonorable and morally reprehensible. They are not to be considered lightly.”
“I see. And this shit is just business as usual?”
“Essentially. Pain is fleeting and impermanent. With time, the memory fades and the mind heals. Not so with mutilation. It renders parts of the subject forever unusable, and the possibility of total psychological collapse is always close at hand. It’s a point of no return, beyond which atonement becomes unreachable.”
“Nice to know you have limits.”
“All life has limits, Nefrem. Even you.” The interrogator said things like that often, and they always took Jack by surprise. Whatever these Nefrem were, the interrogator held them in high regard. They were legendary, and Jack held the same status by association.
“So, what now?”
The interrogator considered. “If you give me what I want, I will release you. To the outside or death, whichever is your preference.”
“What do you want?”
“Information.”
“I don’t have any.” Jack spaced his words deliberately, like speaking to an unruly child.
“But I know you do. Your species is guarding a secret, and I will uncover it by any means necessary. If you will not assist me, then one of the others will.”
Jack’s mind raced, but he tried not to let it show. What others? Could the rest of his team have been captured? No, he told himself, he was being played. He retreated from the thought, and stuck to his guns.
“Tell me what I wish to know, Nefrem. Tell me where your battle fleet has gone, and when it will return.”
“I am not a Nefrem,” Jack said, “I’m a free man.”
“Then we are done,” the interrogator said. He stood and walked from the room, saying, “Farewell. You will not see me again.”
The bastard left Jack alone in silence, and for some reason he would never fully understand, he began to weep. His body quaked. Tears ran down his nose and dropped to the floor below, where they formed a shallow puddle. He cried until the darkness once again came to take him away.
Chapter 40:
Solitary
The next time Jack opened his eyes, he was on the floor of a different room, wearing rags too threadbare to hang himself with. The place was stark and empty, with flat, smooth walls in perfectly inert grey. The only noticeable details were a hole in the floor for waste, a small dish attached to one wall that was constantly full of water, and a deep slot beside it just wide enough to fit a hand inside.
This was Jack’s new world.
Stuff came out of the slot every now and again that turned out to be food. It was a curious smelling pile of lukewarm chunks that may have been meat, vegetable or neither. It came in different colors, but always tasted the same.
His first attempts at eating ended in vomiting, but it wasn’t a problem with the food. Jack had been fed intravenously for so long that his stomach wasn’t yet up to the task, but he kept at it, and by the fourth meal he
