seek relief from detention. Although perfectly legal, as set out by the above amendments to U.S. Code, this is not a legal proceeding. There will be no judge, no jury of your peers. You stand accused and will remain in custody until you have satisfied this authority that you are not a clear and present danger to this nation.”
Milton, whose heart rate has slowed somewhat, manages to summon enough spit to ask, “What authority?”
The stool is kicked out from under him. Unable to balance the fall because his hands are bound, he lands heavily on his side with an
“By
“Okay,” says Milton, breathing heavily as they set him back on the stool. “Anything you say.”
“Answer me: true or false, you entered this premises under false pretenses.”
“True.”
“True or false, you’re employed by the IRS.”
“What? No. Even if I was, what’s that got to do with national security?”
Instantly the stool disappears. This time he falls backward. When they put him back on the stool his head is ringing from where it thumped the concrete.
“True or false. Those are the only acceptable answers. One or the other. I repeat, true or false, you are employed by the IRS.”
“False.”
“True or false, you are employed by the Defense Intelligence Agency.”
“False.”
“True or false, you are employed by Naomi Nantz, a private investigator.”
He hesitates. This time he lands on his face, skidding on the point of his chin. Might have chipped a tooth, hard to say.
“T-t-true,” he says, checking the tooth with the tip of his tongue. Chipped, definitely.
Somebody laughs, and he hears hands slap together, as if in congratulations.
“Very good, Mr. Bean. That’s the correct answer. Someone fitting your description was recorded entering the Nantz residence a few days ago. The description being ‘average man with indistinguishable features,’ which certainly fits. Oddly enough, we didn’t get a hit on our facial recognition software. It’s like you blur, or something generic. So by admitting you’re employed by Naomi Nantz you’ve confirmed a favorite theory, which makes us very happy. For that you’ll be rewarded with a drink of water.”
A bucket of icy cold water is thrown in his face.
“Hoo-ha!” someone hoots, as hands slap again.
He crouches on the little stool, shivering. Milton is not one of those who never imagined himself being brave while undergoing torture. The scary thing is, they haven’t really got to the torture part yet. Not the part where they break his fingers or tenderize every muscle and ligament in his body, as they obviously did to Randall Shane. Never mind what they did to his brain.
Milton concentrates on not crapping his pants, and vows to answer every question truthfully, or to supply whatever answers they so desire, truthful or not, to do whatever it takes to avoid being physically damaged or mentally impaired.
“Concentrate, Mr. Bean. Can you do that? Can you focus?”
“Yes.”
“Good. True or false, you recently entered QuantaGate under false pretenses.”
“True.”
“True or false, you were spying for Naomi Nantz.”
“True.”
“This is good, Mr. Bean, we’re getting into the rhythm here. You’re adapting to a new reality, and understand that you are powerless to resist. True or false?”
“True.”
The stool vanishes again and he lands on his tailbone.
“Never anticipate, Mr. Bean. Never assume. Punishment can happen at any time, for any infraction, or for no infraction. Punishment can come because we feel like it, and because it is our task to grind you up and spit you out. You’re the dog shit sticking to my shoe and I’m going to wipe you off. You are a stool sample and need to be flushed. True or false?”
“True,” he says, expecting the worst.
The stool stays.
“True or false, the day you entered QuantaGate you gained access to secure files.”
“False!”
“No need to raise your voice, Mr. Bean.”
“I checked out the system. No way I could get into the secure files without setting off alarms. Even trying would have set off alarms, shut down the system.”
“This is good, very good. You have begun to elaborate. What else, Mr. Bean?”
Before he can answer, the stool vanishes again. Landing straight down on his tailbone again, registering like an electric shock from his butt to the base of his skull.
They pick him up, put him back on the stool.
“True or false, you tampered with the software at QuantaGate.”
“True.”
“You installed spy software at a top-secret research facility.”
“Yes, I did. True.”
“Therefore you are a spy, a traitor, and you have committed treason against your country.”
“No. False. We’re looking for the boy, that’s all. We don’t c-c-care about secrets.”
“You don’t ca-ca-care?”
Milton shakes his head so vehemently he makes himself dizzy.
“We care,” the man says, moving closer.
“We’re looking for the boy, that’s all,” says Milton, begging. “A little boy.”
“What little boy?” the man asks, as if genuinely surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“Professor Keener’s boy. His son, J-J-Joey.”
Behind the light, voices mumble and mutter, as if conferring. Milton waits, infinitely more miserable and afraid than he’s ever been in his life. Far worse than his worst nightmare. His willingness, his eagerness to cooperate hurts worst of all. He’s not a man and never was; he’s something to be scraped from a shoe.
The murmuring stops. A different voice, a new voice, says, “True or false, Naomi Nantz is acting on behalf of agents of the Chinese government.”
“F-f-false.”
Times passes as he shivers on the little stool. The voices return to the murmur level. He doesn’t even bother trying to listen to the words being spoken, because that might result in punishment.
Somewhere in the distance, a wheel begins to squeak, at first faintly and then louder, so loud he can’t ignore it. The mad wheel of a grocery cart, spinning as it tracks sideways down the aisle. Coming to get him. Louder, closer, screaming inside his mind like a rat trying to claw its way out of his skull.
A gurney appears in the circle of light. A narrow, thinly padded gurney equipped with sturdy Velcro straps, the better to hold a struggling body.
“No,” Milton whispers.
“Strap him down,” a voice commands. “We’re going chemical. I don’t believe anything the little turd blossom says, do you?”
Milton writhes as they lift him from the stool and dump him on the gurney. “No!” he screams. “Please, no!”
A gunshot echoes inside the warehouse, loud enough to hurt Milton’s ears. He hears the insane whine of a
