Cole’s question sent a chill across Bharat’s skin. In addition to the pain-nullification protocol they’d both received before they left for Ceto, they also had one more option built into their PBAs. If Bharat and Cole confirmed there was no help coming, that all that awaited them was a brutal interrogation followed by a brutal execution, they had one other option.
They had the option to die.
“Let’s stay put a little longer,” Bharat said. His wife and son were still back on Phorcys, under the watchful eyes of Senator Tarack’s murderous thugs. “Let’s see what happens.”
“Sure,” Cole said. “Why not.”
What happened, twenty minutes later, was a scuffle from the next cell over and Cole cursing. Bharat pulled himself up despite his aching body, pounding on the wall of his cell with one clenched fist. It hurt.
“Hey! Stop! What are you doing?” The words tumbled from his mouth.
The wet impacts of flesh on flesh echoed through the grate, as well as gurgles and coughs. Bharat imagined punches, knees, elbows, and kicks. Those fuckers were beating Cole senseless in there, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help.
More boots sounded in the hallway outside. Bharat had just enough time to shove his canine deep into his palm before the door flew open. He launched himself toward the open door just in time to see a stunner, raised. He woke sitting in a chair facing the end of a large warehouse, looking at a concrete wall.
It seemed his next interrogation was about to begin. Really? Hadn’t they asked enough questions already?
Spotlights lit four posts and the concrete wall behind them. A battered and bloody Jaxon Cole was tied to one of those four posts. Five masked Truthers stood between Cole and him, and each held a bolt-action rifle at the ready.
Bharat maintained his poker face as he looked his old friend over, but he wanted to howl with rage. Cole was a mess: teeth missing, one eye swollen shut, dark hair bloody with some of it ripped out. Apparently, the Truthers had stopped caring so much about making their victims look undamaged as they gave confessions. Bharat imagined he didn’t look much better.
“Chief Bharat Dhillon.” The Commander stood beside him with hands clasped behind his back, almost in striking distance. “Your operative, one Jaxon Cole, has been found guilty by a military tribunal of participating in war crimes against the rightful government of Ceto.”
Here we go, thought Bharat.
“Like you, Jaxon Cole unlawfully imprisoned and murdered civilians. Like you, he assassinated politicians who opposed the Supremacy’s interests. Like you, he supported your people’s unjust occupation of Ceto for ten years.”
Bharat and Cole’s tormentor wore a simple gray uniform that obviously hadn’t been issued by Ceto Security Division, but the metal pips glistening on his stiff collar looked very real. This man had served in Ceto’s military at one point, though obviously he wasn’t doing that now. The thick-rimmed glasses above his gray moustache glistened dangerously in the lights.
This was a man who tortured civilians for a living.
Cole said nothing. Bharat said nothing. It was all too obvious what was going to happen now, but Bharat took comfort in knowing that neither he nor Cole would give this asshole any sort of confession. A dull ache revealed that the tooth Bharat had buried in his bloodied palm was still there. That would have hurt a lot more without pain nullification.
“The fate of your operative is in your hands,” the Commander said, hands clasped behind his back. “If you answer my questions honestly, I will execute your operative by firing squad.”
Bharat dug the canine out of his palm with bloody fingernails, hoping the ropes securing his hands behind the chair would hide the motion. He almost dropped his tooth. He didn’t.
“Wait.” Bharat feigned confusion, hoping to buy time to escape. “If I answer your questions, you will execute this man?” He sawed subtly at the rope, hoping no one would notice.
“Correct,” the Commander said.
“And this incentivizes me how, exactly?” Bharat could feel the ropes binding his wrists loosen. He could feel his artificial canine finding purchase and cutting away.
“I am giving your operative a chance to die quickly and without undue pain,” the Commander said. “You would like him to die without undue pain, wouldn’t you? Even Advanced, callous as you may be, care for your own kind.”
“You might as well shoot me now!” Cole shouted from his post. “I’m not telling you fuckers anything!”
Cole was playing for time as well, trying to draw the Commander’s attention away from Bharat. He was trying to give them both a chance. Bharat felt the rope fray.
“The alternative,” the Commander said, “is for my people to beat your operative to death with rusty pipes. The pain he will experience before he expires will be considerable.”
“And you call yourself a soldier.” Bharat kept working on his rope. “You’re just a brute leading other brutes.” Would insults keep him talking, or should he plead instead?
“Last chance,” the Commander said. “Confess your crimes. Name your commanding officers and the Advanced politicians who ordered you to commit atrocities. Demonstrate remorse, and I offer your operative a quick death.”
The rope loosened even more. Bharat had underestimated these natural-born, but many natural-born also underestimated just how strong a trained Advanced commando actually was. He could take any of them in an honest fight, yet ...
He counted seven armed soldiers besides the Commander in plain sight. He could kill three if he moved fast, but the other four? Not possible. So was he ready to die? And if he died, would Senator Tarack let his wife and son go?
She might.
