Rage

THIRTY-FOUR

Captain John Marshall, his vision blurry from blood and sweat dripping down his face, looked up at the man standing in front of him.

He had been drugged for his transfer here, but he now knew where he was.

That much, at least, was clear.

Inside Capital Prime, inside its prison-with who knows how many other political prisoners. The ones still alive.

Or had they all been killed?

The man before him, dressed in a black officer’s uniform and flanked by two Enforcers, waited until he felt Marshall’s eyes on him.

“Tomorrow you will meet the Visionary. Quite an exciting moment for you.”

Marshall looked right into the man’s eyes. “The Visionary can kiss my-”

Before the word was out, an Enforcer smacked him with the back of his hand and sent him flying to the ground. Another Enforcer put his boot on Marshall’s back, keeping him pinned there.

“You think this is a joke, Marshall? You think that we, the Authority, can permit scum like you to create problems in this world? There is much work to be done, and we’ve just started. You, and whatever is left of your Resistance, will not stand in our way.”

“Fuck you.”

Now the other Enforcer’s boot was kicked into Marshall’s side, knocking the wind out of him. Marshall gasped, choking to get air back in his lungs, still with a heavy boot stepping on his back.

“Y’know, it’s too bad you won’t cooperate. The Visionary could have use for someone like you. We have… openings.” The man paused. “Let him up.”

The boot came off, and now the only thing holding Marshall to the ground were the spears of pain he felt all over his body. He guessed the plan was to leave him in such battered shape that in the morning he’d just stand-if he could-in front of the Visionary, listen while the Visionary asked his questions…

And tell everything.

Marshall wondered how far they would go to get information from him. How much pain, how much time?

He had been tortured once. Captured by a small antigovernment tribe in the hills of Waziristan. Old school, they used their knives to keep him in agony for days.

They had been real amateurs. It doesn’t quite work that way, he had wanted to explain to them. You got to go back and forth until it becomes clear to the subject that there was only one thing they wanted. For the dance of pain and remission to end. Nothing else mattered-the lives of friends, the safety of other soldiers, the mission, and even the fate of the goddamn world-you just wanted the pain to stop.

In the morning a squad of Rangers had parachuted nearby and raided the cave dwelling. The terrorists were dead in minutes; he had said nothing.

But now?

How long could he hold out?

One technique taught in Ranger school and drilled into the covert ops leaders was that you had to stay in the goddamn moment. Don’t think about the past, of warm beds, meals, lovers… and don’t think about the future, about what you want, how you want this to end one way or the other.

Concentrate on the small details in that moment.

Even amidst horrifying pain. One expert in counterinsurgency ops explained there can be good no matter what was happening. Focus on that.

Focus on the very fact of existence.

But no one in that room ever hoped to have to experience that, to have the need to try that technique. Marshall wasn’t that lucky. What was happening now, he guessed, was a warm-up. Setting the stage for the morning’s interrogation by the Visionary himself.

“We will stop this for now, Marshall. Want you fresh, alert, in the morning. But before you go back to your ‘room,’ you should know what the Visionary will be asking about.”

The Visionary. It always came back to the Visionary.

A man Marshall knew. A bastard he hated a century ago, for what he did, for what he stood for.

Now he’d be questioned and tortured by that man.

“What is that? My name, rank, and fucking serial number?” Marshall didn’t know this Authority officer standing before him, but all he could think about was how great it would be to make that sneering face squirm and twitch with pain.

He caught himself.

In the moment, he thought.

“Unlikely, considering your rank means nothing to the Authority. No, he will ask about your various secret bases. About the key people you work with, the settlements not to be trusted. Where you keep your supplies. In short, Captain Marshall,” he snarled, “ everything you, the pathetic Resistance leader, know.”

In answer, Marshall spat on the ground.

The man turned aside.

“Take this piece of garbage away. Give him nothing. No food. No water.”

The two Enforcers grabbed Marshall and began dragging him back to his cell.

Those guards disobeyed their orders, though, and thoughtfully gave him a boot to the head the next day. Not full force, but hard enough that Marshall saw stars as he awakened blinking, taking a few seconds to see where he was.

Right. It’s morning.

He was curled on the floor of the cell, competely empty except for his battered body. Not even a hole in the floor for a toilet, as if making him as much of an animal as possible would help the process of interrogation. As far as he could tell, it wasn’t working-he wasn’t an animal yet.

But he was surrounded by them.

“Get up.”

He could fight them, become a dead weight and force them to rough him up and then pull him to his feet. But what was the point?

To tell them they can kiss his ass, that’s what.

But instead he pushed off his hands and got to his feet. If he still had nanotrites coursing through him, he’d be in a lot better shape. Not that it was a real possibility.

“Let’s go boys,” he said. “Guess your Visionary is waiting.”

The Enforcers’ helmets prevented Marshall from seeing if there was any reaction to his words.

Clever idea, making the people in uniform… faceless. Not only rendering them scarier than the freakiest bandit tribe, but also making it hard for them to ever see each other as anything but part of the army of the Authority.

And who were they, really? Recruited from settlements? Ark survivors who preferred life with the Authority rather than being on the run from them? Supposedly, more and more were choosing life with the Authority.

The Visionary’s goddamn vision… coming true.

The Enforcers cuffed Marshall and then led him out of the cell. If he had been a religious man, he would have prayed.

And then, as he walked-despite everything-he did just that.

As Marshall entered the room, he was momentarily blinded by massive lights that dotted the ceiling and bathed the polished metal floor with a brilliant light.

It took him a few seconds to see what was here: a chair, a few tables, computer monitors-all probably removed from Arks. The monitors appeared to show different areas surrounding this building, the heart of the Authority.

He also noticed that one table had instruments on it. His eyes tried to make out exactly what those items were, and he found that his very inability to determine that made him anxious.

Steady, he told himself. Don’t let your thoughts race ahead.

He saw someone sitting in the chair, two Enforcers on either side. The first inquisitor from yesterday stood to the left.

His two Enforcer escorts held his arms tightly.

“Anyone else coming to this party?”

The two guards holding him pushed him forward until he was meters away from the man in the chair.

The Visionary.

Or as he was known back in the day…

General Martin Cross.

“Colonel, see that he’s uncuffed. He is a captain after all.” Surprisingly, Marshall didn’t detect any disdain when Cross said his rank.

The colonel signaled to the Enforcers behind Marshall, and one stuck a key in the cuffs. Marshall’s hands slipped free and he rubbed his wrists, red and bruised.

“Am I supposed to kneel now?” he said.

The colonel walked forward and slapped Marshall with the back of his hand.

“You will speak with respect, Marshall. Or-”

“Colonel, please. Really. Marshall is not used to the ways of civility here in Capital Prime. No, Captain, you do not kneel. Or even salute.”

“That’s good, General. Since I plan on doing neither.”

“You will-eventually, though-talk. That I can promise you. Just as others have.”

Marshall knew that one of the key cell leaders-not an Ark survivor, but head of a small trading settlement to the north-had been captured weeks ago. He spoke. Good people were lost. In the end the Authority sent in Predators to torch the settlement. Killing everyone.

A message sent.

For some it signaled that the Resistance was dead. For others it signaled that the Resistance had just begun.

“We’ll see, Cross.”

Cross.

He had been hostile to the new President from the start of her administration, and then became a constant roadblock to President Campbell’s foreign policy, until he was removed from that position by her. Then he was given responsibility for training, a bureaucratic job that took him far away from Washington, away from where he could stir up trouble and opposition to the President as she attempted to exit the wars that had spread to every continent.

That was her plan.

Was that how Cross came to be in charge of one of the Ark sites? Was that how the bastard got himself here? Who did him that favor, and did that bastard survive?

Because if he did, that was someone he would like to have some one-on-one time with.

The man who changed the future.

Or had Cross had his own network, planning this all along when the Ark Project became known to the upper levels of military brass?

Marshall didn’t know. Perhaps he never would. He just knew that if there was one twenty-first-century maniac that should not be running anything, it was Cross.

“Colonel Casey, have you explained to the captain what I will want to talk about?”

“Yes, General.”

Casey.

Marshall knew that name. That’s how Cross made this happen. Casey had been a key security advisor to President Campbell. He would have had tremendous pull with any of the Ark sites.

If he had been secretly allied to Cross, everything fell into place.

“Good.”

Cross stood up. He was dressed in a uniform similar to the Enforcers, save for insignia and medals. He walked closer to Marshall.

“You see, Captain, I know this can’t be a rushed process. You know so much. And I must be patient to learn it.”

Marshall thought of firing off something else to irritate Cross. But that would only trigger more punches and kicks, and he was sure there would be plenty of them without actually asking for more.

“So-we will begin today, and take our time. Everything you know, all the places, all the cells, all the people-everything. I will know it. It will be a great gift to the Authority.”

He turned away and walked back to his chair as if to sit down and watch a show on television.

“Of course, there is an easier way. You tell me everything… now. No pain. No agony. You could even get a position of leadership. You… would get to enjoy the benefits of being a part of the Authority. The Capital, as you could discover, is not without its rewards and charms. There’s food you haven’t seen in decades.” He laughed. “And women? Not those desert-worn types you find in the settlements. A different life here, Marshall. You should consider it.”

“I have.”

He felt the Enforcers on either side tense, ready to kick the wind out of him again.

“You can fucking keep it.”

“So. The good soldier to the end. In a world that doesn’t deserve one. Stupid decision.”

Cross sat down.

“Now, let’s begin. Tell me, who is in your cell?”

Marshall took a breath. He focused on the lights, the monitors with their images of the Capital fortress, the shiny metal floor, the nearby table with its… implements.

“Captain John Marshall, United States Army, serial number 9423382869.”

Cross waved a hand in the air.

It was time to begin.

Marshall was on his knees, the lights not so bright anymore.

He was dripping sweat and blood, making his vision blurry again, his eyes sting. His shirt had been ripped off, and now his back was a mesh of welts and cuts.

And yet the worst part had been the hesitation before each blow landed.

Then two of the Enforcers started playing a game with his head, punching at it like it was a boxing bag, first to one side-followed by screams at him to get up-and then another smash to the opposite side.

Over and over.

He lost count of the number of times Cross had signaled them to stop so he could repeat his question.

Then, getting no answer to that, other questions.

Where is your base?

Who are the other leaders?

What equipment have you gathered that may prove dangerous to us?

Then more lashes to the back, more blood, more savage punches to the head that sent Marshall twisting to the floor, curling in on himself, his face smacking down hard on the metal.

It went on and on and on…

“Pull him up. To his feet.”

Marshall could barely stand. His head throbbed from the blows, while his brain now dreaded more savage lashes to the back.

“All right. As I said, Marshall, I can be patient. Today was to show you just that. But tomorrow-Colonel, if you would-”

Casey walked over to the table and brought back a fistful of shiny metal objects.

“There you go, Captain. You see them? Each can have a different purpose. Some are narrow and sharp, others are broad and unfortunately dull. There are so many ways they can be used to produce pain. As you know, we learned some tricks from those we fought-back in the day. And here, now, we are no longer afraid to use them.”

Marshall tilted his head at the objects. Looking at what Casey held in his hand, like so many lethal lollipops, was nearly enough to make him groan.

Today had been nothing.

“I will give you twenty-four hours. To remember things. To recall. And,” he said, pointing at the tray of torture, “to think on what we have here for you. And know this-it doesn’t stop there. When your body gets-what would be the word- acclimatized to the pain of metal on skin, we will move on to other things. In the end, you will talk. You will beg to talk.”

Cross started to walk away. Marshall saw a door in the corner of the room open.

“Think on it, Captain. No need for it. No need for any of this.”

Cross, followed by Casey, disappeared from the room, and the Enforcers holding him up dragged him in the other direction.

And as they did, Marshall thought…

How long can I hold out?

More importantly: Did it matter?

Because he knew one thing: if the study of dictatorships and prison and torture told us anything, it was that sooner or later, God, everyone talks.

And with his feet dragging on the floor as they pulled him away, Marshall tried to find something in his mind that resembled hope.

For now, he found nothing.