Orson Card - Earth unavare

Wit’s holo remained cool and impassive. “On a pain scale of one to ten, Mazer, with ten being the most painful, the shock I just gave you was a five. And that was only a two-second burst. I am prepared to go much higher and for much longer should you refuse to cooperate. Now, the name of your pet please.”

Mazer got his hands under him and slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. He shook his head, got to his feet, and began doing jumping jacks.

“Calisthenics will hardly appease me, Mazer. Tell me the animal’s name now.”

Mazer began singing a marching song as he continued with the jumping jacks, something ribald and silly, no doubt learned in the SAS. Wit allowed him to finish the first verse simply because he found it entertaining, then he hit Mazer with another burst and dropped the man to his knees. Mazer pressed the palms of his hands to his closed eyes, gritting his teeth.

Wit hated doing it. The whole process made him sick. But he needed men resourceful enough to take any situation and immediately see their own way out of it. “Your eyes believe you’re staring straight into the sun, Mazer. They’re begging you to stop this useless resistance and surrender the information I want. Tell me the name, and I will stop.”

Eyes clenched shut, muscles tight, Mazer got back to his feet and continued with the jumping jacks, though with far less fervor and coordination.

“All right,” said Wit. “We’ll come back to the pet. Let’s try another one. Your mother’s maiden name. Give me that. Surely you remember your mother’s maiden name.”

Mazer responded by counting his jumping jacks aloud.

“I am beginning to lose my patience, Mazer. This is not difficult. Surrender the information or I will break you.”

Mazer’s counting grew louder, almost a shout.

The shout became a scream.

Mazer went down, writhing, every muscle taught, back arched, fingers and hands curled awkwardly, his face twisted in a rictus of agony.

Wit released the pain and paused, giving Mazer a chance to move. Mazer didn’t.

Wit said, “Perhaps you’re currently telling yourself that since you and I are on the same side, since this is merely a test, I won’t inflict any serious, lasting damage. It’s only natural to reach this conclusion, Mazer, but you’re mistaken. I am not the New Zealand Army, soldier. I am not bound by their codes of ethics. Our army is unique. We do not concern ourselves with oversight. We do what needs to be done, as painful and as gruesome as that may be. That includes torturing men like you to the point of inflicting permanent neurological damage. Should you develop a tick because of my tinkering with your brain or a loss of hearing or a loss of coordination or a paralysis, no one will touch us. If I turn your brain to scrambled eggs, I won’t get so much as a slap on the hand. We are above the influence of those who would protect you. So for your own sake and safety, give me your mother’s maiden name and the name of your first pet or this little exercise will become painful in the extreme.”

None of it was true. MOPs never tortured the enemy. It wasn’t necessary. If MOPs took any prisoners, the prisoners were usually so terrified that they poured out intel without being asked. But Mazer wouldn’t know that, and Wit wanted to put a deep, gnawing fear in the man.

Mazer said nothing.

Wit hit him again.

Mazer flinched, but then rolled on his stomach and got himself into a sitting position. Wit eased the pain and watched, amazed, as Mazer caught his breath. The man should be on his back, unable to get up, and yet here he was, bullheaded and upright.

“Are you ready to cooperate, Mazer?” Wit asked. “Can we end this exercise now? I would like to. I’m bored. Give me the names, and we’ll call it a day.”

Mazer sat with his head bowed, still and quiet. His lips began to move, and at first Wit thought that he had broken; that he was surrendering the names but no longer had the strength to speak them aloud. Then slowly Mazer’s voice grew in volume. It wasn’t English, Wit realized. It was Maori. And the words weren’t names. They were a song. A warrior’s song. Wit didn’t speak the language, but he had seen the traditional singing of Maori warriors before. It was half grunting, half singing, with a stomping dance and exaggerated facial expressions. Mazer’s face didn’t so much as twitch, but the words spilled forth from him, gaining intensity and strength. Soon his voice was filling the room, harsh and booming.

Wit continued sending sharp bursts of pain. Mazer buckled every time, falling to the floor, his song cut off, his body writhing. But as soon as the pain subsided, Mazer clawed his way back into a sitting position and began to sing again in earnest. Soft at first, as he found his voice, and then louder as his strength returned.

An hour later, Wit stopped. He shut off the holopad, turned off Mazer’s crown, and went directly into the screening room. Deen and Averbach removed their helmets.

Mazer was on his hands and knees, his shirt soaked in sweat, his arms and legs trembling.

“We’re done, Mazer,” said Wit. He typed a command onto the front of Mazer’s crown. The device loosened and came free in Wit’s hand.

Mazer’s voice was weak. “So soon? I was starting to enjoy this.”

“We’ve gone long enough,” said Wit.

“I didn’t break, O’Toole.”

“You didn’t break. Very good.”

“Could you really have caused permanent neurological damage?” asked Mazer.

“No,” said Wit. “That was a bluff. The device doesn’t damage tissue. It simply overrides your pain and sensory receptors. I wouldn’t do anything to impair you. You’re too valuable a soldier for that. I was also bluffing about MOPs not having any oversight and being unscrupulously without ethics. Nothing could be further from the truth. Individual freedom and the preservation of human and civil rights motivate everything we do.”

“Yet your bosses let you torture potential candidates? Those are some interesting ethics.”

“Our enemies are usually murderers and terrorists, Mazer. They often require a show of strength and brutality equal to their own before they relent. My job is to find the men smart enough to know when brutality is necessary.”

Mazer struggled to his feet, wobbling a little but soon upright and straight. “Well?” he asked. “Am I such a man? Did I pass your screening? Am I in your unit?”

“No,” said Wit. “Because nobody gets in my unit unless they break out. Submitting to torture means you already lost once. You have to hate to lose so badly that you’d rather die trying to escape. And then be good enough to escape without dying. Anyone in my unit would have overpowered these two men guarding the door and escaped from this warehouse in three minutes. You just sat there for an hour.”

Mazer looked back up at him, stunned.

“Sorry, soldier,” said Wit. “You failed.”

Council

The helm on El Cavador was always buzzing with activity, but today the crew seemed especially occupied. Now that the Italians were gone and a week of trading and banqueting was over, the whole ship was in a rushed frenzy to make up for lost time with the dig. There were quickships to prepare, flight paths to program, scans of the rock to take and decipher, machines to operate for the miners below, dozens of plans and decisions and commands all happening at once-with Concepcion at the center of it all, taking questions, interpreting data, issuing orders, and flying from station to station with the nimbleness of a woman half her age.

Victor and Edimar were floating at the hatch entrance, taking it all in, waiting for a break in the chaos to approach Concepcion about the alien spacecraft Edimar had found. From the look of things, it didn’t seem like they were going to get that chance any time soon.