J Bryan - Dominion

“The two of you occasionally took private lunch periods together.”

“It wasn’t that private. Sir. We just grabbed lunch at a place near the studio.”

“Why did the two of you require time alone? What did you discuss?”

“We mainly just talked about work.”

A third electric shock flared throughout Ruppert’s body, sending him surging up against his restraints. He could feel his nerve endings popping like expired light bulbs.

“Again,” the Captain said.

“We had a shared…I don’t know if you would call it…a sense of irony that wasn’t present in many of our co-workers.”

“Irony about what?”

“About…our roles in the world, I guess you’d say it that way.”

“As journalists? Your work at GlobeNet?”

“Yes. Sir. After a while, you start to notice how the truth shifts over time, how the story changes. A war in the Philippines becomes a war in Indonesia without any explanation. That kind of thing.”

“Naturally, facts change over time.”

“Yes, sir. It’s difficult to say what I mean. We talk about freedom and democracy, but we’ve had the same people in charge as long as anybody can remember. We talk about religion, but we bring war to every corner of the world.”

“You attend a Dominionist church?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you understand the unique nature of our place in the world. We fight against evil itself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now. Did you ever fuck Sullivan Stone?”

“No.”

“Did you ever perform an act of sodomy on him?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever allow him to perform an act of sodomy on you?”

“No.”

“Did you suspect he was a social deviant?”

“It’s easy to suspect that kind of thing.”

“Why did you not register your suspicions with your employer? A public man cannot be allowed to carry on private immorality. It’s damaging to the republic.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I asked a question.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

The electrical jolt hit him again. He could feel his spine twisting like a flag in the wind.

“I should have reported him, sir,” Ruppert said between gasps for air. “I didn’t want to risk ruining his life over a false accusation, sir.”

“If the accusation turned out to be false, there would be nothing to worry about, would there, Mr. Ruppert?”

“I suppose not, sir.”

“Answer me more clearly.”

“No, sir. There would be nothing to worry about.”

“I have in front of me frames of video from a visit Mr. Stone made to your home. You and he go down into the basement. This was in April. What was the purpose of that visit?”

“I don’t remember, sir.”

The Captain held up the yellow remote control again.

“He was afraid,” Ruppert said quickly. “He thought you were watching him.”

“He thought I was watching him?”

“Terror. The Department of Terror.”

“Why would he come to you under that circumstance?”

“I don’t-I guess he thought I might be sympathetic.”

The Captain nodded and leaned back in his chair for a long minute. His pale eyes studied Ruppert, as if the Terror officer were contemplating whether a particular creature was worth pursuing as prey.

“This is exactly what I was talking about,” the Captain eventually said. “You see? This Sullivan Stone was a social deviant. He had a corrupting influence on you.”

“I’m not sure that’s exactly accurate.”

“Why not?”

“We didn’t explicitly talk about…politics, or anything.”

“I doubt that. But it isn’t necessary, in the early stages. It can be gradual. A particular facial expression or gesture at the proper time. A disparaging comment about our Dear President. You see?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your employer will be reprimanded, of course, and probably fined for employing deviants. I think this is the real story here. Sullivan Stone was a corrupt and dangerous human being. He sympathized with the enemy, and he propagandized you to do the same. Is that correct?”

“Sir, I don’t think it was Sully’s influence so much as-”

This time the electrical jolt was much stronger. His teeth ground into each other and his lips curled back to expose his gums. His eyes felt as if they would pop from his skull.

“Now,” the Captain said. “I stated that Sullivan Stone influenced you towards thoughts and actions characteristic of terrorists. Is that correct or not?”

“Yes, yes, sir. It’s absolutely correct.”

“Yes, this is largely Mr. Stone’s fault. I want you to think that over. Think about it very carefully. We’ll talk again.” The Captain rose from the table, gathered his equipment back into the bag, and departed the room without another word.

They returned him, still soaked to the waist, to his refrigerated cell, where Ruppert shivered until he slipped into a comatose sleep.

He lost track of the days and nights, and even the ability to determine the time of day. The guards pulled him out at irregular intervals, for another interrogation by the Captain, or to administer a gratuitous beating and maybe take him to the filthy bathroom at the end of the hall. They would interrupt his sleep with loud, piercing sounds that sometimes rang for hours and hours, driving him mad. They offered no medical treatment for the damage to his hands, and the wounds from his bindings etched into his flesh as scarred black loops and whorls across his palms, fingers, and the backs of his hands. He never saw any of the other prisoners.

The Captain questioned him repeatedly about his political and religious beliefs, but also devoted long, intense periods of questioning to the minute details of Ruppert’s sexual history and inclinations. Ruppert did not know if they were profiling him as a social deviant, or if this was intended to break him down psychologically, or if it was just a private obsession of the Captain.

Eventually, the Captain brought him in again to talk about Sully. He began by replaying the video of Sully’s visit to Ruppert’s house, obviously recorded by Ruppert’s screens at home.

“We have to wonder, Mr. Ruppert,” the Captain said, “What might have transpired in your basement.”

“I told you, Sully was afraid.”

“And what, precisely, did he want from you?”

“He wanted…he thought I might be able to help him. To hide him.”

“And why would he think you could do that?”

“I don’t know. He must have been desperate.”

“And you said…?”

“I told him there was nothing I could do to help him. I don’t think anyone could have helped him by then.”

“You turned him away?”

“I just told him the truth.”

“But you wanted to help. You sympathized, even knowing he was a morally corrupt deviant. You would have helped him if it were in your power.”

“I felt sorry for him. I wouldn’t have risked my life to protect him, though. I still have Madeline to think about.” Under the captors’ rules, this was the closest he could come to asking what they’d done to Madeline.

“Are you absolutely sure nothing else happened?” the Captain asked, ignoring Ruppert’s implied question.

“Nothing. He was only there for a minute. I told him not to come back.”

A powerful electric jolt tore through Ruppert’s body.

“You know how we feel about lies, Mr. Ruppert.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now. I’m going to make this extremely easy for you.” The Captain reached into his bag and brought out a transparent evidence bag. Inside was Ruppert’s wallet, a thin square box fronted with a screen for communications and transactions, with hollow compartments for cash and other items. The compartments were now open and empty.