Alaistair Archibald - Questor

****

Terrence checked the pressure gauge on the yellow canister: there was plenty of the deadly gas inside it. Closing the cylinder's valve and unhooking the manifold from the ventilation duct, he looked into the end of the hose, seeing a white mass of material wadded within it.

"How did that get there?" he muttered to himself.

He reached out for a pair of tweezers with which to remove the compressed matter, but he stopped himself. If he lifted out the offending substance, enough of the lethal nerve agent would be released from the freed hose to contaminate the entire room; just opening the door to the lab might spread VX throughout the complex, killing everybody in Haven. As it was, he would need to ensure complete decontamination of the room, the air-ducts and the suits before he felt safe to disrobe.

"Brunton!" the senior Technician cried. "Put this cylinder in the maximum containment store, and bring me another. Don't be tempted to try to clear this blockage; even a thimbleful of compressed gas trapped in the pipe would be more than enough to kill everybody here. Be careful."

"Don't worry about that, Tech Terrence. This stuff scares the hell out of me."

The blue-suited female Tech rolled the cylinder away on its trolley, her measured tread making her look as if she were walking on eggshells.

Terrence hit the comm stud for the Control Room.

"We've hit a small setback, Administrator," he said, "but we're on top of it. How are the subjects?"

"It looks as if they've given up trying to escape. They're just sitting there, contemplating their navels," came the crackling, distorted response from the speaker.

"That's good news," the senior Technician said. "We'll be back in business in another ten minutes or so, and then you can rest easy."

****

Thribble's lungs burnt in protest at his exertions, and his tiny body protested indignantly at the demands he had placed upon it. He had tracked Tordun's scent from his room in the Habitation Block through to a door in the orange-coloured sector, and he waited outside whilst he caught his breath. He saw no sign of human encroachment, although he could hear a conversation taking place behind the nearest door, and one of the voices sounded familiar.

Gathering his courage, the diminutive demon stepped into his underworld cubby-hole, and moved two inches to one side. Returning to the mortal frame, he found himself inside the door.

Tordun sat shackled to a metal chair, his sweating face a mask of defiance. Another of Haven's white-garbed Technicians stood at a metal console with an expression of sublime indifference to the withering, hateful gaze the giant albino directed at him.

"Believe me, my friend," the Technologist said, "I can keep this up for as long as you want. However, if you continue to resist me, I'll step up the impulse; I'll enjoy it, too. This dial has a range from one to ten, and the last jolt was at strength four. Each step is one-and-a-half times stronger than the one before.

"Now, again; to whom do you owe your loyalty?"

Tordun breathed heavily, never taking his eyes from his white-coated adversary. "To Tordun, and to nobody else, you stinking sack of ordure," he shouted. "I am my own man."

"I'm sorry you think so," the Technician said, examining his fingernails with an exaggerated expression of boredom. "This is strength five, white-arse! Get ready for it."

His hand poised over the control, taunting the giant, whose defiant glare suggested he refused to grant his tormentor the satisfaction of flinching in anticipation.

Thribble craned his head to look at the Technician's identification badge. He had heard the distorted sound of human voices through Haven's communications system before, and he mimicked it now.

"Technician Muller!" he screamed at the top of his voice in a crackling, tinny voice that was a perfect imitation of an angry Armitage's, heard through the communications loop. "Stop what you are doing immediately, and report to the Control Room! When I say immediately, I mean right now, tech! Move it!"

Muller looked at the trussed, raging giant with an expression of frustration. "Believe me, big boy, you are mine. You spat at me, and I won't forget that. We have a date, you and I; don't go anywhere, will you?"

The Technician blew a kiss at Tordun, who strained against his metallic bonds with ineffective fury.

"Haven man, you will die slowly, at my hands; I swear it," the white-haired titan breathed.

"I think I'll go to strength seven when I get back, pink-eyes; let's see how much fight is left in you after that," the Haven man snarled. "You aren't going anywhere, so get used to it. You have two prospects: increasing pain or submission. It's up to you. My bloody job's on the line here, and I want to keep it; so don't think I've just turned into the Easter Bunny or something."

Thribble dodged to avoid a huge human foot as the Technician stormed from the room, and he barely avoided being crushed as the door was flung open. A decisive slam marked the departure of the albino's torturer.

After ensuring no other Haven personnel were present, the small imp called out to Tordun, who still strained at his bonds to no effect.

"Good day, human!"

"Not really," growled the oversized swordsman, ejecting a glob of bloody spittle onto the tiled floor. "Where and what are you?"

"It is I, Thribble," the demon squeaked. "I imitated Armitage's voice."

"Oh, Questor Grimm's little demon friend. What can you do for me? They plan to put some metal thing in my head, but I understand they have to soften me up first; this fellow, Muller, seems to enjoy his work, and I would sooner not be trussed up like this when he realises he has been deceived."

Thribble hopped towards Tordun and inspected the metal chains binding him to the chair. They were constructed of thick steel links, and they looked proof against even the swordsman's mighty strength. The chains were fastened together by a single lock; this looked more promising.

"Did you see where Muller put the key for this lock, Tordun?" the imp squeaked.

"Not where I would have shoved it, I can tell you," the albino growled. "He had all his keys on a chain at his waist, so we have no luck there."

Thribble felt cold, bitter pangs of frustration running through him like a spring stream. My cunning ruse to decoy the Technician may not last long, he thought. What I need is a mortal who can pick locks…

"What about your friend, Crest? Did you see what they did with him, Tordun?"

The albino nodded. "I think he's in the next room to my right. If you could somehow free him, I am sure he would have these chains off in a trice."

"I shall return in a few moments," the demon said in a resolute tone, and he bounded over to the wall. It took but the work of a moment to cross to the other side.

Crest lay slumped in his chair, his long, black hair matted with sweat, his head hanging to one side. The female Technician standing beside the half-elf did not appear to be a sadistic tormentor in the mould of Muller: Thribble saw gleaming traces of moisture at the margins of her eyes, and he knew this to be a harbinger of sadness in these strange beings.

The demon noted several creases on the Technician's reddened face, and Thribble knew this indicated that she was not in the first flush of youth. Her white hair was screwed into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and a pair of D-shaped lenses in a gold frame perched half-way down her nose. Under her white coat, she wore a starched white blouse and a long, black skirt that reached her ankles. She looked more like Crar's resident schoolteacher than a tormentor.

"Please co-operate, Master Crest," the woman pleaded, wringing her hands. "You must realise I take no pleasure in hurting you. Relax, and tomorrow you won't even remember this. You'll be a contented citizen of Haven, without worries or bad memories. However, before we take you to the next stage, you need to have the right frame of mind, or it won't work. Co-operate with me, and this will all be over much sooner."