Requiem (61 page)

When the
enormous machines had their fill, they climbed back up to Icarus,
back inside their mother to deliver what they'd found.

But Icarus did
not move on. Not yet. It found something in the hollows and natural
caverns of Sceril. Something far more useful than the minds of the
Ordonians or the pitiful mineral wealth the planet had to offer.
With a curious eye it searched. It had all the time in the
world.

The Warlord
still had enough strength to keep his eyes from wandering down. He
did not want to see the damage from the razors and needles, and he
was thankful the interrogator was dull enough not to show him.

Frequently the
Warlord wondered how long he'd been held here for. He couldn't tell
if time was crawling its way forward or if it was running itself
into the redline. For all he knew, time outside this room could
have come to a complete stop. He wanted to know how close Icarus
was. Had it passed through the Tryil gate? Had it passed Sceril and
the Ordonian home-world? Had it reached the Yurrick? He didn't
bother asking the interrogator.

The
interrogator only tried the truth serum on him one more time but
the Warlord knew that this man, this boy (for that was how he
behaved) did not really care about what the Warlord might know.
They had no real reason to keep him here other than for their own
entertainment. They'd found out what had happened at Verison
Station, the Warlord had told them that already. The Warlord knew
there were no words that would stop the torture so he would bide
his time, he would endure until the interrogator made a big enough
mistake.

He wondered if
Donny was still alive. He wondered if Donny was still waiting there
for him. If he was then he would be the only one. He wondered if
Donny had finally asked one of the girls at the church on a date
but then he thought no, he would still be too afraid. He smiled but
the pain quickly wiped it away. Good. He couldn't let
sentimentality cloud his judgement now, in these final days. The
world was ending, what use was love now?

The
interrogator had only gotten more aggressive and unstable as time
passed. He was less vocal. His arrogance and showboating had
diminished. He was spending more and more time with the Warlord,
either torturing or simply sitting at the desk at the wall, staring
at him. The Warlord had seen the sense of nervousness in him, had
heard it in his voice. He was worried. It wasn't until their last
session that the interrogator let slip just what was worrying him.
The Warlord had asked him about the bet he'd made with his friends,
about what the Warlord's true name was. The interrogator said that
he no longer cared about any bets, that it no longer mattered.

He was staring
at the floor. 'It doesn't matter any more. They all le-' He stopped
himself.

'They left?'
said the Warlord. 'Your friends left without you?'

The
interrogator said nothing. The Warlord smiled.

Icarus was
almost here. NeoCorp had failed to find a solution. They were
abandoning ship, they were running scared but this interrogator,
this boy, remained. He'd either been left behind or had refused to
go, believing that NeoCorp would find a solution and turn it all
around, that Icarus was a tool for growth and nothing more. It was
only a matter of finding the right angle.

The
interrogator, flustered, got to his feet, took a needle from the
table, approached the Warlord and jabbed the syringe into his arm.
He stormed from the room. The interrogator had lost whether he
could admit it or not.

The Warlord
woke to the sound of the interrogator walking through the door. He
slammed it shut and he stood on the far side of the room. He
removed the helmet and sat it upright on the table. He spun it
around so its empty glass face was looking at the Warlord. He
seemed to be surprised to see the Warlord awake. He looked small
inside the armoured suit. His head was almost clean shaven but
there was a certain femininity to his face: a tapered jaw, a
slender nose, wide, almost gentle eyes. The man looked nothing like
the Warlord had imagined, although his age he'd already guessed at.
The boy couldn't be a day over eighteen.

The
interrogator was staring at the Warlord. His eyes were red. He'd
been crying.

'Icarus is
close isn't it?' said the Warlord, his voice thick, laden with the
drugs in his system. 'Has NeoCorp found the solution they
promised?'

'Their progress
is coming along nicely. We expect to have a workable solution
within the next day.'

'You believe
running away is a solution?' asked the Warlord.

The young man
didn't flinch. He looked down at his helmet like he was
contemplating putting it back on but he didn't. He swallowed and
turned back to the Warlord.

'We will have a
solution but you will not be there to witness it. You will be
locked in this room for the rest of your life. I will give you just
enough sustenance to keep you alive and nothing more. You will wish
for death every moment you're in here, but I will not grant it. You
will be a servant to me until I decide you're ready to die.'

The Warlord
could almost laugh. 'I do not believe you. Even
you
do not
believe yourself. You are no longer in control. You are afraid. You
are alone. Icarus is coming.'

'Icarus is
nothing! NeoCorp will find a solution. There's no need to worry.
That's what they say and I believe them.'

'What does it
matter what
you
believe? You are a fool. You don't even
understand the rudiments of torture, the purpose of it. You are not
in control here, you never were. Just as NeoCorp is not in control
of Icarus.'

'You want to
see that I'm in control? I know exactly how to show you.'

He drew the gun
from the holster on his side and trained it on the Warlord. The
Warlord did nothing. He kept his one good eye on the young man's.
He knew he couldn't pull the trigger. He'd seen the same look in
the eyes of most of the hopefuls who'd come to him wanting to join
his cause. These were the people who only wanted companionship and
belonging but did not understand what it meant to kill. He was sure
the interrogator had killed before but in this moment, abandoned by
his friends and his belief, he saw the eyes of Donny, of someone
who only wanted companionship above all else, and without the
Warlord, this young man would have nobody.

The
interrogator pressed a switch on the side of his belt. The cuffs
around the Warlord's ankles and wrists opened. The Warlord fell to
the floor. Most of his strength was gone. His bones and joints
clicked and cracked as he lent forward on his hands.

'Get up,' said
the interrogator, still pointing the gun at him. 'Get off the
fucking floor. Turn and face the wall.'

The Warlord
stumbled to his feet. He looked at the gun, shaking in the young
man's hand. The Warlord knew the interrogator wouldn't kill him but
if he rushed him from here he would still get a couple of good
shots in. The Warlord looked down at his feet, at the patches of
dried blood where the toenails used to be and the one missing digit
from his right foot. There was still blood oozing from the stump of
his smallest toe.

'Turn around.
Face the wall.' The interrogator kept his eyes and his gun on the
Warlord and started to remove his boots. 'It's time for the next
level of your rehabilitation. You will learn who's in control.'

The Warlord
still didn't turn.

The
interrogator's boots were off. He stepped towards the Warlord. The
Warlord turned immediately. The interrogator still wasn't close
enough.

But if he
thinks that by stepping closer he can command my obedience then he
might just take that one step too close.

'Put your hands
back in the braces,' said the interrogator.

The Warlord
turned his head only slightly to the right but he couldn't see much
through his blurred vision.

There was a
thud on the floor and another. The Warlord didn't have to see to
know what he was doing. The Warlord held his hands at his sides.
There was another
thunk
as the interrogator removed what was
probably the last of his armour.

'I said, put
your hands back in the damn braces.'

The Warlord
began lifting his arms up slowly.

The
interrogator stepped forward again.

Almost.

The Warlord put
his hands all the way up.

'Don't be
dense. Step forward into the braces.'

He could hear a
shuffling sound behind him. Skin on skin. The interrogator was
getting himself ready.

'Step forward
into the fucking braces,' he said between breaths. 'I'm not going
to tell you again.'

The Warlord
remained where he was, swaying from side to side, unable to balance
properly on his tortured limbs.

The Warlord
spun. The young man moved. The gun fired. There was a burst of pain
across the Warlord's ribs but it barely registered. The Warlord
fell upon him. They crashed to the floor, both naked, the Warlord's
knee crunching into the interrogator's groin. He grabbed hold of
the interrogator's gun hand. He slammed it into the floor. Once.
Twice. Three times. The fingers unwrapped and the gun fell loose.
The interrogator's had been punching at the knee digging into his
crotch. He gave up and aimed at the Warlord's throat. He connected
with the second take. The Warlord fell back onto his knees, gasping
into his respirator. The interrogator crawled out from beneath him,
stretching for the gun.

The Warlord
reached for the table. His hand found the interrogator's glass
helmet. He grabbed hold of the lip on the underside, raised it
high. The interrogator's hand wrapped around the grip of the gun.
He swung his hand around as the glass helmet slammed down on his
skull. There was a cracking sound. Bone not glass.

The Warlord
brought it down again with a sickening
thunk
. The gun fell
from the interrogator's hand and he slumped back onto the floor.
The helmet came down again and the skull caved in beneath it. It
came down again. Blood seeped out in a puddle on the floor. It came
down again. Again. Again. Again.

The Warlord let
the helmet fall from his aching hand. He stared down at the mess
he'd created. Nothing but fragments of bone and pulverised grey
matter. Every inch of his own body was covered in blood. How much
of it was actually his, he had no clue. He picked up the gun and
stumbled to his feet, using the table for support. He looked back
at where they'd braced him to the wall. A pool of dried blood on
the floor, blended with maybe a week's worth of shit and piss. He
was thankful that he couldn't breathe the smell through the
respirator.

He held his
hand to the bullet wound by his ribs. It was shallow. More of a
graze than anything. Nothing compared to what he'd already been
through. He didn't want to have to put on the interrogator's suit
but he was completely naked. And if there were still people out
there, then being naked would probably attract more attention than
wearing a NeoCorp uniform.

He gathered the
pieces of the suit and fit them on to his own body as best he
could, being careful of his wounds. He kept the gun close at hand
as he did so. He opened the door. It hadn't been locked. The
Warlord exited into a corridor lined with doors. The lights were
flickering on and off. He saw numbers on the doors. The room he'd
just come from: 101.

The Warlord saw
that his old mask was hanging from the wall next to the door. A
nail had been driven through the top to hold it there like a totem,
a trophy. He pulled the mask from the nail, removed the respirator
he was wearing and pulled the mask back over his head. It still
smelled of vomit.

He started
walking, counting the room numbers downward. At the number 1 end of
the corridor he found the door to an elevator. He pressed the
button on the display but nothing happened. No sound. No
lights.

He placed his
hands on the door and pulled it to the side. It was heavy but it
still opened easily enough. He poked his head into the elevator
shaft. There was warmth and a flickering light coming from above
him. Downward, the shaft disappeared into darkness.

He didn't know
whether he was above ground or below but the faint movement of
light above him was as good a guide as any. He would go up.

He holstered
the gun on his waist and stretched his hands before reaching and
grabbing onto the thick wire hanging in the centre of the elevator
shaft. He wrapped his fingers around it and gathered his remaining
strength. He pulled himself out onto the wire.

The gloves he
wore gave his hands the grip they needed as did the tread on his
boots. He focused on breathing and on getting a firm grip on the
wire every time he placed his hand or shuffled his feet up.

He climbed for
three stories. His hands were sweating and his breath was labouring
and every muscle was seizing and shivering from exhaustion beneath
his skin. He reset his grip on the rope and looked up on the right
side of the shaft to where the next door was. He realised that
there was a hint of light coming from it.

He forced
himself upward, for one last story. He was ready to vomit. The
smell inside the mask only made it worse.

He could now
see the door was slightly ajar. There was bright light and a breeze
of warm air coming through it. He put his foot on the small ledge
at the bottom of the door and reached for the gap. He slid his hand
in and pulled the rest of his body onto the ledge as well. He
angled in and used all his strength to force the door open. As he
did so a gust of wind rushed through almost throwing him back down
the elevator shaft, but he kept his body low and regained his
balance. He squeezed his body through the gap he'd made and fell to
the floor. He pulled the mask from his head and threw up bile and
strings of saliva.