THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN CAROL, PART II
Follows from: 4/15/2018; 2/21/2018; 7/3/2017; 1/11/2017; 4/24/2016; 1/19/2016; 11/30/2015; 8/15/2015; 4/5/2015; 2/3/2015; 1/15/2015; 11/17/2014; 11/9/2014; 11/3/2014.
— Interview with Gi'Sargént Berndt Letz, veteran of the Monzarki auxiliaries; 17 August 2044.
Palenque Proper
March 2028
"He must still be close. Bring me the tracker," screamed Komandánt Rickards.
Van Morr nodded and headed further down the tunnel toward its darkness. The sound of the rain above was still tremendous as steel shells pounded the ground. The tracker hoped that the innocent had found it to safety, but he had seen too many dead children to believe that truly. He sighed and muttered, "I've seen too many dead, period. After this, I'm going to take a bloody vacation."
"Keep focused, man." Rickards' voice startled Van Morr, who hadn't realized the komandánt was following him.
It became so dark that any and all last ray of light disappeared into the nothingness around them, although with their hands they could feel the dirt walls that closed in from all sides. Chunks of earth shook and fell with every mortar which struck above, the mud and dirt falling in their hair and eyes. The air was thick and hard to breathe. The Guffingfordi tracker had already pulled out his sidearm, holding it in front of him as he continued deeper and deeper down the tunnel. The komandant had brandished his own weapon, as well. They continued moving in silence now, only their heavy breathing interrupting the faint sound of battle on the other side of the meters' worth of packed earth between them and the surface.
"He must still be close," repeated the komandánt, this time in a hoarse whisper that still seemed somehow loud within the narrow confines of the passage. Moving through them in large groups must have been horrid and dangerous, nerve-wrecking with the incessant agitation of the land. No, fighting in these depths must not have been pretty. And it was common. In fact, imperial soldiers often sought it out, constantly looking to discover and destroy the tunnels that extended as far as Tiwanaku's hinterland to the north. But there were so many and they could not all be destroyed at once.
The passageway forked suddenly. "Hurry, find a lead," urged Rickards, the frustration in his voice evident.
"I cannot will it, sir. In this light, I'll be lucky to catch a whiff of his scent or some such mundanity as that." He bent down to take a knee, removing a tablet from one of his pant leg pockets. Its light was dim but he was able to make it brighter. He handed it to the komandánt. "Hold this, please. While I see what I can find."
Rickards took the device begrudgingly, clearly unhappy with being told what to do. The man would live. Van Morr looked for footprints, but the ground here had been heavily traveled in recent days. Most likely used by insurgents to move through the city and outside. They traveled like this when possible, which was most of the time, as it kept them out of the sight of prowling ISR UAVs. With his finger, he directed Rickards toward the wall, which the komandánt shined with the tablet. "Illuminate it there," he said, "yes, perfect. You're a natural, sir."
"Don't push it, Gi'sargént," retorted Rickards, who did as asked regardless.
There was nothing to be seen, though. No torn clothing. No abandoned supplies. Not even a visible drop of fresh blood. It was too murky and poorly illuminated for any of the senses to get much sense of anything at all. "Nothing," confirmed Van Morr. "We should turn back, sir. The men need you in the surface."
Rickards' eyes flashed toward Van Morr like whips, flames dancing inside of them. With a growl, he said, "Don't presume to tell me what my men need."
"I apologize," said the Guffingfordi, a slight accent on his Díenstadi words. "I must reiterate, I fear we are unlikely to find him today, sir. It is my duty to be honest."
"You're duty to be honest?" asked the komandánt, incredulously. "And now you lecture me on the duties of a soldier of the empire? Are you calling an officer of the empire ignorant, soldier? For your sake, I hope not. Anyway, our pursuit will end when I say so. Are you sure there is no clue? No sign of Captain Carol? You would do well to be honest now and exhaust all possible resource. I am not keen on failure."
The tracker grunted but went on with inspecting the area more closely. He took the tablet himself this time. But even after a good while longer of looking for something, anything, Van Morr found nothing. And that is what he told Rickards. "Nothing, komandánt. Not a godsdamn thing, sir."
Still unconvinced at first, Rickards finally relented. "Okay, okay. C'mon, let's get back to the men."
They felt their way back down the tunnel the way they had come. It was more familiar by now, but not familiar enough. It took some time to traverse again. Above, the mortars were making themselves more sparse. Under the growing silence, Van Morr said, "I know he killed our men, hundreds of them, thousands, and in vicious ways. But surely, there's more. No offense intended, of course, sir. I'm just curious. Why do you want him dead so bad? Enough to chase him down a black tunnel on your own."
At first the komandánt was silent. Then Rickards said, "It's really none of your business, soldier. Really. Is it not enough that he has killed many of your comrades?"
"The information could possibly help me track him down," said the Guffingfordi.
"If you want to know, I'll tell ya," answered the komandánt. "I suppose you being the tracker and all, knowing this may come in handy." He stopped, taking a deep breath. Then, "He killed my boy, Gi'sargént. He killed my boy. My son. He was an officer serving in the regulares when the war broke out. He was with the first unit to respond to the rebellion. The kid sought glory, like his father, but more importantly he sought promotion. And promoted he got, 'til a road bomb took his life. That IED was placed by someone under the command of Captain Carol. That makes it that pirate scumbag's fault as anybody else's and I will make him pay for that personal loss to me. I promise you that. Even if it takes me to the end of this war or after, I will make that pirate pay."
"I believe you, sir," replied the Guffingfordi.
They walked in silence the rest of the way.
By the time they arrived back to where they had come from, the bombardment had ended entirely. Much of the surface was most likely still polluted, the chemicals most likely still active in some place. Hopefully, most of the men found safe quarters. But experience that said some, perhaps many, were likely to have been caught by the attack. When the light finally penetrated to them and they emerged once more into the cellar of the home to which it belonged, the men were still waiting for them there. The wounded had been attended to, although one of them had died. Four total in his guard unit. And for all the sacrifice, Captain Carol had gotten away. The komandánt grunted and looked down at his leg, where a bullet had removed a chunk of meat. It was bleeding, the blood soaking the uniform in that spot. He had forgotten about it, but now as the adrenaline subsided the pain was coming to him. He let one of his men dress it.
To Van Morr he turned and said, "We will find him."
"We will," nodded the tracker.
Estoria, Town 35km Northwest of Palenque
June 2028
The imperial strategy behind the Siege of Palenque had been changing since the end of the last year. Like in Tiwanaku, the military was pulling back, entrenching itself along a densely fortified perimeter around the two cities. To go in or out required passing or fighting through military checkpoints, forward operating bases, and other defenses. Papers were always asked for and undocumented migrants were often arrested and thrown back into the cesspools that were the two besieged urbanities.
But to think that this stopped the insurgents from striking deep behind imperial lines was mistaken. Hundreds of tunnels crossed beneath the lines leading to thousands of exit points scattered across the southwestern plains. Dozens were being built on any given day, dozens of others destroyed all the while. The empire deployed its technology to fight the growth of more and more subterranean routes, using vehicle-based ground-penetrating radar as well as radars mounted on cable-operated drill-like drones that tunneled through the earth. But as imperial forces accelerated their own efforts to plug the holes in its sea-and-land blockade of the two cities, the pirates responded in kind.
Most of what was once lush farmland, fruit tree groves, and small industrial plants was now burned down or artillery pocked. It was the focus of an intense insurgency that had plagued southwestern Theohuanacu since soon after the start of the rebellion. The war had taken a clear toll. Even the roads that cut through the countryside like winding black snakes were in desperately poor condition, chunks of the asphalt missing in spots throughout. The farm houses and villas had all been burned down or destroyed. Even the small villages had been deserted, refugees migrating north toward the Zealand Prefecture in droves. Imperial soldiers were congregated along the front, with firebases and larger encampments guarding the major highways at regular intervals toward the north. Still, even as the Ejermacht gathered strength, the pirates found plenty of opportunities to cause mayhem. They moved in small groups, avoiding detection and counter-insurgency forces.
A convoy of ninety trucks, guarded by a platoon of mechanized auxiliary forces, rolled south on the Kapes Sukratas. The Sukratas was the largest highway that traveled in a north-south direction and had been the main artery for imperial logistical operations to combat the rebellion. It was protected by a platoon of mechanized auxiliary infantry, including four Type 52GT infantry fighting vehicles and four attached heavy armored personnel carriers.
Convoys like this one were common. And they made for good targets.
Tall grass had taken the place of vineyards, barley, and wheat fields and a section of this newborn wilderness of overgrown weeds flanked the Kapes Sukratas on both sides for a considerable stretch. One one side waited a fist-sized crew of insurgents, about fifty of them hidden within the countryside. On the opposite side was another fist, and two more were about one kilometer north and south. A fifteen minute forced march north and west and there were rolling hills that rose at most little more than a thousand meters. The two hundred or so militants waited in relative silence as the convoy continued to make its way south.
They had to be careful because three ISR UAVs circled the area, scanning the air and the ground for threats. The empire had been fighting this kind of war for a long time and they had gotten good at detecting insurgent forces attempting to maneuver on the surface in large groups. It was why the pirates had been relegated to using their network of underground passages.
As the convoy began to pass through before them, they allowed the first section of trucks to drive through to the end. The IFV that led them went with them. An Itomoxala eagle screamed overhead. Dark, low clouds darkened the sun's light, casting a shadow across the land. The second segment entered the guarded strip ten minutes later.
The leading IFV penetrated as far as the middle without incident, as did the first and second truck of the twenty-truck segment. The third followed, close behind and in good order. BOOM.
It flipped on its side, its hull sustaining the blast well enough to protect the crew inside. Its axle had been blown clear off, however, and its hull was right charred. The truck behind it swerved to avoid a collision, only narrowly missing. The rest of the convoy accelerated and went around the smoking Tiznao. The IFV's turret began to swerve and, slowing, it pulled to the side. A rocket flashed from the grass and shrieked toward the Type 52, striking it on the front corner of its hull to release a counteracting metal plate. Another rocket struck then, and the vehicle opened up its 37mm main gun.
The IFV stopped. Its rear ramp went down, hitting the shredded black pavement with a thud. Four soldiers stepped out. They deployed along the embankment on the eastern margin of the highway. Further to the rear of the segment the heavy APC also stopped, releasing twelve armored infantrymen. They deployed to the west.
The enemy did not give the convoy very much time to prepare. A hidden machinegun opened fire then, lighting up the fireteam that had just exited the IFV. These fell to the ground for cover and the Type 52 opened fire with its chaingun. It fired one of the missiles from a turret-attached launcher, striking an insurgent rocket team.
Rifle fire cracked almost simultaneously, creating a deluge of gunpowder and bullets that peppered the two vehicles and their dismounted infantry. Imperial infantrymen responded in kind.
BOOM. Another truck was flipped over by a massive explosion, another IED. This time it was further down the road, near the end of the kill zone. The trucks in line tried to skirt around the victim, but one collides directly into the back of the burning wreckage of the Tiznao-60. Armored as they are, this bomb must have been larger than the last, for this one ripped apart the loose articles of the undercarriage and threw the shell of the hull perhaps five feet off the road. If there were any survivors, they were hurting and on a thin lifeline. A thick column of smoke collected from the separate tendrils that rose from the burned out vehicle like steam.
Overhead, the UAVs tracked insurgent movements as the battle intensified. They coordinated the return fire, helping the IFV and the APC suppress enemy fire as their infantry teams inspect the two targeted supply trucks. Survivors are pulled out and taken to the armored vehicles, where they were at least ready to be extracted as soon as the rest of the segment drove through. Another heavy APC, this one further to the rear, joins the fight and its own infantry contingent dismounts.
What felt like a handful of minutes must have been over an hour. The third and fourth segments had accelerated to close the interval gaps between them, hoping for strength in numbers to get through a kill zone that was still hot.
The insurgents were creeping closer, so close that one could almost feel their breath on the back of their neck. They liked to keep the distance between themselves and their imperial enemy as minimal as possible as to make it difficult to suppress them with artillery, lest the empire was willing to accept friendly casualties. They hid well in the brush, shooting and then moving to avoid return fire. To the north and the south, the two other pirate fists also started to close in, ambushing the escaping elements of the convoy's second convoy and the nose of the third segment.
The sound of helicopter blades came from the distance, like a low thunder warning of a coming storm. They appeared as dots in the sky first, three objects. As they flew closer their shapes suddenly turned into two attack helicopters, RoLu-21s, and a tilt-rotor transport. The attack helicopters closed the distance the quickest, using their nose-mounted cannons to utterly devastate insurgent positions in the weeds.
With the battle's favor turning, the insurgents began to withdraw. They fled toward the hills.
As they did, the tilt-rotor veered and deposited its contents directly in the withdrawal path. Three squads worth of armored special forces, grup koda, dismounted and positioned themselves to catch the retreating enemy in the tighter confines of the shallow valleys and ravines that scarred the nearby hills.
Most of the pirates melted away, surviving for another fight. Many were killed and a good number, perhaps fifteen in all, were captured.
The convoy continued to drive south, its escorts moving again to find their rightful place within the string of vehicles they protected. After chasing the rebels until they could no longer be tracked, and where they had fragmented into so many smaller units it was impossible to chase them all, the attack helicopters turned to escort the convoy the rest of the way to their destination. The tilt-rotor went in the opposite direction, toward its base further north.
Barbakán El Glorioso, 176km Northeast of Palenque
July 2028
Van Morr got a call in the early morning hours with orders to take a helicopter flight to Barbakán El Glorioso, the northernmost fortification along the Kapes Sukratas. It sprawled into the fields, its perimeter marked by three walls. One was a barb wire fence as tall as three men standing, then a concrete wall of the same height, and finally an even taller concrete wall with guard towers at fast intervals. It made a hard fortress to penetrate. Never once had the pirates been able to breach its walls and it was not from a lack of effort. Mortar attacks occurred aplenty, but a chemical laser point-defense system managed to contain most of it. It was a sensible decision, then, to bring the prisoner here after he had been picked up along the highway further south. Apparently, the poor bastard had been captured while withdrawing to the hills. Grup Koda operatives had swooped in for the capture, having prior intelligence of his involvement in the attack. An attack they were intent on leaving unprevented so that the counter-ambush would go as planned.
All in all, the ploy had cost three injured drivers, an injured infantryman, and several vehicles in need of repairs. A small price altogether. It could have been worse, much worse. A soldier could have died. The Fuermak had slowly been introducing a fleet of autonomously driven trucks, but most of these were prioritized for Gholgoth, where there was an intense focus on managing the logistics footprint behind over a billion soldiers and civilian contractors directly involved in the war effort. It needed to come here. Those three wounded could have been none.
The chopper ride was short. He was only sixty kilometers away, spending his time in the small town of Xelatogal. A short drive from the firebase, it had maybe two thousand inhabitants. One of the few places left in the empire that hadn't become bloated with people and more people. Despite its lack of size, its name was household throughout the area. All the men knew of the Xelatogal whorehouses. Dozens of them, all along the Kapes Sukratas, their bright multi-colored lights flashing in fancy patterns around tacky signs. They were decorated by drawings of things like rabbit heads, legs, and a pussycat.
Van Morr liked the one by the name of Macuilxōchitl. The girls were nice.
Komandánt Rickards was waiting for him at El Glorioso's landing pad. The base had taken its name from the Zarbian auxiliaries that had been calling it home for the past nine months. They had another 15 ahead of them. Guards patrolled the walls and from where the helicopter hovered he could see the well-protected machine gun placements with clarity.
"You're late, Gi'sargént," said Rickards.
"I got here as fast as I can, sir." Van Morr put his hand over his eyes when he caught the HIM-TAC heading toward them. "They must be here for us."
Rickards turned to look. "They're here to take us to him."
The HIM-TAC pulled up in front of them. The front passenger door opened and a short officer stepped out. "Aftleutnant Janara Miraja, sir. I am here to escort you and Gi'sargént Van Morr to the prisoner, Eric Giroudan. You two, me, Sargént Mikal Gerova who is driving my vehicle are part of a very small group of people who know of Giroudan's retrieval."
"Why the secrecy?" asked Rickards.
Miraja proffered a wicked smile. "We figured it would give you more freedom when conducting your interrogation."
The HIM-TAC took them to the command nucleus of the base, where a small surface jail connected with a subterranean network of interrogation rooms and high-security cellblocks. High profile enemy POWs were kept in isolation here, regularly questioned for intelligence, oftentimes to death. Torture was not used regularly, but intelligence operatives took on a very scientific approach to experimentation. Nothing was off limits. Nothing.
They parked in front of a squat building that seemed smaller than it should have been. It had an elegant desert architecture to it. Its sliding doors opened automatically for them. They felt the climate control immediately. Aftleutnant Miraja led them past a front desk, where two soldiers stood at attention after calling ahead of the komandánt. Down the passageways, it was more of the same, soldiers who worked in the building stopping at attention within sight of the party. They arrived at a large, thick metallic door guarded by two soldiers armed with assault rifles. A third one stood behind a wooden desk. They stood at attention.
"At ease," said Miraja. The three guards relaxed, widening their stance.
From behind the desk, the one said, "Good morning, aftleutnant. They are expecting you. May I see clearance for your two guests?"
"Identification?" asked Rickards, arching an eyebrow. He looked at the insignia on his uniform.
"Sorry, sir," answered the one behind the desk. "Top secret clearance is required to pass this point. I am required to ask to see it."
It was Miraja who replied. She passed two slips of paper to the soldier. "Here," she said. "I have them."
The soldier looked at them for a minute, seemingly reading even the fine print. The other two, the ones with the rifles on either side of the door, did not move. Their eyes remained fixed straight ahead and they stood with a relaxed preparedness, as if ready to defend the door at any minute. Finally, he handed the papers back to her, and said, "All clear, aftleutnant. Thank you, komandánt."
The door buzzed open, giant locks sliding loose. It swung backward, slowly, its weight no doubt difficult to shift. They walked through and into a hall that took them past a small room where other guards were playing cards. They hastily stood to attention when the party passed them, but quickly returned to the game when they were gone. Miraja led them to an elevator at the end, which opened almost as soon as she pressed the call button. It took them down below ground, falling rapidly until it came to a soft bounce and finally to a stop several hundred feet below. The doors opened again to reveal a large lobby-like room with another guard post surveying a metallic gate that barred entry from the floor to the ceiling.
An electronic voice sounded over an intercom. It was female, but robotic. "CLEARED."
The gate gradually slid open, almost like it was dragging. They headed through, into a wide, well-lit tunnel that led deeper into the complex. There were several hatch doors, but all left opened. They would be undoubtedly closed in case of an emergency, such as an escape attempt. It was safe to say that any opportunity for escape down here was slim at best, and in fact the only escape truly achievable here was death.
Led by two guards, they headed toward where Giroudan was being held. While walking, Miraja said, "The subject has been here for two weeks. He's been interrogated by local staff several times, always in relation to his participation in attacks on imperial troops and in the assassination of Koronel Deg Yonoros. They tried everything. Waterboarding. Cramped isolation. Wall standing. Sleep deprivation. Everything. The prisoner hasn't cracked yet, but I believe we are a good place to begin negotiations."
"Makes sense," nodded Rickards. Van Morr remained silent. The komandánt asked, "Health?"
"Healthy enough," responded Miraja.
They walked past several cell blocks. The walls here were made of the original earth's stone, with steel doors barring the only man-made exit from the rooms. There was only a slit large enough to pass food through the doors, no windows. It was said that the doors and walls were thick enough to suppress even the shouts, cries, and desperation. Some of the interrogation rooms were open with the lights on. Some of them had strange-looking machines that Rickards could only guess at their purpose. Torture, most likely. Whatever they did, it did not seem pleasant at all. Van Morr shuddered. With all the death he had seen, this was...different.
Stopping at one of the doors finally, Miraja said, "This is it, komandánt. Are you ready?"
Rickards nodded and said, "Yes. Slap him around a bit when we get in, gi'sargént. Slap him about good."
"Yes, sir," answered the Guffingfordi.
Miraja pressed a palm-sized pad on the wall and it lit up, a scanner illuminating her hand. The system buzzed and the cellblock opened. The prisoner was on the ground in the fetal position, naked. His hair had grown down past his shoulders and a thick beared covered his face. Muscles were beginning to disappear and soften, probably from both a lack of movement and malnutrition. Giroudan didn't move.
Van Morr entered first, picking the prisoner up by the arms and throwing him up against the wall. He held them there with his hand around the man's neck, then struck him in the stomach with his fist. Giroudan crumpled and coughed. Van Morr picked him up again, this time above his head, and then slammed him on the ground. He heard a crack and Giroudan writhed.
"That'll be enough, gi'sargént," said Van Morr. "We have rules. We are civilized. You cannot simply treat the prisoners how you'd like. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," answered Van Morr.
The prisoner started laughing. "Civilized, you say. You have a sense of humor, it seems."
The Guffingfordi tracker struck Giroudan again, the man's facing hitting the ground without a cushion. His temple split open, blood flowed over his eye and down his cheek. Rickards grimmaced and turned to the two guards, pointing to the limp subject. "Pick him up and take him to the interrogation room. Now."
"Yes, sir," they said, moving quickly to do as told.
Turning to Van Morr, Rickards said, "Good job. I'm going to need more of that throughout the night."
The Interrogation of Captain Eric 'Four-Fingered' Giroudan
July 2028
Giroudan was seated on a chair behind the small metal desk in the middle of the large room. He was chained to the ground. Clothing had been hastily fitted on him for decency, but it fit poorly and looked uncomfortable. The prisoner seemed not to care, his eyelids half closed and his gaze lost in space.
"There are some in the empire," said Komandánt Rickards, "who think torture is immoral or...unbecoming of an empire like ours. You know, I think about and often find myself in agreement. But I can do nothing about it, really. I am just a low-ranking officer, after all. All I can do, anyway, is offer those who cooperate a way out, an alternative path. But until someone does, what happens to them is outside my power. Luckily, most who've I spoken to have turned out to be reasonable, so many have come to enjoy the greater freedoms and the better life that I can offer them."
The prisoner said nothing. Van Morr was seated against the wall, a dozen paces away. The two guards were waiting outside, on either side of the door. Miraja and the sergeant with her watched the interrogation behind the glass that covered one of the walls from end to end. Rickards tapped on the table with his fingers.
"You're Astratesian, aren't you?" asked Rickards, "Or, at least, you were at some point. Now you are just a pirate."
No answer.
Van Morr rose and walked over. He struck the subject across the face with an open palm. The prisoner jolted and leaned as if to fall, but the chain leading to his left arm yanked tight to hold him in place. His wrists were raw and red, bleeding in places. The Guffingfordi hit him again, for good measure. "Answer," he said, his words slurred by his thick accent.
"To not answer is seen as rude, Eric," said the komandánt. "The prison staff does not believe prisoners should be rude to imperial officers. They will hit you if you do not answer. I can do nothing about it, I have no control over men not under my command. You understand, right? Nod if you understand, Eric."
Giroudan remained motionless at first, but when the Guffingfordi shifted to strike him again the pirate grudgingly nodded.
"Good, good," said Rickards. "I'm glad you have decided to cooperate. I truly am. And by that I don't mean agreeing to what I have to offer you. Rather, I appreciate that you talk to me at all."
The chained prisoner raised his head, light brown eyes radiant within his dirt-streaked face. He was panting. "T' wha' do I owe th' great pleasure o' yer company? Surely, I be nah so lucky as t' 'ave come across th' random sympathy o' a stranger. Aft weeks o' torture 'n pain. Me, wha' god given mercy that would be. Nigh-on too good t' be true. Wha' be it that ye wants?"
"Why must I want something?" asked Rickards, calmly. "Let us just...talk."
Giroudan snorted. "Go on then."
"You have been kept here on charges of treason against the empire, the murder of imperial soldiers and agents, and the assassination of Koronel Deg Yonoros. Is this correct?" asked the komandánt. He took a sip from a glass of water in front of him. There was one for the pirate, as well, although chained to the floor as his arms were he could not drink from it.
"That be wha' be they tell me," replied the prisoner.
Rickards smiled. "We have the evidence and, as far as it seems, you were caught red-handed."
Giroudan laughed. "Then why don't ye jus' walk me off th' plank?"
"Trust me," answered the komandánt. "If you were just a normal crewman, a boy with a gun, that's exactly what we'd do. Or ship you off to one of the POW camps in Zarbia. But you're a captain of a ship. You're important. You're the type of the guy the men like to bring here and keep alive, on the condition of eternal hurt. You know what I'm talking about by now."
The prisoner looked at him with cold eyes. "These so call scallywags ye speak o', all they do be scratch an itch. Nothin' t' be bothered about. I like it here. Why don't ye sod off?"
Van Morr, who had remained standing there, raised his arm to strike again, but Rickards spoke before he had time to bring it back down. "Hold," said the komandánt. He looked at the pirate with an uncaring face, and said, "Okay, Eric. Have it your way. I won't be coming back, so I hope you're making the right choice here. Either way, good luck, there are many years of calling this place home ahead of you." He stood and walked over to the door, hitting it with three heavy thuds and calling out, "Guards, open up, we're done here. The prisoner is ready to be taken back to his cell."
The door buzzed open.
"Belay that," said Giroudan. He tried to gesture to the chair the komandánt had just been sitting in, but the chains made it difficult to use his hands at all. "Sit."
Rickards nodded at the guard who poked his head in and the door was closed again. He walked back to the chair slowly, taking his time, pulling the legs of his pants up a bit as he sat so that they wouldn't constrict. His gaze fell on the prisoner. It looked merciless, but empathetic all the same. A drink of water later, he put the glass down again and said, "Eric, I can help you but you have to cooperate with me. Do you understand?"
"Aye, I understand. Wha' in god's name be that ye wants, scallywag?" shouted the pirate in outburst.
Van Morr struck him across the mouth with the back of his hand.
"You have been involved in a great many attacks on imperial soldiers, Eric," said Rickards. "You will stay here a long time. You have to understand that. It's not just about the sadism, the justice. You hold a lot of information that would do many people a great deal of benefit. It would help us kill key leadership within pirate organizations and that could make the war correspondingly shorter. The military administration won't allow an intelligence asset like you get away without being fully squeezed, like a sponge that you want to get the last drop of water out before it rots. That's you. That's your future. Unless you work with me."
The komandánt did not give Giroudan time to reply. "You see," he continued, "I know that in many of those attacks you cooperated with Captain Francis Carol, a man who I have a personal interest in finding. I know that during the course of many ventures together that you two built a camaraderie shared by few. I know that you know where he stays. If you tell me where, I will have you transferred to Zarbia."
"Zarbia?" asked the pirate, the z said with a long roll. "Wha' does Zarbia 'ave fer me?"
"The chance at a life after the war," said Rickards, gently.
"Ye wants me t' betray me best heartie, me leader, all t' go live in a camp 'n then wha'? Live as a good citizen o' th' empire? Bah!" scoffed Giroudan. "Ye ask fer too much. Offer too wee."
"Okay," said the komandánt. "Like I said, no problem. You might think I'll be back. Why would I waste this opportunity? Maybe I could have you thrown in a chest for a couple of days, maybe I could have your food taken away, maybe I could play music so loudly you couldn't even go to sleep. Your muscles would cramp. You would want to scream, but you couldn't from the panic that would set in. Then I'd bring you back, thinking you broken, and try again. I would do that, in fact. If I could. But the truth is that by the time they would let me see you again, your brain will have probably been too damaged for me to extract anything from value. But they...they will find a way to get what they want from you."
The pirate roared, his veins in his neck popping through his skin. He tried to jolt himself to his feet, but the chains held him back with unrepentant constraint. "Now, now," said Rickards. "Calm down, all this aggression is not useful for anybody, least of all for you. Your choice is simple. Give me what I want or stay here, for the rest of your short, miserable life."
"Ye farrgin' bastard. Ye farrgin' bastard." Giroudan let his head fall toward his chest. It hit the metal table with a bang. He began to sob. Finally, after some time, he lifted his face to look at the komandánt. His eyes were blood shot, red and brown like the embers of a dying fire, and he said, "My brothers forgive me, I'll tell ye where he be."