[spoiler]Second attempt with this. Feedback welcome. Much of the previous feedback from the "Nation crew" was incorporated into this, so I hope it flows better with their vision of how loyalty works and is maintained.[/spoiler]
Location Unknown - Date Unknown
True Believers
“I think we’re all here now. Lieutenant?”
“Ma’am, the report in front of you is a transcript of an interrogation that took place two weeks ago. The subject is identified as a low-ranking member of Sansha’s Nation who was renditioned under orders from Operative Shade Two-Six.”
“I wondered when we were going to hear from you again, Two-Six.”
“Spare me the pleasantries. You know I’ve been busy.”
“Busy indeed. You’ve been traveling quite a bit. Find anything interesting in your travels?”
“Ma’am, is she for real?”
“Captain, I think we can lose the sarcasm. Now, I’m sure you’ve got some interesting intel to pass to us. I’ve got this report here, and I think it makes for fine reading, but I want to hear it in your words. Start from the beginning.”
“Yes ma’am.”
* * * * *
The door swings open as I approach, the marine guarding it giving me a crisp salute. It’s an interesting formality. Nobody here carries an active military rank, but we’re comprised of personnel from across the quadrant with a range of military experience. Former Minmatar naval officers travel with ex-Caldari Special Forces in cargo bays. Mercenaries fight alongside industrialists. You should see the clash of uniform colors in the hallways at our headquarters. It's like a big fucking party from the Crystal Boulevard just moved to our damned HQ.
They’re standing at the observation screens as I enter the room. Four of them; three men, one woman. Two Ni-Kunni, one Deteis, one Achura. “If someone in here salutes me, I’m going to boot them out the airlock,” I growl. I may be an empyrean, but I still need my sleep. Getting paged at zero-four-fifteen local time isn’t my idea of a great start to the day. The Deteis hands me a piping-hot mug of coffee though, which instantly improves my disposition.
“Sir,” he says, nodding to the screen and the man in the chair, “this is Subject 955. Male Amarrian, 27, from Kehour VII. He was picked up by a strike team in a raid on a suspected safehouse. The intel turned out to be bogus, but he’s definitely Nation.”
I take a long drink from the mug as I review the contents of the datapad. Nice mugshot. Wonder who snapped that ugly thing? Should- are you serious?! “Lieutenant, take a note for our other teams,” I try to say calmly as my temper shoots for the overhead. How in the hell are we getting so sloppy? “In the future mugshots shouldn’t be taken with sensitive intelligence on display in the open. It may make for a nice backdrop, but it compromises our activities.”
“Sir. Yes sir,” she says, scribbling a note with a stylus on her datapad. “It was an error that won’t-”
“Won’t what? Be repeated again?! By the Ancestors people, am I the only one in here to remember we’re at fucking war?!” I finally bark, temper getting the best of me. My adrenaline is pumping at a million klicks an hour. The datapad goes slinging across the room to impact the wall and disintegrate in a thousand pieces of electronics and metal. When I look up from staring at the deck, catching my breath and temper, I see the lieutenant is pissed. At me or at him?
* * * * *
“How was the man acquired? The precise sequence of events please.”
“I’m not in the business of divulging classified information. Especially not to your people.”
“I think we can dispense with the usual tit-for-tat, Two-Six.”
“Yes, ma’am. 955 was picked up in a raid on a suspected Nation safehouse, as you can see from the addendum to the transcript in front of you. We had intel from a local source suggesting a recent meeting of Nation sympathizers there, and I sent in a team. The team was on station within 40 hours, time from beginning to extract was 14 minutes including sanitizing for intelligence. The cover was a local criminal gang. The team wasn't compromised.”
“Was this a command decision? Or was this one of your private teams that you’ve had busy lately?”
“I think we both know the answer to that, Captain.”
“Yes. You seem to be running your own private little war. But please, continue.”
* * * * *
The man is securely fastened to the inclined examination table in the interrogation room, with shackled hands, under the only light in the entire room. Yes the setup is cliché, but it works for us. His jumpsuit is the uniform dark black we use around here for prisoners. I don’t know who came up with the color, only that it seems to work. The marine at my side takes position next to the door, rifle in hand and safety off. She’s eyeballing the prisoner with a look somewhere between murderous and bloodlust; it takes me a moment to remember that she lost a daughter in a raid a while back. Frontier colony in Providence, wasn’t it?
I hear the fabric of his jumpsuit slide on the table. “Hello?” The voice is quiet, weary, tired. He’s been in transit for 63 hours to reach this place, and per instructions he was kept awake for all but 5. I wanted him alive, not dead. But the only thing holding the tired body upright on the table is the restraint around his waist.
“Mister Hontheye, isn’t it?” I finally ask, adjusting my implant to zoom in on his face. There’s dark circles under his eyes and his hands are shaking. While I wait for a response I pull a cigar case from inside a pocket in my uniform blouse. The sound it makes when I unsnap it seems to fill the whole room.
“Yes. Why ... am I here?” he asks, evidently trying to focus on his words. He slide down on the table until pulled up short by the restraints. If he’d had some more sleep it might’ve been a whine. I hate whiners.
“I think you know why,” I say as I cradle the lighter with my hands, shielding it from the slowly moving air from the lazy overhead fan. I can still smell him from ten feet away. He reeks of dried sweat, body odor, and piss. Finally successful, I put away the lighter and puff the cigar. The sweet smell does something to cover up the stench, at least a little. The health consequences don’t really faze me: when you’re immortal, something like cancer seems trivial by comparison. I give a nod to the observation booth behind the darkened glass.
He bolts upright on the table, arms tight against the restraints and back arched. Just as quickly he relaxes, panting for breath, as the current ceases. Sweat erupts across his forehead and his legs are shaking like twigs. Torture is a distasteful business, and I really don’t like using it. But we’re at war, and sometimes we have to make sacrifices if we’re going to win. It’s either us or them, and I don’t want to be on the losing side. I like my individuality and free will.
“What can you tell me about Sansha’s Nation?” I ask, gesturing with the lit end of the cigar. It traces little circles in the air and leaves behind a faint trail of smoke.
* * * * *
“Kidnapping. Torture of an Amarr citizen. Illegal extradition. You’re building quite an impressive rap sheet here, empyrean.”
“Do you want them to win?”
“No, but we have alternative means. Legal means.”
“Look, I’m here out of the goodness of my heart. If you want I’ll take my little teams and disappear out beyond the borders. You’ll never find me. Not in a million years.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Our reach is very long, and my superiors are very patient.”
“Enough! This sniping ends now! Commander -”
“I’ve already told you, ma’am. I’m retired.”
“Right. And I’m Executor Heth in a female body.”
“Now that I’d like to see. Um, on second thought... no, I wouldn’t. I know a lot of female empyreans who’d be upset.”
“Commander...”
“Yes ma’am. Moving on...”
* * * * *
“I’ve already told you,” the man whines in the second hour, “Nation is everywhere. It’s the-”
“The most important thing in your life,” I say briskly, perhaps a little too cross. This interrogation is going nowhere. He’s already pissed himself twice more, he’ll collapse to the floor if I undo the restraints, and it seems that all he knows about the Nation is that it’s the single most important thing in his life. It’s more important than the wife he left and walked out on, the son and two daughters left behind, and the highly-successful business venture he was running with a partner that focused on imports and exports of general goods from the Khanid Kingdom.
“How would you feel if we let you go?”
“I want to go,” he says, head lolling against the table. “Please let me go.”
“Why?” I ask. It’s not a professional question; more curiosity. He seems intent on leaving. Well, I would be if I were in his shoes. I pull a second cigar from inside the case and light it while his dry, cracked, lips fumble for words. The smell in here is unbearable. The marine has already excused herself twice from the room, once as she started gagging.
“Because... because I want to feel happy. My life was empty before. But now I have a family.”
“You had a family. You left them behind!” I thunder at him, raising my voice at him and pointing at the door with the cigar. His head is shaking back-and-forth on the table. Is it denial? “A wife! Children! A business! And yet you just.. left it all behind. Just like that!”
“This- this is different,” he whines at me. Ancestors, please let me shoot him now. For the love of all that’s holy. “I feel them everywhere, but it’s like- like- like being... wrapped in joy.”
* * * * *
“‘Wrapped in joy’? His exact words?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You’re going to have to explain this one, Two-Six.”
“Our intelligence shows that Nation indoctrination is very finely attuned to each individual. It’s less reliance on loyalty implants and more so on a combination of chemistry activated by proximity to other Nation citizens. It's impossible to break. Literally impossible; we’ve tried everything from behavioral reconditioning to advanced interrogation techniques to surgery. Each individual is made to believe that they are the most important part of Nation, and leaving it would be the worst thing that could happen to them.”
“Interesting. But you still haven’t explained this ‘wrapped in joy’ business.”
“Yes admiral. Despite what the public commentary on Nation might suggest, Nation leaves a remarkable degree of ingenuity with its minions. They're not the dumb walking talking 'toasters' that people make them out to be, and the truth is downright frightening. Combat troops possess remarkable ingenuity when it comes to problem-solving in combat situations. Engineers are left with advanced mechanical skills, ingenuity, inventiveness, and intelligence. Our intelligence suggests the True Citizens have remarkable powers of freedom, other than free will in its true sense, and the Slaves are usually assigned to specific taskings by Nation. So-”
“So they’re made to feel useful, and happy as a result? That’s what you’re telling me? An unending supply of killing machines who're kept subservient because they feel happy?"
“Yes ma’am. It's why we can't break or beat the Nation's indoctrination. And with respect, Captain, you and I both know that your organization has been running into the same wall we are.”
“Ignore that captain. You make me feel so reassured, Two-Six. Continue.”
* * * * *
The man vanishes out the door, dragged by two marines and leaving behind a wet trail on the permacrete. I’m on my third cigar now. I’m going to have cancer, tonight, at this rate. I really, really don’t care. Not right now. I exhale a breath of smoke at the ceiling fan, watching it get caught in the breeze and get twirled around, and around, and around.
“Sir?” It’s the lieutenant, standing by my side and holding that damned datapad in her hand again. “Message for you from Team Seven. They say they’ve acquired the target. They’re requesting permission for an intercept. Projected casualties minimal. Densely populated urban area, cover is intact. Time for extraction estimated at eleven minutes.”
I tap the cigar, dropping the ashes onto the wet trail on the floor. The few embers flicker and go out. The few that don’t get ground under the toe of my boot. “Permission granted, lieutenant.”
Once more, for the cause.