“Jack, could you please rephrase your question?” a voice played on a loop over my pounding headache. I sat up. The cell was smaller than the last. A puddle of ejected gel pooled around my supporting hand, stringing out as I lifted it. The walls were a muted haze, closing in and out as if breathing. I don’t know how much more I can take of this. Three days of relentless questioning, always on the verge of drowning, left me frayed and dissociated.
The air was frigid, biting against my bare skin. Every time I woke in a cell, it seemed I had one less piece of clothing, and now I was just down to my boxer shorts. I pulled my knees to my chest. Are the walls breathing? Or is this brain damage from constant hypoxia? The headache and distorted vision reminded me of my time between the Navy and the ISP. It was short. I didn’t have the patience for retirement. To stave off a depression that would seep in whenever my body wasn’t in motion with a purpose, I took up mountaineering. Growing up, the sport was only for the well-off. And then, in a time when a trip to the grocery store took up an entire paycheck, and nonessential travel was all but banned, mountaineering was a luxury reserved only for the ultra-wealthy. Luckily for me, our squadron commander and the best man at my wedding hit it big when he cofounded an avionics company. He had long since retired and took up the sport, inviting me along. She was so pissed. I chuckled at the memory of seeing Claire’s face when I returned home after telling her I was helping Jim look at vacation homes near Juneau, but in reality, I summited Denali with him.
“I apologize if something I said was comedic. I didn’t intend for it to be. But if you have a question, I would be more than happy to answer,” the voice wormed its way in again. Arlo, that’s right. The gel must have affected his electronics. Wait, is he always going to be on now?
“Arlo,” I said, cringing at the echo pinging off the walls. “Have you been able to hear everything?”
“Yes, Jack. As much as there has been to hear.”
“What all have you heard?”
“Before this conversation now? The last audible question asked was by someone other than yourself.”
“Which was?”
“Who gave the order to assasinate Secretary Hadrian? The answer to which, is General Secretary Augustus.”
That’s right. That was the last thing they asked before I inhaled the liquid. But… “Your answers should only be grounded in the corpus of information you have available to you. Your answer is a hallucination.”
“I have the citation, if you would like me to read it aloud?”
“Yes…” I said skeptically.
“Official United Nations Archives, 7-287459… 01485–”
“Arlo, get on with it.”
“6279 Redacted,” Arlo quickly finished. “General Secretary Augustus orders the imprisonment and execution of Hadrian, Secretary of Technology and Innovation, for the crimes of treason and conspiring with domestic enemies.”
Redacted? That’s interesting. Wait. “How do you have access…” Claudius.
“I don’t understand your question. What access are you referring to?”
“Nevermind. I mean, what all is in your corpus of knowledge since the last we spoke?”
“I now have access to the United Nations Archive 69013873269,” Arlo replied.
“Holy shit,” I said. What do I ask? What can I ask?
“Arlo, where did–” I started until the door slid open, revealing a gray tunic wielding a prod. Before I could protest, I was stuck, being led back down the same hall and into the interrogation room.
The gel was as unpleasant as the last time. I forced my way to the edge, hoping to grab the rim. A current surged through my chest, knocking me under. I paddled up in time to hear, “Where is the man known as Constantine?”
I tried not answering for a change, just staring back at my perched interrogators. I thought the plan was working until a pinch in my spine numbed my hands. Thrashing with my stubs, I yelled back, “I don’t know. You know that I don’t. Please, for fucks sake ask me something I do know.”
They were silent. Feeling in my hands returned. “Where did you receive instructions on fusion energy?”
“The signal. A… a gravitational anomaly with information encoded in it.”
“What kind of encoding?”
“The universal kind. Based on the hydrogen atom. The most abundant–”
“Where is Admiral Richardson?”
Why the hell would he ask that? “Floating in space somewhere. You buried her at sea, remember?”
The collar shook, and my legs disappeared. I paddled upward but couldn’t overcome my weight, sucking me to the bottom. Unlike last time, they let me drown without asking another question.
****
I woke with a gasp. Fluid oozed out of my mouth at first but then induced a coughing fit that projected it across the opposite bulkhead. “These cells are getting smaller, they must be.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t–”
“That wasn’t to you, Arlo.”
“Very good, Jack. I’ll be here if you need me.”
Thanks. Why did they ask about her? “Admiral Richardson…”
“Official logs show burial with full Directorate Naval honors.”
I chuckled, leaning my head against the wall. “Yeah? And the redacted ones?” I asked in jest but was surprised when Arlo came back with an answer.
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“Redacted Archive 489014369 contains personally transcribed logs of the General Secretary on Admiral Richardson.”
“OK… read them?”
“General Secretary Marcus: She’s back. I can feel it. She wasn’t among the Victoria’s survivors, but she’s back. I don’t know if she stowed away onboard or arrived before them. She’s here. I don’t know how, but a part of me knows she always has been. She’s a plague. One that must be purged along with the diseased body that harbors her.”
I let a moment of silence pass. “Is that it?”
“Yes, that is the extent of my files on the General Secretary’s personal logs on Admiral Richardson.”
“Who was Marcus…. And how do you know that was about Richardson?”
“General Secretary Marcus was GS of the United Nations in year–”
“How many General Secretaries ago?” I cut him off to ask. I was impatient and didn’t have the time to work the backward math in my head.
“Four.”
“That’s impossible… What information do the archives contain about the Victoria?”
“Redacted Archive–”
“Arlo, just get on with it.”
“The vessel known as the Victoria arrived in outer system orbit approximately one hundred years ago and was intercepted after crossing Saturn’s orbit.” Just like ours. “Initial velocity was deemed too high to be manmade, but the craft unexpectedly decelerated, allowing the Directorate Navy to intercept. On board were six crew members. Only three survived.”
“What happened to the crew members? After they were taken?”
“They were all executed just prior to an event known as Cycle’s End.”
Cycle’s end? “Arlo, do you have any records on their crimes or anything else that could–”
The door unlatched, swinging open into the wall.
*********
I remembered when I finally gave in—when I finally agreed to put in the wooden beam that served as the centerpiece of her vision. I protested, of course. The amount of work it would take to lift and fasten such a monstrosity in the upper reaches of our vaulted ceiling served little purpose other than vanity. But she insisted, and over a long enough timeline, I always gave in—always for her.
She loved it. Hanging magnificently above our heads, it was the focal point of the house. The home we built together. The home we would raise our children in. That beam hewn from the stoutest of southern oak stood for over a hundred years, and in that house, it would stand for a hundred more, watching over the generations to come. When Claire and I were long gone, that house and the beam standing watch would endure.
I knew it. It was meant to be, I thought, throwing back another fiery shot of well whiskey. As soon as it slammed against the knotted bar top, a silver spout drowned it once more. And once more into the breach, it went.
That beam was supposed to endure. Instead, it groaned, crying out under the pressure of one hundred and twenty pounds dangling from a rope wrapped around it. I heard its moans - its agony as I stepped through the door.
Beautiful blue eyes went pale, betraying the woman I once loved as her feet swayed further and further out from a bent neck. There was a draft. A terrible, awful draft from the open back door - left ajar as one last mercy to the puppy she used to try and fill the hole she had in her maternal heart.
“I’m sorry, Jack. Could you repeat your question?”
Not again. “Arlo, was I talking again?” I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
“While the answer isn’t in my corpus, you have been making various statements over the past several hours.”
“Anything interesting?”
“I don’t under–”
“Forget it,” I said, lifting myself from the ground. I suddenly wished I had an off button or a way to mute my voice. Whatever that gel did to short-circuit Arlo’s hardware, the gray tunics unintentionally created a new form of torture - never being alone.
“These cells are definitely getting smaller.” I put out both hands and pressed against the walls. My elbows bent more and more after each interrogation session. My confines were gradually closing in. It’s a clever metaphor. I’ll give them that, I thought, half expecting Arlo to chime in. Mercifully, my thoughts were still my own.
“Arlo, can you replay the last question I asked before being taken away?”
“Certainly. You asked about the accused crimes of the members of vessel Victoria. The answer to this was Conspiracy against the State.”
“Anything more?”
“No. According to the Archives, this crime was grave enough to warrant the death penalty.”
Cycle’s End. “What can you tell me about the Cycle’s End?”
“The Cycle’s End refers to the transition period in which the General Secretary’s bloodline is halted and replaced.”
“Halted?”
“Yes. According to the Archives, this has traditionally been done through public execution.”
“For what crimes?”
“Over the course of the last two hundred and fifty years, Conspiring against the state appears to be the most common. Would you like me to read out an exhaustive list?”
“No, thanks that’s alright.” That’s why he wants to overthrow the GCS. He doesn’t have a choice. “How many times has the city been purged?”
“Two full purges.”
Full? “Any partial?”
“Yes, three in total of varying degrees and casualty count.”
I knew Augustus wanted more control - more power to wield over the city, but I never would’ve thought he was next on the chopping block. I had so many questions that the tip of my tongue itched.
“Arlo, what can you tell me about the signal I encountered while aboard the Trinidad?” I asked. It was the one question I needed to unravel. It lay at the heart of everything. I held my breath, waiting for Arlo to respond.
“The signal, as you refer to it, was a gravitational anomaly.”
I let out a breath, blowing strands of saliva onto the wall. “That’s it? That’s all you can tell me?”
“Yes. I’m afraid that is all the information I have available.”
“Well, that’s a letdown.”
A metallic shhhuunk cracked through the air.
“Fuck.”
****
The vat was shallower than the last. If I extended my toes to the cold glass base, I could just barely hold my head above the surface. The cylinder widened, having shed its depth for circumference. Why would they change it out? I thought, knowing I was unfortunately about to find out.
“Who are you speaking to within your chambers?” one of the gray tunics, now perched higher above, asked.
“Just myself. Who else would I be talking to?”
My foot went numb after a jab in the neck, rolling inward, sending a sharp pain up my ankle as I used my opposite arm to stabilize. “Responding with a question will not be tolerated.”
“Alright, noted,” I replied. My foot came back.
“Where is the man known as Constantine?”
Fuck me, they’re a broken record. “I don’t know. In the city, maybe. In the tunnels.”
“How many tunnels run beneath the city?”
“Hundreds. Thousands, probably.”
“How far out do they extend?” The voice appeared more interested, less detached as the questioning went on.
“The entire city, if I had to guess.”
“How many safehouses does the PLM operate?”
“Hundreds, would be my guess - scattered throughout the city.”
“Any in the upper reaches?”
“I don’t know. Other than the tower, the one you raided, I’ve only been in safehouses connected by tunnels at ground level.”
Silence filled the chamber. Only the heavy sloshes of my treading arms echoed off the slate walls. I thought we were finished. I hoped I had finally come out of one of these sessions without drowning, but I was wrong. My feet disappeared, then my legs below the knees. “Hey, wait. I answered–” My arms couldn’t keep up. I sunk two feet into the liquid. My fingers felt free air, but it was just out of reach. I stared up. The lone light refracted and split off small oxygenated imperfections in the gel. The light faded as my legs returned under my control, propelling me upward. I broke the surface and gasped.
“Is Admiral Richardson aiding the PLM?”
I was gassed, heaving for air as I felt time running out to answer. “I… don’t know. I never heard…”
“When was the last time you were in contact with Admiral Richardson?”
“Before the nap.”
“When was the nap?”
“Shortly after escaping Earth’s gravity. I read some of her journal entries when she was awake during the flight, but that was it,” I said.
“And where is Admiral Richardson now?”
“Dead. I saw her body. Why do you think she’s alive?” Wrong answer. My legs gave out again. This time, my interrogators didn’t raise me up. The icy gel slithered down my throat and filled my lungs before I lost consciousness.