"You understand," Kule says, hesitating delicately, "suppressors or tranquilizers of any type are—"
"—are frowned upon," I finish for him. "Lest they diminish the pain." And I was sure they would know if I used any such, so I have no intention of cheating.
"I can stay only for the initiation." Kule says. "But you will be attended throughout by licensed witnesses. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask Beve. He can hear you, and he comprehends. If he nods toward pain, the answer is affirmative." He retreats to one of the seats in the gallery and sets himself up expectantly.
Kule's actions and comments smack of verisimilitude: a rehearsed sequence to convince me that I am really to be tortured. Nevertheless, it is impressive.
Beve smiles, revealing his toothless and tongueless cavity, and I comprehend a trifle more. He had been tortured himself! He knows well the meaning of pain. His head is an earless globe; only poke holes penetrate the skull. Probably all his infirmities stem from similar coercion.
Beve gestures toward the rack invitingly. I play it straight: I strip down and manage to mount myself for the operation. I fit my arms and legs into the loops provided. The supports are oddly comfortable, being padded and pliable, and they brace my body in such a way that I should be able to remain suspended for a long time without bruise or loss of circulation. Though the chamber is well lighted, no direct beam affronts my eyes, and the ambient temperature is pleasant for my exposed skin. There is even a headband that takes weight off my neck without impairing freedom of motion. The rack seems to be no more than a convenient display table. Were it not for the intermittent groans associated with the adjacent projects, I could almost convince myself that this is merely a fancy sauna.
"Shall I call it quits when I'm tired?" I inquire facetiously, thinking Beve won't understand. But he nods his head to one side. Does that signify "yes" or "no"?
Foolish notion! What kind of torture would it be if the client could turn it off at will?
What kind? The usual kind! Torture is generally for an ulterior purpose: to obtain the subject's acquiescence to the will of the torturer. It ceases when the desired information is divulged, or the desired confession obtained, or the desired attitude embraced. Cooperation terminates it. I have applied the pain-box therapy in such manner many times.
On the other hand, torture as punishment desists only at the discretion of the torturer. This I employed when my barracks at the stockade defied me by a liedown strike. If I am to be subjected to that kind, no easy death by suicide should be permitted.
All of which leaves the status of Waterloo duress in question. No single explanation seems wholly reasonable. There is no information I would not freely provide, and I have no relevant confessions to make. My attitude, I should think, is good: I want only to negotiate a mutually beneficial treaty. I am not a criminal in need of punishment by any standard I know of, and I have not been treated as one here, so far. I merely happen to be an envoy scheduled for torture.
I can't claim discrimination. The other clients are natives, and the torturers themselves have been tortured.
In short, I am baffled. Well, when on Waterloo....
To one side is a cabinet, Beve opens it and sets up certain instruments. My view is unhampered. I can see every detail as can Kule and the witnesses in the audience. I see the light glint off the fine steel of a set of scalpels.
Could this be a kind of gladiatorial display? One measures his courage against that of other contestants, for the sadistic delight of the spectators? No—there are too few watchers, and they are as serious as jurymen. They merely wait.
Beve now reaches up to take my left hand, disengaging the arm from its supports at elbow and wrist. He sets it in a kind of elevated shelf projecting from his console and ties it firmly in place. I am reminded of the time I had to donate blood to the Service bank, back when I was a boot myself. There are even channels for each of my fingers, with straps to hold them in place. This entire unit must have been designed to human specification, from the oversized rack to the customized attachments: a telling compliment.
Beve lifts a small knife.
I have held my mind away from this reality, as though it were a bluff or something not connected to me personally. Now I can avoid it no longer: I am about to be cut.
My hand is palm-up, my fingers splayed. The knife descends on my smallest digit. I expect some delay, some offer to refrain if only I will accede to some particular demand or depart the planet promptly. But there is none. The blade stabs into my fleshy fingertip and slices shallowly down the length of the member, skipping only the portions covered by the straps.
The scalpel is sharp, and for a moment I am not aware of genuine pain. I watch the skin peel back from the wound like red opening lips. I see the rich blood well up, and I notice the little drain channels in the support shelf for such fluid. This is a sophisticated device, though primitive.
I am, I realize, in a kind of shock. I cannot believe that I am really thus casually to be tortured, though I am watching it happen.
Beve lifts a syringe and squirts a colorless jet down the gash. Suddenly there is agony: it is alcohol, or their equivalent!
"Beve!" I cry, alarmed. "If that's organic, and it enters my system—"
He looks up at me and nods to his left, my right. Since it is my left hand that is hurting, he nods away from pain: no. He must have considered this matter and made sure I wouldn't die ludicrously. Maybe that was what happened to the first of the failures. Trust the torturer to know his business, particularly when the oubliette is gaping.
The working area is clean now. Something in that fiery liquid has stanched the bleeding. Beve is ready for the next stage. He slices across the finger at right angles to the prior cut and squirts away the new blood while I stiffen. It is as though I am holding my finger in the field of a limited-radius discipline box! Beve completes the incisions under the straps, working skillfully. He takes up a set of tongs and fastens them to—
He is tearing off the skin!
I never suspected the pain would be like this. Up to the elbow I feel it, this rending of my flesh as the dermis parts from the substructure of my finger. It is peeling back like the skin of an orange, in sections. I do not look any more. I cry out; I cannot help it. It is as though my finger is a foot in diameter and every cell is screaming with the awful hurt of that flaying.
I try to clench my fist convulsively, but the bonds are tight. I try to jerk it away, but cannot budge it. My whole body tenses, but everywhere it is restrained. I can free myself by carefully extricating my limbs, but I cannot do it by involuntary reaction.
My right hand brushes against something cold. It is the grail, the chalice of death. At any time I chose to exercise physical control, I can disengage that hand, reach out, and take that cup. It has to be a conscious decision, for a careless motion would spill it. I have to decide to die.
Or I can disengage myself completely and bolt for the space ship, as the last envoy did. Strange that Kule never mentioned him. He must have been a sad commentary on the courage of the human species. No doubt that kind of thing is simply Not Done on Waterloo.
Not by me, anyway. I came here to unriddle this planet and arrange a treaty. I am no masochist, I do not enjoy pain—but pain will not deter me from my mission. I will not capitulate. I will show them I can withstand their worst, though I lose my entire finger.
It is a long time before it is over, subjectively. I know it is only minutes objectively. My digit has become anesthetized. I feel only a dullness there, not unpleasant. As my eyes unscrew and clear, I look down.