“I don’t have to open that case,” Horace whispered. “You can save yourself all the pain and agony of me forcing a confession from you if you just tell me what you did.”
Vangore shook his head, a reaction mirrored by Yen. Though Vangore shook his head in fear, Yen shook his head because he knew Horace had been wrong. The Oterian had promised that he didn’t have to open the box, but Yen knew otherwise. His psychic suggestion would only be released once Vangore had been exposed to extreme pain. The Wyndgaart wouldn’t even know he had committed a crime until he had been severely tortured, possibly for days. The box would open, regardless of what Vangore said now.
There had been a time, before the First Great War, when interrogations would go on for months without a prisoner ever admitting his or her guilt. Interrogators had shown a compassion for the well being of the individual being questioned, relying on mental games and deprivation techniques to get answers. Those techniques had been ill conceived and ineffective, often resulting in months of wasted time with no confession and with accused criminals going free based on a lack of evidence. Once the Alliance had been formed, the other species had learned invaluable interrogation practices from the brutal Lithids, who left no leeway in their legal system. To a Lithid, an accusation of a crime was a sign that someone had committed a crime and that it was only a matter of time before they confessed. To that end, the Lithids had shared their techniques with the other races. Sitting within the black box was the culmination of the Lithids’ interrogation programs: the Crown. In his many years of being in the Fleet, Yen had never known someone to last for more than a few days against its agony. If the Crown did not result in a confession, it more often than not resulted in the death of the prisoner.
Sighing heavily, Horace leaned back against the heavy metal chair. His fingers drummed on the heavy black box. Reaching over, he unclasped the lock on the front before turning back to Vangore.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, Vangore,” Horace said, the gruff demeanor dropped, as even he seemed hesitant to open the Crown.
“I didn’t do it,” Vangore whimpered, the numbness finally fleeing from his body.
“A shame,” the Security Officer muttered as he opened the black case, its hinges creaking as he revealed the contraption within.
The Crown sat like a metallic halo, a single thick metal band was held together by a leather harness made to fit over the head of all species in the known universe. The shiny metal halo stood as a stark contrast to the archaic series of wires, dials, and electrodes that protruded from its perimeter. More intimidating than the gauges, however, was the set of razor sharp drill bits that faced the interior of the halo, metal drill bits permanently stained dark by the Crown’s use on previous prisoners.
Horace ignored the Crown and, instead, pulled out an auto-injector full of a viscous yellow fluid. The Oterian tapped the side of the vial within the injector, watching the bubbles rise slowly through the thick serum. Without warning, Horace’s arm shot out, driving the tip of the auto-injector into Vangore’s shoulder. The yellow serum pumped into Vangore’s blood stream before he was able to pull away from the sudden assault.
Immediately, Vangore’s body convulsed against the metal chair. Rigidity spread across the Wyndgaart’s shoulder, radiating from the injection site. Muscles usually flexible from hand to hand combat grew as stiff as stone as the fluid spread through his body. Vangore’s left arm grew completely stiff, convulsing, as the muscles grew tight, pulling his arm backward in an awkward angle. He stifled a scream as the serum spread, tightening across his chest and into the side of his neck. Unable to move his neck, Vangore watched straight ahead, though his eyes darted nervously as the side of his face grew tight, his facial features growing taunt and pulling his upper lip into a twisted and sadistic smile. Moments later, the serum worked completely through his system, leaving the former Communications Officer sitting statuesque in the uncomfortable metal chair.
“The unpleasantness that you’re experiencing right now,” Horace explained, “is a paralytic enzyme harvested from a rather unusual swamp creature on a planet that has yet to receive more than a designation number: PR-3409. The enzyme courses through your blood stream almost instantaneously after injection, spreading its toxin to all parts of your musculature system. The result, as you are now well aware, is complete paralysis without any of the sedation usually associated with being paralyzed. The effects are quite permanent, until I give you a relieving dose of the antidote. The problem is that I won’t give you the antidote until I’m sure you are ready to cooperate. And I’m a firm believer that it will be hours, if not days, before you are ready to give a full confession.”
Horace paused, watching as tears streamed from Vangore’s eyes and sweat beaded on the Wyndgaart’s tanned forehead. Clicking his tongue, the massive Oterian shook his head.
“You see, Vangore, you’re afraid because you feel helpless right now. More importantly, you have heard so many terrible things about the Crown that you are petrified about what it will do to you.”
Pulling the Crown from the black box, Vangore’s eyes followed Horace’s movements as he affixed the contraption on the top of the Wyndgaart’s head. The Security Officer adjusted the drill bits until their tips rested solidly against Vangore’s scalp, drawing small beads of blood just from their contact.
“The real problem, however, is that the things you’ve heard don’t begin to do justice to the true amount of pain you will encounter under the influence of the Crown.”
Pressing a button on the side of the Crown, the drill bits tore through the soft flesh and hard skull alike as they pierced the tender brain beneath. Vangore’s back arched, a scream erupting from between his clenched teeth. Yen watched in a mixture of horror and awe, amazed that so powerful a scream could be generated past the paralyzed muscles of both the neck and jaw. He waited for the screaming to stop, but it never did. Vangore paused only long enough to breath again before his scream shook the small room once again.
Through the incredible screaming, Horace’s rumbling voice called out clearly. “The Crown is currently injecting a cocktail of medicine directly into your brain. The first, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, is keeping you from passing out from the pain. An interrogation would be ineffective if you went unconscious every time I put the screws to you… no pun intended. The second is a serum that destroys any mental barrier you may have put in place to resist my line of questions. There is a debate about whether the metaphorical destruction of mental barriers is directly correlated to a very real destruction of brain tissue. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think you’re going to much care one way or another when all this is done.”
Horace leaned back, reveling in the screams, and propped his feet up on top of the sterile metal table in the middle of the room. “Believe me, Vangore. I know you’re far from admitting your guilt right now. I just want you to know that I will stay here as long as it takes until you’ve admitted your guilt.”
Yen watched through the one-way glass window as the screams continued hour after hour. Occasionally, Horace stood and adjusted the fluid flow coursing into Vangore’s brain or wiped away the frothing spittle that spilled from the Wyndgaart’s mouth. For the most part, however, the Oterian sat back and watched for an indication that Vangore was ready to admit guilt. Yen couldn’t even fathom what more the prisoner could do to signal that he was ready to speak. As far as he could tell, Vangore did little other than scream his muffled scream through locked jaws.
Veins bulged against Vangore’s neck and pulsed in his temple as he continued to strain against the paralytic enzyme within his system. Yen knew that the subliminal trigger he had placed within Vangore’s mind had activated hours before, when the pain threshold was surpassed. Were he given the chance to talk, he would readily admit to killing anyone in known space. But Horace had never given him the chance to talk, instead keeping the Crown working at full power. Yen empathized with his scapegoat, having known the feeling of having his brain alight with fire. However, he had trouble sympathizing with Vangore, knowing that his guilt would keep Yen from future accusations. Still, Yen reached up and wiped away the sweat that beaded on his own brow, the continued screams having made Yen feel a little queasy.