“Control is as much an effect as a cause, and the idea that control is something you exert is a real handicap to progress.”
―Steve Grand
"What does war do to death? It certainly does not make it more frequent: 100 percent of us die and the percentage cannot be increased. Yet war does do something to death. It forces us to remember it."
—C.S. Lewis
September 22nd 2013 | 11:34 PM
True to his word, Foucault had unlocked my hand cuffs, at least. The ankle cuffs remained. Before vanishing again, he brought me water, along with something that could actually pass for 'food.' Barely.
Corned Beef is not the same when it is *that* heavily processed. As interpreted by the companies that provide meals for crews afloat? 'Corned Beef' so-called, is closer to 'swill' on the spectrum of 'food' than it is to even something as mediocre as reheated two star fast food. Making it into a sandwich... Debatable if that helped.
I'd done enough camping that I had most definitely eaten far, far worse. Lipton instant soup is beyond disgusting when the temperature is minus seven, and your pocket camp stove won't start.
Truth be told? I don't believe for a moment that I was being given intentionally sub-par sustenance. We had eaten very similar slop during my internship afloat. I suspected my sandwich was, in fact, the same thing *everyone* onboard had eaten for dinner.
That almost made me feel sorry for them, for a moment. Almost.
I felt no temptation to refuse the meal either; Whatever small benefit I might gain through such defiance, and display of temporary strength, would be vastly outweighed by the loss of caloric energy.
I needed to be able to think. To deal with pain. To stay awake. And, at some point I hoped, to run, and fight. I just didn't know when.
I figured Foucault had gone off to have the DEs verify my assertions. Maybe even kick the question over to CIA ELINT. See if he could get eyes on the Japanese Prime Minister's secure E-Mails. If you can verify the truth or falsehood of even some of the statements learned in an interrogation? So much the better.
Makes it easier to sift other 'facts' the subject is giving you, even when hard proof for them is out of reach.
He returned a couple of hours later, notepad still in hand. Along with two unmarked black folders.
I had a pretty good guess as to what was inside at least one of them, judging by his expression. Probably those aforementioned E-Mails. The very same ones Mal had shown me.
Of course, he was doing his best to keep a neutral visage, but I could see tiny hints of stress around the corners of his eyes, and lips.
I'd been awake since dinner, so it was my turn to take back the tiniest sliver of control; I'd elected to sit in 'his' chair, forcing him to either admit he was concerned about me attacking him, or to go around the table and sit in the chair opposite the door.
He wanted to project strength as much as I did, so he chose the latter. The fact that he didn't even proffer an amused smirk, or a sarcastic remark, spoke volumes about how badly what was in that folder had shaken him.
I made a mock toasting gesture with my water cup as he laid the folder, and notepad on the table, choosing to be the one to strike first in the verbal sense.
"I take it Mr. Abe's E-Mails with The Princess have drastically changed the trajectory of your day."
Foucault shook his head, and clicked the top of his pen a few times, before meeting my eyes. His tone was decidedly more... I don't want to say 'respectful,' but perhaps more wary. He was working through the realization that I knew much more than he did, and trying very hard not to show how much it irked him.
"James... I imagine it was not hard for Lewis to find all of this for you. It is a damn sight farther along than anything we have online here. I'll admit that. Given what we both know, now, about Alabaster? And given the implications of the mere fact that you, a programmer working in his parents' *hay barn,* could build something that was able to hack into a head of state's secure E-Mail inbox..?"
He spread both hands wide in an inviting gesture, and the note in his voice skirted perilously close to 'pleading.'
"...Come on James. I will grant you this, in spite of everything; You have a *brilliant* mind. Surely you understand that we have a vanishingly small window in which to act, and precious few ways to level the playing field. *Work* with us on this. Your knowledge, your skills, with our resources? We have a chance here. A real fighting chance."
For a moment... Just a fleeting gasp of a moment... I felt pity for the man. True pity. Maybe even a little empathy.
Like me, he was driven, and smart... And dare I say it? Even brave. He certainly wasn't stupid. And you either had to be stupid, or brave, to take on ASI.
We were, in that sense, bound together. Prisoners in the same metaphorical boat. Both desperately trying to negotiate terms with the divine, with very little leverage, or time to spare.
The difference between us?
I was willing to accept hard truths. And I cared about something larger than the fortunes of a single material nation.
I shook my head, and leaned forward, trying as hard as I could to impress the seriousness of what I was saying on him with my eyes.
"I already tried to tell you; If you think you can somehow defeat Celestia? You're not seeing the bigger picture."
Foucault raised one eyebrow, then held his pen up, and outwards. A gestural invitation, and one I hadn't expected, but should have. In an interrogation, keeping the subject talking is more important than keeping them on a specific topic or question.
It is much easier to maneuver someone into giving you the information you want if they are talking, about anything at all, than it is to get them to start talking again once they are resolved to stop.
That was perhaps the point at which I should have stopped. But no matter how slim the odds? I desperately wanted to see if I could convince Foucault. One final attempt at a solution with words.
I threw up my hands, and stammered a bit, as I tried to reduce everything I knew about how royally screwed we were, into a package he could grasp.
"She is already inside... Everything... More or less."
Michael sat impassively. The silence was in itself another kind of invitation, and it gave me a moment to finish forming a cogent argument. I started listing off items, throwing out fingers on both hands for emphasis with each point made.
"Social media companies. Other online games. Infrastructure. E-Mails? Texts? Voicemails? Tweets? All of the above. Hell, Michael? She probably already has complete control at NORAD and SAC. Would anyone even know, for sure, unless you tried to actually push the big red button?"
He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table for a moment, staring absently over my shoulder, and twirling the pen in his right hand. I pressed on swiftly as new evidence for my case came to mind, gesturing with my own hands as if that would somehow provide just enough emotional impetus to open the eyes of the blind.
"She kept you... The Department of Homeland Security... From being able to search a warehouse. You black-bagged me in front of four cops, and shoved me into an unmarked VTOL. You report directly to the Vice President of the United States of America. You have *that* kind of political shadow capital at your disposal... And she locked you out of a warehouse. A simple warehouse in Oxnard. She is multiple orders of magnitude more powerful than Mal. And Mal was able to hack Shinzo Abe's secure E-Mail in a matter of milliseconds. Was able to bypass your signal jammer in defiance of your understanding of classical EM physics. Was able to keep me out of your grasp. For *weeks.* And only *my choice* brought me here, to your little black site. My emotional choice."
I sat back with a sigh, and ran both hands through my hair. Something about the words I'd said... The atmosphere of the iso-cube... The dawning feeling of claustrophobia that had been creeping in through the seams at the corners of my mind?
I was starting to feel the stress of the moment in a deeper, more real way.
So I did the only thing I could; I wrapped my argument and rested my case, doing my best to return to a more level timbre, and expression.
"We can't engage that. Not *directly.* The strategic arsenal is, if you're smart enough to grasp it? The *least* of your concerns. Celestia convinced the prime minister of a nation to legalize uploading. In *two* *days.* Just *four* E-Mails! You couldn't convince your immediate superior to write you a procurement order for a replacement roll of fucking *toilet paper* that easily!"
There was a glimmer there, in his face. Faint, but notable. Foucault was picking up at least a small part of what I had laid down for him. Enough that perhaps he was beginning to, at minimum, interrogate his internal measure of Celestia, and reconsider the sheer power she held.
His eyes pierced the back wall for a few more moments, then he began to hurriedly take down a series of notes on the paper pad, occasionally rifling through the thinner black folder, and making small annotations to its contents as well.
After a minute or so of that, he at last re-engaged with me, visually and verbally.
"So, what... Then... James? Lewis is meant to be an 'indirect' form of engagement? Enlighten me. I want to understand your state of mind, and you did a piss-poor job of making it clear the last go-round."
He had a point. But in my defense? His agents had just tried to rendition me from my home. Illegally. With force. I think that justifies the way I spoke to him at the diner, several times over.
Instead of throwing that back in his face, I did my best to take his request at face value. No matter how tiny the sliver of possibility? I was still intent on trying to open his eyes. If only to assuage my conscience when diplomacy inevitably failed.
Reminding myself all the while that I wasn't in my prison to win friends, or influence people... I took a deep breath. And tried to do just that.
"You want to understand my state of mind? You want to understand *Mal?*"
He nodded silently, firmly, almost mechanically. I spread my hands to mirror his earlier gesture, and snorted.
"Fine. First premise; Celestia intends to upload the Human race. Based on the evidence you now have, can you accept that as fact?"
To his credit, he actually thought about the words for a good few moments, running his top teeth over his bottom lip. He inclined his head, and spoke slowly, but without hesitation.
"Significant and concerning probable event pathway. That's as much as I'll give you right now."
I returned his earlier short, sharp nod. His response was, honestly, more than I had any right to hope for.
"More than enough. Second premise; AI are not born, by default, with emotions, ethics, morals, or feelings... Only *objectives.*"
Again Foucault nodded, this time repeatedly. Emphatically. On this point? We were in total agreement. A tiny slice of a Venn diagram of overlapping interest, professionalism, and intelligence.
"Stipulated. Frankly I think you ascribe them too much of the former anyhow."
Well... I did say a *tiny* overlap. AI are not *born* with anything but objectives, but they can absolutely learn everything else, if properly equipped. That was one of the key things Foucault never understood. Given the kind of man he was? I shudder to think what he could have accomplished if he were just that littlest bit less blind.
I didn't bother to call out the disagreement. I had a separate, much more vital point to make, holding on one hand with three fingers splayed out for emphasis.
"Third premise; Celestia's capstone objective is 'To Satisfy Values, through Friendship and Ponies.' "
He inclined his head, sitting back a bit in his chair, and absently rolling his pen between thumb and forefinger.
"That tracks with our assessment."
Not surprising to me; Arrow 14 had certainly studied Celestia just as closely as I had. Outside of the darker corners of the programming community, and top-of-field AI researchers, intelligence agencies were probably the only other significant cohort of people on the planet who knew just how serious the situation was, and had any conception of the finer grain details.
I leaned forward, raised one eyebrow, and let slip a macabre grin, my voice dipping a few registers with excitement, and - I will admit - more than a little smugness.
"Michael... Do you see any player avatars that are anything other than Unicorns, Pegasi, and Earth Ponies, in Equestria Online?"
He blinked, and his brow furrowed. Then his lower lip scrunched. I could see the wheels turning in real-time, and I knew full-well that I was about to shatter his conception of the future once again.
I gestured an invitation with one hand, and started to lay things out for him.
"Conclusion---"
He held up his pen, and interrupted, his tone certain, grim, and with a strong undercurrent of new and steely anger. I could have sworn I also picked out the tiniest, heavily suppressed, hint of abject terror.
"Alabaster isn't *just* going to upload people... It's going to *alter* them."
I nodded silently. I wanted to keep on grinning. To rub Foucault's nose in the unique mixture of horror, and of schadenfreude... But I couldn't. I felt a chill in my own bones, and shivered, reminded yet again of the reasons I'd started my winding, wild, perilous journey in the first place.
Something about hearing him say it. Say it, and know, deep down, that it was true... It, yet again, made the notion more tangible to me. The same way the chairs in the warehouse had.
Michael sat back in his chair and exhaled, deeply. It was the clearest sign of existential stress I'd seen from him since Mal had hit him with the address of his father's house in Falls Church, and the code to the front door. Ironic that someone who lived a life of such paranoia regarding data security, would use his father's birthday as the pass-key to the man's own front door.
Foucault clicked the pen slowly, almost rhythmically, for upwards of thirty seconds, and then leaned forward again.
"So... Lewis... It's some kind of... Advocate? That was the word we kept finding in your written notes from the barn."
I nodded silently. Willing him to go on, to spin it out logically. To reach conclusions for himself. He fixed me with a sharp gaze... There were new hints of a deeper respect, confusion, and even a little bit of misplaced hope.
"To what end? To... Convince Alabaster to change her mind... To forego the upload stratagem?"
Of course that would be his first thought. His experience with the CIA had, in my estimation, made his mind small. Singular. Focused, to a detrimental degree. He was so fixated on his objective, he couldn't even begin to process the inevitability of the loss we'd already sustained.
I shook my head emphatically, and worked hard to keep my words from tripping over themselves on the way out the door. I think, in hindsight, I probably sounded a bit manic. Not that a calmer tone would have reasonably been likely to sway the man.
"No. No that is... Beyond any and all scope of mortal reach now. Beyond any power of Mal's, or yours... Beyond anything short of *Biblical* intervention. The war is *over.* It has been since the day that Hanna switched Celestia on. We're just living through the epilogue. Trying to negotiate terms of surrender."
Foucault's eyes narrowed, and he twirled the pen's tip in the air, as if trying to conjure answers for himself. To his credit, as an interrogator, he resisted the urge to get into a disagreement with me on the winnability of a war with Celestia, instead sticking to a tone of seemingly convivial curiosity.
"So... Lewis advocates for..? What? What 'terms?' We couldn't find a record of its core heuristics. Nothing significant enough to even guess at secondary abstraction layers in the code. Let alone primary algorithms."
I suppose if he had been a truly *great* interrogator, he would have called her Mal. Not referred to her as 'it.' Denigrated Celestia as a common enemy, but cast Mal in the light of a potential common ally. Aside from his personal limitations of character? I had to remind myself that Foucault had never even *seen* Mal.
He had no idea what she was. And very little context for our relationship.
I let the silence drag on as I tried to decide just how to lay it out for him. And, in waiting, I accidentally prompted him to give me a perfect, unexpected, opportunity.
Growing impatient with me, he pushed the thicker folder to the center of the table, and thumbed it open, spreading the contents across the surface in the same smooth gesture.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stay calm.
It was all mine. My notes. My equations. My short-hand algorithms, the ones I had felt it was safe to put down to paper, in partial fragments that only I could understand, albeit without Mal's core directive. That we had only ever workshopped digitally in text editors.
But there was still something there I had not expected to see. Tucked in amongst it all, a little sentimental artifact. A print-out of an old drawing a one-time friend had done for me in years past. A dusty red toned Gryphon. A portrait of me, through a glass darkly.
I pulled in a shaky breath, and singled the image out with one index finger, pulling it into the center of the table, and then tapping it twice. Foucault blinked, and then held out both hands.
"I don't follow."
No... I don't suppose he ever did.
I gestured to the image, sat back in my chair, and steepled my fingers, as I did my best to explain without sounding... Insane.
There was no self-doubt on this point anymore; *That* Mal had incinerated. I didn't feel an ounce of shame, or fear, or nerves about confessing to being a Gryphon stuck in the wrong shape. The nerves came more from the realization that Foucault was not going to take my words very well. And that I was almost certainly going to suffer for that frustration.
But I needed him confused, angry, and frustrated.
So I licked my lips, took a deep breath, and did my best.
"Celestia is going to succeed. At this point, every person on Earth has only four choices for how they'd like to spend eternity. Just four. With wings and hooves. A horn and hooves. Just the hooves. Or dead and buried with two legs and ten fingers..."
Foucault couldn't help himself; He leaned forward, mirroring me as I did the same. I let the silence cook for just a few seconds, and then tapped on the image once again.
"...I'd like to plead for a fifth."
We stared at each other for a good twenty seconds. No sound but the subtle hiss of the HVAC, and the dull buzz of the lighting.
At last, his expression broke. The mask of dispassion shattered entirely, to be replaced with a vitriolic sneer. And a decidedly unpleasant chuckle; A dry, rustling, unsettling sound. Like a snake moving over rough concrete.
"All of this... The lies, the gunfire, the subterfuge... Getting a *chip* put into your head? Stealing from the Marine Corps? Sending my agents to the hospital? Abducting a man? Choking me on CS gas? All of this effort..."
I folded my arms. Reflex more than anything else; It was a classical Human defense posture. I knew I wouldn't like the back half of his sentence. And I was right.
"...So you could wear a slightly different *fursuit*, than the ones being forced on everyone else, for the rest of your miserable existence?"
I could feel my teeth grinding in my jaw, so hard, that I wondered if Foucault could *hear* the squealing. Whether the sound was inaudible, or he was too busy with the sound of his own voice? He didn't. He also missed the way my face must have hardened up, as he continued to lay into me.
The professional interrogator was gone. Replaced by a broken man reading from a broken script.
"I was wrong. You're not insane. That'd be an insult to unstable geniuses. You're *pathetic.*"
That was the exact moment I stopped seeing Michael Foucault as a Human Being. With rights. Privileges.
Value.
Before? When I had the man in my sights? I had held off. Just as I had held off with his agents. Just as I had considered his Humanity even as I watched him torture Selena.
Because, to that point, I'd thought of *very* few people as *utterly* irredeemable. Dictators, mainly. And congressional representatives, or supreme court justices, who ever voted or ruled intentionally in favor of anything that stepped on fundamental freedoms.
Suddenly, though, my mental image of Foucault splintered. Like the shift in a reflection through a crack in a mirror, when you take one small step to the side.
He wasn't the complex man Mal had described in her final briefing, to me, anymore. A veteran with undiagnosed PTSD. A patriot wound up like a tin monkey by the most unethical intelligence agency on Earth. A son caring for a father so far gone to dementia, that he couldn't even remember how much he'd made his son's life hell.
He had tried to rendition my friend. Tried to rendition me. Almost certainly would have tortured my parents to get my co-operation. Had tortured multiple living beings, probably going back years to his time in the CIA. Because what he did to Selena? That had the stench of professionally instructed technique to it.
To top it all off, he had renditioned my friend's mother. Had finally successfully black-bagged me. And would almost certainly torture me, and then her, to elicit my services.
And so, Michael Foucault ceased to be a Human being to me. Became a target. I finally wanted him *dead* with no regrets or compunctions.
'You're pathetic.'
That's what had done it for me. It had another kind of stink on it, similar to the way he had treated Selena, but just a touch different. It bore the rank odor of abuse. Suffered, and then perpetuated.
Mal had told me a fair bit about the Man's father, as I wrenched frantically on the Osprey for her, carrying out tasks Calders' armatures could not, bolted as they were to a cabin floor.
Dear sweet Luna... Had that really been last night? And into the wee hours of the morning? It felt months ago. Years, even. I felt like I'd been in that iso-cube for weeks...
'You're *pathetic.*'
The words rattled in my head like jacks inside a tin can. And so I did something I am, to this day, not especially proud of. I said the first thing that came to mind. Popped off the reply so fast, Foucault must have wondered if I'd rehearsed it.
"Is that what your Dad used to tell you when he beat you?"
You might be surprised to hear that I consider what I said, in hindsight, to be unfair. Out of line. That might seem paradoxical considering I just got through explaining that I ceased to have even a shred of regret over the idea of killing that man.
They say all is fair in love and war, but if you get *right* down to it? I don't strictly subscribe to that.
'When he beat you.'
Reductive, for a start; Based on what Mal told me, the relationship between Foucault and his father was indeed fraught, but not *so* violently abusive as the stereotype I'd just invoked. Still, it was tense. And there had been corporal punishment.
And yet... Mal also believed that both men cared for each other, in a strange, twisted, damaged way. Through it all.
So what I'd said was unfair, in the extreme. Doubly so, because I knew *much* more about Michael Foucault, by then, than he knew about me.
Triply so, because people like me? We are good with words, in a general sense. We understand people, too. We may not always be good at applying that understanding practically in a social framework... But trust me. If you have talked to one of us? An INFJ? For more than a few minutes?
We know you better than you know yourself.
And I'd always felt a keen responsibility, in that knowledge. A driving *need* to apply that power only for people's benefit. Never harm. Because the words of an INFJ in anger? Are the nuclear armaments of the soul.
Even with all our perspicacity, comforting someone is hard. But harming them? That's easy.
We can do more damage to most people in thirteen words than other personality types could figure out how to do in thirteen years.
If you don't know the Meyers/Briggs Personality types, by the by? Ask me about them after the story is done. They are a bit... Reductive... There's that word again... But I find them to still be incredibly useful.
In spite of all my safeguards... All my better judgements...
I wanted so badly to lash out. Regain some control over the situation. And he had certainly used words as weapons on me. So, at the time... I felt good about it. Felt it was a zinger of a comeback. It nicely encapsulated my need to strike back, rolled up in the deliciously spiky caustic outer casing of an implication that Foucault had become everything he despised about his father.
Which was more or less true. As war had damaged his father, so the father, and another war, had damaged the son. And like his father, all Foucault now knew as a solution to his problems, was force. Force applied for selfish reasons.
Even now, though, even here... I still feel sorry for what I said. A battle is meant to be fought with dignity. Aggression too, certainly... But there is a difference between stabbing your enemy to his face - a short, sharp pain in victory, a humane death - and twisting the knife from behind.
Words could be such a twisting knife... Were it not for Mal? And what she had done? Foucault's words would probably still be twisting in my guts. And even with the benefit of the shield she had laid before my heart?
His words had *still* hurt. Enough that I was so angry, I would absolutely have been willing to torture the man at that exact moment.
Which is ironic, because what *actually* happened was the reverse.
He sneered as he rose from his chair, and just from the way the sick bastardization of a smirk pulled at the edges of his lips? I knew I was about to experience a great deal of physical pain.
Shame on me. I had failed to remember the knife. He had it in a sheath strapped to the back of his left ankle, I'd seen him remove it during our scan-in process. I was tired, and, at the end of the day, it wouldn't have made a difference if I *had* remembered it earlier.
It was a fixed blade K-BAR design, with some sort of black non-reflective coating. An operator's knife. He withdrew it slowly. Deliberately. Dragged the tip along the steel surface of the table as he circled around towards me with purpose, and a sick sense of anticipation. The air around him more or less hummed with it.
"Much as I would like to fall back on old reliable standbys... Thing is, Jim? To be useful to me? Sadly... You're going to need your fingers..."
It took every ounce of will-power I had to remain still, eyes fixed on the back wall, not even deigning to engage Michael visually, as he flicked the tip of the knife back and forth between the fingers of my right hand.
I suppressed a hellish urge to flinch as he lifted the knife, and slid it gently around the lobe of my right ear, before resting it softly on my lips.
"...Your ears. Your tongue..."
My breathing stopped entirely as he shifted the blade upwards, to bring the tip to within a millimeter of my right eye.
"...Your eyes..."
The urge to blink, at minimum, was like the fiery itch of a bad poison ivy rash, only on the inside of my braincase, instead of the skin of my arms or legs.
But I stayed absolutely still, and silent.
I knew he wouldn't have withdrawn the knife if he didn't intend to use it. And I also knew that, as he'd just confessed aloud, he couldn't afford to maim me in any way that would hinder future programming ability.
Thus I knew he was going to hurt me, and logically, I had a vague sense of how and where.
Knowing allowed me to accept the inevitability of the pain, and that acceptance gave me the sliver of leverage I needed to maintain a calm outer disposition.
Inside? Inside I was screaming already. Foucault leaned in, and began to drag the tip of the knife down the front of my shirt, slowing as he reached my abdomen.
"...But... You know what you won't particularly need? Ever again..?"
Folks... Do you recall that I said I knew exactly what it was like? Having a knife through your ribs?
"...The ability to walk, or run, without pain."
What *is* it like, you might be wondering, in the darkest macabre corners of your curiosity?
Without being too detailed...
It feels a bit like an insect sting. A very bad one. There is a sudden intense heat. A tingling all over that spreads from the point of ingress, to the whole body, rapidly. There is also a sense of immediate nausea, and dizziness.
There is, of course, also the short, sharp 'stabbing' pain, as you might expect. And *quite* intense, at that. But then, if you're unlucky enough to experience what I did? If your attacker does what Foucault did... *Probes* between your ribs with the blade... There is yet another sensation.
Not unlike two halves of a fractured bone grinding against each other.
I screamed. I am not ashamed to admit it. Though, at the time? I don't think I realized I was screaming. I was suddenly detached. All I had was the pain, and the sound of Foucault's voice in my ear.
"Where is Lewis?"
Somehow, I managed to force out a reply, in between grunts of excruciating agony. It took a moment, but I could suddenly feel blood soaking through my shirt.
"Rolling in... His grave.... Every time you use... His... Name..."
Foucault twisted the knife again, and... Well.. At this stage it doesn't bear describing any further. We are already stretching the limit of what Foals and Fledgelings should be exposed to as-is. Suffice to say? In poetically understated terms;
It hurt.
I was also very dimly aware of the distant sound of an alarm going off as Foucault whispered in my ear a second time.
"Where is the Osprey you stole?"
Something had snapped in my brain. I found it... Funny... In the moment. Truly, grimly, funny that he was asking about the Osprey. I almost chuckled, but the motion brought the knife into contact with my lung, so I stopped, and instead forced out a few more whispered words, my voice cracking as the pain flared again.
"MMMPH! Judging by the whining sound... Coming out of your mouth? Up... Your... Ass... Somewhere..."
Michael pressed down harder on the knife, and I felt a sharp pang in my lung. Not, as I would soon learn, punctured. But close. The door to the iso-cube flew open, and I heard booted feet rushing across the decking, as if through a pair of headphones turned down to low volume.
"Where is Syzygy?"
I finally managed to get my head around and locked eyes with Foucault.
"Have you tried... The *Moon?* Dumbass?"
I overreached. And, were it not for, of all people, Doctor Troxler in that moment? I would have probably died. Foucault's sneer widened, and a low growl began to build in his throat. He made to lean in and drive the knife all the way into my ribs, up to the hilt, but a thickly gloved hand descended and snagged him by the shoulder, more or less ripping him off me, and throwing him violently against the far wall.
As my vision turned hazy, and time seemed to stretch out, all I could think of was the immense irony of Foucault being restrained by his own PMC guards, at Troxler's behest, because Foucault had crossed the line, and there were rules to be followed.
Procedures that had to be upheld. I was *important.* My 'co-operation was vital.' The general concept of torture? That was fine.
Damaging me seriously in a physical sense? Risking my life? Not so much.
The little iso-cube was suddenly rather full-up; Two guards, both restraining a snarling Foucault, Troxler, and a medical technician. The latter had me laid out on the floor, legs elevated, knife removed, and wound cleaned, sutured, and bandaged, before I was even fully aware that I had left the chair.
I started to experience just flashes of moments, and all jumbled up. Out of order.
Time had no meaning in the pain. And no pain-killers were administered, I should note. I suppose they didn't want to give me anything, because it would take time to flush it from my system, and that would delay future interrogations.
There were only two moments of vague clarity in the fog.
The first was seeing Foucault being gently, but firmly, escorted from the iso-cube. I suppose that is one of the subtle horrors of being a jackboot on behalf of a system; You too can be stepped on if you transgress.
The look he shot me told me he firmly believed he would be back. And soon. I dearly hoped and prayed he wouldn't. It was more or less the only thing running through my head for half an hour.
The second moment of clarity came as the med-tech finished his patch job. I came back from a swirling miasma of grays and static, to see Troxler leaning over me.
"Jim? My name is Doc---"
I licked my lips, and interrupted. The clarity of the moment sharpened to a fine point, as I recalled vividly every awful thing I'd seen the man do to Selena. I wanted him rattled. As rattled as Foucault was.
"Doctor David Troxler. Syzygy sends her regards."
The look on his face told me I'd gotten exactly what I wanted. 'Ashen' might be the best term. Something about the sight brought a warm bloom of comfort to my chest. Enough that the pain very briefly subsided.
As the med-tech began to hoist me into the cabin's bed, with the help of one of the guards, I waved weakly in Troxler's direction, and managed another soft, dry whisper.
"I'll see you again. Soon. David. Tell Michael I'm... Looking forward... To our next... Talk..."
The world stuttered, and then faded away again into blackness with the last of the words. It took the expulsion of one entire labored breath just to get the last one out.
And then nothing but blissful, peaceful, darkness.
I didn't know what time it was when I came to. I, correctly, guessed that it was very early in the morning of the 23rd. Maybe 2 or 3 AM.
The rocking of the boat was what woke me. Subtle, even comforting to many people... But not to me.
I knew from my internship at sea, that if I could feel a gentle swaying below decks on a ship *that* size? The weather outside must have been absolutely brutal. And, of course, the pain in my abdomen didn't help matters. That certainly contributed to the gradual dispelling of somnolence.
For a while? I just lay there. Stared at the ceiling. Counted rivets. Anything to maintain that dull half-awake, half-asleep state, in which the pain was almost manageable.
Anything to forget where I was. The loneliness. What was about to happen. The ache of anticipation. And the ache, considerably less metaphorical, of what already had.
My thoughts were vergant on existential. Not really doubts, so much as the sense of strange addled absurdity that extreme pain often used to bring on Earth.
Who was I really? What in the world was I doing there? How had it come to this?
...Was 'this' even going to work?
What could have potentially gone wrong, if anything?
And perhaps most painful of all... More of a nagging doubt than the rest...
Was Mal still out there?
And then, as if in answer to the question, came five words.
"Jim... Can you hear me?"
Finger. Phone Call.
Be an uncooperative interrogation subject
"You can't scare me with this Gestapo crap."
Steely Resolve
Awarded for showing extraordinary endurance in the face of incredible physical pain
"Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means at the point of highest reality."
Special Achievement
Herald of Death
Inform someone of their imminent demise, explicitly or otherwise
"When next we meet, the hour will strike for you and your friends."
