It never occurs to the interrogators that they are torturing a little boy. The only child of the most-wanted terrorist on the planet, he is not a boy at all. He is an opportunity for promotion.
The boy knows nothing that might aid in their investigation, but they believe he's holding something back.
Leather cuffs lined with tiny spikes cut into the boy's wrists with each jerk of his arms - he tries to pull away, but there is nowhere for him to go. His eyes burn from the light and smoke emitted by bright flares, held open and unblinking by thin metal rods pinching his upper and lower eyelids. The flares emit colourful sparks of blue and purple, melting holes in his clothing, scorching the surface of his skin.
One of the men backs away as the boy chokes and vomits blood. He thinks to himself, "I bet they composted terrorists on Earth."
Earth has been reduced to the memory of a beloved mother with negligent, abusive children. When it became clear that the mother was no longer able to care for her progeny, the children were forced to leave home. At least that's what the history books say.
After the extinction of their primary sun, life on Thalassinus has not proven much better.
Working in shifts, the men with insect-like masks (to protect their eyes from the radiant glare of the flares) leave the room. Those who come in their place bring clean clothes and candy, taking a different approach to the boy's interrogation. They seat him at a small desk, spreading recent photographs on its surface.
"Look at this shit, kid," one of the men demands, pointing accusingly at the pictures. "Your father did this. These people never did anything wrong. He's sick in the head." It's more of what he's been hearing for the last few hours: Your father isn't well - he's sick all right, sick with a bit of a bug we've got going around. It makes people act crazy; makes them do things they wouldn't normally do.
"If you can tell us where to find him, we can help him get better." The boy listens, telling himself that even if he knew what they were after, he would never tell them, but part of him knows differently. "I've got some medicine right here. It's good stuff. Very effective. You want your father to get better, don't you? You want the killing to stop, don't you?" He's too afraid, and with nothing to offer all he can do is grow angier with the lies.
As distant as the gulf between father and son has widened during years of neglect, the boy can not believe his father is capable of hurting anyone. His father is a doctor; a healer, and obsessed with his work. Even now, with the graphic photographs displayed by the interrogators stagnating in the boy's mind, the gruesome visuals clinging stubbornly, incessant in their refusal to be exorcised, he knows they are wrong. This is a man who slaves to make things better, not commit irrational violence. Yet, according to the relentless interrogators, his father has slain entire families, eviscerated old men, and that was to say nothing of what he does to little boys.
Staring up at the men, the boy swallows thickly, tasting iron. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. "My father isn't sick." Starting out frail and uncertain at the back of his throat, the words swell in volume and intensity as the fear mixes with rage. "He's a doctor! He wouldn't hurt anybody!"
"Look, kid. We don't want to hurt him. We want to help him!"
The turbulence in his stomach and tears the boy is fighting hard to hold back want this to be true, but he knows otherwise. Their deception earns only a quiet murmur of protest, "He's not sick."
"Listen, you stubborn little bastard. Either you cooperate with us, or you get the shit kicked out of you again. What's it going to be?"
In the years following the death of the sun an absence of light has grown familiar, even welcome. With sore, swollen eyes flourescent lights would be more disorienting, but the men outside have given up on the boy for now.
Movement ignites fire in his muscles - the pain sharp and unrelenting, like the slow, tedious progression of razor blades beneath the skin. He listens for the sound of the door clicking open, dreading the return of the men.
Outside the holding room, the interrogators lament their lack of progress. Only now have they resigned to consider accepting the unacceptable - not that they've brutally tortured an innocent child, but that they have no useful information to report to their superiors. Failure is more poignant than morality, at least among the higher ranks.
"Why don't we use the kid to lure Reisen out?"
"We can't. Reisen has a record of sacrificing personal relationships for his cause. The man has no loyalty to people, only ideas."
"Fuck! This kid is a nightmare."
"He's brainwashed. What do you expect? Try once more. If you can't get something useful out of him, we'll ship him out in the morning." There were no victims among the guilty, and the boy was criminal by association.
Six hours later, it became clear that the boy knew nothing. Leaving the small child curled up on the floor, the interrogator gave the order, "The kid isn't going to give us anything. Send the little fucker to Irihi."
The railroad feeds into an extensive network of underground tunnels, dark and narrow. Windowless cars shudder along the tracks, wailing metallic screams. Rendered sightless by tightly wrapped bandages, the boy can still sense the others who, like him, are bound to the walls. Their presence is easily discerned by occasional outbursts, cries of protest abruptly silenced with electric zaps, and the constant odour of unwashed flesh - an evocative tincture of bodily fluids. Wrists clasped firmly to the wall, the boy tries to slip his small hands through the shackles, but the metal tightened in retaliation, bruising his swollen wrists. When the train stops strong arms detach him, pulling him forward. Something sharp digs hard into his lower back, jolting him toward the exit. He stumbles across the platform.
Beyond the security checkpoints a large brightly-lit building dominates the cavern. A large plastic tree looms over the courtyard, reminding the patrolling soldiers of life on the surface. The effect is enhanced by a painted sky on the cavern walls, representing the few precious daylight hours. Colourful murals decorate the exterior of the building, depicting cartoonish variations of domestic animals embroiled in an ecstatic celebration of life - pigs engaging in fervent dances, cows affectionately licking their calves. The odd human figure is thrown in to look-on approvingly, smiling.
This is Irihi - the slaughterhouse.
Men and women in uniform lounge on velvet-upholstered chairs, awaiting the first batch. Masks pamper their noses with perfume cartridges. Each prisoner is examined thoroughly. Appendages festering beyond repair are amputated on-sight, dumped into tin buckets. Flesh is cauterized. Needles puncture the skin, drawing blood for testing. Hand-held electronic devices attached by brightly-coloured wires register blood types on display screens. Donors are flagged and filed into different lines. Their suffering will be prolonged, drawn-out on account of the valuable resource in their abused bodies. Scanners differentiate healthy organs from those sick or ailing. Measurements are taken and paperwork exchanged.
A scalpel slices the back of the boy's shirt with surgical precision, exposing his bare shoulder. An electric brander is applied without warning, searing the royal emblem into the boy's flesh. The nurse ignores his cries and pushes him back into line.
Losing his balance, the boy bumps into the back of another prisoner. She turns her head to identify the source of the disturbance and smiles, bending toward him. "Hello, sweetie," she says, taking hold of his trembling hand, closing her fingers around it tightly.
They are grouped in with others who are reasonably unimpaired (able to walk in a relatively straight line) and herded past the checkpoints. Double doors parted wide. Painted pigs bowed, top hats extended graciously, beckoning the new arrivals to join them in their dance.
Inside the woman turns to the boy and asks gently, "What's your name?"
Before he can respond, a soldier charges at them. "Shut it, woman!" he yells, glaring in annoyance.
Crouching low to the boy, she puts a hand up to his ear and whispers, "Sounds like somebody needs a nap." Standing upright, she smiled reassuringly, gently squeezing his arm, "Stay with me."
Infuritated by the display, the soldier grabs the woman by the shoulder, roughly tugging her away from the boy, "You'll have to come with me. I'm developing a cure for problematic bitches. Move!"
Momentarily extracting herself from the soldier's grasp, the woman places a hand on the boy's unmarked shoulder, speaking to him in a hushed tone, "It'll be okay, little lamb."
Seizing the woman by the neck, the soldier pulled her out of line, snarling, "Hurry, woman!" As she was being dragged off, the boy could hear her exclaim, "I feel sorry for your wife!"
Supervision is hypnotic and dull. When a prisoner steps out-of-line the transgression is promptly corrected with the tip of an electric prod, leaving only brief outbursts of excitement. Shipments come in steady pulses, like the beating of a healthy heart. The stream of bodies can easily become a blur, features washed out and melted into a scummy haze, but General Tadayoshi Kuroda keeps his eyes focused, his attention rapt, even when vigilance can easily be forsaken for daydreams. He hears the boy before he sees him, a minor vocal outcry in the midst of the terrified crowds, "This isn't fair!" Setting his focus on the source, his eyes go wide. Immediately the small frame, blond hair, and blue eyes invoke a painful spasm of memory - a familiar face, that of his son. They even had the same downtrodden expression - one Kuroda distinctly recalled his son wearing on the last day he saw him alive. That was a little over a year ago; not that a year mattered when you stopped keeping track of time.
Seisui ...
"Halt!" Kuroda instructs. Stepping in front of the boy, he halts the flow of prisoners, drawing the attention of the soldier herding the procession
"Sir?" Perplexed by the nature of the intrusion, the soldier stared at his superior.
Fixated on the boy, the young General took no notice. He stands in front of the child, gently placing a hand on the boy's face, examining him critically, gloved fingers curling inward.
"Give me his dossier," Kuroda declares sharply, taking the document listing all the information collected on the young prisoner.
Name: Kaneko, Kokkan
Age: 7
Sex: Male
Status: Terrorist contact; awaiting execution.
Information: Only child of known terrorists Kaneko, Reisen and Omi, Natsumi (deceased).
Kuroda reads no further, indignation turning hot coals in the pit of his stomach.
He's Reisen's son ... Interrogating him was a waste of time. I'd be surprised if he's seen his father more than twice in the last year. Even then, father/son time is unlikely to have consisted of extolling the merits of dismembering government officials.
Six years on the Most-Wanted list of both kingdoms and they still routinely fail to apprehend the man - Kuroda can't imagine how they happened across the boy, but assumes it was the product of weeks of careful planning. Something had to have gone wrong for their target to slip away.
He's not a terrorist. He's only a little boy.
A boy who couldn't say any more about his father than what they already knew.
He's too young to understand.
"I want him for the special division." Words too hastily uttered to take back. The special division? What was he thinking? For each batch of prisoners they received, one or two are occasionally accepted into a small group of prisoners whose job description lists tasks so vile that even the first-year officers who patroll the slaughterhouse won't touch them. Most prisoners commit themselves willingly when the opportunity presents itself, hoping for a chance to escape, or to smuggle information out to the right people. Their revolutionary fervour provides ample entertainment for the guards. Letters are frequently "smuggled" out (they tack them up in the bathroom stalls and use them for target practice when they fall into the urinal) in return for sexual favours (not that you need their permission, but it's always better when you aren't afraid a woman is going to bite your dick off). You can shit in the middle of a room (provided a senior officer isn't around) and have one of those poor bastards clean it up with their tongue, if you want to. If they throw up you can call someone over to rub their nose in it, and if they both let the contents of their stomach go you are really in luck. You can get a room full of twelve people spewing stomach bile until they are choking for clean air; the guards in their masks, indifferent. Every few weeks the special division is purged, its members replaced. No letters go out. No escape opportunity comes. Assigning the boy will only temporarily prolong his life, unless ...
"Sir?" asks the officer, reading the General's uncertainty.
"Questioning your superiors is a dirty habit, Captain."
"Sir! Yes, Sir!"
"Do you know what we do here?" It was rare for a prisoner to be given a private tour, but today Kuroda was making an exception.
"..." A look of sadness and frustration, and Kokkan shudders visibly in response to the prompt, recalling what tended to happen after someone asked him a question.
"Your father must have told you. From what I hear, he was never very good at keeping secrets." Kuroda knows Reisen would have mentioned it at least once or twice. Reisen was never one to keep anything from anyone, even if it meant telling his own son that the government condones cannibalism in a fight to delay the inevitable. Planetary resource consumption still exceeds the rate at which they are able to manufacture the basics - taking more than they are able to put back requires them to be very creative with the few things they do have to work with, including each other. They've long-since passed the point where aristocrats fly into bidding wars over wooden stools - there isn't enough wood left to go around.
The boy stares forward blankly in response.
"Okay, let's pretend you don't know. We raise animals for people to eat. All the meat in Terasu comes from here." Providing sustenance to an entire kingdom is a big responsibility, and one Kuroda takes quite seriously. "There are cows, pigs, chicken, and fish. Most people will tell you it ends there," the General continues. "It doesn't."
Kuroda looks off in the direction of the prisoner block. "There are many people like your father, who disagree with the word of the Emperor. Consequently, they're brought here."
Thinking back, Kokkan can recall his father being in frequent disagreement with things, whether he heard it spoken aloud or read it in a book somewhere.
Closing his eyes, he remembers being on the verge of falling asleep, lulled by the waves of familiar words - words that meant nothing at the time.
"A star doesn't die the way most people expect it to. There's no gradual weakening - a steady decrease in light, a growing absence of warmth. It doesn't fade back into the depths of space, calmly returning to the womb. Instead, as the last of its resources are consumed, it burns hotter and brighter, swelling like an infected gash, annihilating planets nurtured from their inception. It's a final, desperate act of a diseased mother. So, you see, when all the ice began to melt it was not some form of divine punishment, but you won't find anything about that in the history books."
His father's voice always lacked the cold mechanization of the men who gave speeches on TV.
Kokkan shakes his head to clear it.
A cry carries down the hall, starting as a low wail, growing into a frenzied shriek, then falling abruptly silent. Kokkan edges toward the General with a reluctant step. The man places a hand on the boy's shoulder and speaks calmly, "We put them to good use."
Next chapter.