Chapter 211: Inprocessing (2/2)
The black mist around it convulsed, rippled, and sucked into a point behind the figure.
”You are Prisoner 4582143. Respond,” the figure intoned, the voice coming from far away.
Do'ormo'ot just stared.
What kind of interrogation facility is this? he wondered, moving his dry tongue around in his mouth, trying to moisten it.
Do'ormo'ot just stood there, refusing to answer, as the figure intoned the shame phrase twice more.
”Prisoner 4582143 has displayed non-compliance passive resistance. Level One Negative Stimulation for five seconds will commence,” the figure intoned. Again the sentence was made of up of words and sounds taken from different sources to create an atonal ear jarring speech that made Do'ormo'ot feel uneasy. The 'eight' in his number was screamed by a female in pain.
Before Do'ormo'ot could answer or even really parse what was happening it felt like strong hands grabbed the top of his skull and began pressing fingers into his eyes. He could see clearly, his vision was unblurred, but it felt like it regardless. The pain was intense and Do'ormo'ot tried to scream but instead gagged and choked as it felt like his airway suddenly had a thick band pressing against it.
The pressure suddenly released.
”You are Prisoner 4582143. Respond,” the figure ordered.
”Yes,” Do'ormo'ot said, licking his lips. His tendrils hung limply, several of them now nothing but unmoving black material.
”Prisoner 4582143, you will follow me. Comply,” the figure intoned, turning around by simply, suddenly, seeming to just melt into itself them back out. The figure began moving down the hallway.
Do'ormo'ot could still remember the feeling of having his eyes pressed in and the band around his throat. He knickered in fear and followed, his hooves making a dull thumping sound on the stone. It? he? she? both? neither? led him up straight flights of stairs, down claustrophobia inducing tight circular staircases, down hallways, all of which were unmarked, unrecognizable from one another.
Finally the hallway ended in a doorway made of black metal that looked slick and oily to the touch that swung open. Beyond was a seating couch made for a Lanaktallan, but the flat of the couch was hard with fist sized convex areas, like balls that had risen only an inch above the surface of some strange liquid. Beyond that was desk, made up of twisted and strange shapes locked together to form the semblance of a desk. It looked like nude female and male Lanaktallans contorted and stretched, compressed and twisted, to create the shape. Behind the desk was a chair, the sitting surfaces covered in wide square spikes that were only an inch or so high.
The figure stepped to the side and motioned for Do'ormo'ot to enter.
Trembling with fear he did so. When the door slammed shut Do'ormo'ot opened his rear facing eyes, only to see a blank stone wall. When he looked forward a figure was sitting in the chair, robed, gloved, the mask subtly different than the other bipeds that Do'ormo'ot had seen.
”Prisoner 4582143, sit. Comply,” the figure behind the desk ordered.
Do'ormo'ot moved forward, looking around the room. The black stone walls seemed to lean in slightly, the corners felt off, as if they weren't ninety degree angles yet had a perfect sharpness at the same time that told him his senses were lying, the corners could be laser measured as perfect right angles.
He settled onto the couch, the bumps just smooth protrusions that didn't bother him. He licked his jowls, swallowing thickly. He was starting to get thirsty and his stomachs were warning him he was going to be hungry soon.
”Prisoner 4582143, known as Do'ormo'ot. Executor Corps Direct Covert Action Directorate,” the figure intoned. The mask didn't move, the words came to Do'ormo'ot's ears from different locations in the room. Sometimes a whisper, other times a scream, different voices for different words, sometimes even different syllables.
The effect made Do'ormo'ot shudder even as the figure kept speaking.
”Captured in the Oort Cloud of Red Cloud Nebula stellar system LNX-3842,” the figure continued. ”Determined to be in possession of proscribed warfare materials, to include, but not limited to: attack nanites, biological weaponry, chemical weaponry, thorium anti-matter weapons in near-planet cracker range. Determined to be in possession of operational plans to deploy such weaponry against Terran Confederacy Member Worlds and Terran Descent Human worlds. Determined to have been behind no less than three attacks up Member Worlds resulting in loss of life in excess to thirteen billion.”
The figure stopped speaking and time crawled by. Do'ormo'ot kept swallowing, the slight thirst making his mouth thick with gummy saliva.
”Field trial and summary judgement determined that Subject Do'ormo'ot and fellow Direct Covert Action Warfare Specialist were agents engaged in wide scale sabotage during a time of war. Judgement resulted in transfer to The Black Citadel as Prisoner 4582143,” the figured intoned. ”End of Line.”
Again the silence stretched out. After a bit Do'ormo'ot glared at the figure behind the desk.
”I demand water and food,” he started.
”Prisoner 4582143 possesses insufficient privileges for water or food. End of Line,” the figure intoned. The last part was said in a dead, emotionless, mechanical voice that the timbre suggested was male.
”I want water,” Do'ormo'ot said. ”I'm thirsty.”
The figure just repeated itself.
Do'ormo'ot shifted on the couch. The upraised sections, just gentle curves extending up an inch, were starting to get uncomfortable. Some of them were pressing muscle against ribs. The couch was slightly too wide for comfort, making it so his legs were separated just a bit too far that was slowly becoming uncomfortable.
”Prisoner 4582143, state your name for the record. Comply,” the figure said.
”I will do no such thing,” Do'ormo'ot snapped, shifting on the couch.
”Prisoner 4582143 has displayed defiance and refusal to follow orders. Level One Negative Stimulation will be applied for five seconds,” the figure stated. ”End of Line.”
Before Do'ormo'ot could answer it felt as if someone with strong, hard fingers was pulling his jaw down, squeezing the bottom of his jaw, their fingers finding nerve clusters and crushing them against his jawbone. Do'ormo'ot moaned in pain, all six of his eyes crossing.
When the fingers released Do'ormo'ot slumped on the couch.
”Prisoner 4582143, state your name for the record. Comply,” the figure said.
”Do'ormo'ot 62471,” Do'ormo'ot said.
”State your nation of origin. Comply,” the voice was still jarring.
”Unified Species Council,” Do'ormo'ot answered, slumping slightly.
”Escort the prisoner to his cell. End of Line,” the figure said.
As Do'ormo'ot watched black mist rose up from the floor, surrounding the figure on the other side of the desk. The door behind him, that was not there a moment ago, opened to reveal another hooded robed figure, their features concealed by a black mask. The mist vanished as Do'ormo'ot started to stand and almost collapsed as his muscles cramped.
”You will follow me. Comply,” the figure at the door stated.
Do'ormo'ot nodded, swallowing, the slight feeling of thirst becoming more nagging.
He stumbled after the figure, the cramps in his muscles painful as they eased up. Again, up stairs, down stairs, around corners, down long narrow passages. Finally the figure stopped at a door that had a handle-pull cover over a narrow slot at eye level.
As Do'ormo'ot approached, the door slowly swung open to reveal a square cell with a window. Beyond the window was the endless purple sky.
Shaking, Do'ormo'ot stood at the doorway, unwilling to enter the cell. It had no place to lay down, no place to eliminate waste, no features at all except black stone.
”Prisoner 4582143, enter your cell. Comply. This is a Level Two Negative Stimulus Warning,” the figure intoned.
Trembling, Do'ormo'ot entered the cell, turning around to face the door.
There was no sign of the figure as the door slowly shut with a bang. For a moment there was silence, then sounds started to come to Do'ormo'ot. Crying, weeping, screaming, prayers in strange languages, insane howling, all coming from far away.
Do'ormo'ot closed his rear eyes so he didn't have to look at the purple sky beyond.
All I must do is hold on. Sooner or later an opportunity to escape will present itself, he thought to himself.
Gibbering laughter from just outside his door was his only answer.