Chapter ERROR (Questioning?) (2/2)

After a few minutes the threat of thirst became too much and he grabbed the glass. The glove made the glass feel heavy and odd to his touch. He brought the glass up under his mask and tilted it, taking a deep drink.

He was aware of the liquid in his mouth, but it didn't seem to do anything beyond being aware that there was fluid in his mouth. He tried to swallow it but it was like jelly. It was doing nothing to moisten his mouth, just sat in there, like some kind of liquid plastic.

After a moment Do'ormo'ot spit it out and lowered his head as the water turned back into liquid and spattered across the black stone. As Do'ormo'ot watched it began to steam, black vapor rising off it that quickly turned to dust the then dissipated.

The Terrans watching all started laughing.

”How's that taste, cow-pie?” was one shout.

There were other mocking shouts and Do'ormo'ot stood up, shaking in rage.

One of the white gloved figures drifted up. ”Prisoner 4582143, returning to your cell at this time will give you a one-half socialization period credit. Do you wish to return to your cell?”

”Yes,” Do'ormo'ot said, still shaking as the Terrans kept laughing.

As he was led back to his cell he heard one of the Terrans call out to him: ”Get used to it, cow-pie!”

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The slide snapped back. ”Prisoner 4582143, you will report for interrogation. Move back from the door.”

Do'ormo'ot shifted, keeping away from the window, which he was slowly learning to dread looking out even by accident. The omnipresent purple made him flinch at the way sometimes it seemed to go on for eternity and other times it seemed to press against the window trying to find a way in.

The door opened and Do'ormo'ot trotted out. The door closed and the figure paused.

”You will follow. End of Line,” the figure stated.

The winding path was different than last time, Do'ormo'ot payed close attention to the route. Twice they moved through strange rooms. One had bench seats arranged in a row and a black statue of an armored Terran male wearing a laurel leaf crown. Another had murals painted on the walls of obvious religious figures.

Finally the figure led Do'ormo'ot back into the office with the uncomfortable chair and the single desk made up of twisted Terran figures and the interrogator.

Do'ormo'ot sat down without prompting.

”Beginning interrogation stage two of Prisoner 4582143,” the figure behind the desk said.

The door was gone, leaving nothing but a blank wall. There was only the desk, the window looking out on the purple sky, the couch, the interrogator, and Do'ormo'ot.

”Identification of paternal genetic donor? Reply,” the figure stated.

Do'ormo'ot knew the program. He'd used it himself. Start with basic, harmless questions to get the subject to open up, slowly move onto more and more in-depth questions slowly leading to what the interrogator really wants to know.

Do'ormo'ot knew not to answer that.

After a few moments the figure repeated the question. Then again. Finally it made a motion.

”Interrogation of Prisoner 4582143 terminated. Subject non-compliant. Return to Cell. End of Line,” the figure said.

The figure erupted into a puff of black granular mist that roiled and then sucked back into itself and vanished.

Do'ormo'ot got up stiffly from the seat, the nodules on the bench hurting his abdomen, the width of the bench hurting his hips. He turned around as the bench poofed into mist and vanished at the same time the desk did.

Another figure, wearing white gloves, was waiting.

”Prisoner 4582143 is being returned to his cell. End of Line,” it said.

Do'ormo'ot planted his hooves. ”No. I want to see who is in charge of this facility.”

”Prisoner 4582143 has verbally stated his refusal to return to his cell. Level Two Negative Stimulus will be applied if Prisoner 4582143 does not comply,” the figure said.

Do'ormo'ots instinct was to go back to his cell, remembering the pain of having his jaw squeezed and his eyes pushed on, but he was determined to confront whoever was running the facility.

”Level Two Negative Stimulus shall now be applied,” the figure said.

Right when Do'ormo'ot went to turn his sneer into a cutting verbal tirade something kicked him in the lower ribs.

Hard.

He slammed against the wall and felt someone grab his neck, pinning his head against the wall, as fists, knees, and feet hit his upper and lower ribs. He felt one rib go, and suddenly he was released to fall kneeling on the floor. The pain was sharp, intense, and made it hurt to breathe.

”I'm hurt,” Do'ormo'ot moaned.

”Prisoner 4582143 has insufficient privileges for medical treatment. End of Line,” the figure intoned.

Do'ormo'ot got to his feet. ”You have to treat me for injuries. It's in your own rules.”

”Prisoner 4582143 is being returned to his cell. End of Line,” the figure said.

Do'ormo'ot stared, his eyes almost bugging out, but followed slowly, favoring his right foreleg so he didn't put too much stress on the rib. It was more than bruised, the bone was cracked, but not broken.

Finally he got to his cell and the door closed. He moved over to the wall and leaned against it to take the pressure of his ribs. The stone felt like slightly giving hard plas, no texture, no temperature, just that it was present.

After a long period of time he noted that his rib stopped hurting.

Another long bout of indeterminable time passed and the slot snapped open.

”Prisoner 4582143, you are allocated two hours of religious observance, solitary excersize yard attendance, or one hour of library time. You have sixty seconds to make your decision,” the masked figure on the other side said. The dischordant voice again scraped on Do'ormo'ot's nerves.

Do'ormo'ot thought quickly.

”Library time,” he stated.

”Prisoner 4582143, move back from the door,” the figure said.

Do'ormo'ot complied then moved out of the cell when instructed. He followed the figure as it seemed to just glide across the floor. Again the path was long and winding until he reached a large area with shelves, covered with printed books. No computers, no lights, just ever-present dim illumination from no apparent source. Do'ormo'ot believed the light was from airborne nanites, an old trick that always seemed to be one of the first uses of nanites a species discovered.

”Prisoner 4582143, you have one hour of solitary literature time. Books provided are pertaining to your culture have been provided as well as literature from Terran allied species and Terran cultures. End of Line.”

Do'ormo'ot looked around, realizing he was alone. He moved through the stacks.

Perhaps here he could find something to help him plan an escape.