First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (17 page)

I stared. 
A deer
?  I’d only ever seen cartoon deer, portrayed as sweet animals in flicks about the evils of hunting for food.  Not that that had impressed everyone, in the Undercity.  Rats might be disgusting creatures, but there were people who raised them for food, just to have a change from ration bars.  The deer staring at me didn't look remotely sweet or harmless.  It was pointing its horns at me in a decidedly threatening manner.  I reached for the Ka-Bar, cursing the flat ban on guns.  Killing the creature before it killed me might be difficult.

Maybe it recognised the threat.  It turned on its heels and gambolled away into the distance.

I watched it go, then resumed my walk.  We’d been told we might have to catch, butcher and eat wild animals, but it wasn't something I’d had to do yet.  It wasn't something I was looking forward to.  Besides, taking the time to kill and eat the deer would probably have given the hunters enough time to catch up with me. 
That
would have been more than a little annoying.

Someone probably introduced a lot of different animals here
, I thought, as I kept moving onwards. 
They must have been out of their minds.

I’d read, somewhere, that the original settlers had tried to transfer breeding populations of just about everything from Earth to Mars, even though not everything had actually managed to last long on the planet’s surface.  Earth itself was a polluted mess that only harboured the toughest and least pleasant of creatures, including the Undercity’s dwellers.  There were even people who believed the Undercity was literally populated by sub-humans, creatures created by incestuous breeding and exposure to random mutagenic compounds dumped by one corporation or another.  They seemed to assume we were so different we couldn't even breed with normal humans.

There was no truth in that at all, as far as I know.  Sure, some of us had genetic modifications running through our DNA, yet we were still human.  And incest was very - very- rare, even though the gangs happily broke all the other taboos.  But it didn't stop people being idiots.

It was another hour before I finally saw the flag, fluttering over the RV point.  I allowed myself a sign of relief - I’d made it - then ran forward.  If there was still someone after me, I’d be ahead of them ... I heard something, all of a sudden, and swore out loud as I reached the flag.  Four men emerged from the trees, wearing camouflage uniforms.  They’d been very close and I hadn't even realised they were there.

“I win,” I said, although I wasn't sure if that was actually true.  They’d been so close that part of me wondered if they’d
let
me reach the flag before showing themselves.  I didn't think they’d be punished if we escaped, not when this wasn't part of the endless competition.  “I beat you ...”

They dogpiled me.  I barely had a moment to react before I was on the ground, one of them pounding his fists into my side while another grabbed at my hands and a third covered my mouth with his hand.  I bit him, of course, and kicked out at the others, but it wasn't enough to win the fight.  They were just too strong and experienced for me to beat.  I grunted as something cold and metallic was pushed against my head ...

... And I plunged headfirst into darkness.

Chapter Seventeen

Officially, captured personnel are expected to give nothing more than their name, rank and serial number.  However, for reasons expounded elsewhere, the Empire rarely regarded any of its prisoners as legitimate combatants - and, unsurprisingly, its enemies tended to do the same.  POWs could therefore expect everything from immediate death to torture, if they refused to talk.  Marine corps training, therefore, is designed to prepare a marine for an unpleasant experience, should he fall into enemy hands.

-Professor Leo Caesius

When I woke up, I was naked, cuffed and trapped in a dark cell.

Those bastards
, I thought, as I looked around.  There was nothing in view, save for dark walls and a solid metal door. 
I got to the goddamned flag
!

I tested the cuffs carefully, just in case, but no amount of pulling or tugging would budge them in the slightest.  We’d been taught to look for weaknesses - cuffs linked to pipes that could be broken, for example, or broken bottles that could be used to slice through ropes - yet there was nothing useful in sight.  Grimly, I resigned myself to the fact that I was a prisoner - and that I was at their mercy.  We’d also been warned that no one even bothered to pay lip service, these days, to decent treatment for POWs.

“The Empire has a habit of treating its prisoners badly,” Bainbridge had said.  It had all been theoretical at the time.  “They have no hesitation in returning the favour.”

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  The gangs had used torture on Earth just to illustrate that they were in charge.  I’d seen a woman who’d had her teeth knocked out, just to keep her from biting, and a man who’d been hamstrung to teach him a lesson.  I have no idea what happened to the woman, but the man had died shortly afterwards.  Suicide ... or someone taking advantage of an easy target?  I honestly don’t know.  Whoever held me prisoner wouldn't do anything too drastic, would they?  It was a test ... and yet, people had been killed or injured in Boot Camp.  That too wasn't a pleasant thought.

I frowned as I heard something in the distance, someone screaming in pain, begging for mercy.  It was terrifyingly realistic.  Chills ran down my spine as I realised the speaker was pleading, but his pleas were intermingled by screams as ...
something
... was done to him.  I tugged at the cuffs again, feeling panic howling at the back of my mind.  All my training was meaningless if I could barely move, if I couldn't fight back.  They could do
anything
to me ...

... And there was nothing I could do about it.

There was a clunk as the door opened, revealing a masked man.  I looked up at him, then glanced down, trying to appear submissive.  Interrogators liked to feel as though they were in control, I’d been told, and it cost me nothing to play along.  The tiny piece of nonsensical information danced through my mind suddenly, reminding me just what they wanted.  I could spit it out right away and save us both some time.  And yet, I was too goddamned stubborn to consider the possibility for long.  I didn't want to give up at the first hurdle.

“You are our prisoner,” the masked man said.  “This place is hundreds of miles from any possible help.  You will
not
be rescued.  The only way you’re going to leave this room is through cooperating with me.  Do you know what I’m saying?”

Fuck you
, I thought, but I kept my mouth firmly closed.  Trying to match wits with an interrogator was a losing game, according to the Drill Instructors.  They were skilled at using the tiniest cracks in one’s defences to probe through and extract information. 
I don’t care what you’re saying
.

The masked man shrugged.  “You’ll starve soon enough,” he predicted.  “There’s nothing to gain by resisting us.”

Of course there's something to gain
, I thought. 
I want to pass!

He reached down and lifted my chin so I was staring into his eyes.  The mask covered everything else, wiping all traces of individuality from his face.  We’d been told that most interrogators liked to hide their identities; this one, it seemed, was no different.  They had a habit of being shot while trying to escape.  Sure, whoever captured them
might
have been told they were needed alive, but
no one
liked interrogators.  And there was a distant possibility that one’s comrades had been interrogated by the prisoner.

“There really isn't any hope,” he said, gently.  “Give up now and no harm will come to you.”

I refused to show any trace of unease at his touch.  It was funny; I hadn't felt so uneasy when I’d been taught how to take a punch, even though the blows had
hurt
.  He allowed his fingers to trail over my face, then drew back as I prepared to try to bite him.  It would have been futile defiance, but I wanted to do something - anything - to strike back.

He’s trying to make you feel uncomfortable
, I reminded myself.  I’d heard horror stories of what happened to marines - and soldiers, and civil guardsmen - who fell into enemy hands.  Beatings were the least of it. 
And he’s succeeding
.

His voice hardened.  “Name, rank and serial number,” he ordered.  “Now.”

I’d been told I could give those up as soon as I was taken prisoner, if I wished.  In a civilised society, my captors would let my comrades know I was a prisoner and - perhaps - arrange an exchange.  But I was determined to keep them to myself as long as possible.  If nothing else, stubbornness would probably make me look good.

I shook my head, but said nothing.

“You’ll think differently soon,” he warned.  “Enjoy your stay in darkness.”

He strode out of the room, closing the door behind him.  The light went out a second later, plunging me into pitch darkness.  It didn’t scare me
that
much - I’d grown up in the Undercity after all, where power cuts were common - but I had to admit it made me uneasy.  I had known what to expect in the Undercity, while here ... anything could be lurking in the darkness.  Cold logic reminded me that I had seen the cell, that I knew no one could hope to slip inside without being heard, yet the darkness still worked its way into my mind.  If the intent was to weaken my resolve I had to admit that it was working.

They knew where I was going
, I thought, trying to distract myself. 
All they had to do was lie in wait for me
.

It wasn't something I’d considered, back when they’d dumped me into Kirkwood.  Had the hunters actually given chase at all?  Had I imagined the ones behind me?  Or had there been several teams, one for each of us, including one that had staked out the RV point and waited to see who’d come along?  Who had they been?  An upper platoon, being tested on its hunting skills as much as we were on our evasion skills?  Or a dedicated unit, one that had nothing to prove by catching us? 

I’d always had a good sense of time passing, but I’d lost track by the time the door opened and
someone
stepped into the room.  I could hear the bastard breathing, yet I couldn't see a thing in the pitch darkness.  The room’s acoustics were playing merry hell with my ears; there were times I thought he was walking around me and times when I was half-convinced he was leaning against the wall, presumably watching me through enhanced eyes or night-vision gear.  And there was nothing I could do about it ... I heard the door open and bang closed for the second time, yet I had no idea if he was still there or not.  Maybe, just maybe, I should call out ...

No
, I told myself, firmly. 
That’s what they want you to do
.

The lights came on again, so brightly I clenched my eyes shut.  When I opened them again, I found myself staring at two masked men.  I thought one of them was the man who had spoken to me earlier, but it was hard to be sure.  Their loose clothes concealed almost everything that might have identified them.  One of them was holding out a plate of warm food, the kind of meal I’d rarely seen before Boot Camp and never since leaving for Mars; the other was carrying a bottle of water and a pair of glasses.

“You’re bound to be hungry,” one of the men said.  I mentally dubbed him Food; his companion, Water.  “Tell us what we want to know and you can eat.”

I salivated.  I
was
hungry and, no matter
what
they put in the rations they served us, it didn't smell as good as a proper meal.  There was chicken -
real
chicken - potatoes and gravy.  I wanted it.  Oh God, I wanted it.  It would have been easy just to surrender, just to give up my information.  It wasn't as though it was
really
important.  Who gave a damn about the pen of my aunt being in the garden anyway, apart from a particularly dunderheaded language teacher?  I could have told them everything ...

“Fuck you,” I said, before I could stop myself.

Food shrugged.  “You must be thirsty too,” he said.  “Would you like a drink?”

I glowered at him, cursing my slip under my breath.  Water knelt down, placed the glasses on the floor and filled them both with water.  Food smiled, then picked up the fork and speared a piece of chicken, sniffing it before holding it out, under my nose.  The smell was almost heavenly.  I could have eaten it all day. 

“Just tell us the information,” he said.  “Tell us and you can eat whatever you want.”

It would taste like ashes in my mouth
, I thought, morbidly.

He swallowed the piece of chicken, then slowly ate the rest of the food in front of me, taunting me.  I wanted to look away, but I couldn't; the urge to just start spitting out the words was terrifyingly strong.  He finished the plate, took one of the glasses of water and drank it slowly, his eyes never leaving me.  I think I hated him even more than Viper at that moment, even though I
knew
I wasn't being fair.  He was just doing his job. 

“It won’t get any better from now on,” he warned.  “You might as well give up now.”

I glowered at him.  He shrugged and carried the plate out of the room.  Water followed him, closing the door loudly.  An instant later, I plunged back into darkness, taunted by the smell of food.  He was right about one thing, I told myself in a vain attempt to keep my thoughts away from my growling stomach.  It wasn't going to get any easier from now on.  They’d be forced to use less pleasant methods, if such a thing were possible, to get the information out of me.  I heard a faint hiss in the distance and realised, in horror, that I was being gassed.  My head swam ...

... When I awoke, I was lying on a table, my hands and feet firmly strapped down.  Four masked men were surrounding me, their eyes dark with frustrated anger.  I gritted my teeth as they spun the table around, then tilted it downwards and straight into a tray of water.  There was almost no time to realise what was coming before my head was immersed in foul-tasting liquid.  I gagged, then choked, feeling utterly helpless for the first time since I’d entered Boot Camp.  Something struck my chest and I vomited; I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was going to die before the table shifted again, bringing my head out of the water.  I struggled vainly against the restraints, my heartbeat pounding so loudly I was sure the entire world could hear it.  Were they mad?  Were they actually trying to get me killed?

“Tell us the information,” one of the men ordered.

I coughed, spitting up water and vomit, then shook my head firmly.  They didn't like that; two of the men came forward and started raining blows on my body.  Pain surged through me and I knew it would have broken me, if I hadn't been taught how to take punches.  They stopped after a long moment, then attached a handful of devices to my arms.  Seconds later, I felt my hands start to twitch in pain.  It wasn't a pleasant sensation - I later learned they were stimulating the nerves in my wrists - and it grew worse with each repetition.  My hands seemed to be practically moving on their own.

“Tell us what we want to know and the pain will stop,” another man said.  He sounded calm and reasonable, as if he were on my side.  I wanted to believe it, but I knew better.  “There really is no point in trying to resist.”

I closed my eyes as they started to beat on me again, then swung the table back around and shoved my head back into the water.  This time, it was even less pleasant, but I managed to take a gulp of air before the water enveloped me.  Maybe it was a mistake - my chest already hurt badly - yet it let me feel as though I had some control.  They pulled me out after a minute, then sat me upright and shouted questions at me.  Most of them seemed to be completely immaterial, to say nothing of irreverent.  What did
I
know about the current favourite in the gladiatorial games?