Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Torture of Twenty-two
Wednesday, September 15
A picture of Tyler’s campaign poster leaked to the press, and quickly became the top news story. Toby released a statement saying he disapproved of the poster and had spoken to his son about it, but that anything else on the matter was private. The press didn’t agree. Both Dubois and Ajala were smart enough not to comment on the matter, not wanting to seem like they were bullying a 14-year-old and knowing the press would beat Toby to death on it without their help. They were right.
They received the results of the China election on the way to England, and they were worse than expected. Turnout had been high.
| China | Electoral Votes | Dubois | Ajala | Platt |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| China | 159 | 62% | 25% | 13% |
| TOTAL | 159 | 159 | 0 | 0 |
“They’re not voting for Dubois,” Bruce said. “They’re voting against Ajala, and against you for what you did in Russia.”
“Tyler’s poster didn’t help,” Toby said pointedly. At least it had happened here, where they were going to lose anyway, rather than blowing their chances somewhere else.
Dubois had expanded his electoral count to 248, with Platt still at 36, Ajala 10. Some political pundits were already saying the election was over, blaming it on Platt for splitting the vote, though Dubois had beaten their combined vote in China. Dubois was well on his way to the magic 667, while Toby and Ajala were barely out of the starting blocks.
Toby waited until they had arrived in Dover and checked into their hotel before calling Bruce into his room. He was caressing Stupid when he entered. Toby had put up with a lot from Bruce over the years, but this was the first time he ever completely lost it with his political protégé. In all his professional table tennis matches, it was doubtful Bruce had never faced such an onslaught as the one he now faced.
For once, Bruce didn’t talk back. He even took on Tyler’s head-down posture as Toby lashed into him. “What were you thinking?” he began. “Are you a chimpanzee?” When Bruce couldn’t hold back a slight grin at that, Toby lashed into him even harder. Poor Stupid hid behind the bed, occasionally peeking out. It was a long, enjoyable screaming fit, releasing tensions from weeks of campaigning.
“If you ever again talk to Tyler about anything but ping-pong,” Toby said at the end of his harangue, “the next sound you hear will be your head getting drop-kicked off the Rocinante over the Grand Canyon.”
Bruce nodded, looking genuinely guilty, an expression Toby had never seen on him before. “I messed up badly. It won’t happen again.”
Toby couldn’t understand why he hadn’t fired Bruce on the spot. But he was a problem solver, and he’d solved the problem. He knew that Bruce would not make this mistake again, and he needed Bruce in this election. If not for Bruce, he’d be puttering about back home with nothing to do.
Maybe he should fire Bruce, drop out of the election, and go home and putter about, he thought. At least he’d be back with his family.
No, he had a responsibility, a commitment to the election. When it was over, when they were living in The Bubble, he’d make it up to his family.
Living in The Bubble? He’d just gotten clobbered in China, Dubois was soaring ahead all over the world, and he was thinking about turning the Red Room purple?
Soon Gene was going over his schedule with him, and Bruce was filling his mind with facts and figures for his upcoming appearances in England while petting Stupid. Toby barely listened as he wondered about what had become of Twenty-two.
* * *
Duffy stepped out of the elevator and followed Ms. Annhart into the large, darkened room where they held the alien. They were deep underground; he could feel the air pressure pushing down on him. The room felt damp and smelled of mold. Cracks ran across the stained cement floor.
They had chained the alien to a metal ring that stuck out of a wall, and tied a blanket over its head and eyestalks. Duffy untied the blanket and pulled it off. The alien’s odor, like rotting onions, wafted over him, and he wrinkled his nose. It was one more thing he hated about the alien.
“Welcome to France,” he said. “This time there will be no Chinese to intervene.”
The alien didn’t respond, but its eyestalks focused on him. Duffy thought it looked like a fat slug.
“Ambassador, I’ve brought in a professional. I’d like you to meet Ms. Annhart, who has a lot of experience in…interrogation. She will be our guide over the next few days as together we journey past your web of deceit and get at the truth.” He had worked with her before, and she had always gotten results. She always started simple, but she’d get creative when necessary. Different hurts for different squirts.
Ms. Annhart was barely taller than the alien. Her scraggly blond hair fell over a thin, blank face that looked like it had been squashed sideways. She pulled a torture stick and a gluepen out of a satchel, then set the bag aside.
She very deliberately walked over to the alien, as if in slow motion, then stooped slightly so her face was so close that the alien had to pull its eyestalks back to avoid rubbing them against her. Suddenly Annhart’s blank face broke out in a dazzling smile, and she stepped back. She may be useful, Duffy thought, but she sure was weird.
“Let’s start with your spies and contacts here on Earth,” he said. “Who’s helping you?”
“Helping me do what?” the alien asked.
Duffy nodded toward Annhart. She ran the gluepen over the alien’s thick lips, sealing them. Then she touched the torture stick against its mid-section.
Duffy watched with interest and slight distaste as the alien silently writhed in agony, unable to open its disgustingly over-sized mouth. A human under such torture would stink up the room. Instead a sickly-sweet aroma rose from the alien.
After about fifteen seconds, she pulled the stick back. She ran the gluepen over the alien’s lips again, and the glue dissolved. The alien let out a gasping cry, its body heaving.
“That’s just a taste,” Duffy said. If the alien resisted, he wondered what surprises Annhart had in store.
“Humans can breathe through their nose or mouth,” the alien said hoarsely. “I only breathe through my mouth. If you glue my mouth together too long, I’ll die.”
“Pity,” Duffy said. “I find screaming a bit uncivilized and rather loud. Plus, not being able to scream makes these interrogation techniques even more effective—one can’t even vent off their agony. Charming, isn’t it? Now, who are your spies and contacts on Earth?”
“Why should I tell you anything?” the alien asked, its voice high pitched and shaking. “You cannot afford to let me tell others what you have done. Whether I talk or not, you are going to kill me.”
“Yes, but it can be a quick death, or a long and painful one. Like this.” He motioned at Annhart, who glued its mouth shut again. The alien tried and failed to squirm away as she applied the stick again.
It took only ten minutes to break the alien. It had a pathetically low tolerance for pain, Duffy thought. So much for its early defiance. He could have done this himself without Annhart.
Soon the torrid tale of Fernando Vasquez, the grod spy, poured out of the quaking alien. Duffy nodded knowingly as he listened; there was always a conspiracy. Once the alien started to talk, everything came out. It told all it knew about grod military strength and colonization plans. It would be a struggle of civilizations, and Duffy was determined that Earth would win. He’d oversee the upcoming military buildup. The grods had to travel great distances to get to Earth. With that advantage, Earth would fight them off. Earth must become a military power in the galactic region, he decided, a force to be reckoned with. Someday, he thought, it will be us colonizing grod planets.
He knew of Vasquez, a vocal opponent of Dubois—it all fit. He read up on him on his TC and found that the Mexico City mayor and alleged gangster was currently in Europe. The surprise was that Vasquez had switched sides. He’d recently run fund-raisers for both Ajala and Platt, but now he was supporting Dubois and funding attacks on Platt. Obviously he was trying to get closer to Dubois to aid his spying for the grods.
Duffy also needed info on the alien’s ship, which still floated outside Liberal Headquarters in Washington D.C. Army scientists had been unable to break through the ship’s forcefield. He asked the alien how to get in.
“The ship scans for my life signs,” it said with the deadpan voice of one who has lost all hope. “It won’t open for anyone else.”
That will be easy to test, Duffy thought. We’ll fly the alien to Washington, get it to open the ship, and then send the scientists in.
It was also time to have a talk with the Mexico City Mayor.