The time in the isolation cell dissolved into a tense, silent wait. The echo of Brandt's words, the promise of "more persuasive" methods, resonated off the padded walls. I knew they wouldn't leave me alone. They would want the knowledge. And they would do anything to get it. I tried to focus on the information received from the machine, on the diagrams, the sequences, the story of the builders. It was my fortress, my mental sanctuary. But it was also the reason I was here, and the reason what was coming would be worse.
After a time I couldn't measure, the cell door opened again. Neither Brandt nor Dax entered. Two guards in different, more functional uniforms, without rank insignia, entered. Their faces were impassive. They didn't say a word. They simply unbuckled me from the bunk, my movements stiff with inactivity and tension. They led me out of the cell and down a corridor I hadn't seen before.
This corridor was different. The walls were smooth, polished metal, with cooler, more direct lighting. The air smelled of ozone and something... clinical. The doors on the sides weren't cells; they were metal panels with no visible handles. We reached one of those doors, which opened with a soft hiss as a card was swiped over a hidden reader.
They led me in. The room was rectangular, sterile, with pale gray metal walls. In the center was a chair—not like the one in the cell, but a metal chair with multiple straps and a device resembling a helmet or an electrode array jutting out of a nearby panel. There were screens on one wall, displaying complex graphics and waveforms. There was no furniture, except for a small cart with medical instruments and wires. It was a processing room. An extraction room.
They made me sit in the chair and strapped me in. The cold metal seeped through my clothes. I felt the fear intensify, a different kind of cold than in 73P. The guards worked silently, their movements efficient and depersonalized. They placed the device on my head; the cold electrodes pressed against my skin.
The door opened again, and Brandt walked in. He wasn't wearing a uniform now, but rather corporate work clothes, elegant and discreet. With him came a woman, dressed in a lab coat, with a cool, focused expression, and another man, who looked like a doctor or technician, carrying a suitcase of instruments.
"Good morning, Mr. Cole," Brandt said, his voice devoid of emotion, despite the uncertain time in this subterranean location. "As I told you, we have more... efficient methods. Dr. Anya Sharma will be in charge of facilitating the process." He gestured to the woman in the lab coat.
Dr. Sharma approached, her blue eyes cold and analytical. She studied me like a specimen. "Knowledge resides in neural connections, Mr. Cole," she said, her voice flat. "It's just information. We can access it. We can extract it. With the right technology."
The doctor-looking man approached with the suitcase. He opened it, revealing syringes, vials, and small devices. I felt a pang of panic. Drugs? Truth serums?
"It will be a process... not entirely comfortable, Mr. Cole," Brandt continued, as if speaking of the weather. "But necessary. We have crucial information in your mind. Information that belongs to Aqua-Sol. And we will obtain it."
Dr. Sharma manipulated the device on my head. I felt a buzzing, a subtle vibration. The screens on the wall changed, showing graphs of brain activity.
"We'll start with low-level neural stimulation," Sharma said in his monotone. "To map the relevant memory patterns. Then, we'll increase the intensity to access the deeper information."
And so the battle began. Not with blows or brutal physical torture, at least not at first. But with an assault on the mind. I felt a pressure in my head, a strange sensation, as if my thoughts were palpable. Brandt asked questions, repeating the same questions as before, but now with an intensity that seemed to come from the device attached to my head. They wanted the sequence. They wanted the machine's story. They wanted the knowledge.
My mind struggled to resist, to protect the information. I thought of Kael, of Hanson, of Ekon. Were they doing the same thing to them? Were they alone, facing this same pressure? Concern for them was a weakness my interrogators were trying to exploit.
"Your friends are being... prepared for the same process, Cole," Brandt said, as if he could read my thoughts. "Their resistance will only make the process more difficult for everyone."
The mention of my friends, the idea that they were also suffering this assault on the mind, made me falter. I felt a wave of despair. But then, I remembered the image of the machine, the magnitude of the predicted catastrophe, Hanson's courage in agreeing to join us, Kael's determination, the hope in Ekon's eyes. I couldn't betray them. I couldn't betray the truth.
"The information... isn't mine to hand over," I said, my voice trembling slightly with tension and exertion. "It belongs to something bigger."
Dr. Sharma adjusted the controls. I felt an increase in pressure, an unpleasant sensation in my head. The graphics on the screens changed.
"Resistance is futile, Cole," Brandt said, his voice turning colder. "The human mind is just a set of electrochemical circuits. We can reprogram them. We can access any part of them."
The psychological and neurological torture continued. I felt my thoughts becoming muddled, the information I was trying to protect becoming the target of a relentless assault. Memories of the machine, complex diagrams, the sequence—everything felt exposed, vulnerable to intrusion. My will bent, but didn't break. I clung to the importance of the truth, to the need for it to come out.
After what seemed like an eternity, the pressure eased. The lights on the screens dimmed. Brandt and Sharma took a step back, their faces showing barely concealed frustration.
"It's not as easy as we thought," Sharma said in his monotone. "The knowledge seems to be... integrated at a deep level. Or there are self-imposed cognitive barriers."
Brandt looked at me, his expression hard. "We'll be back, Cole. And we'll use more... intensive methods if necessary. We'll get that information. No matter how long it takes, or how much effort it requires."
The door to the room opened again, and the guards entered to take me back to the cell. My mind felt like a battlefield, exhausted but not conquered. I had held on, for now. But I knew it was only the beginning. The real interrogation, the fight to protect the knowledge of the ancient machine, had barely begun. And the next phase, I knew, would test the limits of my physical and mental endurance in the freezing darkness of my confinement on 73P. The resolution of the narrative now centered on this internal struggle for the truth against Aqua-Sol's relentless coercion.
.
If you want to download the full book, it's available on my KO-FI page. The link is here. 👉
🤩ko-fi.com/winterstar01/shop🤩