course, along with his clothing and jewelry. A full search followed, clearly designed to be as intrusive and humiliating as possible. After that, they gave him a jumpsuit and soft shoes and put him in a private cell about the size of four coffins.
And for six days they just left him there.
It was an old technique, of course. The captive was given time to brood and worry about all the possible things his captors might be preparing to do to him.
Still, there were other, equally ancient techniques that were even worse. These they did not use. They fed him regularly, though the gruel was thin and tasteless. The cell’s sanitary facility at least afforded a modicum of dignity, though accessing it was somewhat challenging in a room where the ceiling was too short for him to stand upright.
More interestingly, they allowed him a full period of sleep each night, uninterrupted by lights, noises, or rough hands. If Charles didn’t know better, he would think he was being treated like a VIP prisoner.
He did know better, of course. Whatever forbearance the Peeps might be showing right now on account of his Solly citizenship would take a sharp turn downward the minute they figured out exactly who he was.
Even that level of courtesy would vanish completely once they figured out what he knew.
Because Charles knew things. Things that no non-Peep should ever know. Including some things that no one outside of Saint-Just’s own top people should know. If his interrogators found out he knew those things, he would learn just how barbaric the People’s Republic of Haven could be. He had to make sure no one discovered the extent of his hidden knowledge.
Or else he needed to find a way to use that knowledge to his own advantage.
It was just after breakfast on the seventh day when his cell was unlocked for the first time and a pair of large dour men hauled him out of his cracker-box kennel and took him down a plain gray corridor to an interrogation room.
The interrogator was already seated on the far side of a heavy-looking table, his dark gray suit a match for the gray of the walls, ceiling, and floor. “Charles Dozewah?” he asked briskly, his eyes on the papers in front of him as the guards cuffed Charles to an equally heavy wooden chair across from him.
“Yes,” Charles said. The interrogator was much older than he’d expected, somewhere in his mid-fifties. Possibly even older than that, depending on which generation prolong he was. That by itself was ominous, since in Charles’s experience younger trainees were usually given first crack at new prisoners in order to hone their skills.
“Or is that Charles Navarre?” the interrogator corrected himself, finally looking up and peering unblinkingly into Charles’s face.
Charles suppressed a grimace. So they’d figured it out. He’d hoped they wouldn’t, but down deep he’d known it was inevitable. “Who?” he asked anyway, just in case.
“Charles Navarre,” the interrogator said. “The man responsible for the destruction of the People’s Naval Ships Vanguard and Forerunner. Not to mention the theft of a sizeable sum of the People’s money.”
“Ah— that Charles Navarre,” Charles said. “Though technically speaking, the Forerunner was an Andermani ship.”
The interrogator’s expression didn’t even crack. “Thank you,” he said as he started to gather his papers together. “That’s all we wanted to know.”
“Actually, it isn’t,” Charles said, forcing his voice to remain calm even as his heartbeat suddenly picked up. Was that all they wanted to know before they turned him over to the torturers? “I’d like you to get a message to Citizen Secretary Saint-Just for me. Tell him that I know about Ellipsis, and that in three days everyone else will, too.”
A slight flicker of something might have touched the interrogator’s eyes as he finished collecting his papers and stood up. He gave Charles one final probing look, then circled the desk and
And for six days they just left him there.
It was an old technique, of course. The captive was given time to brood and worry about all the possible things his captors might be preparing to do to him.
Still, there were other, equally ancient techniques that were even worse. These they did not use. They fed him regularly, though the gruel was thin and tasteless. The cell’s sanitary facility at least afforded a modicum of dignity, though accessing it was somewhat challenging in a room where the ceiling was too short for him to stand upright.
More interestingly, they allowed him a full period of sleep each night, uninterrupted by lights, noises, or rough hands. If Charles didn’t know better, he would think he was being treated like a VIP prisoner.
He did know better, of course. Whatever forbearance the Peeps might be showing right now on account of his Solly citizenship would take a sharp turn downward the minute they figured out exactly who he was.
Even that level of courtesy would vanish completely once they figured out what he knew.
Because Charles knew things. Things that no non-Peep should ever know. Including some things that no one outside of Saint-Just’s own top people should know. If his interrogators found out he knew those things, he would learn just how barbaric the People’s Republic of Haven could be. He had to make sure no one discovered the extent of his hidden knowledge.
Or else he needed to find a way to use that knowledge to his own advantage.
It was just after breakfast on the seventh day when his cell was unlocked for the first time and a pair of large dour men hauled him out of his cracker-box kennel and took him down a plain gray corridor to an interrogation room.
The interrogator was already seated on the far side of a heavy-looking table, his dark gray suit a match for the gray of the walls, ceiling, and floor. “Charles Dozewah?” he asked briskly, his eyes on the papers in front of him as the guards cuffed Charles to an equally heavy wooden chair across from him.
“Yes,” Charles said. The interrogator was much older than he’d expected, somewhere in his mid-fifties. Possibly even older than that, depending on which generation prolong he was. That by itself was ominous, since in Charles’s experience younger trainees were usually given first crack at new prisoners in order to hone their skills.
“Or is that Charles Navarre?” the interrogator corrected himself, finally looking up and peering unblinkingly into Charles’s face.
Charles suppressed a grimace. So they’d figured it out. He’d hoped they wouldn’t, but down deep he’d known it was inevitable. “Who?” he asked anyway, just in case.
“Charles Navarre,” the interrogator said. “The man responsible for the destruction of the People’s Naval Ships Vanguard and Forerunner. Not to mention the theft of a sizeable sum of the People’s money.”
“Ah— that Charles Navarre,” Charles said. “Though technically speaking, the Forerunner was an Andermani ship.”
The interrogator’s expression didn’t even crack. “Thank you,” he said as he started to gather his papers together. “That’s all we wanted to know.”
“Actually, it isn’t,” Charles said, forcing his voice to remain calm even as his heartbeat suddenly picked up. Was that all they wanted to know before they turned him over to the torturers? “I’d like you to get a message to Citizen Secretary Saint-Just for me. Tell him that I know about Ellipsis, and that in three days everyone else will, too.”
A slight flicker of something might have touched the interrogator’s eyes as he finished collecting his papers and stood up. He gave Charles one final probing look, then circled the desk and
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