Chapter 5
919 Words
5
An hour passed.
For Smoke, it felt like four.
He stared at the one-way mirror on the wall.
He knew someone was watching his every move. He knew he was being recorded.
So he stared at nothing, hardly moving.
His arms were heavy. So heavy. The metal alloy in his bones made itself known, and he wished he could break free of the latches that held him.
But they were reinforced steel.
He was in real trouble now.
No escape plan.
No way to improvise.
What should he have done?
Right about now, if they extinguished the fire at the hangar, the would be finding his rifle. And they would tie his prints to it. Then he wouldn't stand a chance.
Jail for life.
Maybe even the death penalty.
Death didn't scare him so much as the fact that he couldn't remember anything. Seemed like just a few hours ago his brain was working. He had a purpose. He knew what he was doing. His finger on the trigger of the rifle felt right.
But he didn't know why.
Now, he was just aimless, with a murder charge on his name.
His wrists twitched under the latches. He wanted to feel anger, but he couldn't.
Who should he have been angry at?
He knew there was someone he should have directed his anger at, but every time he tried to think back, his head pounded until he stopped thinking about it. Then the pain stopped, as if it were never there.
The only thing he could do to minimize the pain was to think of nothing.
The door opened and a middle-aged detective in a rain-slicked black trench coat and fedora walked in. He rapped the table with his knuckle as he passed. Then he took off his coat and hat and draped then against the back of his chair. He wore a white shirt, black tie, and a handcoil on a shoulder holster. He put his hands on his hips, looked Smoke up and down, and then he whistled.
Smoke ignored him and stared ahead.
“I'm special agent Ryan Miller with GALPOL. Unlike my friends here at the CPD, I play by a different set of rules. You ever heard of GALPOL, buddy?”
Smoke shook his head.
The response surprised Miller, but the man tried not to show it. He turned around and paced the room.
“So what kind of backwater galaxy are you from that you haven't heard of GALPOL?”
Smoke shrugged.
“Any other criminal sitting in your chair right now would be crying,” Miller said. “Come on, cut the bullshit. You know who we are.”
Smoke shrugged again.
“Let me jog your memory, then: how about mandatory minimum sentences automatically because we’re involved. If we find you guilty, of course, which we will. Or, the fact that even if you somehow manage to scurry out of here, you're going to be in our database for the rest of your life, and we’re going to come and pay you regular visits.”
Smoke shrugged yet again.
“You know you're going to die, right?” Miller asked. “No jury in the short arm of this galaxy is going to have any mercy on you, buddy.”
Silence.
Smoke drowned out the man’s words and blinked several times.
Miller banged the table and leaned in toward Smoke.
“So I'm going to ask you again, and if I don't get the answers I'm looking for, I’m going to have a problem and trust me when I say that I'm not the kind of guy you want to have a problem with. Here we go, buddy: what is your name?”
Smoke fidgeted in his chair. Miller didn't take his gaze off him.
“My name,” Smoke said quietly, “is f**k you.”
Miller’s eyes widened. He banged the table again.
Then the special agent began to laugh. First quietly, then long and loud. He leaned against the wall, rested his head against his elbow. He was laughing so hard his forehead was sweating.
Smoke said nothing.
And then, as if it were all an act, Miller stopped laughing and put on his angry face again.
“Okay, Mr. f**k You,” Miller said, “That’s not the first time I've heard that. I'm just glad you didn't spit at me.”
Smoke spat at Miller and struck the wall near him.
“Great, now we can add a charge for assault of a police officer to your charges.”
Miller banged on the door.
A young woman in a polo and jeans entered with a thick suitcase in her hand. Her hair was tied back with a headband.
“This is Margot Drewery,” Miller said. “She's a GALPOL engineer. Open the suitcase, would you, Margot?”
Margot opened the suitcase. She pulled out a tablet. Neatly bundled across the inside of the suitcase were wires. Attached to the wires were metal clips.
Cybernetic interface clips.
Smoke moved his hands against the latches. But the metal held him.
“Ah, so that gets a response,” Miller said.
Margot took a clip into her hand.
“One last time,” Miller said. “What the hell is your name?”
Smoke’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the clip in Margot’s hand.
He stuttered.
He wanted to say his name.
But his lips wouldn't move.
He willed them to move, but they wouldn't.
He couldn't say anything.
He tried and tried and tried, but he could only hear himself yelling in his head.
I don't know!
I don't know!
“Do it,” Miller said.
In a rapid motion, Margot attached the clip to the circuit inside his temple. An electric shock jolted through Smoke’s head and his entire body went rigid as Margot took the tablet and began typing into it.
“He's immobilized,” Margot said.
Lines of code streamed across the tablet screen.
Smoke wanted to break free of the latches, but he was thoroughly stuck.
Miller leaned in again.
“Don't worry,” he said. “I have a warrant. Now let’s get some answers to my questions,” he said.
- Writer
