Date point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth
There was a change in the texture of nothingness, a return of some of the functionality of his body. Six wasted no time in extending his sense of self outwards from its cloistered life inside the implants, and into the meat he was wearing.
It was, surprisingly, not too bad. His mouth was dry, and his head ached a little, but he awoke to find himself lying—clean, clothed and dignified—on a bed.
It wasn’t exactly a comfortable bed, but nor was it torturously hard. It was just a simple mattress, with a pillow-shaped raised bit at one end in lieu of an actual pillow, and a blanket. It was the sole feature of a plain grey room, other than a door which looked, if anything, even more solid than the walls around it, and a sturdy yellowish light panel in the ceiling. There wasn’t even a window.
He sat up, enjoying the feeling of his limbs moving again, appreciating the way they reported none of the discomfort he had felt when last conscious and pinned face-down to the San Diego sidewalk.
His link to 72 was dead. The micro-wormhole connecting him to the Hierarchy had, somehow, closed itself. Wherever he was, it was at the very bottom of a communications black hole.
No matter. Unexpected complications or not, the mission remained the same: gather information. Something would, presumably, be happening soon. He would record it, he would remember it, he would find a means of escape, and rather than being a disaster, his hive-poking would turn out to be a triumph.
For now, he sat, and waited.
He didn’t need to wait long. Though there were no obvious sensors or cameras in the cell, pretty soon there was a sliding sound—a panel had opened about eye level on his door. It shut immediately afterwards, and was followed by a second, larger hatch at about waist height, through which was thrust a tray.
The smell wafting off it immediately reminded him that he was hungry. Unbidden, his stomach emitted that peculiar growling sound again, and his mouth went into overdrive, salivary glands anticipating the arrival of food.
It turned out to be quite bland fare next to his last meal of just a few days ago. Some white substance, like a dry… gel, almost, or paste. Its taste was pleasant but simple. The chunky brown-white fluid in a separate compartment went well with it, and also with the brownish crumbly item. There was certainly nothing to complain about there, but it wasn’t a patch on the steak and burgers he had so recently eaten.
But then again, what did he expect as a prisoner? In truth, he would have expected far worse than this. A comfortable bed in a clean, dry and warm cell? A filling hot meal and a tall container of cold water? It was a conundrum.
He was still puzzling over this peculiarity when there was a banging on the door, which opened. Three humans stood without, holding blunt black weapons.
Ah. THIS was more like it. A beating. This was closer to what he had expected.
The human in the middle spoke to him. “Detainee, please face the far wall.” He instructed. “Crouch on your knees, place your hands on your head and interlock your fingers.”
“And if I don’t?” Six challenged. He could handle a beating. This… nice treatment was getting to him.
“Detainee, please comply. We will be forceful if we must.”
There was that word again. “Please”. It seemed so strange to have the armed guards address him politely and respectfully, even if they were being impersonal.
He glanced at the far wall, wondering if he should just comply and see what awaited him if he did. After all, why go through all that pain unnecessarily?
The guard spoke again. “Detainee, this is your final warning. Your compliance is mandatory for everyone’s safety, including yours.”
So. No beating. They’d just restrain him and… what, take him somewhere? Either way, there was no point in suffering the inconvenience.
“Fine. I comply.” he said, turning to the wall and kneeling. The guards stepped into the room.
“Hands on your head and fingers interlaced please, detainee.”
Six obeyed.
There was an efficient bustle of movement. His hands and feet were bound with metal, though from the looseness at the ankles he would be able to shuffle a walk. Something dark went over his eyes, something soft over his ears. His world became a purely tactile one, full of no sensation but the hard floor under his knees, the weight on his limbs. Strong hands lifted him to his feet, and he could sense—he wasn’t sure how, but his body reported certainty of the fact—that two of the guards moved into position near him, guiding him with physical contact, pushing him forwards just enough to get the message across that he should be walking. As predicted, he couldn’t hit any kind of a stride, but he was able to walk after a shuffling, slow fashion.
Six tried to judge the route as they left the cell, but quickly gave up. There were so many turns and he was spun around a few times at some points, completely throwing any attempt to track where he was or how far he had gone. For all he knew they could have walked past his cell door five times before he heard—faintly, through the stuff on his head—the sound of a door.
A chair was bumped gently against the back of his knees, and those same hands that had guided him for the last few minutes helped him sit down. There were a few tugging sensations, and sound and light returned in a rush, making him blink and grimace.
“Hello.”
The greeter was seated opposite him, smiling faintly as the handlers filed out of the room. It wasn’t a large room—in fact it was just the two chairs, a desk, and a conspicuous camera mounted on the ceiling. The only features on the desk where a small laptop, turned towards the human so that Six couldn’t see the screen, and a slim paper dossier and pen.
“My name’s Stephen, I’ve been assigned to your case.” the man opposite him continued. “My goal here is to learn as much as I can about you and your associates, but before we begin…Have you been fed well? Are you comfortable enough?”
This was not, Six thought, how an interrogation should go.
Date Point 3y 8m 3w AV
Something was very wrong in the life of Adam Arés.
He’d never realised before just how small his Dad was. In fact, Adam had stood taller than his old man for a couple of years, but he’d always seemed large to Adam.
Now, wrapped up in hospital gown and blankets and violating tubes as he was, that illusion was shattered. Gabriel was a small man, but not a frail man. Not usually. Right now, though…
That alone felt like a crippling loss, and he thanked Jesus Christ and all the angels that it was the only loss he’d endured. Gabriel was, miraculously, very much still alive, and according to the doctors recovering nice and strong. The bullet had entered in the small of the back, bounced off a vertebra, obliterated a kidney and exited through the flank, leaving behind bruising of the lumbar spinal cord and a badly perforated bowel but—crucially—it had missed the renal artery. By which small grace, Gabriel’s life had been saved.
They hadn’t let him stay. He hadn’t been there when Gabriel had first woken up. He hadn’t even been able to visit until after a shouting match with his Mom and a heated phone call with Mrs. Almodóvar.
But he’d finally been able to visit, and now…
Gabriel shifted, then woke. He blinked at his son, confused for a second, and then smiled. “Hey, Amigo.”
Adam gave up on trying to be manly. He threw himself forward and felt Gabriel bring his free arm—the one without an IV drip in—up and around to hug him, albeit with a grunt of pain.
“Sorry…” Adam muttered.
“It’s okay.”
“Jesus Christ, Dad, I thought…” Adam couldn’t even say it, it just made the tears hurt more as they forced themselves out. “I thought…”
“I know. I’m sorry little man, I dropped the ball. I should have been keeping an eye out.”
A laugh forced its way out between the sobs. “Yeah, you’d better be!”
There was a minute’s silence, and then Adam pulled away, wiping his eyes. “Shit, Dad, please don’t ever do that to me again.”
Gabriel smiled, but sobered. “From what the doctors are telling me, I might be taking early retirement.” he said. “Between the kidney and my spine…”
Adam’s eyes widened. “You’re gonna be able to walk aren’t you?”
“Four out of five.” Gabriel promised. “Or so Doctor Boylan says. I heard it’s all about willpower, so I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be in a wheelchair. But pretty sure I’m never passing physical again so…” he shrugged. “Guess that was my career. It’s okay, I’ve got plenty saved up and invested.”
“You love your job, though.” Adam said.
“Yeah. But it’s just a job, Amigo. There’s more important things.”
Gabriel ruffled his son’s hair, then sat back. “Shit, I get tired quick.” he complained.
“It’s okay. I… Ava and I are having another go at dating tonight, I should get ready.”
Gabriel smiled. “Good for you, man…” he said, closing his eyes.
“Yeah. Hopefully it’ll go better this time.”
Gabriel chuckled, then yawned. “Yeah. Pretty sure dates aren’t s’posed to have… shooting…” he mumbled.
Adam let him fall asleep, then let himself out.
Date point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth
“Um… yes. Thank you, I’m quite comfortable.” Six admitted. It was true, in fact: the seat was cushioned and ergonomic, and he felt perfectly fine sitting upon it.
“Good to know.” Stephen replied. “So… I’m going to start this interview now. Could you please tell me your name?”
“Mr. Johnson.” Six replied, promptly. That particular feature of the drone’s cover was hardwired into the same implants that now hosted his personality.
Stephen nodded. “I was hoping for your full name.” he said softly, drumming his fingers on the table. The combination of the drumming and Stephen’s mild tones did something very strange to Six—the sounds were actually pleasant, in a way that he had never encountered before. He shook it off and focused on the task at hand. This was still an interrogation, however alien it might be, and Six had five hundred thousand years of experience to draw on to help him. A human who wasn’t even an infant relative to that lifetime wasn’t going to get the better of him just by being nice.
“I don’t know your full name.” he pointed out.
“True. I’m Moore, Stephen Moore.”
“Thank you.” Six said, but didn’t reveal his cover’s first name, although this was in large part due to the cover not having been assigned a fixed first name. He remained silent as he rifled through the biodrone’s past mission history in search of the most recently used first name.
“Okay, if you don’t feel like sharing yet, that’s fine.” Stephen said. He tapped on the keyboard of the laptop in front of him, and the gentle tapping, clicking noises the keys made as they were depressed again elicited that same strange pleasantness in Six’s head. It felt… relaxing, warm, comfortable.
He immediately stiffened. What if he was under the influence of some kind of drug? Humans were particularly susceptible to hallucinogens and similar substances, perhaps that meal had been full of some kind of compound that would open him up to speaking the truth.
The stiffening attracted Stephen’s attention. “Is everything alright?” he asked.
“What was in that food I ate?” Six demanded.
“Uhmmm.. mashed potato, biscuits and gravy, peas and carrots.” Stephen replied, after checking his notes. “Why?”
Six was an inexpert reader of human expressions and body language, even with the aid of the specialist subroutines that lurked deep inside any translator implant, but there was no mistaking the honest curiosity in his interrogator’s reaction. It implied that either the food had not been drugged, or—less likely—that Stephen did not know about it.
Perhaps the sensation was just another symptom of human strangeness, one to which he had not hitherto been exposed. He didn’t know. For now, it was safest to withhold his suspicions rather than voice them and out himself as nonhuman. If the reaction was perfectly normal and he commented on it as if it weren’t, then he would have blundered.
“I’m…” he thought how best to make an excuse. “…I was expecting something less pleasant.”
Stephen nodded. “I understand. But we’re professionals here, we don’t do that kind of thing. You have my solemn promise that you’re perfectly safe.”
“That seems… counter-intuitive.” Six told him.
“Perhaps. We’re interested in information, and a peaceful resolution. That’s the first and most important priority. As for you, your person and rights are protected by…” here, Stephen paused and thought for a second, “Oh, a whole mess of laws, which we’re not interested in breaking. It’s better for everyone that they remain unbroken.”
“How noble.” Six scoffed. “Or maybe you’re just trying to get me to relax so you can catch me off-guard.”
Stephen inclined his head. “Is that what you’d do?” he asked.
Six didn’t answer, and after a few seconds Stephen shrugged. He typed something on the laptop in front of him, letting the silence slide.
“Shall we move on to the actual questions?” he asked. “What’s your name again?”
“Mr.” Six emphasised the word “Johnson.”
“Still no first name?”
“No.”
“Not, for instance, Edward? That’s the name you used on your flights to and from New York.”
Unbidden, a detail from the biodrone’s most recent mission surfaced. Yes. Edward.
”…Edward Johnson.”
“Thank you.” Stephen tapped on his laptop again. “But is that your real name?”
Six sneered at him “Of course it is.”
Stephen gave an uncomfortable little grimace. “So, why did you rent a car under the name Paul Johnson a few weeks prior? Why is the name on your apartment’s lease Mr. Richard Johnson?”
He smiled. “Most people don’t change their name as often as they change their jeans.”
They sat in silence for a minute, with Stephen just staring at him, giving Six time to think. There was, he realised, simply no way to maintain the facade of being Mr. Johnson. The damnable drone’s recall was too disconnected from his control, the details of its cover too vague, too hard to retrieve on short notice. A change of tack was in order. He would stick to what he himself knew, without relying on the drone.
“Call me… Six.” he said, finally. It wasn’t like the simple number would reveal anything.
“Six. Fair enough. Thank you.”
Six only stared at him, awaiting the next question.
“Okay, Six… you’re not human, are you?”
Date Point: 3y 8m 3w AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada.
♫♪There’s just an illusion of something different / the very reason they keep telling you something’s missing / but whatever it is you won’t get from…♪♫
“Y-hello?”
“Jenkins, it’s Tremblay.”
Kevin yawned and sat up. “Morning, General.” He squinted at the glowing numbers in the dark. “Dude, it’s like oh-five-thirty.”
“Yeah, well, ET intel consultant’s a job that puts you permanently on call, eh? I’ve got some fine gentlemen from down south want a word with you, AND a priority message from the colony. Grab some of that wonder coffee you make and get up here.”
The advice to make himself a coffee was sensible on two levels: even if he hadn’t needed to drum up some alertness and drive away the effects of inadequate sleep, it was five-thirty in a winter’s morning in British Columbia. Next to his native Austin, he may as well be above the arctic circle, and three years hadn’t yet served to acclimatize him to the cold. The little disposable cup of triple-strength Mocha served to keep his fingers warm as he grumbled a path through the snow.
A helicopter added to his misery as it came in low overhead while he was passing the security checks to get into the base’s command building, kicking up a blizzard that even made the Quebecois guard flinch inside his greatcoat. Getting inside the heated complex of offices and briefing rooms was heaven.
He knew the way to Tremblay’s office by heart, but as ever there was an escort. Even three years as a civilian contractor and consultant didn’t buy the freedom to walk the base unescorted.
Fortunately, the guard was known to him, and they swapped some small-talk on the way up.
Tremblay’s office was verging on being crowded, occupied as it was by the man himself—looking, Kevin was pleased to note, just as groggy and dishevelled as he felt—plus another CA general, this one with the little crown above his crossed sabers that indicated a Lieutenant-general, superior to Tremblay’s own rank of Brigadier-General, and four men in suits.
“Who’s this then?” the senior officer asked as he entered. He looked disgustingly alert and well-groomed.
“Major-General Paul Rutherford—Kevin Jenkins.” Tremblay introduced. “Our ET intel consultant.”
“I know you!” Rutherford exclaimed. “You were the one in that interview that got all the ETs so shit-scared way back.”
Kevin grimaced and nodded. “Yeah, that was me.”
“You said some rather nasty things about your own species there, Jenkins.” Rutherford pressed, earning him Kevin’s best cool stare. It lasted for several seconds.
“When I said those things, I meant every word.” he said. “Still do, too. And from the looks of things, history has proven me goddamn well right.”
Rutherford snorted, and looked at Tremblay. “You were right Martin, he’s a dick.” he said.
Tremblay’s glance shot around the room as Kevin raised an eyebrow at him, and he cleared his throat. “Commander Higgins and Group Captain Temba here are with MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service.” he said. “Agents Hamilton and Williams here are CIA, and Lieutenant Leclerc behind you is with our own CSIS.”
Jenkins turned around. Leclerc was a tiny woman whose feet weren’t even touching the floor as she sat behind the door, watching and listening. She gave him a faint smile.
“I assume you have some ET intel you want me to consult on?” He asked, settling in the last remaining seat after dragging it away from Tremblay’s desk and turning it around so he could straddle it.
“Before we begin, I want to make it clear that this meeting is classified and its content is Need-To-Know only, under all the relevant laws of, and treaties between, our respective governments. If you don’t accept that, then get out.” Rutherford said. He fixed Kevin with an especially challenging glare, and seemed only grudgingly satisfied when Kevin nodded his understanding and acceptance. This was far from being the first classified meeting he’d attended. “…Martin?
Tremblay just extended an open-palmed hand, inviting the CIA agents to speak first. Williams stood, and the lights dimmed as she turned on the projector.
“Five days ago we apprehended this man in San Diego.” She said. The slide showed a bearded, brown-haired man of indeterminate age and nondescript features. “An accomplice—” the slide was of somebody who looked effectively identical “—was gunned down after badly wounding San Diego PD homicide detective Gabriel Arés.”
“Arés? Shit!” Kevin ignored the disapproving looks his interruption garnered. “Is he okay?”
“He’s recovering in hospital. The doctors give him a good prognosis.” Williams assured him. “May I continue?”
She cleared her throat. “At present, we’re holding John Doe here in a stasis box while he’s moved to a secure holding facility for interrogation. The good thing about that is that we’ve got plenty of time to get our intel together. At this point, however, The Company considers it extremely likely that he’s a member of an extraterrestrial organisation known as “The Hierarchy”, with unknown but apparently hostile motives towards Earth and the whole human race.”
The lights came back up. Rutherford took over. “The purpose of this meeting is to compare notes and to furnish the CIA with everything they might need to aid the interrogation. Mr. Jenkins will reiterate everything that he has learned about the Hierarchy.”
“And the Brits?” Kevin asked, looking at them.
Temba cleared his throat. “As a British Overseas Territory, the settlement of Folctha on the planet Cimbrean reports any intelligence or developments directly to us, and classified.”
Higgins elaborated. “The most recent of that information appears to be somewhat relevant.”
“Let’s hear it.” Jenkins challenged.
“We’d prefer to hear from you first, Mr. Jenkins.” Higgins said, softly.
“Hear what, exactly?” He asked.
Hamilton leaned forward. “Everything.”
Date Point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth.
“Well, dropping the nonhuman bombshell early seems to have paid off. Pay up.”
One of the team—there were eight of them total in the room for today—rolled his eyes and dug out a fifty dollar note, which he handed over. The bet didn’t really mean anything: that particular note had been changing hands from bet to bet for so long that nobody could remembers whose wallet (or wager) had originally produced it. “Interesting session.” he commented, as ‘Stephen’ entered the room.
Stephen wasn’t his real name—that was just the booth persona, a tool to give the detainee the convincing illusion of forming real trust and a relationship with a real person, while hopefully shielding the interrogator from getting too close. It was a tough line to tread, though—any hint of insincerity could set back the interrogation a long way. It was a damn tough job.
“How’re we doing?” He asked, grabbing a cola and sandwich from the little desktop fridge in the corner.
“Plenty of data points. He seems to respond well to politeness, and he changed tack nicely when you caught him in the lie about his name. And he definitely had a moment of panic when you dropped the “not human” bomb on him.”
“I saw it.” ‘Stephen’ agreed. “He telegraphs a lot—I was expecting an alien infiltrator to be more… stone-faced.”
“We’ve still not really established that he’s actually an ET.”
There was a gentle throat-clearing from the team’s psychologist. She was the sort of person who spoke only rarely, but commanded total attention when she did. “He pegs almost maximum on the Hypochondriasis and Psychopathic Deviate scales.” She commented, referring to something on her tablet computer. “We haven’t seen enough to rate him otherwise yet, but already, he’s a long way from ‘normal’.”
“Good start, then. What would you like for the next session?”
“Hmm…” She conferred with her assistant for a second, ending in a mutual nodding. “Schizophrenia and/or Hypomania, please?”
“Makes sense…” There was a general taking of notes.
“Lots of interesting tics. Especially that thing when I drummed my fingers.” ‘Stephen’ commented.
“That looked like ASMR to me.” the assistant psychologist chimed in.
The facility commander frowned. “ASMR?”
“Eh, the acronym’s pure pseudoscience.” said one of the team. “but the phenomenon itself is… kind of a pleasant warm fuzzy feeling in the head in response to certain stimuli.”
“What stimuli?”
“Oh… gentle tapping and scratching, soft speech, personal attention, that kind of thing.”
“You sure that’s a real thing?”
“I get it myself.” admitted the psych assistant.
The one who had explained the phenomenon nodded. “Same.”
“Sounds like it could be a useful reward. Easy to control in the booth.” added the second ‘gator.
“We’ll try it.” ‘Stephen’ agreed. “I’ll do some research ahead of tomorrow’s session.”
The lead interrogator rubbed his chin. “What are you thinking of going with? If anything?”
“Still probing for now. I think ego’s going to play a big role going forward, but as for up or down… I dunno.”
“We’ve got more material for ego-down.”
“True, but we should save that.” the lead ‘gator said. “For now, I think we keep it slow. Direct questions, pounce on any lies we spot, build the relationship and get a better picture.”
“Yeah, it’s still early days.” agreed the second ‘gator.
“Okay. We happy with that?” There was general agreement. “Okay. We’ll call it there, start working on the next session’s questions in the morning. We’ve had a long day people, good work.”
Date Point: 3y 8m 3w AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada
“During my travels, I ran into the idea of the Hierarchy a few times, always in the same way that we’d talk about… you know, the Illuminati, or Area 51, or… fucking lizard people from Venus, or whatever. You know, a legend, a myth, a… conspiracy theory. Nobody took it seriously.”
They did the unnerving thing of listening to him and NOT asking any questions.
“Anyway. I met Terri Boone on V-day. She was a P.I., and her client had employed her to tour the country looking for real abductees. Not the idiot anal probe mothership motherfuckers: the real deal, like me.”
“She was literally in my bar when the Hunters hit Rogers Arena. Everyone’s flipping their shit over the monsters on TV, and I was grinning like a madman because, you know, I knew what was going to happen next. Been there, done that, worn the blood spatter. I took a group that big damn near solo, just a Rickyticky with a broken arm called Kirk for backup.”
“This is the same Kirk who flies for the GRA now? The one who supplies Cimbrean?” asked Temba.
“Same guy, yeah. So anyway, after that I went along with Terri on her job. I had a load of money saved up and nothing to spend it on, so I thought ‘why not?’ and this… plan, just formed. About getting all the abductees to chip in their experience in this big scrapbook of sketches and personal accounts. We got news of this base being set up and we just… bounced up here, from abductee to abductee, collecting life stories along the way.”
“The Hierarchy was mentioned a few times in there too. We just stuck it in the ‘weird shit’ section. We figured it was, like, ET pop culture, you know? Anyway, that scrapbook was pretty much turned wholesale into the EBM.” he continued, referring to the Extraterrestrial Briefing Manual that had gone out from Scotch Creek to Toronto, from there to world governments, and from a leak in one of them onto the Internet in short order. “Most of the convoy gave their interviews, gave up their last little bits of intel, most of them went home. I stayed here.”
“Terri left before we even got up here, though. Think we were in… Colorado, maybe? She got a phone call, and just took off. I didn’t hear from her again until about, uh… eight or nine months ago, when she just showed up at my bar here on base. She said she was betraying her employer’s trust, handed over a USB stick full of the names of people who’re probably still off Earth right now, and a letter which she promised me not to open until I knew it needed opening.”
“That was the login and password for the online drive.” Hamilton said.
“Yeah. I think she must have known she was messing with some really dangerous people, and was going to get maybe killed, you know? She… we had… fun, you know? Which, I didn’t complain at the time, but I didn’t think she’d liked me that much before, so I guess she was… trying to squeeze as much out of life while she could.”
“Focus please, Kevin.” Tremblay reminded him.
“Right, sorry. Uhm… Anyway, last I saw of her, she left for San Diego, and the next I ever heard about her was Arés calling me a couple months ago to let me know she’d been killed, and question me about the murder.”
They listened, and he kept talking to fill the silence.
“I went to the funeral. Had a talk with Arés, he said there wasn’t much he could do to follow up on some of the leads on that cloud drive. Jurisdiction and all that bullshit, you know? But he did let me know the name of this guy Ravi Singh in New Jersey.”
“His name wasn’t Singh.” Williams said.
“I know. But, that’s how I knew him. He said he was this… nuclear disaster, fallout specialist kinda guy for the Indian nuke program. I’ll spare you the full story—I recorded it though, Tremblay’s got the recording—but the TL;DR version is that he visited… think he said eighteen planets, all class ten or higher, Deathworlds like Earth, and they all had the remnants of civilization on them.”
“Now, we’re supposed to be unique, right? The only Deathworlders in the galaxy? But here there’s eighteen ten-plus planets full of cities, all nuked to shit and gone. Apparently the Corti who took him felt that was really good evidence to support the existence of the Hierarchy. Guess it was on the money, because their ship got boarded, the Corti and the Ukrainian that they’d taken alongside Singh got iced, and he only escaped because he’s smart and paranoid and learned their language. Got back to Earth, went dark in New Jersey and stayed there. I don’t know how Terri found him.”
He shrugged. “He could probably tell you better what the Hierarchy’s all about than I could.” he confessed.
“They bombed his apartment building a couple of days after you visited.” Williams revealed. “Collapsed half of it. Five dead, including ‘Singh’ himself.”
Jenkins just closed his eyes and grimaced.
“Alright. You want my opinion? What I think the facts mean?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“I think the Hierarchy keep the conspiracy theory going because it’s… what’s that term? Plausible deniability. I think they’re real, and I think they wipe out deathworld civilizations.”
“Do you have any idea why they might do that?” Higgins asked.
“Fear! I mean, look at how much the others are shitting themselves over us.” Kevin replied. “Shoving up a forcefield, telling their ships and stations to throw us to the wolves…While I was up there I got moved on as often because they were shit-scared of me as for vagrancy. One little show of some supernatural feat like picking up a forty-pound crate in point seven Gs—you know, nothing to us, but to them it’s like “he’s an unstoppable monster, get him off the station!”. You know, I heard one of us got involved in the Dom-All war like, thirteen years ago? That stupid motherfucker’s the reason every station in the sky has a locker full of nervejam grenades nowadays. Even if the, like, general public didn’t know about us before my dumb ass got on the news mouthing off about religion? The authorities sure as shit did, and they armed their security guys accordingly. They’re fucking afraid of us, man.”
“To the point of genociding… how many planets?”
“Fuck if I know. But… yeah. See threat: destroy threat. That’s how they’re thinking, most likely.”
“How are we a threat to them?” Rutherford asked.
Kevin half-laughed the word “Bro!”, shaking his head. “We’re the end of them. We’re the end of the way things used to be. Once we’re out there—like, really out there, not dipping our toe in the kiddy end like we’re doing right now? We. Will. Eat. Them. Alive. Because we can’t not, alright? Shit’s gonna get Darwinian out there, and we’ve got a four point five billion year head start over every single one of those poor dumb assholes.”
He sipped his coffee and, finding it cold, set it down next to him in disgust. “The Hierarchy are just the only ones smart enough to know it. And they’re the ones doing the sensible fucking thing and wiping out threats before they become a threat.”
Higgins frowned. “You make it sound almost as if you admire them for that.” he said.
Kevin shrugged. “How hard would you fight, if defeat meant the world became a place where everything you loved and lived for could no longer exist?” he asked.
“Do you mean to say you think they should succeed?” Higgins inquired.
“Hell the fuck no! I’ve been out there man, it’s a crapsack! If it’s not violently insane, it’s corrupt and callous, and if it’s not corrupt and callous it’s dumb as a stump! And that’s the status quo the Hierarchy would kill us all to protect! Things need shaking up out there! That’s the only way the galaxy’s going to become a better place, is if we head out there and start banging heads together. Gently, so they don’t burst.”
“How Texan.” Higgins noted, drily.
He turned to General Rutherford. “Shall I share our part of the briefing now, sir?” he asked.
Rutherford nodded. “Oh, yes. Please do.”
Date Point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth.
Time behaved strangely in the cell. There was nothing to do, nothing to look at or inspire him. For the sake of having anything to do, Six found himself doing some exercises he could remember seeing being practiced on the beach in San Diego, though he had no idea if he was doing them right.
That alone might be an indicator of his non-human status, and he was undoubtedly being surveilled, but it was that or… nothing.
So, he exercised, he slept, he was fed, and led—ears and eyes covered—to a simple bathroom where he was allowed to perform his stolen body’s necessary ablutions and clean himself. They even provided him with clean clothing. It was the only vaguely interesting thing to happen for what felt like it must have been the best part of two days.
It was a strange relief, therefore, to be finally retrieved by his taciturn handlers—never the same handlers twice, nor did they speak to him except to issue orders—and ushered back into the interview room.
The questions became, oddly, less pointed, less targeted. They started to query him about some bizarre things, claiming that it was all about “getting to know him”. Questions like his favourite foodstuffs and his preferred recreational activity were easy enough to answer, from his limited pool of human experience. Others, however, were truly strange. A favourite colour? As if there was something preferable about one narrow slice of the EM spectrum over any other arbitrary slice? The question was impenetrably strange to him. He just took a random stab and replied “green”.
That was after what felt like weeks, however, once he had bored of playing the game of refusing to answer. Nothing seemed to faze Stephen, who seemed equally content to ask the same stupid questions again and again, and was equally comfortable with any answer, or even none. It was strange, he seemed to just… genuinely enjoy Six’s company.
Six found he had no option but to look forward to Stephen’s company and his interrogations. They were the only thing that broke the monotony. Sleep. Eat. Excrete. Every so often he was taken to a large featureless room where there was room to walk, and the floor was padded for basic exercises under the watchful, silent eye of his handlers. Every day he was given the opportunity to clean up and put on fresh clothing. Every time he returned to his cell after leaving, it had been cleaned, and the bedding replaced. He was being exceptionally well looked-after, but there was nothing to do. At all.
The introduction of a second interrogator—“Carl”—almost felt like the opening of a whole new world of experience. He was similar to Stephen in most respects—a little lower and more gravelly of voice, a little less handsome, but equally polite, equally patient, equally… insightful. Neither man allowed even the faintest hint of a discrepancy to pass: they would pounce on it, pry at it, probe it with questions and unrelenting logic. They would repeat the same question over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN! It was like being slowly and inefficiently murdered with words, and no matter how often it happened, no matter how aware he was of what they were doing, the sheer irritation of it always teased out just a little bit more from him, just another detail in the hope that maybe this crumb would convince them to stop asking. With each one, they eroded yet another fragment of his lies, exposing the truth one grain at a time until all his falsehoods were gone, dissected in painstaking detail and incinerated under the glare of incomprehensibly patient scrutiny.
Despite this, the sheer novelty of having a second person to talk to was like emerging to feel the cool breeze on his face.
That became his routine, if such a word could even apply to something that seemed to happen totally at random throughout his “day.” Sometimes it was Stephen. Sometimes it was Carl. Either way, the sessions became the only interesting part of his day.
Today, it was Stephen. He didn’t even acknowledge Six’s presence for several minutes. He just… read the dossier, occasionally jotting a note or something in it. As they turned, and as the pencil scritch-scratched its way across them, those thick paper pages made a noise that echoed pleasantly in Six’s head, and he entered a kind of trance just listening to the soft sound.
He was jolted out of it when the dossier was flipped closed with a sharp snap.
“Hello Six.” Stephen said, as if he hadn’t just spent who-knew-how-long ignoring the detainee. They both always began the session with those same words.
”…Hello, Stephen.”
“Did you sleep well?”
They always asked that. The answer was always the same.
”…Not really.”
“Hmm…” Stephen frowned. “You’ve been here a while now, I would have expected you to adapt to it by now. Maybe you need a more comfortable bed.”
By Six’s starved standards, even a change to a slightly more comfortable bed sounded like bliss.
”…Is that an option?” he asked. One personality module in one implant sneered and chastised himself for the pathetic eagerness that he totally failed to keep out of his voice.
“It could be. But you ARE a detainee here, you know. Why should I give you special treatment?”
”…Of course, you wouldn’t just offer something like that without a price. Quid pro quo, yes?”
Stephen didn’t react beyond a slight uptick in the light smile he always wore. “I’m going to repeat a few questions we’ve gone over before.” he said.
“Oh, go on.”
“What’s your name?”
“You’re asking me that again?” the absurdity of it jolted Six right out of the terse mood he’d been trying to slip into. It had been the very first question Stephen had asked him, long since answered. Why would he pointlessly resurrect it now?
“What’s your name?” Stephen repeated.
Six snorted. “Mr. Johnson.” He replied, sarcastically.
Stephen’s head waved around and he smiled slightly as i f the sarcasm were amusing, rather than irritating. “Please tell me your name?” He insisted.
Six sighed. “…Six…”
He was pleased to discover that the keyboard sounds were just as pleasant as ever when Stephen wrote something.
”…What’s your real name, Six?”
“That is my real name.”
“Really? Sounds more like a number to me. Surely you weren’t born as little baby Six?”
“You presume a lot about me, Stephen.”
“What, that you were born? I think that one’s a pretty universal constant. Even if you ARE an ET.”
Six said nothing. Stephen just smiled that gentle smile of his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask you if you were comfortable.”
“I am. thankyou.”
“How was your meal?”
“Filling.” that was about all it had been.
“That’s good. So… which is it?”
”…what?”
“Well, Six is a number, and no culture I ever heard of name their kids after numbers. So either you’re not human or else you’re lying about your name. Or both, of course.”
“We name our kids some pretty strange things.” Six said.
“Who do?”
“Humans.”
“But you aren’t human, though. Are you?”
“So you keep claiming. But when there’s a woman called Moon Unit Zappa out there, you can hardly use the fact that my name is ‘Six’ as evidence of that, can you?”
Stephen’s little tilt of the head might have indicated concession. “That argument might hold more water if your head wasn’t stuffed full of alien technology.” he said.
Six considered his response, trying to map out the potential future paths of the conversation. He could claim to be a former abductee, but that would fall apart soon enough—too many inventions stacked on top of each other, he’d slip and allow a discrepancy eventually. He could –
“So why did you bomb that apartment in New Jersey?” Stephen asked, completely throwing him with the non-sequitur.
Fortunately, the truth here would work to his advantage. “That wasn’t me.”
“That was your associate, then? Considering you aren’t brothers, you really look very much alike.”
“And how do you know we aren’t brothers?”
“Genetic testing. You may look identical, but you couldn’t be less related.”
“I-”
“What about that roller derby? What did you hope to gain by shooting up a bunch of kids and their parents?”
“I didn’t have a gun. I wasn’t-”
“Why did you kill Terri Boone?”
”…Who?”
“San Diego, the car park? You killed her with a grenade launcher. Why?”
“I didn’t do that.”
“That’s funny, because for that one, we have DNA evidence that says it was you. So why did you kill her?”
“Like I said, it wasn’t me.”
“We have all the evidence which proves that it was you. So why did you kill her?”
“This is getting tiresome.”
“Why did you kill Terri Boone?”
”…”
“Why did you kill Terri Boone?”
“Would you stop that?”
“Answer the question and I’ll stop. Why did you kill-”
“It. Wasn’t. Me.”
“You’re lying. Why did you-”
“Fine!” Six exploded. “I’m not human! I’m an independent consciousness capable of uploading myself into any appropriate host! I wasn’t even on Earth when this body killed Boone!”
“Thank you.” Stephen said, mildly. He tapped away at his computer again, and Six calmed a little, shaking as the full weight of what had happened hit him. The words had erupted out of him on a tide of frustration, driven by his total deprivation of anything resembling an intellectual stimulus for… he didn’t know. Months? It felt like months. Parts of him could only figuratively gape, aghast that the secret he had guarded all of that time was finally thrown away, mined out of him by nothing but boredom.
“What, you believe that?” He asked, trying to fill his voice with scorn, hoping that mockery might salvage his failure.
“We already knew that’s what the Hierarchy is.” Stephen said. Still typing “I just needed to hear you say it.”
“Now you’re lying.” Six accused. The door opened behind him and his handlers returned.
“Detainee, please stand.” they ordered. Stephen gathered his things, nodded to him, and made to leave by the opposite door.
“Come back here!” Six snapped, surging to his feet as far as his restraints would allow and straining against them. “Come back here, you! You’re LYING!”
Stephen didn’t even dignify that accusation with a response.
Six’s handlers… handled him. He seethed in the dark every step of the long and winding walk back to his cell, which seemed to take twice as long as it usually did. When they finally arrived, he found that his bed had been replaced, and a small table and chair introduced to the room. There were some coarse paper pages and a graphite stick.
Six’s bruised pride hated himself for the way he was pathetically grateful for them.