How I Got Here: "Guests"
16 Dec 2022Columbuss
Commander Justin Estok. Stardate 15-DEC-3308."...Mr. Estok, according to our records... you're dead..."
With a bright light in your eyes, sitting in an empty room while disguised voices interrogate you over loud, unrelenting speakers, it's difficult to remember the truth, much less tell it. Interrogators, they count on that. They count on the level of anxiety that being accused of associating with known terrorists will inevitably bring down on you. Everything inside a detention ship is meant to instill fear and anxiety. They're designed to be uncomfortable. From the increased magnetism in the deck that makes your mag boots feel like they weigh an extra hundred pounds, to the simple noise within the bulkhead. The ship seems to constantly be humming. Whether it’s by intention or just an unpleasant by product of the ships design, it’s always humming just loud enough to keep your attention. Just loud enough so that you can never completely collect your thoughts. Just past the point where you might be able to ignore it and shut your eyes long enough to fall asleep. Everything about detention ships is meant to keep you just at the edge of sanity. Spend enough time on one and eventually, you'll tell anyone anything just to sit in silence for a few minutes.
This is where I found myself after several armed men dragged John and I out of the wreckage that used to be our Type-7. I didn't know it at the time, but watching them pull us out of that wreckage, with fires burning the exposed fuel manifolds in the cold vacuum and blood running down the front of my Remlok mask, was the last time I'd see John.
"How are you associated with known terrorist Kevin Malloy? What do you know about The Nine Martyr's?!" The voice on the loudspeaker barked at me.
"I don't know how many different ways I can answer the same question until you understand..."
They're the kinds of questions that make you wonder why you even bothered answering in the first place. The kinds of questions where the person asking already knows what they want to hear. These questions, they only have one answer and it's never the truth.
What felt like several days had gone by with relentless interrogations. Doubling up on questions. Asking the same things over and over again in different ways to see if the story changes. Session after session in an empty room with bright lights pinning your eyes back in your skull. Session after session of questioning while your boots stay magnetically locked to the steel floor and your upper body floats aimlessly in zero-g. Session after session until one day, it just stopped. On this day I wasn't lead to the cold, empty room I'd come to expect. On this day, I was lead to a room where I could walk.
I stood in the lift, next to two armed guards as it came to a slow, groaning stop. The kind of groan that indicated that maybe an infrastructure budget wasn't passed somewhere where those kinds of decisions are made. I felt the lift shudder, shifting my weight to the side as an indicator light lit up on the control console with an artificial voice echoing throughout the cabin.
"Habitat rotation matched. It is now safe to exit the lift."
The doors opened to a brightly lit hallway stretching out to the left and right angling upwards on an arch at the end of each direction. A habitation ring. What looked like prison ship staff walked back and forth without boots in simulated gravity which the rotation of the habitation ring no doubt provided. We walked the curved length of the hall which seemed to stay level relative to us before reaching a door which hissed open. The guards gave me a light shove inside before the door hissed closed behind me, creaking as it sealed shut. Nothing in this room was meant to intimidate. The lights in the ceiling weren't overwhelming. They lit the room with a soft white glow which the floor echoed back. White walls decorated with artwork depicting homey places from around the galaxy surrounded me. A modern sofa sat against the wall with a small table in front and a chair to the left.
As I sat down on the sofa, the door to the room opened up and a man walked in. He was dressed in a smart suit with a file in his hand. Without addressing me, he walked to the chair, setting himself down and crossing his legs.
"Mr. Estok is it? I'm Jameson Pierce. Public relations officer for the Pillar of Truth correctional vessel," he said extending a handshake which I refused to accept. He had a gentle, studied, voice. The kind of voice with a diploma behind it.
"I've been here how long? This is the first time someone's used my name..."
"Well, Mr. Estok I'm not surprised about that..." he said, retracting his hand and placing a pair of old style glasses on his nose he'd retrieved from his jacket's breast pocket. He opened up the file in his lap and began leafing through it.
"Oh yeah? Why is that?"
"Well, Mr. Estok," he said, looking up at me from the file, "according to our records... you're dead."