Chapter 34 - The Price of Understanding

  Special Agent Torian Falk silently observed the man slumped over the bare metal table of the interrogation room. The Freeholder’s head hung low, his shoulders slack, the fight drained from him. On the display screen in front of Falk, the high-definition image of the interrogation room was crisp and unforgiving.

  From the captive’s perspective, the room was featureless—just dull, matte walls with no discernible cameras, no hint of where eyes might be watching. No windows were cut into the structure; the Empire no longer relied on such archaic measures. Too many stories of hidden explosives, of shattered glass and uncontrolled outcomes, had rendered transparency a risk rather than a tool.

  The man inside had no way of knowing who, if anyone, might be watching him. He’d been there for nearly twelve hours, utterly alone, the silence broken only by his own voice. Falk hadn’t stepped in earlier. That wasn’t how he worked.

  In the beginning, the Freeholder had been defiant, as expected. He’d shouted his loyalty to the cause, spat obscenities at unseen captors and slammed his fists against the table until his knuckles were raw. Promises to resist, threats of vengeance—standard fare for the self-righteous.

  But humans weren’t built for that kind of endurance. Hours of silence were an insidious enemy, chipping away at bravado like water carving stone. Falk had seen it before. The man’s rants had faded to mutters, then to silence, the absence of sound pressing in like a weight. His eyes darted around the room every so often, searching for something—anything—to anchor himself to. But there was nothing. The blank walls stared back, the hum of the ventilation system the only sign the world outside the room even existed.

  It was deliberate. Every second of those twelve hours had been calculated to wear him down, to soften the edges of his defiance. Falk wasn’t sadistic; he didn’t revel in cruelty. This was simply efficient. Why fight against a sharp edge when time could dull it for you?

  Falk turned his head slightly as Lieutenant Veris shifted uncomfortably beside him. He didn’t begrudge the girl her slight show of unprofessionalism. It took a certain type of person, a certain mentality to properly apply oneself to interrogation tactics. He was self-aware enough to realise that his propensity to the task set him apart from ‘normal’ people, but he had needed training and practice.

  The Lieutenant would learn and adapt.

  Without a word, Falk pressed a button on the control panel, deactivating the display screen. The time for passive observation was over. He adjusted the cuffs of his uniform with precision, then stepped toward the door to the interrogation room. It opened with a soft hiss, sealing behind him as he entered.

  The Freeholder didn’t look up at first. It took a moment for the sound of Falk’s boots against the floor to register. The man’s head jerked up, bloodshot eyes locking onto Falk’s calm, impassive face.

  Falk didn’t react to the sudden motion, didn’t acknowledge the tension in the air. He simply moved to the chair opposite the Freeholder, his movements measured, deliberate. As he sat, he placed his gloved hands neatly on the table and fixed the man with an unblinking stare.

  The room was silent save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. Falk let the moment stretch, let the pressure build. The Freeholder’s gaze faltered first, his eyes darting to the table, then to the walls, then back to Falk.

  “You are Tren Rhyse. You are twenty-six years old. You have lived on Caldera IV for the last twelve years.”

  Falk reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out two printed photographs and placing them deliberately on the table. His gaze did not waver from Tren’s.

  “Your wife died two years ago. You have a daughter and a son. They are five and three years old, respectively.”

  He pushed the two photographs over to Tren’s side of the table, watching the man’s expression as he looked at the photos. They were of his two children, taken just this morning. A demonstration of the Empire’s reach and knowledge, combined with a subtle threat.

  Falk allowed Tren a moment to absorb the images, then spoke, his tone clinical, detached. “This is how this will proceed,” he said. “I will ask questions. You will answer them. It is not a question of if you answer, but when. That choice, however, determines how much of yourself you have left when this is over.”

  Tren’s trembling fingers hovered above the photographs but didn’t touch them. His jaw clenched, and his lips pressed into a thin line. Falk noted the reaction without acknowledgment, as though it were a detail in a report to be filed.

  “No one is coming for you,” Falk continued, his voice devoid of any intonation that could be mistaken for either anger or reassurance. “You were captured because your operation failed. Your superiors have written you off as a loss. Your usefulness to them ended the moment you were taken into custody.”

  He leaned back slightly, his gloved hands folding neatly in front of him. “You are here because I have decided you still have a use. If you demonstrate otherwise, then your value to me, too, will cease to exist. This is your reality. Adjust to it.”

  Tren’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes meeting Falk’s. There was defiance there—anger, fear—but it was a flickering thing, not the burning fire it had been hours ago. Falk stared back, unmoving, unflinching. The silence stretched, filling the space between them like a heavy fog.

  Tren began to speak, haltingly at first, his words tumbling out like a breached dam. Falk didn’t respond, didn’t press or prompt. He simply listened, the cold efficiency of his demeanour cutting any attempt at resistance before it could begin.

  Each word was a surrender, each sentence an admission of defeat. Falk noted every detail, his expression as impassive as it had been when he first entered. The man had broken, as they always did.

  It was only ever a matter of when.

  – – –

  The door to the interrogation room hissed shut behind Special Agent Torian Falk, sealing the captive inside.

  A moment later, he was stepping into the viewing room where the Lieutenant was waiting for him. Her posture straightened as he neared, her hands clasping behind her back in a crisp, military stance.

  Falk stopped a precise distance from her, tilting his head slightly. “Time?”

  Veris hesitated for only a second before replying. “Six minutes of interrogation, though technically twelve hours and twenty-four minutes from when he was brought in, sir.”

  Falk nodded once, approvingly. “Good. Always make sure to account for the full amount of time taken. Rate the efficiency of this method compared to the first two.”

  Veris tapped at her dataslate, bringing up her notes. Falk’s sharp eyes caught the slight tremble in her hands, but he dismissed it. A certain amount of imbalance was only to be expected after the first few times witnessing interrogations. It was rarely a pleasant process, after all, even when using the more… civilised methods.

  Veris shifted slightly, glancing down at her dataslate before speaking. “The first method, sir—allowing the captive to feel they had leverage—was the slowest overall. It required nearly three hours of active interrogation before the subject broke, but there was no setup required. It’s straightforward, adaptable. However, its efficiency declines sharply if the subject doesn’t believe they have anything to bargain with.”

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  Falk nodded, his expression neutral, encouraging her to continue.

  “The second method, pressing inconsistencies in their story, was faster in terms of active interrogation,” Veris said, scrolling through her notes. “Forty-two minutes from start to finish, but it required more preparation. You had to gather enough intelligence beforehand to create the contradictions. It’s effective, but it relies on the subject being emotionally unstable or unprepared. A more hardened operative might not have yielded as much.”

  “Correct,” Falk said evenly, his tone carrying no hint of praise or reproach. “And this method?”

  “This method…” Veris hesitated, glancing briefly at the now-deactivated display screen. “Technically, it took the longest total time—over twelve hours when you account for the isolation period. But the actual interrogation lasted only six minutes, making it the fastest in that regard. Most of the psychological work was already done before you even entered the room, sir.”

  Falk’s lips pressed into a faint line, a gesture so subtle it was nearly imperceptible. “Isolation,” he said, more to himself than to Veris. “An elegant weapon. Time does the work for you.”

  Veris nodded slowly, clearly troubled. “Yes, sir. It’s efficient in breaking down resistance, though it requires patience and an appropriate setting. The subject has to believe they are truly alone.”

  Falk turned his gaze back to her, his expression impassive. “You seemed to have a more emotional reaction to this method, Lieutenant. Are there any concerns you wish to air?”

  For once, it was actually an entirely genuine question. Regulations dictated that any officer or Intelligence candidate who appeared troubled by some of the… darker methods employed by the Empire’s agents be given all opportunities to discuss their concerns.

  Falk might not have personally had any compunctions, but most people did – and it was far better to openly discuss these things than have them ferment in the background.

  Unsurprisingly, the Lieutenant hesitated for a long moment before building up the nerve to speak. “It’s just… this feels different, sir,” she eventually settled on. “The first two interrogations were more… active, I suppose. The way you were asking questions and setting the tone required skill and effort, and worked well, but this last method…” she trailed off, unable to properly articulate her thoughts.

  “You expected a clean war,” Falk said quietly, his tone devoid of reproach. “Lines drawn neatly in the sand. Heroes and villains. Victory achieved through superior morality and ideals alone.”

  Veris opened her mouth as if to respond, then closed it again, her brow furrowing.

  Falk continued, his words precise, deliberate. “The Empire’s strength does lie in its ideals, Lieutenant. But ideals do not function in isolation. The Freeholders don’t concern themselves with grand notions of honour or fairness. They use whatever tools they have to destabilise and undermine, and they do so with a singular focus. If we limit ourselves out of some sense of superiority, we give them an advantage. The same is true for any enemy of the Empire.”

  Veris nodded slightly, but her hesitation lingered. Falk stepped back, his gaze shifting briefly to the deactivated display screen.

  “I understand,” he said, his voice softer now, though still firm. “It’s a jarring realisation. The first time you see the machine for what it is. Not the shining symbol, but the gears and cogs that make it turn.”

  Veris looked up, her expression caught between surprise and discomfort. She hadn’t expected sympathy, and the realisation showed in her eyes. Falk allowed her a moment to absorb his words before continuing.

  “You’re not wrong to feel conflicted,” he said. “That’s what makes you human. But conflict is a luxury you can’t afford. Not if you intend to succeed.”

  Veris straightened slightly, though the tension in her frame remained. “I… understand, sir.”

  Falk inclined his head, acknowledging her words without committing to their truth. “You’re progressing well, Lieutenant. Better than most at this stage. But understand this: the moment you entered this program, you gave up the privilege of seeing the Empire through rose-coloured glasses. You’ll never get that back. But what you will gain is far more valuable: clarity.”

  Veris nodded again, this time with more conviction. “Yes, sir. I appreciate your honesty.”

  “Good,” Falk said simply. He adjusted the cuffs of his uniform, his movements crisp and deliberate. “Now, have the three men we interrogated moved to solitary confinement. Make sure none of them are given any indication as to the states of their companions.”

  He eyed the Lieutenant again, carefully weighing his next actions. On the one hand, showing her any more today could prove to be too much – the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. On the other hand, it could serve to temper her, hammer home the lessons she had learned today.

  In the end, it was an easy decision. Falk genuinely believed that the young woman had the temperament required to serve as a member of Imperial Intelligence. With that in mind, coddling her would only serve to weaken a useful tool. If it was too much and she broke…

  Well, there were plenty of fish in the sea.

  “I believe there was a fourth man captured?” he asked idly, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes, sir,” the Lieutenant replied, tapping at her dataslate. “Though his injuries are quite severe – he is not expected to survive the night without extensive treatment.”

  Falk tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Then we will not waste the opportunity.”

  “Sir?”

  “Follow me,” Falk said, already turning on his heel. His pace was measured, unhurried, as though discussing logistics rather than a dying man. Veris hesitated only a moment before falling into step behind him.

  As they walked, Falk began to speak, his tone clinical and detached. “The method I am about to show you, Lieutenant, is not one I recommend under most circumstances. Torture, while often portrayed as the most direct path to information, is deeply unreliable. A subject under extreme duress is as likely to tell you what they think you want to hear as they are to provide actionable intelligence. More often than not, it wastes time and resources.”

  Veris’s face tightened, but she didn’t interrupt. Falk continued, his hands clasped behind his back as they moved through the corridor.

  “Torture’s only true advantage is speed,” he said. “It can be the quickest way to extract something useful, provided you can separate truth from fabrication. In certain scenarios—scenarios where time is a critical factor—there may be no other option. But it should always be a last resort.”

  He glanced at Veris out of the corner of his eye, noting the tension in her shoulders and the pale set of her lips. “Normally, I would not resort to this method myself. There are more efficient and reliable ways to gather intelligence. But in this case…” He allowed the sentence to trail off as they reached the cell block.

  “Well, in this case, the prisoner is already dying. His condition renders him unfit for prolonged interrogation, but it also removes any concern over the long-term consequences of our actions. Not to mention, we have already gathered the information we need. It is, in essence, a training opportunity. Nothing more.”

  Veris’s knuckles were white against the edges of her dataslate, and her lips were pressed into a thin line.

  Falk studied her for a moment. “You don’t need to agree with these methods, Lieutenant,” he said evenly. “In fact, I, personally, would be disappointed if you did. You only need to observe. If this method offends your sensibilities, consider that another lesson. Every action we take comes at a cost. Part of your role will be learning which costs are acceptable.”

  She nodded again but still didn’t speak.

  Falk turned back to the cell block, motioning for the guards standing outside to open the door. He directed Veris to the observation room and, once she was situated, moved towards the cell in question with quick efficiency.

  The man inside was slumped against the far wall, his breaths shallow and ragged. A medic knelt beside him, having been directed to keep the prisoner alive until a decision had been made about what to do with him.

  Agent Falk gestured for the medic to leave, but raised a single hand to stop him when he moved to gather his tools. “That will not be necessary,” he said cooly. The medic took a single look at his face, paled, and hurried for the door.

  The cell was silent save for the man’s laboured breathing. Falk moved toward him, his expression unchanged, his gloves creaking faintly as he adjusted them. The man’s gaze flicked between Falk and the medical supplies left behind. His expression was a mix of fear and resignation.

  Falk reached for the tools.

  – – –

  When Falk re-entered the observation room, he was rolling his gloves off, his face as calm and impassive as it had been when he entered.

  Lieutenant Veris was standing stiffly by the back wall, as far from the display as possible. Her posture was rigid, and the colour had completely drained from her face.

  Her eyes darted to Falk as he approached, then quickly away again, as though she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze for too long.

  Falk paused at a nearby sink, washing his hands methodically, his movements slow and deliberate. The water ran pink for a moment before clearing. He dried his hands on a towel, then turned to Veris, studying her carefully.

  She was pale, visibly shaken, though she stood at attention. Her grip on the dataslate was tight enough to leave faint indentations in the casing, and her jaw was clenched in an effort to maintain her composure. Falk tilted his head slightly, his expression softening by an almost imperceptible degree.

  “Lieutenant,” he said quietly, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Take some time for yourself. You’ve seen enough for today.”

  Veris’s gaze snapped to him, her eyes wide, as though surprised by the dismissal. She opened her mouth to protest, but the words caught in her throat. After a moment, she closed her mouth and nodded sharply.

  “Yes, sir,” she managed, her voice tight.

  Falk nodded once, stepping aside to allow her a clear path down the corridor. “Report back when you’re ready.”

  Veris hesitated, then turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing faintly against the metal floor. She moved with deliberate precision, her back straight, though Falk could see the tremor in her shoulders.

  As she disappeared around the corner, Falk turned back to the sink, staring down at the clear water pooling in the basin. He adjusted the cuffs of his uniform, smoothing the fabric with practised efficiency.

  His expression didn’t change. There was no satisfaction, no regret, no anger. Just the calm detachment of a man doing what needed to be done.

  After a moment, he turned and walked away, the sound of his boots fading into the sterile hum of the corridor.