Mazer sat with his head bowed, still and quiet. His lips began to move, and at first Wit thought that he had broken; that he was surrendering the names but no longer had the strength to speak them aloud. Then slowly Mazer's voice grew in volume. It wasn't English, Wit realized. It was Maori. And the words weren't names. They were a song. A warrior's song. Wit didn't speak the language, but he had seen the traditional singing of Maori warriors before. It was half grunting, half singing, with a stomping dance and exaggerated facial expressions. Mazer's face didn't so much as twitch, but the words spilled forth from him, gaining intensity and strength. Soon his voice was filling the room, harsh and booming.
Wit continued sending sharp bursts of pain. Mazer buckled every time, falling to the floor, his song cut off, his body writhing. But as soon as the pain subsided, Mazer clawed his way back into a sitting position and began to sing again in earnest. Soft at first, as he found his voice, and then louder as his strength returned.
An hour later, Wit stopped. He shut off the holopad, turned off Mazer's crown, and went directly into the screening room. Deen and Averbach removed their helmets.
Mazer was on his hands and knees, his shirt soaked in sweat, his arms and legs trembling.
"We're done, Mazer," said Wit. He typed a command onto the front of Mazer's crown. The device loosened and came free in Wit's hand.
Mazer's voice was weak. "So soon? I was starting to enjoy this."
"We've gone long enough," said Wit.
"I didn't break, O'Toole."
"You didn't break. Very good."
"Could you really have caused permanent neurological damage?" asked Mazer.
"No," said Wit. "That was a bluff. The device doesn't damage tissue. It simply overrides your pain and sensory receptors. I wouldn't do anything to impair you. You're too valuable a soldier for that. I was also bluffing about MOPs not having any oversight and being unscrupulously without ethics. Nothing could be further from the truth. Individual freedom and the preservation of human and civil rights motivate everything we do."
"Yet your bosses let you torture potential candidates? Those are some interesting ethics."
"Our enemies are usually murderers and terrorists, Mazer. They often require a show of strength and brutality equal to their own before they relent. My job is to find the men smart enough to know when brutality is necessary."
Mazer struggled to his feet, wobbling a little but soon upright and straight. "Well?" he asked. "Am I such a man? Did I pass your screening? Am I in your unit?"
"No," said Wit. "Because nobody gets in my unit unless they break out. Submitting to torture means you already lost once. You have to hate to lose so badly that you'd rather die trying to escape. And then be good enough to escape without dying. Anyone in my unit would have overpowered these two men guarding the door and escaped from this warehouse in three minutes. You just sat there for an hour."
Mazer looked back up at him, stunned.
"Sorry, soldier," said Wit. "You failed."
CHAPTER 4
Council
The helm on El Cavador was always buzzing with activity, but today the crew seemed especially occupied. Now that the Italians were gone and a week of trading and banqueting was over, the whole ship was in a rushed frenzy to make up for lost time with the dig. There were quickships to prepare, flight paths to program, scans of the rock to take and decipher, machines to operate for the miners below, dozens of plans and decisions and commands all happening at once--with Concepcion at the center of it all, taking questions, interpreting data, issuing orders, and flying from station to station with the nimbleness of a woman half her age.
Victor and Edimar were floating at the hatch entrance, taking it all in, waiting for a break in the chaos to approach Concepcion about the alien spacecraft Edimar had found. From the look of things, it didn't seem like they were going to get that chance any time soon.
"Maybe we should come back some other time," said Edimar. "She seems busy."
"Nothing is more important than this, Mar," said Victor. "Believe me, she'll be glad we interrupted."
Victor turned on his greaves, allowed his feet to descend to the floor, and crossed the room toward Concepcion, who had anchored at the holotable with a group of crewmen.
Dreo, one of the navigators, a big man in his fifties, stepped in front of Victor and lightly put a hand on Victor's chest, stopping him. "Whoa, whoa. Where you headed, Vico?"
Victor sighed inside. Dreo fancied himself second in command, even though that position was officially held by Victor's uncle Selmo. Victor gestured back to Edimar, who hadn't moved from her spot by the hatch. "Edimar and I need to speak with Concepcion immediately. It's urgent."
"Concepcion is not to be disturbed," said Dreo. "We're almost at the lump."
"This is more important than the lump," said Victor.
Dreo smiled sardonically. "Really? What is it?"
"I'd rather speak to Concepcion directly, if you don't mind. It's an emergency." He made a move to go around Dreo, but the man put his hand out again and stopped Victor a second time.