Chapter 7
It still takes a while for the subjects to speak full words. But their knowledge of weapons increases, and the competency climbs day by day. You introduce new things. Rockets, spacecrafts, rocket launchers. They learn each with ease. P11 is especially adept at the mazes and close range combat you observe as it slices its enhanced claws through a trekkel man’s throat. Thank the stars for the Kree and the battle slaves they are willing to loan out as training tools. The trekkel man sputters, holding his throat and collapses. P11 leaps off his chest and spins, leaping up to crouch on the metal wall of the maze. It peers through the scope of its rifle and identifies the next target, taking it out easily and dashing the rest of the way through the labyrinth to make it out on the other side. 53 seconds. Better than 13’s measly minute and a half.
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“Now let’s try again,” you admonish, P13 is strapped into a chair across from you. Dozens of wires are fed into its skull through the cybernetics. Its wrists and ankles are bound, as well as its neck but it is no longer muzzled. Dried blood crusts to the corners of its mouth and its tongue is still inflamed. You hold up a picture of an Ionan M8K17. “What is this?” P13 looks at you, looks at the image. It tries to shift in its seat and mutters a growling chitter sound. You reach across the table and whack it in the stomach harshly. “Use your words P13!” It curls inward, whining and huffing for air. “What. Is This?” It stares at you and then tries again, its voice taunt.
“R…iiiifl,’ you nod
“Yes, rifle.” One of the handlers give P13 a pellet. It devours the thing and looks expectantly for another.
“How do you remotely detonate a Zen Wobarian land mind?” You inquire. 89P13 thinks for a moment then opens its mouth, begins to make that annoying chittering sound but stops,
“C….c…cooode,” it swallows each word slowly. You nod, and you continue interrogating P13 for the next three hours. Between its incessant chitters and squeaks and its difficulty to speak you have to open it up again for reprogramming. When you lower the knife down to cut into its throat it snatches your wrist, growling. Your hand trembles as you look into those pupil-less eyes. You use your other hand to make a fist and bang it against the hardware in its temple. It shudders and releases you from its grip. You cut and watch its larynx vibrate while it screams.
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You hold the syringe precariously, the bright florescent surgical lights illuminating P13’s pulverized insides. Its foot jitters and its head lolls, eyes moving rapidly behind its closed lids. It passed out when you opened its flesh.
“Tighter,” you do not miss the apprehensive gazes of your assistance as they pull the hooks farther towards them, one on each side. P13’s scarred flesh is tough but not unbreakable, the hooks yank hard against the resisting flesh which eventually tears opening its body cavity to reveal the rest of the organs. Stomach, liver, the diaphragm. You blink, motioning for the surgical vacuum to continue sucking away the blood that obscures your line of sight. There, you grin behind your mask. The cybernetic implant just under the stomach. You aim the wide hollow needle in and begin the press the fluid downward. A mixture of your own creation. The needle pierces the pulsing pink stomach lining and P13 strains suddenly, tail dashing and claws stretching. Your assistance look at its face as you continue driving the mixture down into its stomach. Watching the dark green substance thread through the natural pink, tainting it as it spreads like oil.