Brought Down

4. Interrogation

Garrett

Julian barely raises his eyes when I enter the cell. He sits on his narrow bed and pretends to be lost in thought. The plate with food on the metal table stands untouched. As I come closer, I can see his cup is empty. At least he drinks water.

"So," I say, moving a chair. "How's your day going?"

He looks me over and resumes his starting into space.

"Have you received your confirmation?" he says after a pause.

"About the Carron attack? Yes." I sit down on the chair, facing him. "We've surprised your friends big time. No casualties on our side." I expect him to ask questions about the other side—his side—but he seems disinterested.

I take the opportunity to look him over, without the layer of dust concealing his features. This is the first time I see any royal in flesh and blood, and at a hand's reach. So far, he's pretty much what I expected, except for his surprisingly small frame. He could probably fit into the clothes I wore at the age of fifteen.

"How old are you?" I say.

"Twenty one," he replies absently.

Even with his grey prisoners' robe and his uncombed dark hair, it's obvious he doesn't belong here. There's arrogance in the very way he holds himself, in his calmness, in his ignoring me. His skin is so pale I wonder if it ever saw the sun. They do get some sun up there on their stations—unlike us, living under the black clouds that turn each day into perpetual dusk.

"You're not very talkative," I say.

He turns his head and glares at me with his big hazel eyes.

"I mean, we treat you nicely, give you showers, food, new clothes, a place to stay..." I'm teasing him on purpose, to draw him out of his artificial indifference. Following the events in Carron earlier today, I'm in quite a good mood. What could have been a disaster has turned into a great victory.

"Showers?" he repeats. "You mean, when your people stripped me naked and pushed me into that freezing room and sprayed me with ice cold water from the hose, laughing all the time? And this place to stay doesn't even include a pillow and a blanket. And do you call this thing here food?"

"It's synthetic food," I say. "It's what people down here eat when you assholes cut off our supplies. And had we not developed it, we would have been dying like flies."

"The supplies are cut only when your mines do not fulfill their obligations. When you work well, you get what you need. I know you have real food."

"That doesn't mean we'll waste in on you."

He rolls his eyes. "So much for hospitality. I gave you important information, and you can't even give me edible food."

"It is edible." I point at the table. "Try it."

"Well, it looks like vomit and smells like vomit, so my whole life experience leads me to believe that this is freaking vomit." He waves dismissively at the plate. "I'm not touching it."

My good mood begins to dissipate.

"If you want to starve yourself, be my guest." I open my notepad and click the pen. "I came here to ask you some questions, not to get your opinion on our menu and general hospitality."

"Good for you, because my opinion would be dreadful."

I try to stare him down, but he holds my gaze. He's clearly pissed, and I wonder if it's more about the food or the humiliation of the hose shower.

"I want you to draw me a scheme of your headquarters." I hand him the pen and the notepad.

"Seriously?" He makes no move to accept them. "Pen and paper? You people truly live in a stone age. Ever heard about computers or tablets?"

"Draw. The. Scheme."

"Oh come on," he says. "If I do, there's no way for you to know if it's accurate or made up, so why bother?"

He's got a point there. I put the notepad and the pen on the table.

"If you don't feel like drawing, let's talk. Yesterday you told us a very nice story about the Carron attack. Do you have any more stories to share?"

"Oh, I'm all into sharing," he says with mock eagerness. "But if I talk, will you let me go?"

"Go where? Once you're out of the mines, the things up there will finish you before you get far. Or do you expect us to give you a ride to your folks, so that they could execute you for your treason?"

"You promise to let me out," he says. "I'll take it from there."

"I can give you no promises."

"Then I can give you no information." He leans his back against the wall and crosses his hands on his chest.

"You're too cheeky for a prisoner. Perhaps a cold shower will make you reconsider."

"Oh, here come the threats." He raises an eyebrow. "I was curious what shape they'd take."

"Shower is not a threat. It's all about hygiene."

He chuckles. "Well, funny man, why don't you at least tell me who you are? A man who makes no promises but can sentence me to a cold shower."

I sigh. This conversation isn't going anywhere, but there's no harm in introducing myself.

"I'm Garrett Wilson. I'm the son of George Willson, you surely heard about him."

"Sure." He nods. "Never heard about you, though."

"I took part in quite a few battles, and lead some of them," I say before realizing that I've been slightly hurt by his remark, and my current words are an attempt to impress him. What the hell?

"Still, not a clue." He smiles at me pleasantly. He has a wide, pretty smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "It seems that both of us live in the shadows of our great fathers. We have that in common."

"We have nothing in common." I stand up. "And if you don't want to talk, it's no big deal. After Carron, your friends must have realized that you're talking to us and will now adjust their plans. So, whatever you think you know is probably outdated, and has no value."

It's satisfactory to see a shadow of doubt pass in his eyes, even for a second.

"But don't worry," I say. "There's still a way you can be useful to us."

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