Chapter 7

Station Venus Prime. December 15, 2153.
Independent Kingdom of Venus

On his first day of captivity, Alan was placed in a locked room, naked, with no food or water. He didn’t know for how long, but when the door opened, he jumped at whoever was there. It wasn’t much of a fight. There were four of them, and he was weak from hunger. Then he noticed that Robert Best was among the pirates. “You fucking traitor!” shouted Alan, and he lunged for Best’s throat, but Best slashed at his face with a hunting knife, slicing him from forehead to cheek, destroying his right eye.

For trying to escape, Alan was tied in a chair, and the thugs beat him. As the damaged space station creaked and groaned around them, the spacemen tortured Alan until a tall, handsome man entered. “Velcome to zee Independent Kingdom of Weenus,” said the man. “Ve are proud to haff such a distinguished weezitor. I am Station Komondor Radmir Valery Kovalyov. And you are?” he said with evil glee.

Alan looked up at the man through an eye that was swelling shut and he memorized the man’s features, long sharp nose, narrow set light blue eyes, broad mouth with thin lips, and a short, salt and pepper beard. Alan was sure that he knew about Radmir Kovalyov. He was some kind of Eastern Bloc officer that was considered too nuts for the already mutinous Eastern Bloc navy.

“Oh, but you are too shy to speak?” Kovalyov wound up and slapped Alan in the face so hard it knocked him and the chair he was in over. The laughing spacemen put him back up and Kovalyov said, “Tell me your name, oh famous one.” Again, Alan refused to speak and Kovalyov sneered at him, “Maybe you are too good to tell me your name,” and he wound up and hit Alan again, even harder this time.

Kovalyov’s hit sent Alan and his chair flying and the pirates laughed loudly as they sat Alan up again. The pain was tremendous. Alan knew nothing but pain now. Why did that hurt more than a closed-fist punch? “Now vill you tell us your name Mister Spaceman?” Kovalyov taunted Alan.

“Alan Scarlett,” muttered Alan.

“Vee haff a celebrity with us!” cried Kovalyov. “Rukovoditel Krasnyy!” (Highest ranking leader Scarlett) “Please make Kapitan Krasnyy velcome in our little station. Maybe reunite him vith his shipmates?” Laughing, Kovalyov left the room, and the pirates beat him nearly unconscious.

Bleeding from a dozen dagger cuts and stabs. Alan was then forced to watch as the pirates beat two Berserker captives to death. Owen Garriott and Bruce Peake were hauled into the room and bludgeoned with fist and club until they were twitching bloody pulps while Alan was forced to watch. Alan shouted himself hoarse, begging the pirates to stop, but they merely hit his friends harder. Alan was sure Bruce and Owen were still alive when their beating stopped. But then, to Alan’s horror, the pirates shoved his best friend in the airlock and opened the outer door. They spaced the brave Navy veterans while Alan watched in dismay.

Then the “questioning” began. He was asked a question, and if they didn’t like the answer, he would suffer. It didn’t matter if the answer was right or wrong, if one pirate said, “I don’t like that answer,” he would be hit somewhere with a hammer, or they would take a power drill to a joint, or they’d push a dagger into him somewhere, or they’d flip him over and rape him. They took a pair of pliers to a testicle, and as he shrieked in agony, Alan realized he wouldn’t survive this torture.

He was questioned for days without food, with little water, and no sleep. Alan was sure he was hallucinating; he saw them castrate a shrieking Gerald Carr, then space him ... or did that really happen? The questions kept coming and made no sense to him at all. Some were impossible to answer because they were asked in Chinese. Down the hall, he heard Anna Fisher screaming hysterically. They were raping her again. They must have tired of the fun because her shrieking ended with the sound of a pistol being fired. “We hope you are more cooperative than she was,” said his questioner. “Now, where were you on January 11th, 2117.”

“That was before I was born,” groaned Alan.

“What was your home address on Earth as a child?”

“I was born and raised on Mars,” the captive groaned.

“How many engines are capable of thrust vectoring on the B-171 bomber?”

“I don’t fly a bomber, never did.” His pain racked mind saw through the fog and he knew what was going on. They’d give him dumb questions one after another, then throw a proper question at him. The B-171 was built with thrust vectoring, but it was too much strain on the ship’s frame, so they shut it off. That’s classified top secret and he shouldn’t know that. It was something that was briefed at a classified briefing, a briefing that he didn’t want to go to. Knowing something like that could change the way they plan to defend against the bomber.

“How many engines are capable of thrust vectoring on the B-171 bomber?” the questioner asked again.

“You mean like gimballing?” Alan’s voice was a hoarse croak. His vocal cords were burned from the bleach they poured in his mouth. “All of the mains can gimbal.” Gimballing differs totally from thrust vectoring. Gimballing was changing the engine’s thrust angle of single degrees to gently steer the ship. Thrust vectoring was changes of up to 90 degrees for sudden turns. It’s a good idea for a fighter, not so good on a heavy bomber. But the questioner didn’t seem to notice that gimballing isn’t thrust vectoring. Almost all main engines on all spaceships can gimbal. It’s how they steer.