Chapter Text
“I wish to see your interrogation techniques in person, Director Orden. I’ve been told they are rather unorthodox.” His voice was matter-of-fact and brooked no disagreements.
Ailish shrugged slightly, “I don’t think so. Many of my techniques have been in use by the Empire since before I left the academy. I just know which techniques to use on which prisoners.”
Tarkin arched an eyebrow ever so slightly. Ailish was not sure if it was disbelief or if he was mildly impressed. “Regardless, I shall be present for this particular prisoner’s interrogation. His information is of vital importance and I wish to be there firsthand so that nothing is lost in translation.”
“As you wish, your Excellency.” Seemingly as an afterthought Ailish added, “It won’t be pretty.”
“My dear girl, I am no stranger to the atrocities of war. I can assure you that nothing you can do will shock me in the slightest.” His tone was sharp, he was annoyed.
Ailish shrugged again, more pronounced this time. “Come with me please, your Excellency.” She nodded to her aide as they left her office, “Lt. you may have tomorrow off. When you come back, see to it that my office is pristine and your reports are finished and in order.”
The young man nodded. He didn’t know what the Director did when she went “down the shaft” for days at a time, but he did know that every time she emerged, she was tired and required everyone else around her to perform their duties to a level of perfection that was unsustainable for long periods of time. It was kind of her to give him a day off. But it was also a warning, it would be the last he would get for a long time and she was not likely to be forgiving of mistakes any time soon.
As he watched his boss, Director Orden, followed closely by Grand Moff Tarkin stride away, Lt. Dalrup had the thought that it was more like they stalked the hallway. Both took exact, military spec steps, and yet, there was a lithe grace to them both. They were hunters. He shivered as gooseflesh raised the hair on his arms. He would hate to be their prey.
Ailish pressed the button to the turbolift. Within moments it arrived, Tarkin strode in first, followed by Ailish. When the doors had closed, she pulled out one of her code cylinders and inserted it into access slot in the lift. An additional panel lit up beneath the standard one. She selected one of the lowest floors of the complex. The lift dinged in acknowledgment and she replaced her code cylinder in her uniform.
The lift ride was a long one as far as lift rides go. Neither Tarkin nor Ailish spoke to each other. She was too busy studying her datapad on the prisoner and he was too busy studying her. He noticed her furrowed brows as she read, the habit she had of bringing her hand up to her mouth when she was thinking, the fact that every part of her appearance was regulation, and the way that she did not seem to be unduly agitated by his presence.
That was new. Most everyone, especially female officers, seemed flustered by him. He enjoyed that feeling, reveled in it, it set him apart, above; it made him other. The thought that this woman did not care who it was beside her as she went about her work was mildly frustrating. She was showing him all the proper respect and courtesy, but her confidence in herself and her position... bothered him. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he continued to analyze Director Orden, but she was absorbed in her reading and did not notice.
The lift doors opened with a swish of air and the two of them walked out, Ailish leading the way with Tarkin half a step behind.
She stopped in front of a door labeled Con 3, there were two guards, one on either side who briefly saluted before resuming their station pose. Commander Tabor stood off to one side. “Sirs” he snapped to attention with a brisk salute. Both Ailish and Tarkin quickly returned the salute. “At ease Commander.” The man took the easy position but did not relax for an instant. He visibly swallowed as he looked back and forth between the two high ranking officers before him.
“How long has he been awake?” Ailish queried.
“Nearly 23 hours now, sir.”
Ailish nodded and turned to Tarkin. “Sir, if you would please watch from the intel room,” she pointed to the next door down the hall labeled Int 3, “there is a one-way mirror, audio feed, and other instrumentation the Commander here can show you as I proceed with the interrogation.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Commander Tabor blanch.
Tarkin gave her an appraising look. It was clear from the way his stern eyes glanced over her that he did not find her up to the task of interrogation. But he did not voice his concerns. He merely nodded assent and followed the Commander to Intel Room 3.
The room was dark, the floor was covered in a plush carpet, a large, dark, durasteel table rested in the center, a few chairs scattered about its edges. A large decanter of hot caf and various small packages of snacks and wrapped sandwiches were available in the center of the table. Apparently, it was expected that the interrogation would take some time. Tarkin approved of the efficiency. Commander Tabor took up a seat behind one of the instrument stations and began inspecting the data that was streaming in doing his best to focus on his work, but Tarkin noticed the furtive glances in his direction. Good, at least someone was uneasy around him today.
There were several instrumentation panels displaying readouts of the prisoner, and a large one-way mirror on one wall giving a clear view of the room next to it. Inside stood the prisoner: a high-ranking rebel, eyes bloodshot, standing on tip toe, arms held above him, manacled to the ceiling. There were two tables, one in the center and one off to the side. The one in the center had a datapad on it, the one off to the side was much more nefarious.
On top of the second table rested two vials of liquid, one red, one yellow. There were also several syringes laid out below. Then there were the various obvious instruments of torture, a whip, a flail, a cane - interesting, it appears to be real wood - a stun rod, and plenty more devices that looked to cause vast amounts of pain. It was clearly a display meant to inspire terror in the prey as they waited; it seemed to be working for the man would occasionally glance in their direction and would involuntarily spasm.
After taking in the contents of both his room and the prisoner’s, Tarkin settled into a chair behind the table and positioned himself to better see the room and prisoner inside. Ailish was just entering, she stopped directly inside the door, still intent on the datapad in her hands. The prisoner looked up at her, eyes burning with hatred, “Empire bitch” he spat.
She did not look up at that remark. “Tssk, such language. We shall do what your parents failed to do: teach you some manners.” Her voice was calm, smooth, and cold, like an ice-covered boulder set in the middle of a flowing river. Tarkin smiled inwardly, her manner vaguely reminded him of himself.
Ailish walked to the table in the center of the room and placed down the datapad she was carrying and picked up the other that had been resting on the table. She appeared to absently sit in the one chair available all the while studying the datapad in front of her.
The man twitched and his chains rattled. Ailish didn’t react. Her brows lifted slightly in seeming curiosity as she continued to read. The man readjusted again, finding no comfort in the action, but Tarkin surmised the man was trying to get a reaction from Ailish. He failed. She appeared to be too absorbed in her reading.
The silent minutes ticked on. Finally, the man wriggled, “Well?” he demanded, “Are you just going to sit there and read or are you going to ask me questions?”
Without looking up, without missing a beat, Ailish queried, “Would you answer them?”
“Kriff no!” the man spat.
Ailish made an expression that Tarkin could only interpret as saying “then what’s the use?”
Tarkin turned to the man beside him, “Commander, how long does she do this for?” his voice was soft, genuinely quizzical.
Tabor about jumped out of his seat, “Uh, I dunno, sir. It’s different with every prisoner. She’ll read his file for a while more though, I think.”
“What do you mean by different?”
Commander Tabor shrugged. “Sometimes she’s their best friend, sometimes she’s their enemy, sometimes she’s their confidant. It just depends on what she thinks will get her the most accurate answers, she can be anything the prisoner needs her to be to divulge their secrets. The only thing I can tell you is that she is in no rush. Rushing only skews the results.”
Tarkin nodded, his right hand moving to his chin in thoughtful concentration. “And how do you think she will present herself to this prisoner, friend or foe?”
Tabor looked in at the instruments of torture set up on the table inside the prisoner’s room. “There’s a stun rod,” he said softly, “she plans to be his worst nightmare. This one won’t be quick, sir. Nor will it be pretty. More than likely it will take a week or more.”
Tarkin was thoughtful, a stun rod. He’d tried using it once to interrogate someone; it had not worked all that well. His instructor at the time had said that not many ever used a stunner. It took finesse, more than most people cared to cultivate; instead, he had taken up the whip. The noise alone could scare a person into revealing secrets buried deep inside. Then there were the delicious sounds of agony as the prisoner writhed in pain with the merest lick of the whip’s tip. His pulse quickened at the memory of the few he had interrogated. He had found though that he had quickly tired of that game, so he left interrogations to others better suited to it.
After an hour of tortured silence - in which Tarkin went through two cups of caf - Ailish placed down the datapad and rose. She made sure the prisoner’s eyes were watching her as she undid her belt and her fingers deftly unfastened the invisible clasps of her tunic. Her movements were neat, precise, and calculated. She removed the tunic and folded it neatly, placing it on the table off to the side of the room.
“Huh, never thought to see one of you Imps with your tunic off.” Ailish paid the man no heed. She simply unbuttoned the cuffs of her white shirt and rolled up her sleeves to just above the elbow. Each movement of her hands caught Tarkin’s attention. He didn’t understand why, but he was thrilled to watch her exact and measured movements.
The prisoner couldn’t seem to take his eyes away either. He watched as she pulled on tight black leather gloves, flexing her fingers in them.
Ailish’s hands reached to her neck to unbutton the top button but stopped halfway up. She decided against the action and instead hovered her hands over the instruments. The prisoner’s gaze followed those hands, mesmerized, as did Tarkin’s.
The Grand Moff forcibly released the breath he had been holding. He knew which tool she would use, the Commander had just told him, but her performance was captivating, it drew him in.
She rested her hand on the flail, the man in chains visibly stiffened. As if it was the prisoner’s reaction that affected her movements, Ailish moved her hand to the whip. Again, the man went ramrod straight. Then, she let her hand linger on the stunner. The man smirked and relaxed just a hair.
Tarkin could see the corner of Ailish’s mouth that was facing away from the prisoner twitch just a small bit. She was pleased.
She picked up the stun rod and walked over to the man in chains. Finally, she looked him in the eye. “You are to address me only as Mistress, or Mistress Orden. Do you understand?”
“Fu--” he didn’t have the chance to finish even the first word of his thought as Ailish quickly and unexpectedly rammed the stunner into the man’s stomach. He had been relaxed, not expecting this kind of pain. It knocked the wind out of him and he gasped like a fish out of water as his legs jerked up. He had reflexively tried to curl into a ball to protect his stomach, but his hands were still manacled to the ceiling so though he managed briefly to bring his legs up to his chest all he really got for it was torn up wrists. Blood began to seep from the wounds almost immediately. It crept down his arms slowly, small rivers of crimson.
The moment the man’s toes touched the ground Ailish rammed him again, this side in the ribs. The pain brought on from the stun rod was white hot, like a searing poker. Again she struck, this time in the back in a kidney. The man screamed, a high pitched, keening scream Tarkin had only ever elicited from a prisoner once and only with the use of a whip. Again the stunner impacted the man, over and over until his cries began to lessen in loudness and intensity. She stopped then, stepping back to look at her handiwork.