—…Oh God. Ahhhh! Thank you! Please make it stop.
—This will numb the nerve endings in your hand. The needles these gentlemen have inserted in your fingertips caused a severe nervous reaction when they hit the bone. The pain should completely subside in a moment.
—Thank you. Please stop hurting me!
—Gentlemen, please remove the needles. Your body is in shock now, and you are slowly losing feeling in your right hand. Take a deep breath. They will not reinsert these needles into your hand.
—Thank you! I can’t take any more of this.
—On the contrary. I am taking great pains—if you will pardon the pun—to inflict as little damage to your body as is humanly possible. In some sense, most of the discomfort you have experienced here is your own creation. The needles these men are using are small, yet the nerve endings in your fingertips are very sensitive and the impulses they send to your brain and spinal cord leave you experiencing a suffering that is truly disproportionate to the physical damage that is being done. If you simply answered my question, you would recover very quickly from this unfortunate encounter, with little or no residual symptoms.
—But I don’t know anything!
—I was not finished. Should you, however, choose to persist in your refusal, minimal injury also means that these proceedings could go on almost indefinitely. You will not die of pain, but you will never get used to it. Pain is unique in that it does not show habituation or neural adaptation, like smell, or touch.
—I don’t know what you want me to say! I haven’t done anything!
—That said, you have already sustained some nerve damage in your right hand, and any new discomfort we attempt to produce will be proportionately diminished. I will let you rest for a minute or two, and when the pain is gone, we will start fresh with your left hand.
—NO! Not the other hand! PLEASE! I’m begging you.
—I realize you are in an unfamiliar locale, being questioned by people you do not know, but the events of the last twenty minutes should have made it clear that asking me to stop, however politely, will not be successful.
—I’ll tell you anything you want.
—I have been asking one very simple question ever since you arrived, and you have refused to answer every single time.
—I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know anything! Tell me what you want and I’ll say it! Just stop. Please!
—This is not my specialty. I am, however, acquainted with people who perform these debriefings on a regular basis, and they tell me that the anticipation of the pain that is to come is often harder to cope with than the pain itself. I do not know what shames me most, that I associate with these people, or that I have come to know that their claim is absolutely untrue. Shall we go again?
—No! No! No!
—Gentlemen, the left little finger, please.
—No, no…AAAAAARRRGH!
—Again.
—AAAAAARRRGGH!
—Tell me why.
—Cough.
—Deeper.
—No…AAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHHH! AAAARRGGHHH!—cough.
—Let us pause for a moment, so you can reflect on your answer.
—Cough. Why what? What do you think I know?
—I do not believe you know anything.
—You…You wouldn’t be doing this…It’s safe to say you think I know something, something important.
—Is it? Safe? As we speak, nearly tens of millions of people are dead or dying. What I believe is rather inconsequential at the moment. What I can prove is of the essence. I can no more afford to trust my feelings than I can afford to trust you. Shall we continue?
—Wait! Wait! Please! What do you want to know? Why the aliens came to London? Why they attacked us? Why I’m alive and all those people died?
—The answer to any of these questions would spare you more pain than you can possibly imagine.
—But I don’t fucking know! I don’t know why those bloody aliens came. I don’t know what they want with us. I don’t know why they chose London. All I know is that everyone I ever cared about is dead, and I’m not.
—Tell me why.
—Don’t you think I would tell you if I knew? My son is dead! My wife is dead! My friends, my family. Do you think I wanted them dead? That I wouldn’t trade places with any of them if I could? Do you have any idea how much I wish I had died instead of my son?
—…I do.
—You believe me?
—I do.
—You believe me!
—…
—You won’t stop, will you? Just tell me!
—I will not stop.
—Why?
—So there can be no doubt. So that I do not have to do this to anyone else.
—…
—Gentlemen, the left ring finger.
—MY NAME IS JACOB LAWSON! I’M A BRITISH CITIZEN! UNDER THE VIENNA…AAAAGGGGGGGHHHH!
FILE NO. 1585
COCKPIT VOICE RECORDING—US AIR FORCE B-2 SPIRIT—NATO DEPLOYMENT
Location: Somewhere over Portugal
09:15:31 [HAMAL 11] Anderson House, this is Chris Parker, approaching Spanish airspace. Speed is 560 mph. Altitude: thirty thousand feet.
09:15:40 [AIRCOM] Thank you, Chris Parker. Begin final checklist.
09:15:45 [HAMAL 11] Roger that.
…
09:18:03 [HAMAL 11] Checklist complete. We are ready for bed.
09:18:10 [AIRCOM] Roger, Chris Parker. Thirty seconds to bedtime.
09:18:14 [HAMAL 11] Anderson House, are we really doing this?
09:18:17 [AIRCOM] Affirmative, Chris Parker. Bedtime is a go. I repeat: Bedtime is a go.
Twenty seconds.
09:18:24 [HAMAL 11] Anderson House. This is Chris Parker requesting you reconfirm with Mother.
09:18:28 [AIRCOM] You have your orders, Chris Parker. Ten seconds till bedtime.
09:18:31 [HAMAL 11] Anderson House. I’m gonna have to ask again for a reconfirm.
09:18:33 [AIRCOM] Mother is here, Chris Parker. Bedtime is a go. In five. Four. Three. Two. One. Now. Now. Now.
Chris Parker, this is Anderson House. You have missed the drop zone.
…
Chris Parker, this is Anderson House. Please respond.