“Caglio?”

“Yes, sir?” The thin Italian looked up from where he was arranging a bowl of decorative fruit.

“How much longer?”

Caglio dipped his head. This was the fourth time in as many hours that he had been asked. He did not blame the man standing opposite him, facing toward a whole-wall window overlooking a brilliant tropical vista. Of course, it is quite natural for him to be anxious, Caglio thought. He was but a lowly servant. He asked no questions. None openly, and none in secret either. Such questions were out of place for one of his modest rank.

“I am deeply sorry to disappoint, my good sir, but I have heard no new report since your last inquiry. The last word is that it is… not going so well, and may take more days. Perhaps if you-”

The man by the window turned and glared at Caglio, silencing the lackey with a single glance. That look had made mighty men back away. The aide received it mildly, however. Such glares were common, especially nowadays. For a moment, curiosity arose as to why the unpleasant moods had become more frequent, but Caglio dismissed his thoughts instinctively. His employer’s business was not his business.

He had not realized that he had averted his gaze until he had to look back up at the man, who had returned to studying the surrounding jungle.

His employer was enormously rich, that was obvious. Caglio did not know exactly how rich- he was an attendant, not a secretary- but he had served such men before, and known them to be in the elusive and almost completely unknown upper echelon of society. The question of where his employer had gained his massive store of wealth had never crossed the Italian’s mind. Such questions were dangerous, Caglio knew, and the attendant had many years of practice in stifling unwanted curiosity. Thoughts like those, if not cast away instantly, would fester and grow, like a cancer in the mind, until the dam broke and one went too far in satisfying their inquiries. Caglio had replaced many such “cancerous” men, who had met their unfortunate demises by their insatiable desire for knowledge about their employers. He was not going to be replaced. Not on his watch. Curiosity killed the bat… That is what the Americans say, yes?

***

The wound was grievous, that was for sure. Blood saturated the man’s clothing and hair. The jagged gash in his side, reaching down into his thigh, was almost a foot and a half long, and the bleeding had not completely ceased quite yet. The man- Juan Garner, that was his name- had fallen into a well and been struck by a sharp rock on the way down. Traditional pain relievers, his brother said, had done nothing.

But Yogwo, Spirit-Healer and Grand Shaman of the Divine Celestial Monarchy, was not daunted. He had seen worse, and whether or not the man would respond to a dose of morphine did not matter to him. Yogwo specified in more natural remedies. Or perhaps supernatural?

A tincture of various herbs was brought and poured into the unconscious patient’s mouth. A homemade and rather odorous balm the Spirit-Healer had mixed from wild onions and beaver fat was lathered thickly across the man’s injuries. A bandage primarily constructed of deer skins was tightly wrapped around the man’s thigh, where the worst of the bleeding was situated.

Now for the true essence of the Grand Shaman’s talent.

A burning moose-fat candle in a corner, some strange rattling beads, and a chalk diagram of some specific constellation completed the arrangements in the recently emptied room. Yogwo closed his eyes in a slow and peaceful manner. The only sound was the patient’s labored breathing. Now, I must commune with the universe. Become one. Commune. Commune, commune, commune, commune, commune… Commune with the spirits. Commune with the stars and the wind. Commune, commune. I must commune. Commune. Commune. Commune. Commune with the sun. Commune with the moon. Hey, that rhymes. Shut up, self. Commune, commune. Commune.

Yogwo was quite the master of communing with things. Really, the method was simple, once you got the hang of it. You just thought “commune” enough times, and sometimes you didn’t breathe, and it worked eventually.

Ah, I feel the ancient energies flooding my body, the powers of Mother Earth and the grand expanse of the endless stars, the wind in the peaceful evergreens, the birds, the nighthawk and the owl, as they wing in the dark, the peace of the cool river in the sun of morning, the dawn of eventide and the dusk of sunrise, the globes of the sky, the Heaven-Spheres of Toohkla…

The energies continued to flood Yogwo, but he had quite forgotten at this point why he had tapped into them, and so he let them go. This made it necessary to re-commune, which took just as long as it had the first time. The process finally resolved itself when the knocked-out Juan Garner shrieked loudly in his coma. Yogwo remembered why he was there.

***

All-too-bright fluorescent lights flicked on in the cell, and the door slammed open. Dante moaned from his position on the floor.

“Well, well, well, Fernandez,” the newcomer said. “Perhaps you can give us some more information.”

Dante nearly choked on his tongue as he tried to respond. Bruises and scars covered every inch of his bare skin, and when he spoke, his voice was nowhere near its usual confident tone.

“I- I- I told you- I know nothing about the-”

The other man cut him off. “Let me finish, Dante! We don’t want what you know about the fern, idiot!” he snapped. The kick was swift, and Dante had not been expecting it. He felt a rib crack as the blow landed in his side, sending him sprawling across the concrete floor. That floor matched the walls and ceiling almost exactly. The room was completely bare, except for a hole in one corner that was the nearest thing he had to a toilet.

The man loomed over him. Dante didn’t dare to make eye contact, but he knew who the his attacker was. Flores’ head interrogator, Ricardo Martinez was a man known for his uniquely diabolical mix of cruelty and creativity. Dante had already suffered at the inquisitor’s hands, and his body bore the marks of many incidents which he would very much like to forget.

And then there were the howls- awful, frantic noises coming from some other room. He didn’t know what made them, or why, but Flores was doing things to some poor creature that would make PETA go on a global jihad.

“The big man, he has some new questions for you. Where is your partner in crime, that rat Hector? I recommend,” he said icily, “you cooperate. We… need his help.”

Dante coughed up blood. “H- How would I know where-”

This time, he expected the kick, barely managing to shield his face with an arm before the questioner’s steel-toed boot connected with his nose. The pain was intense, but compared to some wounds he had received, it wasn’t much.

“You will tell me where he was planning to go. Do you hear me? That is not a question.” The man had a habit of speaking in a way that necessitated italics. He did this in part by emphasizing all the wrong words.

“I’ve already-”

“I know you’ve told me some, but it’s possible you might have forgotten something.” Martinez was tall, dark, broad, and missing half of his left arm. This did not impede him much in his occupation, however, because he was proficient at using his remaining limbs to inflict pain. The man’s muscles were like granite, his thighs like pillars of stone, and his head was roughly the shape of a cinder block. All of these notable features had perhaps contributed to his nickname, “El Cara de Piedra,” or the Stone Face.

The steel-toed boots and single metal-lined glove helped too.

As Martinez advanced, Dante backed away, until he could go no farther. The interrogator smiled grimly.

“Please- I- I’ve told you everything!” Dante started to panic. Even knowing most of the torturer’s methods did nothing to reassure him. In fact, he almost wished he didn’t know what the ruthless man would do to make him talk.

The hulking Hispanic cracked the knuckles on his right hand. This was a difficult and remarkable ability, seeing that he only had one hand, but the torturer had a lot of practice and could perform the act easily. It was mostly for the intimidation factor, really- seeing a one-and-a-half-armed man crack his knuckles was off-putting to say the least.

Dante wished he could back away a couple more feet. Why do they want Hector? It’s over now… they have the fern, or that’s what they’ve told me… maybe they don’t actually have it yet? But then what’s the point of telling me…

“Why- why would you want to know where-”

“No questions,” the huge man said, and slugged him weightily in the temple. He grunted as the limp body slumped to the floor. Maybe he had hit a little too hard. At any rate, he wouldn’t be getting answers very soon.

Howling. Martinez shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like the noises coming from the other rooms in the hallways, and he only went down here twice a week. Maybe he could talk to the lab techs about getting soundproof walls for their experimentation chamber.