Earth Unaware (First Formic War)

teeth.
    Wit hated doing it. The whole process made him sick. But he needed men resourceful enough to take any situation and immediately see their own way out of it. “Your eyes believe you’re staring straight into the sun, Mazer. They’re begging you to stop this useless resistance and surrender the information I want. Tell me the name, and I will stop.”
    Eyes clenched shut, muscles tight, Mazer got back to his feet and continued with the jumping jacks, though with far less fervor and coordination.
    “All right,” said Wit. “We’ll come back to the pet. Let’s try another one. Your mother’s maiden name. Give me that. Surely you remember your mother’s maiden name.”
    Mazer responded by counting his jumping jacks aloud.
    “I am beginning to lose my patience, Mazer. This is not difficult. Surrender the information or I will break you.”
    Mazer’s counting grew louder, almost a shout.
    The shout became a scream.
    Mazer went down, writhing, every muscle taught, back arched, fingers and hands curled awkwardly, his face twisted in a rictus of agony.
    Wit released the pain and paused, giving Mazer a chance to move. Mazer didn’t.
    Wit said, “Perhaps you’re currently telling yourself that since you and I are on the same side, since this is merely a test, I won’t inflict any serious, lasting damage. It’s only natural to reach this conclusion, Mazer, but you’re mistaken. I am not the New Zealand Army, soldier. I am not bound by their codes of ethics. Our army is unique. We do not concern ourselves with oversight. We do what needs to be done, as painful and as gruesome as that may be. That includes torturing men like you to the point of inflicting permanent neurological damage. Should you develop a tick because of my tinkering with your brain or a loss of hearing or a loss of coordination or a paralysis, no one will touch us. If I turn your brain to scrambled eggs, I won’t get so much as a slap on the hand. We are above the influence of those who would protect you. So for your own sake and safety, give me your mother’s maiden name and the name of your first pet or this little exercise will become painful in the extreme.”
    None of it was true. MOPs never tortured the enemy. It wasn’t necessary. If MOPs took any prisoners, the prisoners were usually so terrified that they poured out intel without being asked. But Mazer wouldn’t know that, and Wit wanted to put a deep, gnawing fear in the man.
    Mazer said nothing.
    Wit hit him again.
    Mazer flinched, but then rolled on his stomach and got himself into a sitting position. Wit eased the pain and watched, amazed, as Mazer caught his breath. The man should be on his back, unable to get up, and yet here he was, bullheaded and upright.
    “Are you ready to cooperate, Mazer?” Wit asked. “Can we end this exercise now? I would like to. I’m bored. Give me the names, and we’ll call it a day.”
    Mazer sat with his head bowed, still and quiet. His lips began to move, and at first Wit thought that he had broken; that he was surrendering the names but no longer had the strength to speak them aloud. Then slowly Mazer’s voice grew in volume. It wasn’t English, Wit realized. It was Maori. And the words weren’t names. They were a song. A warrior’s song. Wit didn’t speak the language, but he had seen the traditional singing of Maori warriors before. It was half grunting, half singing, with a stomping dance and exaggerated facial expressions. Mazer’s face didn’t so much as twitch, but the words spilled forth from him, gaining intensity and strength. Soon his voice was filling the room, harsh and booming.
    Wit continued sending sharp bursts of pain. Mazer buckled every time, falling to the floor, his song cut off, his body writhing. But as soon as the pain subsided, Mazer clawed his way back into a sitting position and began to sing again in earnest. Soft at first, as he found his voice, and then louder as his strength returned.
    An hour later, Wit stopped. He shut off the holopad, turned off Mazer’s crown, and went directly into the screening room. Deen and Averbach removed their helmets.
    Mazer was on his hands and knees, his shirt soaked in sweat, his arms and legs trembling.
    “We’re done, Mazer,” said Wit. He typed a command onto the front of Mazer’s crown. The device loosened and came free in Wit’s hand.
    Mazer’s voice was weak. “So soon? I was starting to enjoy this.”
    “We’ve gone long enough,” said Wit.
    “I