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Soren stared, his nothingness shredding like a spiderweb in a hurricane. “I’ll tell you. Everything.”

“See, that’s the problem.” Cooper shrugged. “You’re still negotiating. If you had just started telling me everything, maybe I’d feel different. But right now, I can’t believe what you say.”

Soren stared at him. Opened his mouth to share the things he knew. John wouldn’t want Samantha hurt any more than he did. Besides, what could it matter? His friend planned for every contingency. He must have planned for this one.

But he might not have.

Then, Cooper isn’t the type to do this. It’s a bluff.

Soren hesitated.

“Yeah. What I thought.” Cooper grimaced. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, I really do. But today your friend killed two thousand of mine. And he’s got worse planned for tomorrow.” He nodded to the other man. “Go ahead, Rickard.”

The dark-eyed torturer made a show of bending over the tray, fingering instruments. He lifted a scalpel to the light, brushed a bit of dust from the tip, then replaced it on the tray and chose another, a short, jagged blade curved like a grapefruit knife. Even from here, Soren could see the silver flicker of the edge.

Rickard stepped behind Samantha and trailed the point up her cheek, not quite touching. She moaned against the tape and strained at the handcuffs. Inside the straitjacket, Soren clenched his hands so hard his nails broke the skin of the palms, thinking, A bluff, it’s a bluff, they won’t—

With a smooth motion, the slim man pushed the blade through the lower lid of Samantha’s left eye, slid it sideways to open a broad red ribbon, and then, with a deft scoop, popped the eyeball out of the socket, the optic nerve trailing behind, a mess of blood and fluid spattering her cheek as the gory thing dangled.

Soren screamed.

But Rickard wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

Cooper clenched his fists, fought a rising in his stomach.

This has to be done.

He looked at the hologram, saw Soren twitch and jerk. The man’s eyes were closed but moving frantically behind the lids as he lay on his bunk, the cable running up from the wall and to the interface in the back of his neck.

Beside him, Rickard typed frenetically. The terminal was layered with windows and wireframes that reacted as the programmer tweaked the controls. It was strangely chilling to stand in the control room outside Soren’s cell, this bland computerized space, watching the holo of the man sweat and convulse.

“Pretty impressive, right?” Rickard’s fingers danced. “No display as high-res as the one in our skull.”

The audio of the virtual reality was turned low. The effect was like listening to a slasher film in the next room. Soren’s screams were high-pitched and raw, skating on the edge of sanity. Samantha—no, not her, just a digital construct, a program, nothing more—moaned strangled sounds through the duct tape.

“Gotta hand it to you, never thought of this application. I designed the system as a game, you know, run around shooting aliens, get to feel the adrenaline and see the blood and stuff. We developed the personal scans so that people could do it together, save the universe with a buddy.” Rickard smiled. “Not that I minded scanning her. I mean, damn, but that chick is something.”

One of the display windows showed Samantha the way Soren saw her, and when Cooper looked at it, he fought a gag, bile burning the back of his mouth.

“What?” Rickard looked up, his bland expression changing when he saw Cooper’s. “We didn’t actually hurt her. Just a multi-angle camera scan, skin scrapings, hair samples. Exactly like before your little trip to Rome. The subconscious does the heavy lifting. Same as when you have a dream, and you know someone is your wife, even when they look like your mom. It’s not real. We’re not torturing anybody.”

“We’re not torturing her. But look at that”—Cooper pointed at the quadrant of the display showing Soren’s vitals, the indicators deep in the red line on heart rate, respiration, hormones—“and tell me we’re not torturing him.”

“Sure, but it’s not real.”

“He’s still living it. As far as he knows, someone is cutting her up in front of him.”

“Hold on,” Rickard said, and tapped a command to trigger a subroutine. In another window, a digital version of Cooper said, “Are you ready to tell me where Smith is?”

In response, Soren wept and whimpered.

Digital Cooper said, “Rickard. Continue.”

Cooper made himself watch as he said, “Why use yourself as the torturer?”

“Just easier. I’ve got myself thoroughly scanned.” He took one hand off the keyboard, brushed back his hair to show the interface implant in his neck. “Did it when I was developing this.”

“And you’re okay with it? Being a torturer?”

“Well, I mean . . . it’s not real.”

“So you keep saying.”

The programmer looked up. “Didn’t this guy kill you?”