Ten minutes later, he still had not received an answer from Erron. Concerned, he typed in Burke’s address again, this time sending a verbal comm.
“Erron, I really need you to answer me,” he stated tersely.
Still nothing.
After half an hour he gave up. He wasn’t getting any answer from Erron at all. Why would Erron leave? Under the plan, Erron was supposed to stay at the side of Burke’s terminal for at least 48 hours so they could send him the data. The full nature of his dilemma struck him then; without Erron as a contact, he had no way to find either Burke or Shelle or Tiran again.
Zaq had the information that could help protect countless numbers of people against the violence of the Oman, and he had no way to get it to anybody who could use it. Only one real option remained, though it was risky. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his map and planned a course to take him back to Madam Coraelle’s house.
30. Erron’s Choice
The fog in Tiran’s head took a while to clear away. Everything seemed fuzzy; she had woken in a dim room several times to watch the ceiling spinning above her head until she had to close her eyes from the dizziness. People came and went, but she could never be sure who they were. Often they were cloaked and hooded, their voices so muffled she couldn’t tell if they were male or female. They brought her food to eat, but her constant vertigo made her stomach churn and she promptly vomited anything they managed to spoon down her throat. Eventually she was able to hold down liquids and that helped. Her mouth had gotten so dry and her lips had cracked. Slowly the dizziness subsided and her thoughts started to clear. She wondered where she was. She had given herself up to the Brotherhood, that much she could remember clearly. But where exactly had they taken her? Was she still in Roma? Where was her mother?
When at last she could sit up, she looked around her room and found that she was not alone. There were two other young women in the room with her. Leaning against the wall opposite was a tall young woman with a gracefully rounded body. She looked a shade lighter than most Denicorizens, just like Tiran. She had thick lashed eyes and glossy hair. Altogether she looked like a model posing for an advertisement, except for the simple blue dress she was wearing. The other young woman was huddled in the corner on a pallet. Tiran couldn’t see her face very well; she had her knees drawn up to her chest and her face pressed to her knees. Dirty black hair straggled over her back.
“Take it easy,” counseled the model. “You don’t want to overdo it or you’ll be throwing up again.”
“Where are we?” Tiran asked thickly, her throat rough as sandpaper.
“Who knows? Some safehouse of the Brotherhood is my guess. They drugged us all before bringing us here I think, so I’m really not sure.” She came to sit beside Tiran. The other girl didn’t even look up. Tiran wondered if she might be asleep but then she shifted, raking back her knotted locks and then putting her head down again.
“How long was I sick? Do you know?” Tiran asked, frowning as she tried to get some idea of the passage of time.
“Not exactly. You two were both already here before I arrived, and you’ve been sick for about a day since then. I don’t think your system liked the drugs much,” the young woman observed with a smile. “I’m glad actually. Since you got so sick I think they decided to forgo the truth serum interrogations for all of us.”
Tiran grimaced as another minor wave of nausea swept through her. “I guess I’m glad too. I’m not much into interrogations.”
The other girl was studying her closely. It made Tiran squirm uncomfortably.
“So what’s your name?” Tiran asked, trying to mask her discomfort.
“Don’t you know?” the girl laughed. “I’m Tiran Morten.”
“But that’s my name too!” Tiran exclaimed bewildered.
“And our roommate there in the corner is Tiran Morten also. She’s not terribly social at the moment but she’ll perk up after she gets something to eat,” the other Tiran explained with a wave at the cowering girl.
“I don’t understand,” admitted Tiran.
“Let’s just say the Oman went fishing and caught three Tiran Mortens. Not a bad catch, don’t you think? I just wonder which of us he’s going to throw back.” The girl winked expressively, only now there wasn’t a hint of humor in her face. Tiran frowned. It was like she was trying to communicate something to Tiran without speaking. But just what, Tiran couldn’t understand.
Thinking clearly was still difficult, but she pondered what the other girl had just told her. The Oman had put out a public message asking for Tiran to come to the park, and three girls claiming to be Tiran had shown up. At first she was surprised that there had been two other girls who could possibly have thought the message was for them, even if they did happen to have the same name. That didn’t make much sense though. Morten was a Citizen surname, not a Denicorizen one.
Then she remembered that her mother had been in the transmission also. There was no way these girls could be here by accident. Even if by some strange coincidence three young Tiran Mortens had heard the message, the other two girls would surely have realized that the woman in the comm wasn’t their mother.
Tiran turned back to the other young woman, about to ask her who she really was, but she shook her head discouragingly. That was when Tiran realized that their conversation was probably being recorded. Instead, the girl slid closer to her on the cot and put her mouth right next to her ear.
“I’m a CPF agent,” she breathed so quietly Tiran could barely catch what she said. “I’m carrying a tracking device and they are hoping to follow me to the Oman. I need them to choose me.”
Tiran pulled back and stared at the other girl, her eyes wide. Could it work? Would the CPF be able to find the Oman and then save her mother? But now what would she tell the Brotherhood? That she had made a mistake and she wasn’t the real Tiran? Wouldn’t they just kill her anyway?
A knock at the door interrupted them, and another hooded and cloaked figure entered with a tray of food. The head inclined toward Tiran, offering her the tray first. Tiran took one of the three sandwiches and hungrily wolfed it down while the tray was offered to the other two. Then without a word, the hooded food-bearer retreated through the door. Tiran’s stomach growled. She was still hungry. It was probably best though. She didn’t need to overdo it on a weak stomach.
After finishing her sandwich, the corner girl raised her head and noticed Tiran sitting on the bed for the first time. She still didn’t say anything, but she hopped up and began to pace the room.
“Where is my mother?” she muttered. “They were supposed to let me see my mother.”
“I don’t think she’s quite all there, poor thing,” observed the model-pretty agent. “She really truly thinks she’s Tiran Morten and that she’s going to see her mother. Nothing you say will change her mind.”
The pacing never slowed and the girl took no heed of Tiran or the pretty girl pretending to share the name Tiran either. In silence Tiran watched the pacing and listened to the muttering until finally she retreated to her cot. This was going to drive her mad. Maybe it was some strange idea of the Oman to torture her by driving her crazy.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, another cloaked figure entered the room.
“All three of you, stand up against the wall,” the muffled voice ordered. Tiran stumbled to her feet, and the other girl steadied her. Together they walked to the wall and faced the guard. The other girl still paced the room, oblivious to the instructions.
“I said move against the wall!” the voice ordered angrily. The girl looked up startled, and backed toward the wall. The hooded man then moved to the side to allow another prisoner to be escorted into the room.
Tiran gasped before she could help it. Erron Kruunde stood before the three girls, his manacled hands in front of him. Another guard moved to his side, this one without a hood. He was
middle-aged with a hard, lined face. He spoke to Erron without glancing at the girls.
“They all claim to be the Morten brat. Tell us which one is the one we want,” he ordered flatly. Erron was silent for a moment and Tiran caught his eyes, silently pleading. Would he turn her in knowing it would lead to her death? How could she get him to choose the other girl, the agent who could lead the CPF to the Oman?
No bright ideas popped into her head.
“Today, Kruunde,” ordered the guard.
Erron shrugged. “She’s the one in the middle. I’ve never seen the other two before.” Tiran cringed as if he had punched her. On either side of her, the other girls were protesting that he was wrong, each arguing that she was the “real Tiran.”
“Why?” Tiran moaned.
“Sorry, Tiran,” Erron replied, a trifle flippantly. “They raided Burke’s house and picked me up. The only way I can buy my freedom is through you.”
Tiran listened to him a bit angrily. Even though he thought she was a “nice kid,” he still would sell her out. She was beginning to understand him. It really seemed as if Erron wasn’t evil at his core, but selfishness ruled his life. So of course he would turn her in.
The hooded guard strode forward and took her arm in an iron grip and started to drag her toward the door. The other guard motioned Erron out as well, so Tiran found herself being marched down a windowless hallway next to Erron.
“You really don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?” observed Tiran bitterly.
“I have to look out for myself; no one else will,” defended Erron mildly. “Besides, what are you complaining about? You turned yourself in, did you not?” Tiran didn’t have any response to that, but still she couldn’t shake her disappointment in Erron.
“Someday you are going to die alone and unloved, Erron,” Tiran accused severely. Erron shrugged. “As long as that day is far in the future,” he returned glibly.
They reached the end of the hallway and Tiran’s guard halted, pulling another hood like his own from a pocket. He started to pull it over Tiran’s head, only with the eye holes backward so she couldn’t see. Just before the hallway vanished into darkness, she caught one final glimpse of Erron as his guard led him down another hallway. Somehow she knew she would never see Erron again.
With everything dark before her eyes, the guard directed her clumsy steps forward a few paces. She heard doors swish shut and she could tell she was in a lift as her stomach dropped for a moment. Another swish announced their arrival at another floor. Soon he was leading her again around twists and turns and she completely lost her sense of direction. Other voices conversed in muted tones around her but she couldn’t make out any words until they stopped again.
“Is this the right girl?” a gravelly voice asked.
“He says it is,” answered her guard. “I would still interrogate the others to be certain. In the meantime, we’ll take this one off to meet the Oman.”
“Why isn’t she drugged then?” asked the first voice.
“It made her sick last time for over a day.”
Tiran heard an exasperated sigh, and then something crashed into the back of her head, sending her racing for darkness once again.
31. Trial by Congress
Casey’s trial began with a formal listing of all the charges against him. It took a full ten minutes and included such things as “showing disrespect to the patriots of Roma” as well as “dishonoring the sacred guest duties.” The hardest part to listen to was when the Arbiter individually named each of the 248 people killed in the embassy bombing. Casey recognized quite a few of the names—people he had worked with over the years that he would never see again. It sickened him to know that someone who had worked in the International Complex had gone into the embassy basement that horrible morning and casually stripped all these people of life.
After the charges were listed, the Arbiter turned to face Casey and gave the traditional Denicorizen trial opening: “Prove to Congress that you are not accountable for these crimes or concede your guilt.”
Casey’s lawyer stood.
“I am Counsel Manel Filpot, and I will speak on behalf of Ambassador Morten.”
The Arbiter granted Filpot the floor and resumed his seat next to the witness stand. Filpot strode to the center of the floor and turned slowly to look at the seated members of Congress.
“Ambassador Morten declares that he is innocent of all these charges, and I will now present his evidence to that effect,” Filpot began boldly, his firm voice echoing through the trial chamber.
For the next three hours, Casey listened in awe as Filpot eloquently defended Casey. First, he brought in several embassy staffers who testified in favor of Casey’s character. Then, Steven took the witness stand to provide an alibi for Casey at the time of the embassy bombing as well as vouch for the truth of Casey’s search for the elusive traitor in the Armada. Then Filpot cast doubt on the authenticity of the written comms entered as evidence against Casey in a novel way. To show how easily the comms could have been faked, he entered as evidence a series of faked comms ordering the assassination of Morek-Li that were stamped with the name and terminal address of the Arbiter himself. This caused an immediate sensation among the Representatives, and the Arbiter was so stunned that it was several minutes before he even tried to restore order in the chamber.
Finally, Filpot requested Casey take the witness chair and opened it up to questions from the Representatives. For almost an hour, Casey fielded questions from his combination prosecutors and jury. They wanted details on his behavior on everything related to his contact with the Brotherhood, his frequent trips to Tyre, and his lack of success on the search for the Armada traitor.
Eventually, the subject of his and Andie’s roles in the Revolution came up.
At this, Filpot stood and objected. “With all due respect, Arbiter, this is a subject that has no bearing on the charges facing the Ambassador.”
The Arbiter pondered for a moment and then answered gravely, “I will allow the questions to continue. This matter provides a motive for Ambassador Morten’s collaboration with terrorists, and it is extremely relevant to our future course of actions as regards the Union. Ambassador, you will explain your involvement with the Resistance during the Revolution.”
Filpot turned to Casey, and Casey shrugged his shoulders. Nothing about this part of his past was a secret.
“I was serving as a major in the Armada when I was chosen for an assignment on Corizen at the time trade first opened with the Union. At that time, the group known as the Resistance was actively fighting against the King, and they asked for supplies and support from the Union. My job was to deliver these supplies and stay as a contact in Roma for the Resistance.” Casey paused and glanced at the sea of faces surrounding him. Some were openly hostile, but most seemed to be listening intently. Taking that as a good sign, he continued his narrative.
“I arrived in Roma posing as a common trader and made contact with the Resistance. From then until the end of the Revolution I remained in Roma, making sure that the Resistance had all the help they needed from the Union to succeed.”
“Why did the Union intervene in the Revolution?” demanded one red-faced Representative. “Wasn’t it because they wanted to destabilize our government and take control?”
“No,” Casey replied calmly, “the Union wanted to see the Denicorizens with more freedom and prosperity. We believed that it was the best way to end the attacks on our own planets by Denicorizen pirates. However, we never would have intervened directly. We only desired to help your own people who were fighting for freedom.”
“What about your wife? Wasn’t she sent here to create the Resistance and cause the Revolution in the first place? That hardly sounds like the Union passively wanted our success!” sneered one older woman with steel-gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses.
“My wife was not se
nt here by the Armada,” refuted Casey, his voice tightly controlled. “She was kidnapped by Citizen pirates on Zenith and traded to Denicorizen smugglers who then sold her into slavery. She was rescued by a member of the Resistance. I hardly need to repeat her history though. It is well known.”
At this there was widespread muttering. Clearly, most of the Representatives if not all, had heard Andie’s broadcast confession. He knew that officially they could not consider it evidence, but it was still prejudicing them against him.
“I don’t know how we can believe anything that you say about your wife,” scoffed another Representative. “We were all told she was killed the night of the Inaugural Ball and now apparently she is still alive. We all thought she was just Andrea Morten, wife of the Ambassador, yet she turns out to be the missing Sirra Bruche. Frankly, it makes it harder for me to believe any of your story, Ambassador.” Widespread nodding and murmured approval greeted this statement. Casey looked nervously to Filpot, who moved to Casey’s side. “Just tell them the truth, Ambassador,” Filpot recommended softly. “Let’s see if we can’t get them to move on.”
“After the Revolution, you all know that Sirra Bruche disappeared,” Casey reminded the Representatives. “In truth, she did return to our home planet of Zenith for a time. I had known her from childhood, and we were married on Zenith. When I was offered the post of Ambassador we returned to Corizen, but she hid her former identity and went by her real name. We did this because a man named Othar Eshude had sworn a blood feud against Laeren Bruche, her first husband.”
A collective gasp echoed in the chamber. Obviously, the Representatives knew exactly who Othar Eshude was now.
“My wife wanted to protect herself and our child from a man who had sworn to kill her. The night of the Inaugural Ball he nearly succeeded. I worried that the next time we wouldn’t be so lucky, so I arranged a memorial service and told everyone she had died. In the end it didn’t matter because recently she was captured by the Brotherhood.” Casey’s voice cracked and he halted, trying not to let his worry about Andie overwhelm him. When he got control of his fear and looked up, some of the faces before him were decidedly more sympathetic. Maybe they would believe him.
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