by C.S. Stinton
* *
‘I know my rights. I get a lawyer,’ said Jovak. He was sat on the cold metal chair in the cold metal room, the lights above bright and stark and making him look smaller and older than Ramirez knew him to be. Every line on his pale face stood out, but his voice was still strong.
Not with defiance. No, that was gone from his dark eyes. This was fear. And not fear of her.
‘You don’t know your rights well enough, then.’ Ramirez sat down and placed the soft plastic bottle of cold water she’d been given by Navarro on his side of the table. ‘According to the Wartime Security Act passed in February of this year, because yours is a crime against the Confederate Fleet you are not entitled to a lawyer.’
Jovak’s long, sloping forehead furrowed. His features were narrow, pointed - the kind that might have looked sharp and chiselled on a younger, healthier face but with sunken cheeks and dark eyes he looked more like a trapped rat in this particular barrel. ‘The hell, crime against the Fleet? I‘ve not gone near the Fleet.’
‘We‘ve found your ship, Mister Jovak. And we‘ve found your cargo.’ Ramirez spoke in a calm, pleasant voice. ‘Trafficking of stolen military weaponry carries with it a ten year prison sentence in a maximum security facility.’
‘I didn’t steal anything.’
‘It might be best if you claimed you didn’t steal these; that, I might believe. But I didn’t accuse you of that.’ She gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Ten years is the good news. The bad news is that the Wartime Security Act allows me to treat all crimes against the Confederate Fleet the same, whether you wear a uniform or not. And undermining the war effort like this carries a much harsher penalty.’
Jovak’s dark eyes swept up to meet hers, and she held his gaze. For a moment the fear rose further and she thought she’d got to him - then a sneer tugged at his lips. He reached for the water. ‘This is the part where I‘m supposed to ask what penalty, and then you imply, or even outright say that it’ll be death for hindering the damn war effort?’
That was what he was supposed to do, but Ramirez’s expression didn’t change. ‘Should I offer something worse?’
‘Nothing you say, Miss, can worry me. I assure you.’
That he was addressing her more civilly than Harrigan ever did was not missed. But the rest of it was nothing new to a cop, and she sighed. ‘Because you‘re more afraid of someone else.’
Jovak hesitated - then took a swig of water. ‘I‘ve got nothing more to say.’
Ragnarok. She’d underestimated the power of fear. Harrigan and Takahashi had talked about how they were running the old criminal elements out of business or forcing them underfoot, but she’d seen that before. Organisations and kingpins came and went, each allegedly nastier than the last. But it had been a long time since such groups used crime to fund and equip political idealism, at least on the scale of Ragnarok. This was desperation she had to think to the history books to recognise.
As the worlds named for the Norse gods of Earth burned, many believed the end of all things was here. There was no way he was going to be more afraid of her than of them.
‘I understand. I’ll have you placed in an HCPD cell. It’ll be a nice one.’ She smiled and Jovak looked suspicious. ‘A decent cellmate. I’ll make sure you get decent food. I’ll make sure you get a civilian lawyer and are tried in a civilian court.’
‘You can’t make me jump by threatening to take that away -’
‘I’ll put a good word in for you with the Prosecution Service,’ Ramirez continued, raising her voice. ‘I’ll make sure they go easy on you. Reduced sentence, maybe. Low-security prison.’
Jovak’s mouth flapped with confusion. ‘Why the hell would you do that?’
‘Exactly.’ Her eyes hardened. ‘There is no reason at all for me to treat an uncooperative suspect like this. People only get treatment like that if they helped.’
Comprehension flashed across his gaze and Jovak looked even older. ‘They won’t believe that. They won’t believe I‘ve talked.’
She quirked an eyebrow, paused a beat for effect. ‘Are you sure?’
‘They -’
‘Are you sure enough that you’ll sit in an HCPD jail? Go to Hardveur Confederate Court? Hardveur Prison? The nice one. The low-security one. I don’t know its name, but it’s probably something soft. And it’ll be close. Easy to get into.’
Jovak threw the bottle on the table. Being soft plastic, it landed with more of a dull thud than a clatter, and its sack-like form flattened against the metal. ‘What the hell do you want from me?’
‘Tell me about Ragnarok. Tell me where you get the guns, and tell me who you give them to. And then help me get them.’
‘And what do I get?’
‘Aside from not being murdered in your cell?’ Ramirez pretended to think about it, though she had no intention of leaving him on Hardveur as a target for retribution, even if he didn’t help. ‘You’ll get a military trial - off-world. On Odin. You’ll be kept in a military jail. And probably a military prison. And I’ll put a word in with the JAG and keep your sentence as low as I can. If I like what you have to say.’
Jovak licked his lips, shoulders hunching. If he’d looked old before, he looked ancient now. Far more than the forty-two years his record claimed him to be. ‘There’s a man named Brand I get the goods from. He operates out of Outpost Saratoga in Sirius. I don’t know how he gets the gear; he’s a fence. I don’t know if he’s Ragnarok’s man or if they just arrange the pickup from him. It’s all done over my head - I‘m not a trader, I take things from Point A to Point B. And they definitely have more than me bringing things in!’
He sounded miserable and Ramirez nodded. While chasing the source was important - any hole in the bottom of a Quartermaster’s stores was important - all she could do with this information was send it to Tau. For the moment, Hardveur was her beat, and if there were more avenues of gun shipping, she had to find them.
‘There’s a guy by the name of Vincente. Bart Vincente. He comes to my ship, usually not alone, and he picks up the goods. I get paid. You don’t ask questions about Ragnarok.’
‘What do they do?’
Jovak’s eyes glinted. ‘Ask Jean Gardin. He stood against them. They fed him to dogs. Dogs. Great big wolf-things which tore him up and ate him. And you know how I know that? ‘cos Ragnarok filmed it, and the next time they bust down the doors to the Flarestar and had a little chat with us, they projected it on the wall.’
Of course they looked like wolves, Ramirez mused. They were a group called Ragnarok, after all, and now the theatrics of the video Tau had shown them began to make sense. They could gather support by appeal and by fear, and present a front where nobody would see the truth.
‘Who’s this Vincente?’
‘Ex-military, a whole bunch of them are. So far as I‘m aware he runs things here on Thor.’
‘You make it sound like there are operations elsewhere.’
‘They‘re getting these rifles from somewhere. They‘re well-organised, well-equipped. They might only be striking in Hardveur but they came in from nowhere with all of this. This isn’t some grassroots group of disgruntled protesters going feral.’
Ramirez nodded and clasped her hands on top of the table. She caught Jovak’s twitchy gaze, made sure she was holding it for several long seconds, and drew a deep breath. ‘So, to get that deal I mentioned,’ she began.
‘I told you all I -’
‘Now I need you to do, because I know what happens next.’ She leaned forward. ‘I want Vincente.’