by Hugo Huesca
Clarke didn’t answer. Instead, he waited for the man to get to the point. When the interrogator realized it, he said:
“We want you to confirm the identities of the EIF cell operating under Dock 23. We have a document for you to sign. Their names are already in it.”
It was too much. Clarke had to rein in a badly contained laugh. “A signed confession? Just do it yourself, it’s not like you care about proper procedure.”
“Don’t be a smartass,” the man warned him. “A bunch of loyalists are not worth what I’ll do to you.”
“Here, I’ll just tell you how many loyalists I know. None. You want me to sign an empty document?”
“Wrong answer, asshole. You should be ashamed, Clarke. A former Defense Fleet rising star, well on the path to being made Captain and who knows what else, reduced to this. To defend a bunch of…anarchists and pirates who enjoy raiding convoys and cycling the crews out of airlocks.”
In the end, it all ended up revolving around politics. EIF against SA. Loyalists against Centralists, over and over again. It seemed like the two factions had been in conflict since the birth of the universe, going at each other’s throats since Clark had any memory.
People were either a Loyalist or a Centralist. Loyalists were loyal to the Edge’s independence, and thus supported the EIF and their crusade to stand against Earth, even if it meant sacrificing Jagal. They wanted to do away with the Systems Alliance and go back to the original government of the Edge, the one that gained it its independence in the first place and that had long ago been co-opted by Tal-Kader and the other massive conglomerates.
Centralists envisioned an Edge back under Earth’s wing and thus sharing the planet’s superior technology. They desired humanity to be no longer divided, and claimed that this time, the Edge would surely be recognized as the equal of the Home Systems of the Earther Federation. The Systems Alliance officially backed the Centralist position and persecuted the Loyalists, but life wasn’t as simple. The SA persecuted the Loyalists for the “dismantling the conglomerates” spiel, but, secretly, it hated Earth’s lordship as much as the Loyalists did. They played ball with Commodore Terry for now, (especially with Tal-Kader nobility being held hostage on the Mississippi) but that would change the instant the opportunity presented itself.
Meanwhile, lesser conglomerates financed the EIF, in hopes that the ensuing revolution would bring power to the Backwater Systems, the frontier of the Edge, where oryza was scarce and the rule of the SA was lax.
Clarke hated politics. He thought of the entangled relations between factions as strands in a web where the common men and women got trapped, preyed upon by the politicians and oligarchs, the spiders that drained the Edge of all value and promise while fattening themselves.
But if he were made to choose, to take a stand at gunpoint between the Edge’s people, and the conglomerates that ruled them…well, he knew where his loyalties lay. After all, back when he had joined the Defense Fleet, he had sworn to protect the Edge. It wasn’t an oath he took lightly back then, and he didn’t take it lightly today.
“Back to playing tough guy?” asked the man after Clarke’s silence. “We can make you sign whenever we want you, you know?”
“Yes, but I don’t have to make it easy.”
“Ah, a martyr. How quaint. Looking for redemption for your failure, Craven Clarke? You won’t achieve a thing. The confession is only a formality. To save us time with the bureaucrats. Hell, we already got your girlfriend here, in another room. Julia Fillon signed the papers not two hours ago. Your name was in them.”
A low growl underlined the man’s words. Clarke realized it came from himself. Apparently, someone had exchanged his heart for a burning coal.
The man chuckled, and Clarke’s impulse to kill him was almost overwhelming.
But with the pure, impotent anger also came a kind of clarity. The last piece of the puzzle fell in place, and Clarke suddenly was aware of the reason why something didn’t just make sense about his situation.
Fucking politics.
He laughed, bitterly, because he knew that Julia had betrayed him.
“What’s so funny?” asked the man.
“You think I care about what happens to a bunch of dock kids playing revolutionaries? I was only trying to negotiate a way out of this one, you idiot. By Reiner, you’re as stupid as the Front!”
The punch came at once, without warning. Four knuckles connected with Clarke’s jaw like a brick shot out of a cannon. His vision shorted like a faulty wristband’s screen, and a coppery taste invaded his mouth.
It confirmed all of Clarke’s suspicions.
A second after, two hands smacked hard against the metal desk, and the interrogator’s face appeared a hair-breadth away from Clarke’s, close enough that he could feel the man’s breath brushing his face.
“Listen, you shithead—” the interrogator started.
Clarke tensed his neck and launched his forehead right into the other man’s nose.
The strike had the effect of a car crash. The interrogator’s nose crumpled, with blood splattering everywhere, and his head vaulted backward. The man groaned a nasal and wet sound while collapsing atop the desk and bringing it down with him amid broken poly-plastic. The light beam shot away from Clarke’s face.
The door opened and LED light flooded the room. Clarke tried to jump—chair and all—over the interrogator’s neck, but all he managed was to topple down on top of him, face first into the cold floor.
Many things happened at once after that, one of them involving a sub-dermal knock-out patch.
This time, Clarke woke up to a brightly lit white room, untied, sitting in his same chair and staring at a new poly-plastic desk. He knew it was the same room because, even though someone had cleaned the remains of his attack, he could still see specks of dry blood marring the soft green carpet.
Instead of being alone with a single interrogator, the room was now occupied by four armed guards wearing black uniforms and carrying sonic batons. They had their eyes focused on Clarke, their necks tense.
Instead of Clarke’s former interrogator, a new man was sitting by the other end of the new desk. This one had clearly been a soldier, judging from his size and complexion, which were signs of access to better stim juice than most civilians could afford. His tanned, clean shaved face was marred by pock marks, and his eyes were framed by wrinkles. Probably in his fifties.
There was no career for a fifty-year-old man as an interrogator brute, so this new guy had rank.
“Sorry about the last guy,” Clarke told him, “but he was wide open.”
The man didn’t laugh. His eyes were laser-focused on Clarke’s, but his face had the stony, unreadable expression of an officer used to dealing with a troublesome command.
“Medics say that, under Earth’s gravity, you may have killed him,” the man said.
“We’re not in Earth,” Clarke said.
“Why did you strike him? Surely, you know it only makes it worse for yourself, Clarke.”
Actually, Clarke was fairly sure he was going to live through this. No sense in delaying the inevitable any longer. He gave the man the confirmation he was probing for:
“I know you’re not Internal Affairs.”
The man nodded. “What gave it away?” he asked.
“A series of details. Your interrogator was an angry brute, all testosterone, but no finesse. IA’s grunts are assholes, but they’re trained assholes. There’s psychology to an interrogation, rapport, trust building. Your guy did none of those things.”
“Go on.”
“He said ‘we’re under siege’ at one point,” Clarke recalled, “That was weird. Official party line is that the Edge and Earth are under negotiations for a possible unification. Internal Affairs would never, ever, refer to our current situation as a siege.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Last thing he said. That fucked-up scenario you built, with Julia betraying my name?”
“It seemed to have an effect on you.”
“At first, it did. But it also got me thinking. A little contrived, isn’t it? In the real world, IA doesn’t waste their time getting matching confessions, they just throw you in a jail cell and make you disappear.”
The man winced. “A sad reality, indeed,” he said.
“After that, I played it by ear. The guy seemed like the macho type, and he was already into his part as an interrogator…so I insulted him and insulted the EIF in the same sentence…”
“And he forgot you’re six feet two inches tall, which gave the right reach and angle to your headbutt after he leaned in. I’m sure he learned the lesson.”
It had been a risk, and a bet, because no matter how justified Clarke’s suspicions had been, they were still suspicions.
“So, you’re EIF, then,” Clarke prodded.
“Yes, you could say I am. Ruben Antonov, at your service,” the man said. “I’m in charge of the Edge Independence Front, Jagal branch.”
Antonov’s rank made Clarke feel a pang of pity for the man. The local EIF cells were actively persecuted across Metro City and its orbitals. Antonov must’ve spent his entire life in hiding.
In a way, so have I, Clarke thought. The idea blindsided him, and he squashed it as soon as it came. It would be a mistake to relate to the man in front of him.
“Why did you kidnap me?” Clarke asked.
“An ugly, but necessary test,” Antonov said. He paused, glanced at one of the guards by the doors, and raised two fingers at him. The guard left the room at once.
Antonov went on, “Half of the EIF’s prospective members are IA infiltrators. We’re a grassroots organization, Clarke, our members must operate at all times knowing their brothers in arms have their backs. The risk of traitors over their heads would be the death of us.”
“So you stage fake IA kidnappings as job interviews?”
To Clarke, it was a repugnant idea. But on a deeper level…he had been an officer, and he could see the benefits of doing such a thing. No one could know how they would react to an interrogation until it happened. There was only so much a training would do.
It definitely broke the conventions of war, but the EIF was already considered a terrorist organization.
“A man’s mettle is proven by fire, not by psychosomatic studies,” Antonov said. “We’ve learned a great deal out of your test, for example, that we wouldn’t have known if we had approached you in conventional ways.”
“It backfired,” Clarke said. “I agreed to signing the documents. I attacked your man. And I’m not interested in a job offer. Wasn’t before, and sure as well ain’t after your trick.”
“Disagreed,” Antonov said. He raised a distracted hand to the neck of his military uniform and smoothed the fabric. “We liked what we saw, damage to our man notwithstanding. We’ve learned you’re a man who keeps his cool in a hopeless situation, who has motives to dislike Tal-Kader, and who isn’t afraid to take action against dangerous men.”
“The Defense Fleet would laugh at that description,” Clarke said.
“Not all of them,” Antonov said. “I did my research. Almost all the veterans who fought in the Appleseed refuse to call you Craven. They insist you are a hero. The former crew of Asteria Station all agree with the sentiment and painted a different story than that of the official release.”
Asteria Station. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. Once in a while, after the trial was over and Clarke was prowling the bars of Metro City, he met one or two Asteria’s crewmen. Those times, he drank for free. In the end, the veterans had drifted away with the years. The shame of Broken Sky lingered over them all, Clarke included, so he understood the reason well. Seeing another veteran made them remember their failure.
To have this unknown man, who pretended that kidnapping people to play with their minds was a noble and necessary act, talk about Clarke’s past like he had been there…Clarke could feel his heartbeat increase.
“Like I said, whatever you want with me, I am not interested,” he said. He stood up, carefully, as not to scare the guards, who, on a second glance, looked quite young and inexperienced. “Can I go? Or are you willing to kidnap me for real?”
A flash of annoyance crossed Antonov’s eyes, only for an instant, but enough to make Clarke wonder if his bluff was about to be called. Those guards may be young, but sonic batons cared not an ounce about age difference.
Before Antonov or Clarke could add anything else, the door opened again, and the guard who had left appeared on the doorway carrying a tray with two glasses and a decanter filled with amber liquid.
“Aren’t you willing to discuss our offer over a glass of scotch? It’s the real thing, not the artificial deal they serve in Metro bars,” said Antonov.
The casual display of wealth made Clarke’s knees weak. Earth-made booze wasn’t something you just bought in the Edge’s markets. Then, he recovered and made his way to the door.
“Next time, start with that, Antonov. It will have to be with the next guy; I’m out.”
He made it to the door at the exact time another person appeared at the frame. Clarke’s eyes widened in recognition.
It was Julia. She grabbed at the guard’s whiskey glass and extended it to Clarke with a grim twist set on her lips.
“Clarke,” she said, “you should hear us out.”
So I was right, Clarke thought, grimly. Julia had betrayed him, but not to the SA. He should have seen it coming. She was married to her cause.
He regarded her with a look that would’ve frozen lava. Julia held his gaze. It was he who looked away first, in Antonov’s direction.
Right on cue, the man stood up and walked to them. Then, he said:
“The Front needs your help, Clarke. We are launching a rescue operation to a Backwater System. Planet Dione, Elus Star System. We need someone with experience to lead it, someone who is no friend of Tal-Kader. If you agree, we’ll make it worth your trouble.”
Clarke regarded him with a distrustful look.
“As you know, we have friends in the Systems Alliance. Some of them are sponsors of the Defense Fleet. As we speak, they are looking at your case, and have agreed to reopen it. Your discharge may be overruled, Clarke. You could have your name cleared. Hell, if you wanted to, we could have you reinstated as a Fleet officer.”
Clarke blinked. It was hard to control himself. Antonov’s words sounded like a devil promising a tired traveler a magic wish.
“But only if I help you,” he said at last.
“Yes,” said Antonov, his eyes glinting in triumph, the very image of a man who knows he just made an irrefusable offer.
5
Chapter Five
Delagarza
“The problem is leaving the planet with her,” the man told him, a distant voice half-distorted by the water. “Don’t act without an escape route.”
Delagarza woke up without knowing where, or who, he was. His gloomy surroundings were a compulsion of shadows and sharp shapes, his mind a spinning plate that failed to make sense of reality.
A half-scream died in the back of his throat; it brought to his mouth the taste of ashes. That tiny detail—he was a smoker—was enough to break the enchantment.
Details and sense came back in a flood. The place was his bedroom, and the snakes that constricted him were bedsheets soaked in sweat.
He stood up, his teeth clenched so hard it hurt. He stumbled his way to the bathroom where the mirror was waiting for him. Staring back at his reflection was like dousing his face in water and washed away the remains of his nightmare.
From inside the mirror, a gaunt face stared back at him. Hard cheekbones, stubble that was about to become an unkempt beard, raven black hair. His eyes had a hint of epicanthic folds. Soft gray pupils, the surrounding white reddened due to lack of sleep. Like everyone in the Edge, his heritage was mixed. Main features came from Japan, Madagascar, and either Argentina or Brazil—he wasn’t sure.
The
worst had passed already. Remembering his past helped. He ventured that there would be no more nightmares tonight if he could go back to sleep.
Delagarza returned to his bedroom, fast, feet hating the carpet, which the personal life-support machine of his loft left cold and damp, like grass before sunrise.
What had he dreamed about? No use busting his back over it. He could never remember.
He gestured at the nightstand next to his bed, and a small hologram screen appeared, showing him the hour in crisp white letters. Well past midnight. Delagarza cursed, and then his hand froze before making the “close screen” gesture.
“Call Jamilia Charleton,” he said aloud, ignoring the pang of guilt for waking her at this hour.
Charleton picked up at the sixth ring. Her half-asleep face flashed on the screen, her hair plastered all over her face, before she switched to voice-only mode.
“Delagarza? Do you know what time it is?”
“Late enough to piss you off,” Delagarza said. He already regretted the call, but he was committed now.
“Damn right it is. What’s going on?”
“About the Enforcers’ offer,” he said, going straight to the point before he had time to change his mind.
“You said all you needed in the afternoon,” she said, “there’s no need to explain yourself to me. I, too, would’ve said no.”
“I’ll do it,” Delagarza said, “I’ll take the loyalty test.”
“The fuck?”
Delagarza shrugged, then slapped his forehead, because she couldn’t see him shrug and he was an idiot.
Charleton said, “If this is one of those macho things—you don’t have to mess with Tal-Kader if you’re having a midlife crisis.”
“Nothing like that,” Delagarza said.
“The money? If you’re low on funds, I can short you a credit line.”
“My rating is fine, Charleton. It’s not about the money. It is good money though.”
The conversation lulled, and the constant hum of the apartment’s life support machine filled the silence. Delagarza knew what she would ask next.