by Jay Allan
She said as much.
“Our round trip this time was a little over five months. I think we can do that again.” She paused. “Unless we need to hide in the outer system waiting for a chance to slip past the blockade.”
Danforth looked back, an uncomfortable expression on his face. He turned and exchanged glances with Jacen before returning his gaze to her. “Is there any chance you can shave some time off that?”
Nerov started shaking her head, but then she stopped and said, “Maybe we can cut off a month. Maybe.”
“Is there any chance you can be back here in six weeks, eight outside?”
She stared back, but she didn’t respond right away. Things are worse than I thought. He expects everything to hit the fan soon . . .
“I know that is very tight timing, Captain,” Danforth added, “but if you were able to make delivery in eight weeks, we could pay you triple instead of double.” He hesitated. “Of course, you’d have to give me a bit more time to put that much platinum together.”
Triple? He is desperate.
“I can’t promise anything,” she replied cautiously. “But for triple I will try.” She knew any attempt to meet that timetable was reckless and foolhardy. But triple . . .
You always have been greedy. It will be the death of you.
But we all have to die someday. Just ask Sergei.
“Very well, Captain.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. “I will see you back here in two days. Same time.”
She nodded and took his hand. “Two days,” she repeated.
CHAPTER 4
ALACOMARA MINE
FEDERAL PRISON CAMP TWO
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
Jamie sat quietly against the cold rock wall of the cavern, staring down as he poked at the loose gravel with his foot. It had been almost eighteen hours since the uprising began, and he was surrounded by an eerie silence. He was on the twentieth level, and he suspected everyone else had moved up toward the surface.
Twenty levels, he thought. There were only eight when I got here.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the mine’s fetid air. He had his daily water ration, and he’d been drinking it slowly, cautiously, unsure of how long it had to last him. There was no food, at least not on this level. He was hungry, and he thought about trying to find something to eat, but he stayed put. He didn’t want to get caught anywhere near the rebelling prisoners. He was going to stay right where he was, at his assigned work area, until the disturbance was over.
He was tired, too, but he didn’t dare sleep. As far as he could tell, he was the only person left on the level, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. Sure, he’d stared down Lopez and Gavros, but he didn’t fool himself that the danger had passed. He’d made enemies among his fellow prisoners, and the resentment would only worsen when the authorities clamped down and rioters began dying.
Fuck.
He shook his head. He was worried enough about escaping blame for the uprising, but it was now dawning on him that even if he did, he still had almost three months to survive in the mines. Around people who hated him. Damian had secured him a partial work release, allowing him to spend several days a week at the farm, as long as he met his production quotas in the mine. But the rest of the time was down here, and two and a half months was a long time, more than enough for him to get a shiv shoved into his back or to end up in a mine “accident.”
Not that he deserved their anger. He’d literally done nothing to upset their plans. But measured reason wasn’t what he associated with the crowd at Alacomara, and when the uprising was crushed and the survivors were back at work—with years tacked on to their sentences, brutal injuries from vengeful guards, and comrades dead—he knew they would blame him. It didn’t make much sense, but he’d been in the mines long enough to know how prisoners thought about things. They would crave a scapegoat to blame for their failure, and with the guard rotations massively increased, they would have to turn that anger away from the feds. Turn it toward one of their own, someone they could get to. Toward him.
Fuck.
“Governor, please. I am asking for your help in this matter. I will do whatever I must to satisfy any concerns you have.” Damian sat in the plush guest chair, facing Governor Wells across the massive desk. He was unaccustomed to pleading to bureaucrats for assistance, but he was also unaccustomed to having friends. Most of his life had been to give orders or receive orders, but civilian life had brought an unexpected consequence: Jamie Grant wasn’t his subordinate.
He was his friend.
And after three years of working to secure Grant’s release, committing to provide a job, posting a surety bond, throwing his influence as a decorated veteran into the effort, he wasn’t about to see that friendship burned to ash in a prison riot. Still, he knew this was going to be difficult.
“Lieutenant Ward, I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid my hands are tied. If Mr. Grant was foolish enough to get himself involved in this uprising, there is nothing I can do.” He paused. “I am trying to find a way to end this without a river of blood flowing . . . and I am far from certain I will be successful. I’m afraid I have little time to worry about one prisoner, especially one with a disciplinary record as poor as Jamie Grant’s.”
Damian sat unmoving, ignoring Wells’s body language suggesting their meeting was over. “Governor, I understand you are extremely busy, especially right now. But I am not here asking you to overlook Jamie’s involvement in the uprising. I am sure he has stayed out of this. But when the standoff ends—however it ends—you know as well as I do that in the confusion, it will be hard to tell who was involved and who wasn’t. Jamie will get caught up with the others, even if he didn’t raise a hand to aid the rioters.”
Wells sighed softly. He frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but just as quickly closed it. His expression changed, softened, and then he said, “Lieutenant, I believe I would throw anyone else out of my office right now.” He hesitated, and sighed again. “But I think we can help each other. Although, frankly, I don’t see the potential in Mr. Grant that you do. While one could sympathize with the situation that led him here, he has been far from an exemplary prisoner in the years since.”
Damian was about to respond when Wells held up his hand. “Please, Lieutenant, allow me to finish. Whatever my feelings, it is clear that you see something in him.” Wells looked across the desk at Damian. “And you are a man I must take seriously. So I will offer you a bargain of sorts.”
Bargain?
“What do you have in mind, Governor?”
Wells stood up and walked over toward a small table against the wall, picking up a small bottle. “May I offer you a drink, Lieutenant? Kentucky bourbon, imported from Earth. A luxury I allow myself from time to time.”
Damian wasn’t much of a drinker, and almost never more than a beer or a glass of wine. But he wanted to see where this was going.
“Yes, Governor, thank you. Just a little, please.” He held up his hand with two fingers spaced a couple centimeters apart.
Wells turned over two small glasses, setting them down and filling both considerably past the level Damian had requested. He moved back toward the desk, handing one of the drinks to his guest.
“I’m afraid I need a bit more to get through my day lately.” His tone suggested he was joking, but Damian had a feeling the jest was closer to the truth than Wells wanted to admit. He took the glass and held it up, tapping it against the governor’s. Then he put it to his lips, downing it in one gulp. He didn’t particularly care for it, but it was a lot smoother than he’d expected, and he could tell it was high quality. He couldn’t imagine what it cost, especially with the expense of importing it to Haven.
He put the glass down on the desk, noting that Wells had taken his own considerably larger drink in one swig as well. He almost asked again what the governor had in mind, but he decided to wait and let Wells get to it at his own p
ace. Patience wasn’t a virtue Damian had developed in combat, but he suspected it would serve him now.
“Lieutenant . . . first, please call me Everett. I think we can ignore the formalities, don’t you? I have come to consider you a friend.”
“Very well, Everett. And I am Damian. And I appreciate that, because I have come to consider you a friend as well.” That was an overstatement, he realized. He did like the governor, or at least sympathized with the man, but he wouldn’t go any further than that. But we swallow our pride and get the mission done. With a chuckle he hoped didn’t sound forced, he said, “I can’t get my assistant to stop calling me lieutenant, though I’m a civilian almost four years now.”
“Damian . . .” Wells stared across the desk and paused. “As I said, I will do everything I can to save your friend.”
Here it comes . . .
Wells took a breath. “And in return, I’d like you to help me . . . to help me keep the peace.”
Damian just stared back for a few seconds. Then he said, “I’d like to see things calm down myself, but I’m not sure what I can do to help. I’m afraid I keep to myself most of the time. I don’t have very much influence.”
“You underestimate yourself, Damian. You are one of Alpha-2’s more celebrated residents, a decorated officer and a successful farmer. I think your words alone, urging calm, would have significant impact.”
Damian took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. He tended not to think of himself in such terms, but he knew Wells was right. The fact was, any perceived lack of influence was purposeful on his part. He’d made every effort to keep to himself since he’d arrived nearly four years earlier. He’d seen too much war. War at its worst and most brutal. War that had seemed high-minded, that had been the result of the words of “influential” men and women.
Now he longed for nothing save peace and solitude.
Which made the idea of speaking to crowds, of calling leading citizens to his home for private conferences, repugnant. I’ve already turned my swords into plowshares. I’ve done my part to grow peace.
But he knew he had to agree.
For Jamie, certainly, but also because Wells was right. Haven was on the verge of terrible catastrophe, and if there was any chance to avert it, he had to try. Even if it seemed like an impossible task.
His fellow Havenites were strong-willed and stubborn, and few of them had seen the true horror of combat. The last war had largely bypassed the planet, with most of the fighting farther out on the frontier. But Damian had no trouble visualizing what revolution would mean for his adopted home. He pictured the neatly arrayed buildings of the capital in flames, the charred wreckage smoking for days after the fires subsided. The dead lying everywhere, bloated, rotting bodies twisted into grotesque poses. Men, women, children, unburied and unrecognizable.
In closed rooms, revolution was painted as a grand and romantic picture. In the streets, the revolution would be painted with the blood of soldiers and innocents alike.
If it truly came to war, it would be all-consuming. A few skirmishes would not win Haven freedom. Alpha-2 was too valuable to Federal America, and the politicians who ran things would know any weakness shown to rebels here would only encourage unrest elsewhere. They were already refusing to loosen their grip—if anything, they were doing the opposite—and if the rebels became violent, there would be no compromise.
They would respond with deadly force.
The problem is, these would-be rebels see the colonial security forces, and they think that is all they would face. They think they can prevail. For some reason, they don’t realize the federals will send troops here. Real troops . . . like those I served with. And the Havenites have never faced anything like that before.
There weren’t many still alive who had.
More than anything, that’s what focused his decision. Four years later, and he still had nightmares. He didn’t want anyone to have to experience them, too—let alone him having to live them again. He took a deep breath before saying, “Very well, Everett. I agree that we must do all we can to avert the tragedy of open rebellion. We may come to that point of view from somewhat different perspectives, but I think we can both agree the humanitarian toll of such a conflict would be unthinkable.” Damian stared at Wells, trying to read the governor’s reaction.
He believed peace was the best thing for his adopted home world, but he also knew the degree of anger the people felt. It wouldn’t be easy to speak out, and he would risk making himself a target of the worst extremists. But once more he came to the inevitable conclusion: he didn’t have a choice. Not if he wanted to save Jamie . . . and the life of peace he’d fought so hard to attain. Wells looked at him with a question in his eyes.
“Right. Spare Jamie from any retribution for the uprising, release him early, allow him to serve his last couple of months on work detail on my farm . . . and I will do as you ask. I will speak out, urge calm. I will do all that I can to encourage the people of Haven that war is not the answer.”
Wells was silent for a moment, sitting there staring across the desk. Slowly, he nodded. “Very well, Damian. We have a deal.” He stood up and extended his hand across the desk.
Damian rose as well, reaching out to take Wells’s hand, but the governor pulled it back. “As long as Jamie Grant is not actively involved in the uprising. If he is, I’m afraid my hands are tied.” He stared at Damian, moving his hand forward again.
Damian paused. He wanted to argue, to demand an unconditional guarantee as the cost of his cooperation, especially since he had no way to verify Jamie’s involvement. But he knew Wells was offering all he could.
A lot rested on Jamie. Damian wanted to believe the young man had been smart enough to stay out of trouble—and he did believe it, at least to an extent. But there were doubts, too—how could there not be? Jamie was impetuous, bitter at his fate at the hands of Federal America.
And twelve years in prison wasn’t exactly the greatest environment to experience personal growth.
It doesn’t matter. This is all I can get.
He extended his hand. “I understand.” The two shook on it. After a brief pause, Damian added, “I know you are busy, so I will go now. You will let me know?”
“As soon as I have any information on Mr. Grant, I will send it to you immediately.”
Damian nodded. Then he turned and walked toward the door.
So that’s what a deal with the devil feels like. He knew he wasn’t being fair to Wells, but there wasn’t really anything fair about this kind of conversation. I hope to God you can hold up your end of the bargain, Jamie.
He stepped out into the hallway, closing the door and almost bumping into a young woman about to enter the office.
“Excuse me,” he said, pausing for a few seconds until he realized he was staring. He couldn’t help it. She was striking, tall with long dark brown hair, and he found himself terribly distracted, his soldier’s control failing him for once.
“Not at all,” she said softly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going. I tend to barge in on my father whenever the mood strikes me. Not a particularly responsible way for the governor’s daughter to behave, I suppose.”
“His daughter?” Damian’s memory stirred. Yes, Wells had a daughter. Violetta, he thought he recalled.
She nodded. “Yes, his daughter. Violetta Wells. And you are Damian Ward, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered, somewhat surprised. “Do we know each other?”
“Not exactly. I saw you interviewed on the vid. Your hair was quite a bit shorter, but I recognized you anyway. I have to admit, I watch it every time it is on. I am quite the fan, Lieutenant.”
“Ah,” he said, sighing softly. One of those. “Will those interviews never fade away?” He’d refused all media requests when he had first arrived on Haven, fresh from Earth, where he’d received his decorations from the hand of the Speaker himself. But John Danforth in particular had been persistent and refused to tak
e no for an answer. His constant pressure had finally worn down Damian, who reluctantly agreed to sit down for a pair of roundtables, mostly talking about his experiences during the war . . . probably his least favorite topic.
He’d hoped that would satisfy the public interest in a decorated veteran settling on Haven, and he’d be left alone. And that had partially been the case. The demands for appearances did diminish as his reluctance became widely known, but Danforth had proven as relentless in recycling and rebroadcasting the interviews as he’d been in obtaining them. They’d become somewhat of a late-night staple on the Danforth network.
And apparently she watches them often.
“No,” Violetta said. “You shouldn’t think that way. You were very good. I’ve wanted to meet you since the first time I watched.” Her eyes darted back and forth quickly, and she leaned forward and whispered, “You were much better on air than my father is, more relaxed. I’ve told him a hundred times he always looks nervous when he’s being interviewed or giving a speech, but he doesn’t listen. Maybe you can give him some pointers.”
“Your father has a lot more stress on him than I did. It’s rather easy to be a retired soldier receiving undeserved acclamation, more difficult by far to shoulder the burdens of the governor.” A thought hit him, and he couldn’t help but feel his admiration for Governor Wells grow. Violetta was beautiful and charming, and she could have gone a long way toward softening her father’s public image. Yet Damian had never seen her before, not once. A lot of political types wouldn’t hesitate to use their families to further their agendas, but it was clear Everett Wells was not one of them.