by Jake Elwood
Bodies littered the compound, all of them either half-dressed or wearing the uniform of the Dawn Alliance. By the look of it the rescuers hadn’t taken a single casualty. Amar had to be among the dead. Ganbold couldn’t imagine the fierce commander surrendering.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, one prisoner lifted his head. It brought his face out of shadow, and Ganbold’s eyes widened as he recognized his commanding officer. For a moment he thought Amar was displaying his courage, refusing to bow his head. But the man stared past the UW troops, and the expression on his face was anything but fierce.
Ganbold didn’t count the prisoners who burst through the gate in a rush of dark bodies. There might have been twenty or thirty of them. The nearest armored man lifted a hand in a command to stop, but the liberated prisoners ignored him, pouring past him on both sides in a frenzied rush.
They launched themselves at the ragged line of guards. They attacked everyone who wore a Dawn Alliance uniform, but Amar was their main target. He threw his hands up in a hopeless attempt to protect himself, and he shrieked in the last instant before he went down under a wave of gaunt, furious bodies. His shriek seemed to echo endlessly in Ganbold’s ears, long after the man himself went silent.
Ganbold heaved himself to his feet and ran for the jungle.
Chapter 23
“So let me get this straight. You disobeyed direct orders from your commanding officer. You murdered four guards and an engineer. Then you conspired with known pirates to leave Gamor. Does that about summarize it?”
Tom stared at the Intelligence officer, flabbergasted. “My commanding officer wasn't there. It was war, and those men died during combat. And I didn't consort with a pirate, I boarded the ship when it landed.” Quite a few more words came to mind, all of them angry, none of them likely to be helpful. Tom closed his mouth and concentrated on taking long, slow, deep breaths.
“You've been a very busy man since your capture. And then there are the choices you made after taking command of a frigate under questionable circumstances.”
“Questionable-” Tom started to rise from his chair, then made himself settle back down. He's trying to push your buttons. Don't let him know how thoroughly he's succeeding.
A projected nameplate hovered above the man's desk. Captain Johnstone. Military Intelligence, which meant he never had to put himself at risk, or make any tough choices. He's not qualified to judge me. He's a fool. His opinion of me doesn't matter. I can let him squawk all he likes. It's just noise.
The interrogation went on for another quarter of an hour. Tom gave monosyllabic answers, shrugged a lot, and ignored Johnstone's endless sneering insinuations. The man became visibly annoyed when his barbs failed to hit, his frustration mounting until finally he ordered Tom out of his office.
A marine led Tom back to an area known euphemistically as the debriefing wing. It was a completely secure suite of rooms, effectively a prison. It was comfortable enough, but there was no outside communication, no communication with the other residents, and above all, no way to leave.
It was his fifth day in the facility. His fifth day back at Garnet. His fifth day as a prisoner of the Navy for which he had sacrificed so much. He stepped into his room, heard the door click shut behind him, and swore, giving in to the tide of bitterness that grew and darkened within him day by day.
He sometimes caught glimpses of the others in the corridors. His fellow escapees were locked up in the debriefing wing. Worse, Alice, Bridger, and Ham were incarcerated as well. They'd risked their lives getting him off that mesa. They deserved better.
“We all deserve better,” he muttered. “I deserve better.”
An hour later the door slid open. As usual, a marine waited outside. “Come with me, please, Sir.”
Once again he considered refusing, just to be perverse, just to see what happened. As usual he thought better of it. “Lead the way.”
To his relief they didn't go to Johnstone's office. The marine led him into a different office, this one with “Major Chisholm” stenciled on the door.
Chisholm was a middle-aged black woman who looked him up and down with two of the coldest eyes he'd ever seen. Then she surprised him by smiling. “Lieutenant Thrush. Please, have a seat.”
He sat warily in her guest chair.
“I'm sorry for the way you've been treated.” She sounded like she meant it, too. “You were in enemy hands for weeks, and your escape was … remarkable. We thought it prudent to take certain precautions.”
“Like testing my anger management skills by cooping me up with that prick Johnstone?” He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but Chisholm, to his relief, smiled.
“Captain Johnstone can be a little difficult.” The skin around her eyes crinkled. “I appreciate your forbearance. I believe there was a trainer named Reynolds who wasn't quite so lucky.”
Tom flushed. “Reynolds wasn't injured.”
“He survived,” she said, “and you became a Battleship School legend.”
Tom, with no idea how to reply, remained silent.
“It's rude of me to dredge up the past like that,” she said. “I wanted to tell you in person that you're being released. Also, the Navy and Marine Corps have just run a joint operation that will be of interest to you. I thought you deserved to know about it right away.”
Tom leaned forward, his embarrassment forgotten.
“We sent a rescue mission to Gamor,” she said. “The ships involved have just come out of hyperspace. I'm told the raid was a complete success. Every prisoner has been rescued.”
For a time Tom just stared at her, willing his brain to process her words. He whispered, “Thank God.”
“Quite.”
Every prisoner has been rescued. It sounded good, but it wasn't quite true. There would have been reprisals for five men killed and thirteen escapes.
Not every prisoner was rescued. Not even close.
“I have a bracer for you,” she said. “You'll have to consult Mycroft about a billet, and your next assignment.” Mycroft was the base AI. She opened a drawer, took out a standard military bracer, and set it on the desk in front of him.
He picked up the bracer, struck by how much emotion it stirred. It was just an electronic gadget, a combination communicator and personal computer, but it symbolized so much. They'd given him a uniform when he first came off the Evening Breeze, but only now did he feel like he was fully reinstated as a naval officer.
“It's because the rescue mission came back, isn't it?”
Chisholm blinked at him, surprised. “Pardon?”
“You're letting me go because the rescue mission came back. And it was a success. So you know I told the truth, and I wasn't trying to lure more ships into a trap.”
“It's a dirty war,” she said. “We're not in the business of taking chances. It's not personal.”
He nodded. “I understand.” He slipped the bracer onto his forearm, squeezed gently, and felt it click into place.
“If you want to see your former fellow prisoners, they should be docking with the station in a few minutes.” She glanced at a screen set into her desktop. “Bravo Dock.”
“Thank you.” Tom stood. “I'm free to go?”
Chisholm nodded, and he hurried out.
He found a spot one deck up from the concourse at Bravo Dock where he could lean on the railing and looked down at the passengers they disembarked. A handful of crew came first, bright-eyed men and women with the eager look that spacers get after several days cooped up on a ship. Several cargo movers rolled out behind them and rumbled off down a corridor.
And the prisoners came trickling out.
After several weeks away from Gamor Tom had forgotten just how bad the prisoners looked. He heard gasps from people around him, and a shocked murmur as the first half-dozen prisoners came into the station. They were gaunt and stoop-shouldered and wide-eyed, staring around like rabbits emerging from a den, looking as if they were ready to whirl and bolt back into the shi
p.
A couple of spacers approached, spoke to them, and pointed down a corridor. The former prisoners continued on as more came through the concourse behind them.
Some had been issued uniforms aboard ship. Others still wore their baggy prison uniforms. They were finally free, finally in a secure United Worlds Navy facility, but every one of them looked terrified.
O'Reilly appeared in Tom's peripheral vision, leaning against the railing beside him. For a time they stood there in silence, watching the endless stream of prisoners.
“How's the arm?”
O'Reilly wiggled the fingers of his right hand. “It's still with me. I'm pretty happy about that.” He scratched absently at his forearm. “A lot of the muscle is gone. They're regenerating what they can, but …” He shrugged.
“What does Personnel say?”
O’Reilly grimaced. “They’re invaliding me out.”
Tom stared at him, dismayed. The navy without O’Reilly at his side was more than he could imagine. “Are they sending you back to New Haven?”
“Well.” O’Reilly smiled. “They’ve offered me a flight home. I don’t know if I’ll take it, though.”
Tom raised an eyebrow.
“I received an interesting job offer,” O’Reilly said. “I might …” His voice trailed off as he looked over the railing. “Look. It's women.”
A handful of female prisoners shuffled through the concourse, just as wide-eyed and lost-looking as the men. A knot in Tom's stomach loosened as he watched them. “Thank God.”
“I guess they had them in a separate camp,” O'Reilly said.
They watched in silence as prisoners trickled past, a mix of familiar faces and strangers. At this rate it would take hours for the ship to empty.
“I can't tell the Strads from our people anymore,” O'Reilly said.
Tom nodded. The United Worlds prisoners were now just as emaciated as the Strads. He watched them shuffle past, angry and sad and above all relieved that it was finally over.
“We did this.” O'Reilly glanced at Tom. “We made this happen. By escaping. We brought hard evidence of the prison camp and the defenses. If we hadn't done it, we'd all still be there on Gamor.” He grimaced. “Well, you would. I'd be dead.”
Tom gave him a brief smile, knowing O'Reilly was trying to cheer him up. Trying to absolve him, because that endless stream of prisoners was shorter than it might have been. He didn't know yet who had died in retribution for their rebellion and escape. Someone had paid the price, though.
After a time O'Reilly drifted away. Tom remained, watching freed prisoners flow past, telling himself he'd done the right thing.
Until a familiar figure caught his eye.
Hoskins walked out alone, moving like an old man. He gazed around the concourse once, then stumbled over to the nearest bulkhead and leaned against it as if walking out of the ship had drained the last of his strength.
Tom spun, jogging to the closest staircase, and took the steps two at a time, hurrying down to the concourse level. He circled around a cluster of Strads, men he didn't know, and reached the wall where Hoskins leaned, staring at his own feet.
Slowly Hoskins's eyes rose until he was looking into Tom's face. Tom said, “Hi,” and smiled.
Hoskins shifted his gaze to one side, doing a convincing impression of a man who was still alone. His face went cold and hard, and he straightened up, then brushed past Tom with his head high and his back straight. Tom stood in the concourse, staring after the man who had once been his friend until Hoskins was no longer in sight. Then he left the concourse and went in search of the nearest bar.
The Flameout was a cubical space utterly devoid of character. The management had made a token effort, covering one wall in a mural of an old Achilles drop ship with one engine engulfed in flames, and installing a bar with a veneer that looked like real wood. There was soft music and subdued lighting, but it remained a soulless metal box.
Tom sat alone at the bar, brooding. He was nursing his third drink and wondering if he should get drunk when a young woman took the seat beside him. There was plenty of room along the bar, and he gave her a sour look, hoping she'd take the hint and leave him alone.
She responded with a smile that pierced the fog of alcohol around his brain and warmed him in a way his drinks never could. She was startlingly tall, almost a handspan taller than he was, with an oval face and dusky skin and vast brown eyes that looked as mysterious and limitless as hyperspace. She showed no sign of leaving, and Tom suddenly didn't mind.
“Is this seat taken?” She had the kind of voice that makes jazz singers famous, a throaty purr that would have made a recitation of the alphabet sound seductive.
“It's free.” A lingering sourness made Tom gesture around the bar and add, “So are all those other seats.”
“Well, there's no one to talk to if I sit way over there.” Her smile became coy, intimate. “You don't mind, do you?”
“You can stay,” he said grudgingly. “If you don't chatter too much.”
She laughed as if he'd said something clever. She did it so convincingly, he half believed he was as charming as she pretended he was. She's good, he thought, and tried to convince himself she really was attracted to short, surly junior navy officers.
“I'll be quiet as a mouse,” she promised. “I was hoping you'd do most of the talking, anyway.” She shifted on her stool, leaning an elbow on the bar. It didn't seem as if she did much, but her pose was suddenly devastatingly sexy. She wore a rather small dress, and he couldn't help noticing just how long those legs of hers were.
He said, “What would you like to talk about? I know a lot about fuel consumption on United Worlds frigates.” He paused, wondering how much of it was classified.
“You're funny,” she said. “Actually, I was more curious about the prison on Gamor.”
It was as if the temperature in the Flameout dropped ten degrees in the blink of an eye. The warm glow from the alcohol and her eyes vanished instantly, leaving him sober and chilly. Her eyes hadn't changed, but now he saw calculation in them. He said, “Who are you?”
The smile dropped away, and she moved her legs ever so slightly, becoming somehow businesslike instead of seductive. “Celeste Bennett. I'm a reporter with Interstellar.”
Tom stood.
“Wait.” She caught his hand. “Take my contact info. In case you change your mind.”
He didn't expect to change his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to jerk his hand away. She touched a narrow gold bracelet on her wrist, then let go of his hand long enough to touch the bracelet to his bracer. A faint chime told him her business card had been transferred.
“I'm sorry to bother you,” she said. She flashed him one last smile, then turned and walked out of the Flameout. He couldn't help watching her leave. He even caught himself trying to think of a reason to call her back. He scowled, disgusted with himself, and sat back down. He looked at his drink, decided he was tired of feeling sorry for himself, left it where it was, and walked out.
“Lieutenant Thrush. Have a seat, please. The commodore will see you shortly.”
Tom nodded to the young lieutenant behind the reception desk and took a seat in the waiting room. He was deep in the administrative heart of Garnet Base, answering a curt summons from a commodore named Bentley. He had no idea what it was about, but he assumed he was in trouble.
That impression was strengthened when movement caught his eye and he turned to see Captain Washington stalking down the corridor to his left. By the look of it, Washington wore a uniform that had been tailored for him before his imprisonment. The fabric hung slack on his stomach. Washington glanced over, spotted Tom, and fired a murderous glare in his direction before vanishing around a corner.
“Terrific,” Tom muttered, and settled himself in for a long wait.
He sat for most of half an hour. He didn't mind. He'd been given no new duties, no assignments since his release from the debriefing wing. Time weighed heavily on him, and this
plush waiting room was as good a place as any to loaf.
“Lieutenant? The commodore will see you now. You can follow your bracer.”
Tom nodded and stood. His bracer showed a map, an extreme close-up of the corridors around him with a green arrow showing the path he was meant to take. He dutifully followed the arrow until he reached a door with “Commodore Phillip Bentley” marked on the screen beside it.
“Come in, Thrush.” Bentley was a solid, fleshy man with heavy jowls and a fringe of silver hair above his ears. He didn't suggest that Tom take one of the many chairs in the cluttered office, so Tom stood before his desk.
Bentley spent the next two minutes ignoring him, fussing with papers and data pads and the screen set into his desk. It reinforced what Tom had begun to suspect as he waited outside – that the commodore was deliberately making him wait as a way to underscore his subservient position.
He would hope that Tom would be annoyed. So Tom stood there, stared at a picture of a battleship on the commodore's back wall, focused on his breathing, and kept calm.
“You're a troublemaker, Thrush.”
Tom shifted his gaze to the commodore, who glared up at him with small, dark eyes set deep in the fleshy folds of his face. There seemed to be nothing to say, so he kept silent.
“You made some highly irregular choices when you took command of the Kestrel. You should have brought her straight back here.” When Tom didn't respond he said, “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
You weren't there. That was hardly a prudent thing to say to a commodore, so instead he said, “Sir, someone had to warn Sunshine Base that war had broken out.”
Bentley sneered. “And it had to be you?”
“There was no one else, Sir.”
The commodore harrumphed. “That was a lapse in judgment, and it wasn't your last error. But let us move on to the matter at hand.” He pecked at his desktop, then glowered at Tom. “You disobeyed a direct order from Captain Washington. You led a pointless rebellion against the guards at your remote work site. You killed five people. And, as a direct result of your actions, thirty prisoners were executed in retaliation back at Base One.”