The Halls of Montezuma

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  She stood and paced the compartment. How long had it been? She had no idea. Days? Weeks? Months? Her hair didn’t seem to have grown any longer, but ... she honestly wasn’t sure. The marines had interrogated her once, asking questions she had no intention of answering, then abandoned her. She wondered, morbidly, if she’d been forgotten, if they’d put her in a cell and forgotten all about her. One day, perhaps they’d open the hatch and get a terrible shock. Or ...

  It can’t have been more than a few weeks, a month at most, she thought. My hair would have grown all the way down to my ass.

  She glared at the lights. They never changed, even when she went to sleep. No one made her keep a schedule, no one insisted she got in or out of bed ... she was honestly unsure if it had been more than a day or two. Her head hurt every time she thought about it. Perhaps she was being drugged. The automated food dispenser only offered gruel and cold water. The former tasted like cardboard. Perhaps it was cardboard. God knew there’d been all sorts of bids to recycle crap, when she’d been a little girl. She doubted any of it had been particularly worthwhile in the long run.

  Her eyes swept the bulkheads, looking for the monitors even though she knew it was futile. The monitors she’d used were so small they couldn’t be seen with the naked eye. The crew would have needed security gear to find them, let alone remove them, gear they - of course - weren’t allowed to have. She couldn’t find the monitors either, even though she could guess where they were. She knew where she would have placed them. Three or four in all the right places would have ensured there was nowhere to hide, nowhere she could do something to escape ... she snorted at the thought. There were videos and flicks featuring super-strong men and women smashing through hullmetal bulkheads as though they were made of paper. The real world was rarely that obliging. And it didn’t come with a laugh track, either.

  The hatch hissed. Julia turned and straightened, trying to pretend she was in her office as the hatch opened completely. She considered trying to jump the interrogator, but what was the point? There was nowhere to go. And besides, she had no real combat training. She leaned back as the marine walked into the cell, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight. The marine was a mousy woman, with long hair and a uniform so shapeless she looked as though she was trying to hide herself. Julia felt a flicker of contempt, then concern. The marine was almost certainly trying to look harmless. And that meant ... what?

  “Good morning,” she said. Her voice felt rusty ... how long had it been, really, since she’d spoken a single word? A week? A month? A year? “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  The marine smiled, rather wanly, then turned and walked towards the table. Julia’s eyes followed her, silently noting that her arms were rather more muscular than one might expect from such a mousy woman. It was an act, no different to the act she’d been taught to put on when she was a teenager. Fake it until you make it was pretty good advice ... she wondered, sourly, why a marine would need the act. Perhaps she wanted to be underestimated. Julia doubted it was working. She was acting like a servant in a great house, not a prison interrogator. Surely, she’d know it was hard to feel superior when one was in a goldfish bowl ...

  Just like everyone else, Julia thought, bitterly.

  “Please, sit,” the marine said. Her hair spilled over her face, nearly hiding her eyes. “We have much to discuss.”

  Julia sat, crossing her arms under her breasts. “Do I have a choice?”

  “You can stay here, if you like,” the marine said. “Or there are other places you can go.”

  “I suppose.” Julia frowned at her interrogator. “Do you have a name?”

  “Rachel,” the interrogator said. “And you’re ...”

  “Julia,” Julia said. She was too tired to keep the sneer out of her voice. “As I’m pretty sure you already know, given that I gave my name to the last interrogator.”

  “Quite.” Rachel looked forward. “Tell me about Inconnu.”

  We call it Onge, Julia thought. She tried to jolt her sluggish brain into high gear. If the marines had name-checked Inconnu ... it meant they knew where the corporation was based. Or did they? They would hardly have needed to ask her if they already knew everything. How much do they actually know?

  Her mind raced. She could lie to them, except ... she had no idea how they’d react if they caught her in a lie. All the horror stories suddenly seemed very real. In hindsight, she should have gone for one of those courses on resisting interrogation. Should she tell the truth? Should she lie? Should she say as little as possible and hope they didn’t have ways of making her talk? She was supposed to be immune to truth drugs, but it had never actually been tested. And she knew she had little tolerance for pain.

  “It’s a resort world for the corporate elite,” she said, finally. It was true, if one left out practically everything. “I grew up there.”

  Rachel seemed unsurprised. Julia wondered, not for the first time, if Admiral Agate or one of his subordinates had started talking. She didn’t have much to look forward to, if - when - she got back home, but they had even less. She’d have turned her lover - her former lover - into the scapegoat, if she hadn’t known she was too far beyond salvation. She couldn’t hope to escape the consequences of her failure.

  “You must have had an interesting life,” Rachel said. “What was your childhood like?”

  “Boring,” Julia said. She knew, intellectually, she’d been lucky ... but she had a hard time believing it. She was minor corporate royalty and yet she’d grown up in a world of staggering luxury. The idea of growing up in a ghetto, scavenging and perhaps even selling herself for food, was utterly alien to her. “It was safe and warm and boring.”

  “I see.” Rachel’s eyes crinkled, just slightly. “Tell me about your world.”

  Julia considered refusing, but she couldn’t see how the information would help the marines. She talked about her childhood, about her teenage years, about her decision to make her bid for the golden ring ... Rachel listened quietly, sometimes asking questions to bring out more detail. Julia wondered, suddenly, if she was saying more than she should. She’d told the marines a great deal about how Onge actually worked.

  But it won’t help them, she thought. All I’ve done is told them who’s in charge.

  “That’s very interesting,” Rachel said, when she’d finished. “We have a question for you.”

  She leaned forward. “We promised you that we’d repatriate all POWs as soon as possible, if they wanted to return home. Do you want to return?”

  Julia frowned. She’d never really expected the promise to be kept. “And if I say yes, what’ll happen?”

  “You’ll be transferred to a freighter and shipped home,” Rachel told her. “Whatever happens after that is in the hands of your government.”

  “And only a few hundred of us want to go home?” Julia wasn’t sure she believed that, but if the marines were only letting one freighter go ... the total couldn’t be much more than five hundred. “Can I talk to them?”

  “No.” Rachel shrugged. “Not now, anyway.”

  Traitors, Julia thought. There were hundreds of thousands of spacers and soldiers attached to the fleet ...

  Her blood ran cold. God! How many had died in the last few weeks? The marines had practically drowned an entire army! Thousands ... tens of thousands ... she didn’t want to think about it. Her stomach clenched at the thought. There might only be a few thousand survivors, if that. Some of the people who wanted to go home might not have come with the fleet, but instead ... they might be surviving members of the planetary government. She wondered what sort of reception they feared, or deserved. No one had expected an invasion. But they hadn’t done a good job of fighting it off, either.

  She put the thought to one side and leaned forward. “Does Nelson want to go home?”

  “Nelson?” Rachel paused for a moment, as if she was considering her next words very carefully. “Admiral Agate? I believe he wants to stay.”

  Julia
gritted her teeth as the stab of betrayal ran through her. It was hard to blame the admiral, not when he’d be busted all the way down to ... whatever was below midshipman, even if they had to make up a new rank just for him. And yet, she had spent enough time with him to like and respect him as more than just a meal ticket. She was tempted to ask if he wanted her to stay with him, but she didn’t have the guts. In truth, she was scared of the answer.

  She looked down at the metal table, her thoughts whirling through her mind. Her duty was to the family, to the corporation they’d created and the new galactic order they intended to build. And yet, what fate awaited her when she got home? Death? Exile? Permanent inconsequence? Or what?

  And if I stay, she asked herself, what can I expect?

  She had no idea. Again, she didn’t want to ask. It was possible the planetary government - the new government - would insist she be put on trial, even though they’d surrendered on terms. It was also possible it wouldn’t do anything for her. She might be assigned to a settlement and told to work or starve. Or ... she didn’t know. She just knew she didn’t want to face it. She ...

  Someone has to warn the family of what’s coming, she thought. She thought they’d listen to her. She’d been at Admiral Agate’s side, watching as he and General Rask had directed their forces against the enemy. They should have won. They ... someone had to explain what had happened, rather than leaving the head honchos in the dark. Who knew? Perhaps it would buy her something more than permanent irrelevance. If they listen to me ...

  “I want to go home,” she said. She wanted to keep her voice calm, but she knew she’d revealed too much of her desperation. She wanted out of the cell. She wanted to go home. She wanted the universe to start making sense again. “When do we leave?”

  Rachel smiled. “Two days,” she said. “You’ll be transferred tomorrow and held within the freighter until she departs. I hope that’s satisfactory?”

  Julia shivered. She hadn’t expected things to move so quickly. The marines were efficient. All of a sudden, Admiral Agate’s tales seemed very reasonable. She swallowed, hard, and cleared her throat.

  “What choice do I have?”

  “You can stay, if you like,” Rachel said. “The planet below needs settlers. They’ll be quite happy to have you, if you’re prepared to work. There’s a whole bunch of starship crewmen with skills the planet desperately needs. They’re looking at high salaries and the chance to build a whole new life. Even the ones without skills have a chance to better themselves. Their children will have a chance at a good life.”

  “Really.” Julia felt another surge of bitterness. The universe had had a place for her, before the fleet had been defeated. Now ... she couldn’t hope for much. “And do you think I have skills that are desperately needed?”

  “You might be surprised,” Rachel said. Her face was so expressionless Julia knew it was an act. The woman was laughing at her behind her mask. “You clearly have some skills.”

  Seduction and manipulation, Julia thought. She doubted either skill would be useful on the planetary surface. She’d gotten away with a lot, in the past, because of the family name. Here ... she supposed the best she could hope for wasn’t very good at all. I’m no good with my hands.

  “Not enough,” she said. What could she be? A whore? A high-class courtesan? She wondered, suddenly, if there was any difference between what she’d done for the family and outright prostitution? Perhaps there was ... it had been for a cause, not for something as tawdry as money. “I’d like to go home.”

  “As you wish,” Rachel said. “I do have a few more questions ...”

  Julia groaned, inwardly, as Rachel started firing more questions at her. She’d made the mistake of talking and now ... she couldn’t stop talking. The unspoken threat of not being allowed to go home after all haunted her mind, keeping her under firm control. Thankfully, there were a lot of things she simply didn’t know. She knew very little about the planetary defences, or about the remainder of the navy. She grimaced, inwardly, as she realised Admiral Agate probably knew a great deal more. There was no point in trying to lie. She wasn’t even sure she could mislead them ...

  She rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache starting to throb beneath her temples. Perhaps they’d dosed her with something, or perhaps ... it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she’d told them too much and yet, not enough. She didn’t know enough.

  “I need a rest,” she mumbled. She didn’t expect to get anywhere, but she wanted to ask anyway. Her brain felt as if it was going to explode. She wanted to bury herself below the thin blankets in hopes of getting as little light as possible. “Can I get a nap before I get shipped home?”

  Rachel stood, brushing down her baggy uniform. “If you wish,” she said. She held out a hand. Julia shook it automatically. “And if you want to change your mind, you can do so at any moment before transfer. After that ... good luck.”

  She walked to the hatch. Julia watched her go, fighting the temptation to ask if there was something she could do on the planet. Something ... she shook her head. She had to go home. She had to report, even if it meant condemning her career to the dustbin of history. She had to tell the family what was coming ...

  And Nelson is staying here, she thought. He’ll tell them everything he knows.

  Chapter Four

  The flaw in this argument is that it assumes that ‘wealth’ is a fixed amount. A pie, in effect. One can take all the pie and leave everyone else with none. But this isn’t true of capitalism.

  - Professor Leo Caesius, The Rise and Fall of Interstellar Capitalism

  “I must say, that baggy outfit and terrible wig makes you look ravishing,” Specialist Steven Phelps said. “Will you keep the trousers on for me?”

  Specialist Rachel Green gave him the finger as she straightened up, brushing down her oversized uniform. She’d dressed down for the interrogation, in hopes of weakening Julia Ganister-Onge’s mental defences, but it was hard to tell if it had had any real effect. The poor woman hadn’t been remotely trained for captivity, let alone forced to run through the dreaded Conduct After Capture course. Julia was pretty close to breaking, if indeed she hadn’t broken over the last week. The cell was designed to disorient anyone unlucky enough to find themselves inside it.

  “I think you need your eyes checked,” she said. “You’re going blind.”

  “I’ll have you know I bribed a doctor to give me a clean bill of health,” Phelps teased her. “And all it cost me was turning up in perfect health.”

  “Then you’re in to a very weird scene,” Rachel said. “I always knew you were a terrible pervert.”

  “You wound me,” Phelps said. “There’s nothing wrong with being into girls in baggy outfits ...”

  Rachel rolled her eyes as she removed the wig and placed it in a locker, then headed into the washroom to change into her regular uniform. Pathfinders didn’t have to wear formal uniforms, as long as they weren’t on parade, but she didn’t see any need to wear civilian clothes while she was onboard ship. Besides, there were just too many real civilians onboard. The last thing she wanted was to be mistaken for one of them. Her teammates would never let her forget it.

  She stripped down and inspected herself in the mirror, then pulled her BDUs on and walked back out. The scars from the previous engagement had healed nicely, although the medics had warned her to take it easy for a few days. Rachel was fairly sure they were joking. She wasn’t really capable of taking things easy. Besides, there was always something for the Pathfinders to do. Rumour had it they were going to be redeployed any day now, although no two rumours agreed on when and where. Rachel had a private bet with herself that they were going to be inserted on another corprat world. The spooks had insisted on asking questions to get the lay of the land - the lie of the land, they’d joked - and that could only mean one thing,

  “I’m ready,” she said. “And if you say anything about my uniform ...”

  Phelps held his hands up in surre
nder, then fell into step beside her as they left the interrogation cube and made their way through the giant ship. The Marine Expeditionary Unit was buzzing with life, from marines running rings around the main corridors to auxiliaries and crewmen stowing gear as they prepared the starship for departure. She felt a handful of eyes watching them as they walked onwards, admiring eyes. Pathfinders were the best of the best, the most capable Special Forces unit in history. Everyone wanted to join them.

  She smiled. She’d heard all sorts of rumours about other units, about SF groups so black that no one below the commandant himself knew they existed. The Green Lights, the Marine Corpse ... she had no idea if they were jokes, or distractions, or real. It was quite possible she’d never know. The elites would invite her to join, if they wanted her, but otherwise ... she shrugged. Secrets were secrets for a reason. She was trained and enhanced to keep her from being interrogated, yet ... who knew? Anyone could be broken if the interrogator tried hard enough. What she didn’t know, she couldn’t tell.

  The remainder of the team, Specialist Michael Bonkowski and Specialist Tony Perkins met them outside Officer Country. Rachel wasn’t sure she liked that designation, not on a starship built for the corps and crewed by marines. The idea of a whole separate section for officers felt like blasphemy, when the officers were supposed to share the perils of the men they commanded in battle. Rachel had met quite enough army officers who didn’t to know how important it truly was. And yet ... Officer Country was more than just Major-General Anderson’s office. It was the home of the planners and beancounters who made the deployment work.

  It helps they’re on detached duty, she thought, as they stepped through the hatch. They know what’s important. They simply haven’t had time to lose track of it yet.

  The office hatch was open. They were expected. Rachel smiled as they filed in, feeling like she’d been summoned before the headmaster to explain herself. Again. She wondered, idly, how the junior marines thought when they saw the elite go directly into the Major-General’s office. Envy? Or pity? The junior marines had captains and lieutenants and even sergeants between themselves and their ultimate superior. It would be years before the riflemen qualified to join the elite themselves.