Apparent Catastrophe

by Michael Stackpole

  And Spurs, when he actually stopped a shot and earned praise for it, positively beamed.

  Conason called for a time-out, and pointed toward the watercoolers when Galarza frowned. The players ran to quench their thirst, and Conason fell in beside Walter. “You were right. Over there, knot of four followed by another four.”

  “Well spotted.” The commissar walked beside a bald man wearing the robe of a ComStar Precentor. ComStar, which had a monopoly on high-speed interstellar communications, had a habit of poking its nose into everyone’s business. People could protest ComStar’s intrusions, but to do so risked being cut off from the rest of the Inner Sphere. Coming to check on the welfare of prisoners was just the sort of thing ComStar would see as being well within its rights, and even the Collective couldn’t gainsay them.

  So we’re the Potemkin Village.

  Walter recognized the two men trailing behind the commissar and precentor. “Jim, I’m headed over there. Kick the ball so it rolls to them, then join me, okay?”

  “Gotcha.”

  Walter ran toward the sidelines, laughing. Conason chipped the ball and Walter leaped as if he wanted to head it. The ball bounced past him and rolled up to the quartet. One of the two trailing men stopped it with his foot, smiling.

  Walter jogged over. “Beg your pardon.”

  The commissar casually waved his apology away. “Accidents will happen. Wilson, yes?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” Walter kept his eyes averted.

  “I’m sure these men might want to ask you questions. About your treatment here. This is Precentor Allen Roberts, Precentor of Ward. Wen Xu-Tian is the ambassador from the Capellan Confederation, and this is Quintus Allard, the Federated Suns ambassador to the Collective.”

  “Oh, these men don’t want to talk to the likes of me.”

  The precentor smiled slowly. “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, on account of how we learn here that the Collective is all of us. It speaks for all of us. The proctors and the commissar, they have the good words. That is their role. We all have roles.”

  Ambassador Wen ran a hand over his chin. “Then you are well-treated here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man from the Federated Suns kicked the ball up into his hands. “You said you have roles. What is yours?”

  Walter shrugged. “They find me a windmill, I tilt at it.”

  Allard glanced at the commissar. “You teach them the classics?”

  “Not all Dhivi are uneducated, Ambassador.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest they were, Commissar.”

  “Wilson, where did you learn that turn of phrase, about windmills?”

  “Sir, my mama used to say that about me, but she made it sound bad. But here I know that if I do something for the Collective, it’s good.” Walter offered a weak grin.

  Allard looked over at Jim Conason. “And you, are you treated well here?”

  “Better than I ought to be, sir.”

  The commissar raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I was a mercenary in the Litzau Lancers. You’ve treated me more than fairly, given the Lancers history.”

  The ComStar precentor frowned. “Where did you originally come from?”

  “Federated Suns. My name is James Conason. I grew up on New Avalon, migrated out to the Periphery.”

  Allard tossed the ball to Conason. “Commissar, I would be interested in knowing how many of my fellow citizens you have in your camps. I’m certain Ambassador Wen would like to know the same thing.”

  The Capellan ambassador nodded silently.

  “I will be more than happy to supply you with the records and a summary of charges for which they are being held. If there is an error, I am certain repatriation is an option.”

  Allard nodded. “Would you like to go home, Mr. Conason?”

  “I would like that, sir, but I do have to take responsibility for the actions of my unit here. The lessons have made that very clear.” Conason drew his head up and pulled his chin back. “If the time comes that the Collective is willing to forgive me, I would gladly go back.”

  The precentor rested a hand on the commissar’s shoulder. “I think that you will find forgiveness and leniency will go a long way toward earning your regime the good will of your nearest and largest neighbors and trading partners.”

  Levine opened his arms. “Precisely why we are more than pleased to have all of you touring this facility, to see how we are handling things. Thank you, Wilson, Conason. We won’t keep you any further.”

  Walter bowed his head. “Thank you, gentlemen. Our duty is to the Collective. All for one.” He backed away, bowing, then turned and ran with Conason toward the water. “Well done, Jim.”

  “You know I met him before. Allard. We talked once at a Lancers reception, but he acted like he didn’t know me.”

  “But he made sure the commissar knew that he knows you now.” Walter shot him a wink. “I don’t know if Allard can get you off this rock, but he’ll try. That means, for the moment, none of the staff is going to give you trouble and Allard will be checking in on you. As concerns our enterprise, that makes you very valuable indeed.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Golden Prosperity Reeducation Camp, Rivergaard

  Maldives

  21 December 3000

  Commissar Ian Levine proved good on his word after the successful charade of the soccer match. The players and their families or selected friends got moved into one of the newer and nicer dormitories on campus—curiously appropriate in that the building had been constructed to house university athletes. The camp upgraded their food and permitted them to take their instruction in the smaller classrooms built into their dorm.

  The implications were not lost on the residents or the other prisoners: behave properly and your life resumes some level of normality. The proctors even overlooked team members creating small packets of leftover food and sharing it with those who weren’t in the special dorm. Walter figured their leniency was largely due to a directive from the commissar, but he also supposed that their regularly being dosed with jimsonweed made it easier for them to ignore tiny infractions.

  Levine also made good on his promise of a public trial for Proctor Soamstone. Afternoon lessons included a holovid digest of the proceedings. The evidence given by prisoners—all of whom had been cleaned up—was stomach-turning, and Soamstone sat through it silent and gray, almost somnambulistic. Walter suspected he’d been drugged to prevent outbursts, which might have shattered the courtroom decorum. Though the commissar did not sit on the tribunal hearing the trial, his influence was evident throughout. The proctor assigned to defend Soamstone might as well have had her tongue cut out for all she spoke.

  The trial’s crowning event came with Soamstone’s tearful allocution about his crimes, provided to the prisoners as a conveniently timed live feed. He admitted his guilt, yet refrained from directing any plea for mercy or forgiveness to his victims. Instead, he confessed to crimes against the state and to violating the Collective’s trust. In his twisted logic, since the prisoners were all part of the state, he’d raped the state, and begged for disassociation, since he had disassociated himself from the Collective and could expect and deserve nothing less than the ultimate sentence.

  High Proctor Galarza read the state’s response from prepared comments. He told the prisoner, “The Collective does not measure its power by the ability to remove someone from society. That would be an admission of failure by the Collective. The state does not fail its citizens, and were a sentence of disassociation passed on you, it would be an admission of failure. It would also be a usurpation by this tribunal of the will of the Collective and its people. Instead, we sentence you to remain in the Golden Prosperity Reeducation Camp for as long as it takes for you to be reintegrated into the Colle
ctive.”

  Soamstone’s knees buckled and he collapsed behind the defendant’s table. The audience in the classroom remained silent for a heartbeat or two, then responded with gasps and cheers and fists thrust defiantly into the air. No one doubted that the guilty proctor would be disassociated; the question simply became how long it would take.

  Even before Walter had a chance to suggest it to her, Ash chose Sophia to join her in the team facility. It made perfect sense, since Sophia would be in on the escape. Brother and sister had a quick and tearful reunion—cut short because Ivan had to report to the kitchen, and to avoid arousing suspicions among other residents and the proctors. Walter watched them part, watched Sophia reach a hand out after her brother had turned away.

  “Spurs is very brave, you know.”

  Sophia turned toward him, hugging her arms around her belly. “He has grown up a lot. And yet . . .”

  “Yeah.” With his hand on her elbow, Walter guided her to a chair at an unoccupied table. “He has been invaluable, you know, in the kitchen.”

  She managed a half smile, then took his left hand in hers when he sat. “I have been terribly worried. When they overran the camp, I feared the worst. Every day I expect someone will pick me out.”

  “No. You are Felicia Fisher.” Walter gave her fingers a squeeze. “The computers say you are, and that is all that matters. Our old lives are a dream, and for most people, who you were never was a creature of flesh and blood. The media packaged and delivered you as corporate royalty. Makeup, hair, fashion, even great lighting. At best you bear a passing resemblance to who you were.”

  “You really are a charmer, aren’t you?”

  “Did I mention that it helps that you’re dead?”

  Sophia rolled her eyes. “Same for Spurs, and that horrid mustache. He’s lost weight, too.”

  “The Golden Prosperity diet plan. It’ll make someone a fortune.” Walter gave her a quick grin. “Ash says you’re doing very well in the laundry.”

  “I’m invaluable.” Her expression sharpened. “I could be even more useful, if you let me.”

  “Just compartmentalizing things. Not because I don’t trust you.”

  “Need to know. I get it.” She shrugged. “It’s just frustrating, especially when I notice you and Conason thick as thieves.”

  “The Fed Suns has a man paying him particular attention. That gives us an advantage.” Walter nodded. “We are getting out of here. Couple more pieces in place and we are set.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “That’s one of those pieces. Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you behind.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “What?”

  She took both of his hands in hers and looked him straight in the eye. “You have to promise me that you’ll acquit your duty as Companion. He’s far more important than I am. If you have to make a choice . . .”

  Walter shook his head. “I choose both. That night the camp was overrun, I was on my way back for you. He insisted. And that . . .” He hesitated. Not a time to inject emotions into this. No matter what you feel, you can’t be anything to her.

  Sophia squeezed his fingers. “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter, not here, not now.”

  “This might be the place it matters the most.”

  The earnestness in her voice, the expression that implored him to let her in. If I do that, I will hurt her. I can’t, I really can’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Wilson, for interrupting.”

  Walter looked up. “What is it, Jacques?”

  “They came for him. They took your nephew.” Sweat beaded the chef’s forehead. “Proctors. They grabbed him and told him, ‘You’re coming with us. We know who you really are.’”

  Walter took a quick swing through the kitchen. He made a sandwich, which he put on a plate and covered with a white linen napkin. He also secreted a flensing knife up his left sleeve, then headed off through the tunnels. Most proctors let him pass without much of a glance. Those who stopped him took a quick look under the napkin. Walter told them that he was running late, but if they were hungry, he’d bring them one after he returned from his delivery.

  They waved him on his merry way.

  All the way to the office of High Proctor Calvin Galarza.

  Far more modest than the commissar’s office twenty stories higher, Galarza’s office could have easily housed a family of four. The carpeting had seen better days, and the orange vinyl upholstery on the furniture had cracked here and there. Galarza sat behind a big oaken desk, with only the light from his computer monitor for illumination as he looked up. “What is it?”

  “The kitchen sent this.” The hallway’s light silhouetted Walter, which is why Galarza showed no alarm until he’d gotten close enough to set the plate down and slide the knife from his sleeve. “And I brought this.”

  “What? Why?”

  Walter came around the desk fast and pressed the blade to Galarza’s pulsing jugular. “You told them who he was. They’ve taken him.”

  “What? No. Who? The Chairman Presumptive?”

  A puzzled note in the man’s voice gave Walter pause. “Don’t. I know it was you.”

  Galarza held his hands up, then pulled them back and lifted his chin. “I knew who he was. I’ve known who you are. From the start. I didn’t turn you in. It wasn’t me.”

  “But we got you sentenced to prison.”

  “Yes, but not death.” Galarza swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple grazing the blade’s razor edge. “I was in jail there, in the camp. The Collective agents freed me. They asked if there were more political prisoners like me. They’d made an assumption. I played along.”

  Walter’s nostrils flared. “They freed you and earned your loyalty.”

  “No.” The high proctor closed his eyes. “You have to remember. The Collective murdered my family. I didn’t want to die, so I played along. And when they put me here, I was able to do things. I mean, didn’t you ever wonder why you weren’t flagged as having been taken in that Rangers sweep?”

  I had wondered. “So you scraped our records?”

  “For you, for Spurs and his sister. Because of their classification, the others taken from that camp ended up in the maximum security facility in Karayton, down south.” Galarza looked up at Walter. “Look, you don’t have to believe me, but let me help here. Let me show you.”

  “Anything stupid and you’re dead.”

  “I know.”

  Walter eased the knife’s pressure on the man’s throat. Galarza lowered his hands to the keyboard and typed quickly. “This isn’t good.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “The Spurling record has vanished.” Galarza tapped a finger against the monitor. “But there’s no record of Ivan Litzau.”

  “The proctors who took him said they knew who he really was.”

  “Let me try something . . . Okay, yes, there, see, a prisoner was logged into isolation thirty minutes ago. Simon Blythe-Xin. There, look at his record. He’s a Capellan Confederation citizen, child of an oligarch on Liao. He’s being held at the request of Ambassador Wen Xu-Tian, who has a DropShip inbound, due to land in four days. He’ll be reunited with his family, ambassador’s gratitude, the commissar signed off on it.”

  Walter took a step back into the shadows. “I was incredibly stupid. Wen must have recognized Ivan at the game. I’m sure the Capellans have all sorts of files with biometric and other data about the Litzaus. He has his code slicers get into the system, match the Capellan profile to Spurs’ profile, layer a new identity over it, and make the request. Check Felicia Fisher’s record.”

  “Still there.”

  “Good. Alter her biometrics. I don’t know that Wen would have recognized her, but with one success, he might go fishing. Having Litzau heirs in hand w
ould give the Confederation a serious amount of leverage with the Collective.”

  Galarza’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Done. What are you going to do about Spurs?”

  “Have to get him out of here.” Walter looked at the knife and the glittering edge of the curved blade. “I hate this, but I have to trust you.”

  “I will not fail you.”

  “Before that DropShip lands, we’re getting to Spurs and getting him out. I’ve got most things put together, but I need transport. Can you handle that? Enough for a dozen people?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night, day after at the latest. I can let you know by midafternoon.” A shiver ran down Walter’s back. “Not sure yet where we’re going, but it’s out of here. Do this and we’ll have a place for you.”

  Galarza nodded. “I know some folks on the outside. Day after is easier.”

  Walter put the knife down on the man’s desk. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t. I know I am not a nice man.” The high proctor rose and offered Walter his hand. “But I’m Dhivi born and a patriot. The Collective has payback coming, and I’ll sure as hell do my part.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Golden Prosperity Reeducation Camp, Rivergaard

  Maldives

  23 December 3000

  Commissar Ian Levine’s chest tightened. “An escape plan? On Christmas Day?” That can’t be possible. “Details, quickly.”

  Wilson shrugged defensively. “I won’t know details until later. Just this morning, though, a corridor went dark. Some guys grabbed me. Told me that if I was interested in my freedom, I was to meet them this afternoon. They’ll let me know where. Said I’d have a reason to celebrate the holiday.”