by M. R. Forbes
“General Soto,” Olus said, sitting up stiff in his seat.
“Relax, Olus,” the General replied. She was an older woman, with streaks of gray intermingling with short, black hair that sat tight against a wide face. “The Council asked me to check in on your progress. It’s been three weeks, and we have nothing to offer the populace.”
“I know, Iti,” Mann replied. They had known one another long enough to be on a first name basis once formalities were dropped. “You understand this kind of work isn’t quick and easy.”
“Of course I do. Many others don’t. I need to tell them something.”
“Did you fill the acquisition request I made?”
She smiled. “It took a little extra effort to find something suitable for you, but yes. I don’t suppose you’re ready to tell me what you’re planning? It isn’t everyday someone asks for a near derelict starship and no crew to fly it.”
“I requested a crew,” Mann said.
“A single SI-10. That isn’t a crew.”
“It will do for now. I can’t tell you what I’m up to, Iti. An Outworld starship doesn’t get this deep into Republic space without help, and right now it isn’t smart for me to give anything away. That’s why I came to you directly.”
“I’m telling you now, Olus, you need to be quick about cleaning up this mess. The rumor is that the Council is going to pin this one on the highest ranks and start rotating positions if this isn’t dealt with adequately.”
“They don’t have the authority.”
“They do. Section Fifty-three was passed six months ago, remember?”
“Coincidentally.”
General Iti covered her mouth to hide her laugh. “You’re cynical about everything and everyone.”
“Except for you,” he replied.
“Maybe you should be cynical about me, too?”
“I know you well enough to know I can trust you.”
“Getting back on point, Olus. I need something to give the Council that they can pass on to the representatives. More than one planet is concerned that the Fire and Brimstone will be used against them.”
“Directly? That’s ridiculous.”
“Most worlds away from the Fringe think the Outworlders are nothing more than glorified pirates. That’s what our media teaches them.”
“I’m sorry, Iti. I would give you something if I had anything, but right now I’m stuck. Eagan is as clean as freshly processed oxygen, and the only other clue I have is a limited view of an Outworld starship’s cargo hold. I’ve got my people tracing the components we’ve identified as we speak.”
“Then that’s what I’ll tell the Council,” General Soto replied.
“I would prefer you keep quiet for now,” Mann said. “We-”
“Hold on,” the General said, raising her hand and turning her head away. Her brow wrinkled in concern, and she motioned in the air with her fingers, passing whatever she was listening to on to him.
“This is the Republic Battleship Charis,” a calm voice was saying. “We are under attack. I repeat, we are under attack. We have positive identification of the Brimstone. She’s tearing our ships apart. Transmitting coordinates now.”
“Their distress signal is active,” Soto said, receiving more information than he was privy to. “On the Fringe near Seta.”
He had expected they would take the ships back to the Outworlds. He hadn’t guessed they would stop to destroy more Republic assets first. It was almost as though they were trying to pull the Republic into all-out war.
General Soto’s eyes narrowed, her face tightening. She turned back to him. “Their beacon just went dark, Captain,” she said. “You know what that means.”
He nodded. It meant the Charis was no more.
“I don’t care what you have to do. We need to get a jump on this, and we need to do it now, or many, many more individuals are going to die.”
“Understood, ma’am,” Olus replied, sensing that things had become formal again. “Please have the SI-10 contact me so that I can provide rendezvous coordinates.”
“I will take care of it immediately. I’m counting on you, Captain.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Olus said.
The projection vanished, leaving him staring at an empty surface. He didn’t have any more time to delay.
“Commander Usiari,” he said, contacting the captain of the Driver.
“Yes, Captain?” Usiari replied.
“Set a course for Hell.”
22
“Captain Mann,” Warden Lurin said, raising a long, narrow hand to his forehead in salute. “Welcome to Hell, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Olus replied as the ramp to the shuttle closed behind him. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I thought Master Sergeant Packard was still running this place? I was communicating with him directly as of three days ago.”
Lurin nodded before looking at the ground. The Sergeant was an Atmo, the first extra-terrestrial species to travel faster-than-light but the last to emerge from hiding. He was small and thin, with a large head and spindly arms that ended with two fingers and a thumb.
“Yes, he was. My apologies, Captain, but he was killed two nights ago. Murdered by one of the inmates.”
“Really?” Olus said. “How did that happen?”
“Nobody is completely sure. The feeds in the cell block were offline at the time. An equipment malfunction, or so the technicians tell me. Quite common.”
Olus raised his eyebrow to that but decided to drop the subject. There was no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. Not here. Not in a place where murder was almost ordinary.
“You have everything prepared as I requested?”
“Of course, sir. I reviewed the instructions you delivered to Warden Packard and made the proper arrangements. Sir, I imagine you would prefer a coolsuit?”
Olus absently wiped some of the moisture from his head. He knew Hell was going to be oppressive, but the stories he had heard didn’t do it justice.
“A coolsuit is a good idea,” he said.
“This way,” Lurin said, leading him from the hangar to a large lift.
They took it two floors down to the administration level, a floor that was thankfully climate-controlled. Olus didn’t realize how labored his breathing had become until he was able to draw in the cooler air.
“Suit storage is there, sir,” Lurin said, pointing to a door on their left. “I’ll retrieve the files while you prepare.”
“That’ll be fine, thank you, Sergeant.”
Lurin saluted and headed down an adjacent corridor, while Olus opened the door to the storage room. A number of suits were hanging from a rack along the wall, marked by species. He searched through the Terran section until he found his size, taking a suit from the rack and holding it. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to wear it clothed or not, so he stripped to his underwear and put it on. He began to feel an immediate chill from the suit reacting with the cooler air in this section. It was a chill he knew wasn’t going to last.
Lurin was waiting for him when he emerged, a small silver disc held between his thumb and forefinger.
“Sir,” he said, saluting again. “The files you requested.”
“Thank you,” Olus replied, taking the disc.
“Sir, are you sure you want to speak with these individuals? I don’t know what benefit it will have to the Republic. They are criminals, indeed. Larcenists. Rapists. Murderers. Soldiers don’t get assigned to Hell lightly.”
“I know how Hell works, Sergeant,” Olus replied. “I’ve been ordered directly by the Council to investigate the destruction of Eagan Heavyworks and the theft of two prototype starships. I believe that one or more of the individuals whose detailed files I requested may have information that is vital to carrying out these orders. Not that I need to explain myself to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Lurin said. “I wasn’t questioning your competence, sir. Instead, I am concerned for your well-being. The pris
oners can be violent, and I observed that in the case of Bastion Marrett you were responsible for his incarceration.”
“I can take care of myself,” Olus said. He couldn’t help but wonder why the prison’s new Warden was trying to dissuade him from meeting with some of the inmates. What was he worried about?
“Of course, sir. There’s an interrogation room on Level Fifteen. I’ve arranged for the first prisoner to be brought there for questioning.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Have your people standing by to retrieve the next inmate as I finish my interviews. I intend to have everything I need by the end of the day.”
“Yes, sir,” Lurin replied. “Follow me, sir.”
Olus trailed behind the Sergeant, back into the lift and down to Level Fifteen. He could feel the air getting hotter on his face as they descended, thankful for the second skin that was helping to keep his temperature static.
They walked a dim, narrow corridor to the interrogation room, situated at the base of the guard tower that sat in the center of the cell block. The prisoners had all been cleared from the area for his arrival, allowing him to enter the space without having to see or hear them. Even so, he knew they were there. The scum of the galaxy. Deserters. Killers. Thieves. Individuals who had sworn to defend the Republic and instead had taken advantage of it, using their positions of power in the military for their own personal gain. The select few whose files he was carrying didn’t deserve what he was planning to offer them, but he didn’t see another option.
He had to fight fire with fire.
“I’ll take it from here, Sergeant,” Olus said as they reached the door to the interrogation room. It was flanked by a pair of guards in battlesuits. “I trust you’ll be available if I need you?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back on Level Two, continuing my work on the transition. Master Sergeant Packard was not a terribly organized individual.”
Olus smiled, returning Sergeant Lurin’s offered salute. Then he turned to the door, which one of the guards opened for him before saluting.
“Captain,” the guard said.
“Private,” Olus replied.
He entered the room. It was small and barren, save for a chair and small table placed in front of a thick transparency. A prisoner in a tight red suit was on the other side of the divider, watching him as he entered.
“You,” the inmate said, immediately turning angry. “What the frag are you doing here, you piece of shit? What the frag do you want with me?” He began banging on the glass. “Haven’t you done enough to me, you fragger? Haven’t you gotten your pound of flesh? Whatever the frag you want, I’m not interested.”
Olus didn’t waver, continuing to the table and chair without changing his posture or cadence. He tossed the disc onto the surface, which responded by displaying a control interface for the device. He tapped it on, projecting the soldier’s record in the air between them.
“Bastion Marrett,” Olus said. “Call sign, Worm. Former Lieutenant Commander in the Republic Intergalactic Navy. A Vomit Comet Bouncehead. Sentenced to life in Hell for assaulting a superior officer-”
“Does it still hurt?” Bastion asked.
Olus did his best not to react. He couldn’t help but remember how the man had attacked him. The HSOC needed a drop onto some backwater planet in the Fringe. Bastion had sworn it was suicide, and the pilot decided that beating the shit out of him would save the lives of his fellow soldiers. It was a desperate act that might have been almost understandable if he hadn’t left Olus a breath away from death.
“Assigned to Level Twenty for acts of treason,” Olus finished. It didn’t matter if he was trying to help his crew. He had gone way over the line. In the end, they had attempted the drop without him. In the end, the inexperience of the replacement pilot cost everyone on board their lives. “You’ve been here for four years.”
“Thanks to you,” Bastion said.
Olus flipped through the file. “You’ve been to medical eight times since you arrived here for a variety of broken bones and cuts. You’ve also been responsible for nearly twenty injuries to other inmates.” He looked past the projection. “You were running with Pok’s crew?”
“Until he got himself dead, yeah,” Bastion said. “I did what he asked, and he took care of me. Him and Packard both. That’s how things work in this shithole.”
“You know that Packard is dead?”
“I heard. It was that bitch that did it. The Demon Queen.”
“Demon Queen?”
“That’s what us L20s have taken to calling her. First girl I’ve ever seen down here. She did Pok her first hour. Packard had it in for her before that, though. I don’t know why. I guess he got what was coming to him. Him and Pok both.” He laughed uncomfortably.
Olus absorbed the information, filing it away in another part of his brain. He knew who Lieutenant Cage was. It was hard to believe a Breaker with her record would wind up down here, and even harder to believe she had turned so easily to murder. First Pok, and now Packard. She was somewhere in his list of inmates to interview, but in light of her recent history he was going to have to take her out.
There was a delicate balance between dangerous and out of control, and he couldn’t afford the latter.
“That isn’t why you wanted to talk to me, though,” Bastion said. “A guy like you doesn’t come to Hell for minor shit like that. So, what’s your deal?”
“My deal is your deal, Worm,” Olus said. “I came to offer you a chance to go free.”
23
So it went for the next four hours. Prisoners were cycled into the interrogation room one at a time, where Olus reviewed their files and interviewed them both on their time in Hell, and their life before it. It had taken weeks to get to this point. Weeks of sifting through hundreds of records to come up with a suitable list of potentials, a process that had left him exhausted. He was on his own, forced to secrecy for the sake of his plan, a plan he knew the Council would never approve. A plan he knew General Soto would probably hate him for having ever considered. The Council wasn’t HSOC or OSI. They hadn’t seen the things he had seen or done the things he had done before he had gotten caught up in politics and management. He knew what the universe was like. He knew what the Fringe was like.
There was no other way.
It was a dangerous line he was trying to walk. A dangerous game he needed to play. For the sake of the Republic and the safety of millions. It wasn’t necessarily a responsibility he wanted, but it was a responsibility he had.
He stood up, stretching his body. Four hours to speak with twelve individuals. He had already cut more than half of them because they were too far gone, their minds destroyed by this place, leaving them either too weak or too unstable to be of any use. Was it the heat that did it? The work? Or was it something else? As he had spoken to the prisoners, he began to form an image of this place in his mind. It was cut and dry on the surface. A disterium mine powered by soldiers gone wrong. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was an undercurrent of something beneath the hot, sweaty, dirty, and violent exterior. Like there was something else happening here that wasn’t in any of the official documentation.
He didn’t like secrets. For as much as he was required to keep them, he hated the trouble they brought. Secrets were for skeletons, to keep them hidden away. He had collected an entire ship full during his career, and he was preparing to add another. He had a feeling this was going to be the biggest and grimiest of them all.
The door on the other side of the transparency opened. One of the guards moved in first, checking the room, before backing to the side. The second guard walked behind the prisoner, keeping a rifle trained on his back. Olus was intrigued. As he understood it, the bracelets the prisoners wore were usually more than enough to keep them in line, and he hadn’t seen them treat any of the other inmates with this much concern.
The prisoner glanced up at him as he entered, a shared look of curiosity on a smallish, fur-covered face. Olus was intrigued by
that, too. The others had all either greeted him with anger, disdain, fear, or distrust.
“Prylshhharrnavramm,” Olus said, doing his best to get the inflection correct. It hurt his throat, but the prisoner perked up at the attempt.
“Pretty close,” Gant said. “What can I do for you, Captain Mann?”
“You know who I am?”
“Rumors travel fast around here. You’ve already pulled three other cons from L20. Is this about Feru?”
Olus was surprised again. “You know about Feru?”
“News doesn’t travel as fast, but I have pretty good sources. I know about Feru. I was thinking that maybe you were talking to individuals who knew other individuals, who might have some ideas on who could have done such a thing.” Gant walked up to the transparency, rubbing his chin between his two fingers and two thumbs. “Then the guards came for me, and I realized I was wrong. You have to know that I wouldn’t know anything about it.”
“Prylshhharrnavramm,” Olus said again, despite the strain on his vocal chords. “Everyone here calls you Gant. Former Chief Petty Officer in the Republic Intergalactic Navy. You’re an engineer.”
“I was an engineer.”
“Sentenced to life in Hell for-”
“We don’t need to go over that. We both know why I’m here.”
Olus didn’t push.
“You’re saying you aren’t an engineer anymore?” he asked.
“Everyone is a miner down here.”
“And you don’t make things?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Look, Captain, I’ve been here for six years. That’s long enough that most of the fur under this suit has been worn away by the chafing. You can only imagine what I look like naked nowadays. Point being, there’s no point to being obtuse. Tell me what you want from me, or let me go back to my cell. I only get four hours to sleep, and you’re cutting into it.”
Olus stopped talking. He regarded the Gant. “You know about Feru,” he said again.
