By Dawn's Early Light

by Jason Fuesting

  “Usually.”

  “Good, hit me.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’d like to see what you think you know. The guards won’t care, they generally only show up for talking.”

  Eric shrugged. He leveled a haymaker at the man’s head, and found himself flipping across the floor before he knew what had happened.

  “Sloppy. Very sloppy. I thought you said you won those fights?”

  “Mmph,” Eric mumbled, picking himself up. “I did.”

  “Sad. Would you like to actually know how to fight, or are you content to win through dumb luck, brute force, and ignorance?”

  “Well, dumb luck, brute force, and ignorance have been pretty effective so far,” Eric said as he cracked a grin. At the man’s deepening frown, Eric quietly followed up with, “Though, on the serious side, actual instruction wouldn’t hurt.”

  Svoboda nodded. “Come back here. Stand the way you were, and do that again, but quarter speed.”

  Eric squared off, and before he could move Svoboda began critiquing him. His stance was wrong, his hips pointed the wrong way. His center of balance was off and would only get worse with the swing. Eric began his wind-up as prompted while the man continued. Eric telegraphed his intentions too early. The punch was infective, too slow, and failing to use his hips to full effect sapped the blow’s strength. Instead of ducking or rearing back as Eric expected, Svoboda moved inside the swing while pivoting toward the punch and caught Eric’s arm with both hands. Continuing the pivot, Svoboda sank to one knee while dragging Eric around in a wide circle. He let go just before Eric toppled.

  Eric’s stumbled forward. He turned to face Svoboda and nodded. Inertia, center of balance. I gave him my arm and begged him to throw me. No, I threw myself.

  “Okay, I see what you meant. How do I do better?”

  “First, I teach you how to fall without hurting yourself.”

  Eric lost track of time while he learned the basics how to get thrown across a room filled with metal obstacles without injuring himself. He picked up the various ways to roll out of an impact quickly, but slapping the floor to break a fall eluded him for several attempts.

  The door to their cell hissed open, and the pair froze, expecting the guards and their batons to make an appearance. Seconds passed before Eric glanced over at his cellmate who shrugged in reply. Eric padded to the doorway and glanced out. Several other prisoners were doing the same thing.

  “Guards at the shower room. Guess it’s shower time.”

  Svoboda nodded. “That’s enough for now. I’ll show you more later.”

  “So, uh, why are you showing me this to begin with?” Eric asked.

  “Passing time, nothing more. Well, perhaps our roommate might factor in a bit. Frost is rather unpleasant to deal with. The thought of having a capable helping hand doesn’t hurt. We can’t depend on the guards to deal with him,” Svoboda replied.

  Eric rubbed at his aching muscles as he wandered down the hall to the showers. As before, every prisoner seemed to be studiously ignoring everyone else. Unnoticed scrapes and bruises sang under hot water and soap. He emerged from the showers a short time later without being accosted only to find a pair of guards waiting for him outside.

  A brisk walk led to him sitting in yet another cheap, uncomfortable chair behind a desk, waiting.

  “Good morning, Eric. I hope you weren’t disturbed by last night’s excitement?” the interrogator said as he entered with a satchel over his shoulder. Same man from last session.

  “Nah,” Eric replied, “Sitting in a dark room hoping the next loud noise isn’t a rail slug tearing through the hull isn’t a new thing for me.”

  “Such is naval service, long stretches of boredom punctuated by periods of terror,” the man said as he dropped his satchel by his seat, pulled out the chair, and sat. “So, have you given any thought to what we went over yesterday?”

  “Uh, to be honest, I’m still a little bleary-eyed. Bored stupid doesn’t mean I slept well. What part of yesterday are you referring to?”

  The man pulled his tablet out of the satchel as he commented, “Your parents and your loyalty to the Protectorate.”

  “Well, yeah, that had rattled around in my head a bit while I was going stir-crazy.”

  “And?”

  “And what? I wasn’t old enough to remember my parents or what they believed in. The only Protectorate I’ve known has been trying to kill me and folks I came to call friend for the last decade. Why would I have any loyalty to a people that have been trying to kill me my entire life?”

  The interrogator blinked, mouth paused mid word. “Mr. Friedrich, perhaps we have not been clear. Under our laws a citizen such as yourself is afforded certain privileges not granted to non-citizens suspected of piracy. Such privileges are precisely that, privileges. Do you know the difference between rights and privileges?” It was Eric’s turn to blink. “Privileges can be revoked, Mr. Friedrich. All I need to do is say the word and you get to find out how your Confed partner’s life has been this last week. So, which is it? Carrot or stick?”

  Eric opened his mouth to speak but the man kept talking.

  “We had our computer forensics experts look over your data tablet.”

  Oh fuck.

  “They were perplexed at its vintage. How did you come to be in possession of it?”

  “Uh, picked it up from supply?” Eric stammered.

  A vein on the man’s temple throbbed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose before continuing. “Sorry, did I hear you correctly? Did you just tell me you picked it up from supply?”

  Eric shrugged, “I don’t know what you expect me to tell you, man. A lot of things worked that way on the Fortune. You didn’t ask supply where shit came from, you just requested shit. Why is that hard to believe?”

  “So Captain Fox’s supply gets their hands on antique systems regularly? And issues them to their lowest ranking members?” The man shook his head and tapped at his tablet. “I can see issuing systems with faulty batteries, but I have a hard time believing you’d take a tablet out on a mission that can barely stay on long enough to finish booting.

  “Son, I was going to try to use that tablet as a carrot. I was going to see if we could fix it for you. While religion is frowned upon in the Protectorate, religious texts are a privilege afforded to accomplished citizens in good standing.” Eric stared at the man. “The battery lasted long enough for our tech to identify the open application. But, speaking of data forensics, we found some interesting data saved on your suit camera. You have some explaining to do, son.”

  “But--”

  “Save it, I’m done giving you the opportunity to waste my time. No, you can cool your heels here by yourself. Enjoy missing breakfast.”

  Eric sat in dumb silence as the interrogator grabbed his satchel and stormed out of the room.

  “Well shit,” he commented to no one in particular.

  Eric sat back and slipped into bored catatonia as minutes slipped by. He started at the sound of the door opening.

  “Eric, what did you do?” Tomas asked as he entered. He sighed at the Eric’s quizzical stare. “I was prepping for an appointment when I overheard Mr. Hettinger. He’s pissed. What happened?”

  “Well, I honestly don’t know what his problem is. He came in and started laying down some guilt trip about how I should be loyal to the Protectorate.”

  “And?”

  “And I told him I had every reason not to be.”

  “Oh dear. What words did you use? Exactly what words?”

  “I think it was something like ‘Why would I have any loyalty to a people that have been trying to kill me my entire life?’”

  Tomas gave him a disbelieving look. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the context? What were you talking about? Be specific.” Tomas sighed and wiped his brow after Eric’s explanation. “Good, that doesn’t qualify as a renunciation.”

  “Er, renunciat
ion?” Eric asked.

  “Under the Protectorate Code, citizens making disloyal statements can be stripped of their citizenship. What you said, while it comes terribly close, doesn’t qualify.”

  “Tomas, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, what’s on your mind?”

  “What would have happened if I had actually renounced my citizenship, even unknowingly?”

  Tomas frowned. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do, tell me.”

  His lawyer shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Depending on your crime, you would be subject to anything from increased interrogation methodology to immediate termination.”

  “What?!”

  “Under the Admiralty Code, the Reasonable Doubt Doctrine only applies to citizens. So long as the judicial authority entertains a reasonable doubt as to whether or not you committed the crime in question, you are protected against summary punishment.”

  “I--wait, you’re telling me they don’t have to prove someone committed a crime to execute them?”

  “The Admiralty Code is a bit more complicated than that, but the simple version is if they’re a non-citizen, no.”

  “But,” Eric sputtered several times before finding his words, “That hardly makes sense. On the Fortune, you were presumed innocent until proven guilty.”

  “An outmoded legal anachronism, useful for coddling sheep and placating the morally weak.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Look at it this way, Eric. The Protectorate Provost deals with criminals every day and it’s a vast, vast organization. The Naval Provost, a tiny part compared to the rest, bears a disproportionately heavy load. On the civil side, we are the preeminent immigration, trade, and travel enforcement bureau.” Tomas cleared his throat. “In their military capacity, they patrol common space lanes, patrol select extra-stellar zones, and provide interdiction services where needed. They also deal with pirates. Does that sound like something anyone can do on the cheap?”

  Creeping horror fought to keep him from pondering the implications. Real justice didn’t happen because real justice was expensive. Smile. Act like this isn’t sickening. Eric offered, “Well, I guess not.”

  “Precisely. Average citizens complain about the fees lawyers charge, but even the most expensive fees vanish when you compare them to the cost of operating an interstellar warship. Operating a fleet of them? Unfathomable, but necessary. There’s only so much currency to go around, and the Protectorate listens to its citizen’s needs. They need security, but not at the expense of crushing poverty. As a result of popular demand, the Admiralty Code has evolved to limit costs. Can you imagine how many more lawyer billets the Naval Provost would have to staff if they accorded everyone the same privileges? Let’s not even discuss the quaint idea of rights, here. How many more ships would they need if they had to transport every person who crossed their airlocks back to face trial? Those costs spiral, Eric. Larger ships mean more fuel, more food, more air. More lawyers, more fees. While I wouldn’t mind a slice of that pie, it would be a financial black hole and in the end we would have neither security nor money.”

  Eric’s skin crawled. “So, the guy picked up with me, he’s been executed?”

  “Oh, I have no idea,” Tomas shrugged. “Probably.”

  Eric blinked. “I suppose that’s what he meant, then.”

  “Who meant what?” Tomas asked.

  “Mr. Hettinger. He told me that all he had to do was say the word and I’d find out how that guy’s life has been the last week.”

  “That’s preposterous. He’s an interrogator, not an adjudicator.”

  “So, he was bullshitting me?”

  “Not entirely. The adjudicator monitors all interrogations and can render judgment at any time.”

  Eric shivered. “The whole thing is unnerving. I say one wrong thing and I get a bullet in the face.”

  “Actually, no. If we still used bullets for that sort of thing, it would be to the back of the head. Fewer issues with unreliable penetration. Energy weapons don’t share the same limitations or benefits of ballistics but just about any angle would work provided enough wattage. Besides which, energy costs money and airlocks are cheap.” Eric stared at the man’s sudden smile. “It’s a joke, Eric. There are laws against dumping waste in space lanes.

  “Though, seriously, your comrade might be fine. You said he was a Confed citizen? Well, diplomatic relations are a factor with executions. Depending on who he is there’s a decent chance he’s still drawing oxygen.

  “Oh, I’m not sure when I’ll see you next. My schedule is completely trashed thanks to the excitement earlier. I did file the paperwork like I said I would. The magistrate granted a preliminary injunction, but I don’t expect much more than that until we return to Protectorate space. They’ll pull your file once we’re in range and double check any data before presenting it to a judicar. If you can keep your nose clean and not say or do anything stupid, you should be fine.”

  Tomas paused in the doorway.

  “Eric, have you eaten today?”

  “Not yet.”

  Tomas scowled as he left and Eric slouched in his chair. He had begun to drift back into a bored stupor when the door opened. The same attendant who’d brought him food earlier had brought another tray. When Eric finished the man escorted Eric back to his cell.

  Winter

  Days passed, but exactly how many escaped him. The night cycle seemed to always start and end sooner than it should. The sleeplessness bothered him, but hunger compounded his discomfort more. No matter what or how much he ate at the common cafeteria Svoboda had shown him, hunger continued to gnaw at him. Eric spent the majority of his wake periods sore and nigh exhausted.

  With little else to do, the exercise routines Svoboda taught him filled his time. While no means an expert, by what felt like the sixth day Eric had managed to learn enough of what Svoboda had called the art of falling that the older man added a close-quarter hand-to-hand drill and quiet sparring to their routine. On what might have been the eighth day, things changed.

  Lights flickering brought him out of deep sleep. Eric sat up, rubbing at his eyes and noticed the woman’s bunk lay empty. Odd, they haven’t pulled anyone out in the middle of the night before. I should’ve heard it. He stood and stretched for several moments before Svoboda groaned and made to get up. Sobbing carried from the hallway as the cell door cycled open. Eric turned to the door and found himself face to face with the muzzle of a guard’s energy rifle.

  “Woah,” Eric uttered, raising his hands and backing away from the doorway as three more guards entered pointing their rifles at his mentor. Eric blinked in confusion. The muzzle pointed at him never wavered as the others pulled Svoboda from the cell and the guard backed through the doorway.

  The woman toppled through the doorway from a shove and collapsed face down on the floor as the door cycled shut. Eric rushed to her side and hissed when he rolled her shaking frame over. Deep purple bruises circled her wrists and her neck. Swelling pressed her right eye shut and blood trickled from her nose and a multitude of cuts.

  “Holy shit.” Surprise vaporized as the situation clicked. She was wearing orange coveralls. You only get clothes when you cooperate. “What did you tell them?”

  She lay limply in his arms, sobbing.

  Anger tinged his words when he asked again, “What did you tell them?”

  “Everything,” she sobbed. Her cries grew louder when his hands tightened around her wrists.

  “What?” Eric asked. “What do you mean everything?”

  “I tried telling them I didn’t know anything,” she bawled.

  “What is everything?” Eric snarled, clenching her wrists.

  “You and Svoboda,” she gasped between sobs. “They kept asking. I didn’t want to tell them! Please don’t hit me.”

  Disgust surged through him as the despair in her tone hit him, damping his anger. Eric sat back on his haunches and let go of her hands when she pulled away from hi
m.

  This is wrong. This is all wrong. Nothing makes sense.

  His mental logjam loosened while his gut tightened at the thought of betrayal. Yet there were her injuries. He stared at her blankly. From her feeble attempts to stand or crawl he realized the interrogators must have done something to her legs.

  Later. Sort this out later. Help her now.

  She squeaked and began to wail when he moved over and picked her up.

  “Quiet,” he said, trying not to let his anger color his words as he carried her to her bunk. “I’m not going to hurt you.” By the time he gently laid her on the mattress and covered her, she had quieted.

  “Look, lady, I’m not going to lie. I’m pretty pissed off right now.” She hid her face. “But I’m not sure I’m angry at you. They beat it out of you.” Eric paused for a breath and the door hissed open. “Fuck, what now?”

  “Ah, good morning, meat,” Frost said as he sauntered in. “Ah, missed me while I was gone, Leah?” Frost smiled, showing a mouth full of pearly white teeth. The woman whimpered. “So good to be home again. What did I miss? Where’s our friend?”

  “Friend?”

  “The guy from Proske, Svoboda.”

  “They just took him.”

  “Oh? Good,” Frost said, and started to unzip his coveralls as he walked toward them. “Go mind your own business, meat. Leah and I have some catching up to do.”

  Eric scowled up at the man. Not happening, asshole.

  “Scram, meat. Nothing personal, I don’t share.” Frost fixed him with an icy stare. Heartbeats passed and inside the blink of an eye, Frost grabbed Eric by the throat and lifted him to his feet. “Last chance. Go.”

  Eric blinked as color faded from the edges of his vision and his skin tingled. “Fuck you,” he spat. Light exploded and stars shot across his vision as Frost’s fist hammered against his face. Eric heard more than felt something pop with the first punch and by the fourth, brilliant crisscrossing stars blotted out the world before it all went black.

  An incessant high pitched ringing clawed at Eric’s ears. He was on his back. He couldn’t see, something was in his eyes. He couldn’t feel his face, couldn’t feel much of anything. Most importantly, he couldn’t breathe, something thick filled the back of his throat. He tried to swallow, but gagged instead. His stomach clenched and he rolled just in time as it emptied itself with surprising vigor. Panting, he pawed at his eyes and when he opened them his hands glistened with blood. Amid a puddle of his last meal and a startling amount of blood, two broken teeth glistened back at him.